Plot It Yourself

Imhof gave her shoulder a little pat. “You’re plenty good, Amy,” he assured her. He focused on Wolfe. “This one is fresh all right. We published Miss Wynn’s book on February 4th, and we ordered the sixth printing, twenty thousand, yesterday. That will make the total a hundred and thirty thousand. Ten days ago we received a letter signed Alice Porter, dated May 7th, saving that Knock at My Door was taken from an unpublished story she wrote three years ago, with the title ‘Opportunity Knocks.’ That she sent the story to Amy Wynn in June of 1957, with a letter asking for comment and criticism, and it has never been acknowledged or returned. According to pattern. Of course we showed the letter to Miss Wynn. She assured us that she had never received any such story or letter, and we accepted her assurance without reservation. Not having a lawyer or an agent, she asked us what she should do. We told her to make sure without delay that no such manuscript was concealed in her home, or any other premises where she could be supposed to have put it, such as the home of a close relative, and to take all possible steps to guard against an attempt to plant the manuscript. Our attorney wrote a brief letter to Alice Porter, rejecting her claim, and upon investigation he learned that she is the Alice Porter who made the claim against Ellen Sturdevant in 1955. I telephoned the executive secretary of the National Association of Authors and Dramatists to suggest that it might be desirable to make Miss Wynn a member of the Joint Committee on Plagiarism, which had been formed only a month previously, and that was done the next day. I was myself already a member. That’s how it stands. No further communication has been received from Alice Porter.”

Wolfe’s eyes moved. “You have taken the steps suggested, Miss Wynn?”

“Of course.” She wasn’t bad-looking when her nose stayed put. “Mr Imhof had his secretary help me look. We didn’t find it-anything.”

“Where do you live?”

“I have a little apartment in the Village-Arbor Street.”

“Does anyone live with you?”

“No.” She flushed a little, which made her almost pretty. “I have never married.”

“How long have you lived there?”

“A little more than a year. I moved there in March last year-fourteen months.”

“Where had you lived?”

“On Perry Street. I shared an apartment with two other girls.”

“How long had you lived there?”

“About three years.” Her nose twitched. “I don’t quite see how that matters.”