‘I can’t imagine what they are.’
Baby smiled. ‘Like who the real writer is. And don’t give me that crap about a guy with six children and terminal arthritis. There’s no such thing.’
‘There isn’t?’ said Piper.
‘No way. So we’ve got Frensic willing to risk his reputation as a literary agent for a percentage of two million and an author who goes along with him to preserve his precious anonymity from disclosure. That adds up to one hell of a weird set of circumstances. And if Hutch hears what’s going on he’s going to murder them.’
‘If Hutchmeyer hears what we’ve been doing he isn’t going to be exactly pleased,’ said Piper gloomily.
‘Yes but we aren’t there and Frensic is. In Lanyard Lane and by now he’s got to be sweating.’
*
And Frensic was. The arrival of a large packet mailed in New York and addressed Personal, Frederick Frensic, had excited his curiosity only mildly. Arriving early at the office he had taken it upstairs with him and had opened several letters before turning his attention to the package. But from that moment onwards he had sat petrified staring at its contents. In front of him lay, neatly xeroxed, sheet after sheet of Piper’s unmistakable handwriting and just as equally unmistakably the original manuscript of Pause O Men for the Virgin. Which was impossible. Piper hadn’t written the bloody book. He couldn’t have. It was out of the question. And anyway, why should anyone send him xeroxed copies of a manuscript? The manuscript. Frensic rummaged through the pages and noted the corrections. The damned thing was the manuscript of Pause. And it was in Piper’s handwriting. Frensic got up from his desk and went through to the filing cabinet and brought back the file now marked Mr Smith and compared the handwriting of Piper’s letters with that of the manuscript. No doubt about it. He even reached for a magnifying glass and studied the letters through it. Identical. Christ. What the hell was going on? Frensic felt most peculiar. Some sort of waking nightmare had taken hold of him. Piper had written Pause? The obstacles in the way of such a supposition were insuperable. The little bugger couldn’t have written anything and if he had … even if he quite miraculously had, what about Mr Cadwalladine and his anonymous client? Why should Piper have sent him the typed copy of the book through a solicitor in Oxford? And anyway the sod was dead. Or was he? No, he was definitely dead, drowned, murdered … Sonia’s grief had been too real for disbelief. Piper was dead. Which brought him full circle to the question, who had sent this post-mortem manuscript? From New York? Frensic looked at the postmark. New York. And why xeroxed? There had to be a reason. Frensic grabbed the package and rummaged inside it in the hope that it might contain some clue like a covering letter. But the package was empty. He turned to the outside. The address was typed. Frensic turned the packet over in search of a return address but there was nothing. He turned back to the pages and read several more. There could be no doubting the authenticity of the writing. The corrections on every page were conclusive. They had been there in exactly the same form in every annual copy of Search for a Lost Childhood, a sentence scratched neatly out and a new one written in above. Worst of all, there were even the spelling mistakes. Piper had always spelt necessary with two Cs and parallel with two Rs, and here they were once again as final proof that the little maniac had actually penned the book which had gone to print with his name on the title page. But the decision to use his name hadn’t been Piper’s. He had only been consulted when the book had already been sold …
Frensic’s thoughts spiralled. He tried to remember who had suggested Piper. Was it Sonia, or had he himself …? He couldn’t recall and Sonia wasn’t there to help him. She had gone down to Somerset to interview the author of Bernie the blasted Beaver and to ask for amendments in his opus. Beavers, even voluble beavers, didn’t say ‘Jesus wept’ and ‘Bloody hell’, not if they wanted to get into print as children’s bestsellers. Frensic did, several times, as he stared at the pages in front of him. Pulling himself together with an effort, he reached for the phone. This time Mr Cadwalladine was going to come clean about his client. But the telephone beat Frensic to it. It rang. Frensic cursed and picked up the receiver.
‘Frensic & Futtle, Literary Agents …’ he began before being stopped by the operator.
‘Is that Mr Frensic, Mr Frederick Frensic?’
‘Yes,’ said Frensic irritably. He had never liked his Christian name.
‘I have a birthday greeting for you,’ said the operator.
‘For me?’ said Frensic. ‘But it isn’t my birthday.’
