The Missing Chapter

Wolfe readjusted his bulk. “How, sir, did you react upon reading Mr. Childress’s essay in the Manhattan Literary Times?”

Hobbs jerked forward in the chair. “Essay! I wouldn’t dignify it with that term. As I said before, it was a diatribe — vindictive rantings. I suppose if the man had confined himself to attacking my taste and my standards as a reviewer, I would have shrugged it off and let the whole business pass. But he also impugned my motives and suggested — none too subtly, I might add — that I accepted money or other largess in return for favorable reviews. I considered that actionable, and I said so, both to the editor of the MLT and to Horace Vinson at Monarch.”

“Was it your intent to bring legal action?”

“I can’t remember when I have been so angry,” Hobbs said, accenting each word and folding his arms across his chest. “And yes, I did contemplate a suit — against Childress and the publication. But, well... on reflection, I abandoned the idea.”

“Indeed. Why?”

“Mr. Wolfe, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, I state unequivocally that my work is my life. I have no family, and no hobbies, unless you include foreign travel — I own a modest villa in Tuscany that I visit at least once each year. I am a book reviewer, one fortunate enough to be on the staff of a major metropolitan newspaper, and as such I enjoy a certain anonymity. Oh, my name is well-known, but my face is not, at least outside a limited circle. I relish that anonymity. Some people in this city enjoy being recognized and approached in restaurants and other public places; I do not.” Hobbs stopped for breath and contemplated his manicured fingernails. “After my anger over the Childress polemic dissipated, I realized — and my attorney concurred — that were I to bring a suit, the media, including the Gazette, would turn it into a circus, and I would be faceless no longer. For me, that was far too great a price to pay.”

Wolfe scowled. “And you never spoke to Charles Childress after the article appeared?”

Hobbs shook his head vigorously. “I would not deign to communicate with him. I felt I adequately expressed my displeasure through his publisher, Mr. Vinson. Have you discussed the matter with him?”

Wolfe ignored the question. “Mr. Hobbs, you said Charles Childress charged that you accepted ‘money or other largess’ in return for favorable reviews. Was he correct?”

I would have given three-to-two that Wilbur Hobbs was going to take a walk. And the little man did get halfway out of the red leather chair before dropping back into it and — I swear — smiling.

“I am not going to dignify that question with a response, sir. Neither will I storm out in a snit,” Hobbs replied evenly. If he was angry, he was doing a decent job of keeping the lid on. “I will reply only by saying that I see no need to respond to charges from a man who, tragically, I concede, subsequently chose to end his life violently. Mr. Childress had a host of demons — he hardly needed another in me.

Wolfe narrowed his eyes. “I have other questions, sir, and then you may depart for your Long Island weekend: First, can you account for your time a week ago Tuesday, from, let us say, ten in the morning till four in the afternoon?”

Hobbs snorted. “That was nine days ago — an eternity.” He slipped a hand inside his suitcoat and drew out a kidskin pocket secretary. He opened it and flipped pages, murmuring to himself as he studied them. “Ah, of course, I was home all day, reading, which for me is the norm — I go to the Gazette offices once a week at most. I usually send my reviews in by modem from my PC. Yes — I remember now; it was that frightful biography of an obscure English playwright — justifiably obscure. I bled from every pore as I reeled through it. Abysmal.”

Wolfe closed his eyes. “Did you see anyone that day?” he asked.

“Which is to say, can anyone vouch for me? Alas, I must answer in the negative,” Hobbs replied, shrugging theatrically. “My building on East Seventy-ninth has both a doorman and a hallman, but it also has a service entrance, which I frequently use — that way, I can dispose of garbage in the bin when I leave. My comings and goings are rarely monitored. That day, as I remember, I didn’t leave home at all, until I joined friends for dinner around seven at a wonderful little Szechwan restaurant on Third Avenue.”

Wolfe, to whom the words wonderful and restaurant used together constitute an oxymoron, started to shudder, but recovered nicely. “What was your first thought when you learned of Mr. Childress’s death?”