The Second Confesion

Don't tell me-Archie, come and look!” I had to go anyway, to remove the papers so Fritz could put the tray on the table. It was really a handsome platter. The steak was thick and brown with charcoal braid, the grilled slices of sweet potato and sauteed mushrooms were just right, the water-cress was high at one end out of danger, and the overall smell made me wish I had asked Fritz to make a carbon.

“Now I know,” Lon said, “it's all a dream. Archie, I would have sworn you phoned me to come down here. Okay, I'll dream on.” He sliced through the steak, letting the juice come, cut off a bite, and opened wide for it. Next came a bite of sweet potato, followed by a mushroom. I watched him the way I have seen dogs watch when they're allowed near the table. It was too much. I went to the kitchen, came back with two slices of bread on a plate, and thrust it at him.

“Come on, brother, divvy. You can't eat three pounds of steak.” “It's under two pounds.” “Like hell it is. Fix me up.” After all he was a guest, so he had to give in.

When he left a while later the platter was clean except for the bone, the level in the bottle of Scotch was down another three inches, the letterheads and envelopes were in my desk drawer, and the arrangement was all set, pending an okay by the Gazette high brass. Since the weekend was nearly on us, getting the okay might hold it up, but Lon thought there was a fair chance for Saturday and a good one for Sunday. The big drawback, in his opinion, was the fact that Wolfe would give no guarantee of the life of the series. He gave a firm promise for two articles, and said a third was likely, but that was as far as he would commit himself. Lon tried to get him to sign up for a minimum of six, but nothing doing.

Alone with Wolfe again, I gave him a look.

“Quit staring,” he said gruffly.

“I beg your pardon. I was figuring something. Two pieces of two thousand words each, four thousand words. Fifteen thousand-that comes to three seventy-five a word. And he doesn't even write the pieces. If you're going to ghost-” “It's bedtime.” “Yes, sir. Besides writing the second piece, what comes next?” “Nothing. We sit and wait. Confound it, if this doesn't work…” He told me good night and marched out to the elevator.

CHAPTER Twenty

The next day, Friday, two more articles got dictated, typed, and revised. The second one was delivered to Lon Cohen and the third one was locked in our safe.