But already a taped voice was crooning ‘Happy Birthday To You, Happy Birthday, Dear Frederick, Happy Birthday To You.’
Frensic held the receiver away from his ear. ‘I tell you it isn’t my bloody birthday,’ he shouted at the recording. The operator came back on the line.
‘The greetings telegram reads TRANSFER ADVANCE ROYALTIES CARE OF FIRST NATIONAL BANK OF NEW YORK ACCOUNT NUMBER FOUR SEVEN EIGHT SEVEN SEVEN SIX LOVE PIPER.I will repeat that. TRANSFER … Frensic sat and listened. He was beginning to shake.
‘Would you like that account number repeated once again?’ asked the operator.
‘No,’ said Frensic. ‘Yes.’ He grabbed a pencil with an unsteady hand and wrote the message down.
‘Thank you,’ he said without thinking as he finished.
‘You’re welcome,’ said the operator. The line went dead.
‘Like hell I am,’ said Frensic and put the phone down. He stared for a moment at the word ‘Piper’ and then groped his way across the room to the cubicle in which Sonia made coffee and washed the cups. There was a bottle of brandy there, kept for emergency resuscitation of rejected authors. ‘Rejected?’ Frensic muttered as he filled a tumbler. ‘More like resurrected.’ He drank half the tumbler and went back to his desk feeling little better. The nightmare quality of the manuscript had doubled now with the telegram but it was no longer incomprehensible. He was being blackmailed. ‘Transfer advance royalties …’ Frensic suddenly felt faint. He got out of his chair and lay down on the floor and shut his eyes.
After twenty minutes he got to his feet. Mr Cadwalladine was going to learn that it didn’t pay to tangle with Frensic & Futtle. There was no point in phoning the wretched man again. Stronger measures were needed now. He would have the bastard squealing the name of his client and there would be an end to all this talk of professional confidentiality. The situation was desperate and desperate remedies were called for. Frensic went downstairs and out into the street. Half an hour later, armed with a parcel that contained sandals, dark glasses, a lightweight tropical suit and a Panama hat, he returned to the office. All that was needed now was an ambulance-chasing libel lawyer. Frensic spent the rest of the morning going through Pause for a suitable identity and then phoned Ridley, Coverup, Makeweight and Jones, Solicitors of Ponsett House. Their reputation as shysters in cases of libel was second to none. Mr Makeweight would see Professor Facit at four.
*
At five to four, Frensic, armed with a copy of Pause O Men for the Virgin and peering dimly through his tinted glasses, sat in the waiting-room and looked down at his sandals. He was rather proud of them. If anything distinguished him from Frensic, the literary agent, it was, he felt, those awful sandals.
‘Mr Makeweight will see you now,’ said the receptionist. Frensic got up and went down the passage to the door marked Mr Makeweight and entered. An air of respectable legal fustiness clung to the room. It didn’t to Mr Makeweight. Small, dark and effusive, he was rather too quick for the furnishings. Frensic shook hands and sat down. Mr Makeweight regarded him expectantly. ‘I understand you are concerned with a passage in a novel,’ he said.
Frensic put the copy of Pause on the desk.
‘Well, I am rather,’ he said hesitantly. ‘You see … well it’s been drawn to my attention by some of my colleagues who read novels – I am not a novel reader myself you understand – but they have pointed out … well I’m sure it must be a coincidence … and they have certain
ly found it very funny that …’
‘That a character in this novel resembles you in certain ways?’ said Mr Makeweight, cutting through Frensic’s hesitations.
‘Well I wouldn’t like to say that he resembles me … I mean the crimes he commits …’
‘Crimes?’ said Mr Makeweight, taking the bait. ‘A character resembling you commits crimes? In this novel?’
‘It’s the name you see. Facit,’ said Frensic leaning forward to open Pause at the page he had marked. ‘If you read the passage in question you will see what I mean.’
Mr Makeweight read three pages and looked up with a concern that masked his delight. ‘Dear me,’ he said, ‘I do see what you mean. These are exceedingly serious allegations.’
