The Missing Chapter

Every one of this mixed bag seemed to possess a legitimate reason for having hostility toward the deceased, Charles Childress: Debra Mitchell, Patricia Royce, and Clarice Wingfield all apparently held intense grievances centering on their personal relationships with the man. Keith Billings, Franklin Ott, and Wilbur Hobbs had beefs about how he had beaten them up in the publishing arena — particularly in his diatribes in Book Business and the Manhattan Literary Times.

Okay, so the guy was hardly a moral paragon — I’ll concede that for starters, although I’d never met him. But of these six potential suspects, which — if any — had motives powerful enough to drive them to turn Childress’s own pistol on him?

My initial reaction was — none. But as I laid siege to a generous wedge of blueberry pie, I did some reconsidering: An unwed woman rearing her child alone while the father, just across the Hudson, refused even to lay eyes on his offspring; an engagement gone sour, although the woman denied this had occurred and continues to deny it; an apparent love that was not reciprocated; mean-spirited, angry articles that named no names but possessed the power to damage — perhaps even destroy — careers. This was part of the sorry legacy Charles Childress had left. And after all, I told myself, people get eliminated daily in New York as the result of far less-grievous affronts.

Thus persuaded that each of the six had what he or she felt was sufficient reason for terminating Childress’s stay on this planet, I began to play “Guess That Murderer.” The first time through the list, my mental spinner stopped at Patricia Royce. Why, I’m not sure, except that something about her made me uneasy. I had told Wolfe she was squirrelly, but what bothered me more than her eccentricity was an intangible: The woman was holding something back. Had she indeed been in love with Childress, as Debra Mitchell insisted? I hadn’t thought so at first, but there was far more behind those dark blue eyes than I had been able to penetrate during my visit.

I spun through the roster of suspects a second time, and on this round, Wilbur Hobbs came up as my nominee. He’s easy to dismiss as an arrogant, supercilious prig, which I had been doing for the last few days, at least subconsciously. But he also is the type — I’ve seen them before — that is capable of going to extreme lengths to protect their standing. Hobbs had been professionally wounded by what Charles Childress had written about him — not mortally, to be sure — but wounded nonetheless. What was to stop Childress from writing more invective about him? Not legal action, if Hobbs was to be believed. He told us that he had discarded that idea. There was but one way to guarantee that no more damaging articles ran. The more I turned it over in my mind, the more I could visualize Wilbur Hobbs pulling the trigger with his manicured finger — and smirking as he did it.

On the next spin, the arrow pointed at Franklin Ott, maybe because after having seen his apartment, I realized how much the agent had to lose because of Childress’s attacks on him. Ott’s place of business hadn’t looked like much — unimpressive building, dumpy, messy offices, small staff. That had deluded me into viewing the guy as a small-time operator. But he obviously had done very well indeed, and it was conceivable that he, like Hobbs, might take drastic action to maintain his reputation — and his expensive lifestyle.

I started in on the list again, then threw up my hands. At this rate, the half-dozen were going to finish in a dead heat. Maybe Lily really was right. Maybe the whole bunch had conspired to dispatch Childress. I didn’t really believe it, but at this point, I was willing to consider any avenue.

Speaking of avenues, I left the diner and leisurely strolled south on First Avenue to Thirty-fifth Street, enjoying the sunny afternoon. I turned west on Thirty-fifth, walking almost the entire width of the island, and by the time I got back to the brownstone, it was three-twenty-five.

The office was empty, which was not normal — at least at this hour. Fritz had left a note on my desk, saying that he had gone out on a grocery run and would be back by four-thirty.

Nothing in the office seemed amiss, except for a two-inch-high stack of 8½-by-11 sheets on one corner of Wolfe’s desk. The top page was blank except for these words in typescript: ONCE MORE WE MEET: AN ORVILLE BARNSTABLE MYSTERY By Charles Childress. So the manuscript had been messengered — make that delivered.

But that did not explain Wolfe’s absence. I called the plant rooms, thinking perhaps an emergency had caused him to go up early, but Theodore informed me, in his usual gracious, civilized manner, that “It is three-thirty. Mr. Wolfe is never here at three-thirty.” He then slammed down his instrument, playful rascal that he is.