The Shattered Raven (5 page)

They shook hands again and Skinny Simon departed, with a wave to Harry.

“He’s not a bad guy,” Fox said, when they were alone. “Comes on pretty strong, but he’s certainly made a name for himself around town.”

Barney nodded. “They need an expert like you on that show. You could rattle off some history and really impress the listeners.”

“I’ll try,” Harry said.

“Whose table are you sitting at tonight?”

“Golly, I don’t know. I always like to get close to Betty Rafferty, but she’ll probably be up on the podium.”

Barney nodded. Betty was a fairly good-looking gal and added a bit of glamour to the proceedings. “I’ll check the list when I get back to the office and see where they put you.”

He was just leaving when Harry came up with a thought. “You know—for Skinny’s radio show, why don’t we get an agent or an editor? We shouldn’t confine it just to authors.”

“Not a bad idea. I’ll give it some thought.”

It was a busy day for Barney, and he called MWA headquarters to see how things were going there. Betty told him that most of the out-of-town members had arrived now and a few had drifted down to the Biltmore for the craft session. Barney remembered it was to be a discussion of agents and editors, and decided to go down himself in hopes of rounding up one or two for Skinny Simon’s show. The walk was only a few blocks and in the sunny April weather he didn’t mind it a bit.

The craft session was just breaking up as he got there. He stood in the back for a few minutes, listening to the closing remarks by Ernie Hutter from
Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.
Then he bought a drink for Clayton Rawson and stood at the bar downstairs talking to him until he spotted an agent he knew slightly, hurrying across the lobby.

“Dick!” he called out “Dick, wait a minute. Can I talk to you?”

Dick McMullen was a friendly, unassuming sort of guy. He’d been connected with various literary agencies in his career, but now he was in business for himself, operating out of his apartment in Greenwich Village. Barney knew he sometimes placed things for Max Winters and he used that as an opening wedge. “Dick, did you handle Max’s last novel?”

“No, not that one, Barney. He placed that direct I’m trying to get him tied down, though. I think he’s a good writer and I can really do something for him. Since you’re asking me, I would take a wild guess that he’s going to be the Edgar winner tonight.”

Barney smiled. “Maybe, maybe. Look, Dick, you’re a nice talkative guy. How’d you like to go on an all-night radio show Sunday night?”

Dick McMullen frowned, adding more creases to his already wrinkled forehead. He was still in his late thirties, but his face was weathered, as if he had stood in the bow of a ship during a tropical storm.

“What about it? Interested?”

McMullen kept on frowning. “Sunday night. All night? That’s a long stretch! What is it? Long John’s show?”

“Skinny Simon’s. What do you think?”

“Who else is going to be there?”

“Harry Fox for sure. I just might ask Max, if he’s still going to be around then.”

“Get Max and I’ll go on. How’s that for a deal?”

“You’re really trying to pin him down, aren’t you?”

“I need writers Barney! What good’s an agent without writers? I need novelists. If they get two thousand a crack, I get a couple of hundred out of it. And with foreign sales, a lot more. A novelist has a chance of hitting the TV markets, too—and the movies, of course. That’s where the big money is these days.”

“Okay, Dick. Let me see what I can do with Max. I’ll let you know at the dinner tonight. You’re going to be there, aren’t you?”

“Sure! Wouldn’t miss it. I can take it off my income tax.”

Barney patted him on the shoulder and moved off, glad that it had gone so well. They’d talked like old friends, even though they had nothing really in common. Agents had stopped trying to sell Barney, and sometimes he felt a little bad about it, but then he didn’t write that much any more. Though he still received occasional royalty cheques, soon, he knew, he’d have to find a job like everyone else, if only to keep up the alimony payments to his ex-wife.

Barney was on the nineteenth floor of the Biltmore at exactly six-thirty to greet the first arrivals. Betty Rafferty and a couple of the other girls were working the desk, checking invitations. Barney moved out to the elevator, shook hands with James Reach and his wife, Alice, as they got off. He kept busy checking over the stack of mimeographed table seatings. There were to be 303 people at the dinner this year—a good crowd. They’d had more some years, but less in others.