‘Well they are, aren’t they?’ said Frensic pathetically. ‘And my appointment as Professor of Moral Sciences at Wabash has yet to be confirmed and, quite frankly, if it were thought for one moment …’
‘I take your point,’ said Mr Makeweight. ‘Your career would be put in jeopardy.’
‘Ruined,’ said Frensic.
Mr Makeweight selected a cigar happily. ‘And I suppose we can take it that you have never … that these allegations are quite without foundation. You have never for instance seduced one of your male students?’
‘Mr Makeweight,’ said Frensic indignantly.
‘Quite so. And you have never had intercourse with a fourteen-year-old girl after dosing her lemonade with a barbiturate?’
‘Certainly not. The very idea revolts me. And besides I’m not sure I would know how to.’
Mr Makeweight regarded him critically. ‘No, I daresay you wouldn’t,’ he said finally. ‘And there is no truth in the accusation that you habitually fail students who reject your sexual overtures?’
‘I don’t make sexual overtures to students, Mr Makeweight. As a matter of fact I am neither on the examining board nor do I give tutorials. I am not part of the University. I am over here on a sabbatical and engaged in private research.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Makeweight, and made a note on his pad.
‘And what makes it so much more embarrassing,’ said Frensic, ‘is that at one time I did have lodgings in De Frytville Avenue.’
Mr Makeweight made a note of that too. Extraordinary,’ he said, ‘quite extraordinary. The resemblance would seem to be almost exact. I think, Professor Facit, in fact I do more, I know that … provided of course that you haven’t committed any of these unnatural acts … I take it you have never kept a Pekinese … no. Well as I say, provided you haven’t and indeed even if you have, I can tell you now that you have grounds for taking action against the author and publishers of this disgraceful novel. I should estimate the damages to be in the region of … well to tell the truth I shouldn’t be at all surprised if they don’t constitute a record in the history of libel actions.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Frensic, feigning a mixture of anxiety and avarice, ‘I was rather hoping it might be possible to avoid a court case. The publicity, you understand.’
Mr Makeweight quite understood. ‘We’ll just have to see how the publishers respond,’ he said. ‘Corkadales aren’t a wealthy firm of course but they’ll be insured against libel.’
‘I hope that doesn’t mean the author won’t have to …’
‘Oh he’ll pay all right, Professor Facit. Over the years. The insurance company will see to that. A more deliberate case of malicious libel I have never come across.’
‘Someone told me that the author, Mr Piper, has made a fortune out of the book in America,’ said Frensic.
‘In that case I think he will have to part with it,’ said Mr Makeweight.
‘And if you could expedite the matter I would be most grateful. My appointment at Wabash …’
Mr Makeweight assured him that he would put the matter in hand at once and Frensic, having given his address as the Randolph Hotel, Oxford, left the office well pleased. Mr Cadwalladine was about to get the shock of his life.
*
So was Geoffrey Corkadale. Frensic had only just returned to Lanyard Lane and was divesting himself of the disgusting sandals and the tropical suit when the phone rang. Geoffrey was in a state bordering on hysteria. Frensic held the phone away from his ear and listened to a torrent of abuse.
‘My dear Geoffrey,’ he said when the publisher ran out of epithets. ‘What have I done to deserve this outburst?’
‘Done?’ yelled Corkadale. ‘Done? You’ve done for this firm for one thing. You and that damnable Piper …’
‘De mortuis nil nisi …’ Frensic began.
‘And what about the bloody living?’ screamed Geoffrey. ‘And don’t tell me he didn’t speak ill of this Professor Facit knowing full well that the swine was alive because …’
‘What swine?’ said Frensic.
‘Professor Facit. The man in the book who did those awful things …’
‘Wasn’t he the character with satyriasis who …’
‘Was?’ bawled Geoffrey. ‘Was? The bloody maniac is.’
‘Is what?’ said Frensic.
‘Is! Is! The man’s alive and he’s filing a libel action against us.’
‘Dear me. How very unfortunate.’
‘Unfortunate? It’s catastrophic. He’s gone to Ridley, Coverup, Makeweight and …’
‘Oh no,’ said Frensic, ‘but they’re absolute rogues.’
