Killer in Silk. H. Vernor Dixon

ended by saying, “So he wasn’t lying, after all. I had no idea I was taking care of a celebrity.”

      Nicky corrected her, “Not a celebrity, Irene. I doubt if very many people have ever heard of him. He’s not a popular writer. People who read him either go crazy over his work or hate the guy. I’m afraid it’s mostly the latter. He has one glaring deficiency, a total lack of sympathy for the ordinary guy, or what’s known as the common man. If he ever corrected that fault he could become a literary giant overnight. But to think of him here in this house, a broken-down alcoholic—God!”

      Tina said, “But you must have read him, Irene.”

      “No, darling. The name doesn’t register with me at all.”

      “But don’t you remember? About three or four years ago I gave you a book of his. I said at the time that I couldn’t understand why Nicky liked him so much, so I wanted to see what you thought.”

      “I guess I’ve forgotten all about it. Did I return the book?”

      “No. It was a gift.”

      “In that case, I must still have it. Maybe it’s here in the study.”

      All of them turned to the book shelves. Nicky picked it out at once. “The Long Day’s End,” he read aloud, “by Morgan O’Keefe.” He handed the book to Irene. “There you are. Now you’ll have to read it. And, believe me, I’ll give ten to one you don’t like it.”

      Irene turned the book over and looked at the author’s photograph on the back of the jacket. Though his face was a bit fuller, there was no doubting that he was the man in her apartment. She felt suddenly as if a secret door had opened somewhere and a chill wind was blowing on her back.

      The guests examined the book and passed it around. Nicky held forth at great length concerning the man and his works and the party did not break up until an hour or so later than usual. All of them were vastly intrigued by Irene’s guest. They demanded that Irene produce him for inspection before she turned him loose, and finally she said she would let them all know as soon as he was back on his feet. Perhaps a little dinner party, or a luncheon, or a Sunday brunch, where they could all meet him.

      Even Glenna Wilson was intrigued. She and Frank were the last to leave, as usual. Glenna always went directly out and down to the car, anxious to quit the house as quickly as possible. But this time she paused at the door. She was afraid that she would not be included in the group that would meet O’Keefe.

      She hated to ask a favor, but she drawled, “Don’t forget to include me, Irene. And Frank, too, of course. We’d like to meet this oddity of yours, too.”

      Frank said musingly, “He does sound interesting. You will call us, Irene?”

      If it had been Glenna alone, Irene would have ignored the request. But she could not refuse Frank, and so promised to call them. As she closed the door, though, she wondered suddenly what Morgan O’Keefe would have to say about meeting her friends.

      She took his book with her to bed that night, intending to read for half an hour or so. But she found that she could not put it down until she had finished it, at four in the morning. Her mind was unsettled as she fell asleep and when she awoke in the clear light of morning she was even more disturbed. No book she had ever read had had such an impact on her emotions. It was almost as if he had directed every word at her and had carved each word into her brain with hammer and chisel. The man, as a writer, took perverse pleasure in punching holes in illusions, he seemed to have pity for no one, there was humor in his tragedy and cynicism in his love and he attacked his characters as a surgeon would with a scalpel. But he did breathe amazing life into his people and made them walk and talk as human beings rather than as carefully polished fictional characters.

      Irene could understand why he was not popular, but she also realized, as did Nicky, that it would take very little to make him famous. The slightest injection of sympathy into the book she had read and it would have been a great work of art. It seemed to her, from what she had read, that he had been on the verge of sympathy a number of times, but had deliberately forced himself to write away from it. Obviously he regarded any trace of sympathy as weakness. Perhaps if he changed his attitude . . .

      After breakfast she went into the study, where a pile of papers had been stacked for her to sign. Inasmuch as she owned three-quarters of the Tinsley-Wilson financial empire, she had certain duties that could not be relegated to anyone else. She had faith and confidence in Frank and allowed him to run the business without interference from her, and she had also given him power of attorney in some of her affairs, but some decisions she had to make herself. Saturday mornings were put aside for such matters.

      She was about halfway through the papers when the butler came into the study and waited quietly at her elbow. She affixed her signature to a paper, put it aside and looked up. “Yes, Carl?”

      His expression was bland as he said, “The gentleman would like to look through your scrapbook.”

      There was no need to ask which scrapbook he meant. It was lying before her on the desk. It was always on the desk and had been there for ten years, another form of torture in which she indulged herself. It was there for anyone to read, but she was reluctant to let Morgan O’Keefe look through it.

      She put her reluctance away and nodded toward the scrapbook. “Very well. Take it to him. How is he feeling, by the way?”

      “Much improved, ma’am. He says he slept well last night, and he had an excellent breakfast this morning. Shall I inform him that you think he is well enough to leave this afternoon, or perhaps this evening?”

      Irene turned and stared sharply at the butler. He had never before been anxious to get rid of one of their patients. Carl not only liked helping others, but his wages were also doubled when the apartment was occupied.

      “Why?” she asked.

      “I guess you haven’t seen this morning’s paper, ma’am.”

      He took the San Francisco Examiner from under his arm, folded it over to Herb Caen’s column and placed it on the desk. He pointed about halfway down the column and Irene read the item, “Morgan O’Keefe, erudite but little-understood author, is currently the house guest of Mrs. Got-Rocks herself, Irene Tinsley-Wilson. Seeing as how the fabulous heiress is the very soul of charity and whereas O’Keefe is a man of exotic and numerous hates, we wonder what cooks on the front burners.”

      Irene was furious, but she restrained her anger. She tapped a pencil against her teeth and thought it over, then said, “Say nothing to him now. I shall tell him myself, but later.”