He saw Rex Stout get off the elevator, and hurried to meet him. Rex still carried himself well and anyone seeing him might have guessed his age at sixty or sixty-five—certainly not at over eighty. There was someone else, too, a photographer from Associated Press. He’d come to get pictures of the winners, which was always awkward because Barney didn’t want any of the winners to know about it until the formal presentation at the dinner itself.

He glanced around for Max and finally spotted him over near the bar. The room containing the bar was big in itself, but it was only really an entranceway to the Grand Ballroom at the Biltmore. The place was gradually beginning to fill with people, mingling in small groups, standing at the bar chatting, sitting at a few of the little tables scattered around the place.

Barney put a firm hand on Max’s elbow and guided him away from a young girl in a mini-skirt. “Max, how about getting your picture taken? We’ve got an A.P. guy here. He wants some pictures of the nominees.”

“Well … I don’t know about that. I’m not a winner yet.”

“Come on, Max. Come on.”

He corraled Rex Stout next—then posed them in a group. The A.P. photographer insisted he get in the picture, too, since the president of MWA was not attending. They took a few pictures and then he went off.

Someone gave Barney a sheet of lighting cues, and he went in search of Mike Avallone, finally finding him at the table with his wife. “Mike … here are the lighting cues. You can handle it, can’t you?”

“I’ve been doing it for years,” Mike said.

He excused himself from the Avallones and moved over to greet Susan Veldt. “How are you tonight?’ Let me buy you a drink.” He led her by the arm, an arm nicely bared to the shoulder, as they squeezed their way through to a position at the bar. He waved to Larry Blochman further down, and ordered two scotch and waters. “I hope that’s okay. I should have asked what you drank.”

“I drink scotch,” she said. “I drink just about anything.”

“Do you have your notebook?”

“Right here in the purse.”

“What do you want to know? We’ve been giving these awards since 1945.”

“Are any of these people editors?”

“Quite a few,” Barney said, trying unobtrusively to-point them out “That man standing over there is Don Bensen from Pyramid Books. That’s his wife with him. Bruce Cassidy is the fiction editor of
Argosy Magazine.
Just about all of the book publishers are represented. I’ll point some more out to you later.”

“Is Ellery Queen here?”

“Manny Lee never gets down for these things. Fred Dannay usually does. We were hoping he’d be here tonight, but I haven’t seen him yet.”

It was nearly seven-fifteen when Ross Craigthorn entered with a woman he introduced as his secretary. He had the same stiff authoritative manner that people liked to watch on their television screens, and he was immediately recognised by the line of writers and editors along the bar. There was much shaking of hands. Someone who knew him asked about his wife, a question he ignored, and went on to introduce his secretary again.

“Miss Sweeney … Miss Sweeney, Barney Hamet This is Miss Sweeney, my secretary. No—my wife couldn’t make it tonight She’s tied up … Yes … Miss Sweeney is sort of filling in for her.”

He mumbled something, indicated another man behind him. But apparently this was only an editor that he knew. Barney had seen the fellow around. His name was Frank Jesset and he edited a string of third-rate confession magazines. Somehow his connection with Ross Craigthorn seemed nebulous, to say the least.

There was more stirring from the direction of the elevator, and Skinny Simon came in, shuffling along with sagging shoulders. His beard attracted little attention here, where perhaps ten per cent of the males wore them, but there was still something impressive in his presence. He made straight for Ross Craigthorn, obviously considering them to be brothers in the great fraternity of broadcasting. There was always something a little condescending about Skinny when he was with writers, as if the spoken word certainly carried more weight with people these days than the printed word.

Craigthorn, for his part, had little to say to Skinny. He seemed embarrassed and at a loss for words. Skinny finally had to buy himself a drink when it became obvious that Craigthorn was gripping his glass with determination.

Finally Skinny drifted over and was introduced to Susan Veldt. They quickly fell into an animated conversation, which seemed to involve the latest additions to the Central Park Zoo.

“They’re serving at seven-thirty,” Betty Rafferty reminded Barney, slipping up behind him.

Barney nodded. He hadn’t been aware that the time was passing so quickly. He walked around the bend in the hallway and surveyed the great reaches of the Biltmore ballroom. With 303 people at thirty-one tables, the room was filled to virtual capacity. The tables were round, generally accommodating nine or ten people, but there were instances where special seating arrangements had caused an increase to twelve chairs. The speakers’ platform, with its podium, was on the left side of the room, about halfway along the far wall, a position from which most people could view it quite well. The ballroom must have been about there storeys high—and some twenty feet off the floor was a railed walk, running all the way around the room. It was from there that Mike and the lighting engineer would handle the spots.