‘Rogues? They’re bloodsuckers. Leeches. They’d get blood out of a stone and with all this filth in the book about Professor Facit they’ve got a watertight case. They’re dunning us for millions. We’re finished. We’ll never …’
‘The man you want to speak to is a Mr Cadwalladine,’ said Frensic. ‘He acted for Piper. I’ll give you his telephone number.’
‘What good is that going to do? It’s deliberate libel …’
But Frensic was already dictating Mr Cadwalladine’s telephone number and with apologies because he had a client in the room next door he put the phone down on Geoffrey’s ravings. Then he changed out of the tropical suit, phoned the Randolph and booked a room in the name of Professor Facit and waited. Mr Cadwalladine was bound to call and when he did Frensic was going to be ready and waiting. In the meantime he sought further inspiration by studying Piper’s telegram. ‘Transfer advance royalties care of account number 478776.’ And the little bastard was supposed to be dead. What in God’s name was going on? And what on earth was he going to tell Sonia? And where did Hutchmeyer fit into all this? According to Sonia the police had grilled him for hours and Hutchmeyer had come out of the experience a shaken man, and had even threatened to sue the police. That didn’t sound like the action of a man who … Frensic put the notion of Hutchmeyer kidnapping Piper and demanding his money back by proxy as too improbable for words. If Hutchmeyer had known that Piper hadn’t written Pause he would have sued. But Piper apparently had written Pause. The proof was there in front of him in the copy of the manuscript. Well he would have to screw the truth out of Cadwalladine and with Mr Makeweight in the wings demanding enormous damages, Mr Cadbloodywalladine was going to have to come clean.
He did. ‘I don’t know who the author of this awful book is,’ he admitted in faltering tones when he rang up half an hour later.
‘You don’t know?’ said Frensic, faltering incredulously himself. ‘You must know. You sent me the book in the first place. You gave me the authorization to send Piper to the States. If you didn’t know you had no right …’ Mr Cadwalladine made negative noises. ‘But I’ve got a letter here from you saying …’
‘I know you have,’ said Mr Cadwalladine faintly. ‘The author gave his consent and …’
‘But you’ve just said you don’t know who the bloody author is,’ shouted Frensic, ‘and now you tell me he gave his consent. His written consent?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Cadwalladine.
‘In that case you’ve got to know who he is.’
‘But I don’t,’ said Mr Cadwalladine. ‘You see I’ve always dealt with him through Lloyd
s Bank.’
Frensic’s mind boggled. ‘Lloyds Bank?’ he muttered. ‘You did say Lloyds Bank?’
‘Yes. Care of the manager. It’s such a very respectable bank and I never for one moment supposed …’
He left the sentence unfinished. There was no need to end it. Frensic was already ahead of him. ‘So what you’re saying is that whoever wrote this bloody novel sent the thing to you by way of Lloyds Bank in Oxford and that whenever you’ve wanted to correspond with him you’ve had to do so through the bank. Is that right?’
‘Precisely,’ said Mr Cadwalladine, ‘and now that this frightful libel case has come up I think I know why. It puts me in a dreadful situation. My reputation …’
‘Stuff your reputation,’ shouted Frensic, ‘what about mine? I’ve been acting in good faith on behalf of a client who doesn’t exist and on your instructions and now we’ve got a murder on our hands and …’
‘This terrible libel action,’ said Mr Cadwalladine. ‘Mr Corkadale told me that the damages are bound to amount to something astronomical.’
But Frensic wasn’t listening. If Mr Cadwalladine’s client had to correspond with him through Lloyds Bank the bastard must have something to hide. Unless of course it was Piper. Frensic groped for a clue. ‘When the novel first came to you there must have been a covering letter.’
‘The manuscript came from a typing agency,’ said Mr Cadwalladine. ‘The covering letter was sent a few days earlier via Lloyds Bank.’
‘With a signature?’ said Frensic.
‘The signature of the bank manager,’ said Mr Cadwalladine.
‘That’s all I need,’ said Frensic. ‘What is his name?’
Mr Cadwalladine hesitated. ‘I don’t think …’ he began, but Frensic lost patience.
‘Damn your scruples, man,’ he snarled, ‘the name of the bank manager and quick.’
‘The late Mr Bygraves,’ said Mr Cadwalladine sadly.
‘The what?’