Barney walked up to check the microphone. He was aware suddenly that Susan Veldt had followed him into the room and was standing, drink in hand, observing him. She stood with her legs slightly apart, tightening the shimmery fabric of her floor-length formal. It was an appealing pose to Barney, giving just a hint of tomboyishness within the confines of the gown.

“What are you doing now?” she asked.

“Always have to check the sound system. No sense waiting until the last minute.” He tapped the microphone, a long narrow instrument that pivoted in any direction. It was very handy for the rostrum, because Barney could speak himself, and then turn it for the few words of acceptance by the winner. He casually noticed the wires running down from it, paying them no further attention. “Testing. One-two-three.” He left the power on and walked back down to Susan, “Everything seems in order,” he said.

The waiters were already depositing dishes of fruit salad at each place. The time was seven-twenty.

At exactly seven-thirty the waiters began ringing their gongs, herding the guests toward the narrow entrance to the ballroom. It was surprisingly fast work. Though most people still clutched a drink, they seemed willing to move to the inner room.

Barney himself would be sitting at table number five, near the rostrum, where he could jump up as soon as the dinner was finished to begin the awards.

“You got me a seat right next to you,” Susan said. “That was very thoughtful.”

“I always save it for my girl-friends, and this year I don’t have one,” Barney told her.

“I suppose I should consider that another compliment.”

“Publicity’s good for us and you’ve got a good magazine and I have to treat you well.” The words sounded a bit too harsh, and he was sorry for them almost at once.

The waiters moved with rapid precision, allowing only so much time for each course. Then, with a great clatter of movement, they descended on the tables, cleaning off the old dishes and bringing on the new. The fruit was followed by vegetable soup and finally by the main course of chicken with rice.

There was always a flurry of table-hopping during the meal itself, and this year was no exception. Max Winters came over and Barney remembered the radio programme. “Max, Skinny Simon wants to do an all-night radio show Sunday night with a bunch of mystery writers and editors and such. Will you still be here?”

Max pondered. “Yes. I was thinking of staying until Monday. But … I don’t know about it.”

“We’ve got Harry Fox already and I was talking to Dick McMullen, the agent. He thought he might come on.

“Oh?” Max seemed interested, but said no more. He moved on, to be replaced by Morris Hershman and Chris Steinbrunner. Morris turned down the radio show because he would be out of town on Sunday. Barney remembered that Chris had done a few all-night stints in the past on WOR, and asked him if he’d be interested, but Chris too was busy.

“All right,” Barney said. “I’ll find someone afterwards.”

Max Winters came back. “I forgot to mention, Barney. I’m having a little party in my hotel room afterwards, if you can stop by.”

“I’ll do that,” Barney said. “I want to talk to you some more about Skinny Simon’s show. I think it would be good publicity for the organisation.”

Dinner continued through coffee and dessert. Then, as Barney was about to mount the podium, he was surprised to see Max Winters deep in conversation with Harry Fox. After a moment, Harry went up to the microphone himself.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “I think you all know me. I’m Harry Fox. I’ve been around for a good many years as an associate member of this organisation. Only wish I could sell a story and become an active.”

There was a ripple of laughter, and some applause. Harry was a popular fellow.

“I know it’s usually the place of an executive vice-president to conduct this affair, but before I turn the microphone over to him I have a little surprise. You all know Barney Hamet. You know how well he’s served us as a director, as regional vice-president, and now as executive vice-president. I don’t think anyone in recent years has done more for Mystery Writers of America than Barney Hamet Like his almost-namesake, Dashiell Hammett, he’s been a private detective as well as a writer, and he knows the things he writes about, and he’s damn good at writing about them. In recent years he’s given so much time to the organisation that he’s been forced to neglect his own writing. I want you to know that we appreciate this and I want Barney to know it too. I’ve been chosen by MWA’s board of directors to make a special award this evening. Since Barney is going to be emceeing the rest of the programme, we decided to make it at the beginning rather than at the end. So, Barney, in recognition of the many long hours you’ve given the organisation, I’m more than a little proud to award you this MWA Raven as a token of our gratitude.”