I glanced back at Gorman and he was still smiling broadly, one pal to another; he nodded at me and I nodded back, but couldn’t manage to summon a smile, even a fake one. Mae Kane looked at me warily. I was able to find a little reassuring smile for her, but she didn’t seem to buy it. Smart woman.
Glancing back around, I noticed, on the other side of the room, Jerome Kane, seated quietly in an aisle seat, gazing back at me with his father’s china-blue eyes. His attire was stylishly somber, black jacket and gray slacks and gray tie; his friend Troy apparently was not with him-the rest of his row was taken up by a preoccupied-looking Tim Culver, sitting next to Cynthia Crystal, who was sitting next to four women of varying ages who were talking with (actually, at) Cynthia, drawing-room mystery fans no doubt. They were in the right place, then: the Gold Room was one big drawing room today….
By now it was standing room only, but a few people were lining the walls; at my right, one of those people was an orange-haired woman in a green dress with a brown purse on a strap over her shoulder.
Evelyn Kane.
She looked nice today. She’d had her hair done, and the green dress had a sheen to it, looked new, and fit her matronly figure nicely. She had a corsage on, as well. She looked like a chaperone at a senior prom.
My eyes caught hers.
A nasty little smile settled in one side of her mouth; she nodded. I nodded back, wondering what the smile meant.
As inconspicuously as possible, I pointed Jerome and Evelyn out to Kathy.
“Just like Charlie Chan,” I said to her, sotto voce.
“What?”
“All the suspects are gathered.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Jerome, Evelyn, Gorman, or Mae. Or a combination thereof. Killed Roscoe Kane, I mean.”
Kathy looked at me like a mother at her bonehead child. “Gorman couldn’t have done it, Mal. He had an alibi, remember?”
“Sure. He said he was eating with his angels, at the Berghoff. Only I called the Berghoff, and they close at ten. Even if he and his friends lingered well past closing, his alibi’s shot. Roscoe was drowned some time between eleven and midnight, remember.”
That would’ve sobered her, if she hadn’t been sober already.
Tom, up on the stage, motioned at me.
“Save my place,” I told Kathy, and went up and joined him.
“This is great, Mal,” he said. “Do you see how many people are here? All this media? The PWA couldn’t pay for this kind of publicity.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“Well, I just want you to know I appreciate your making sure Mae Kane was here. Without her, we don’t have much of a show.”
“That’s also true,” I said. “But don’t thank me yet. You better see how this goes….”
“I’m sure it’ll be smooth as glass. Are you excited, Mal?”
“Uh, sure. About what?”
“Don’t give me that. About being up for best hardcover, you dope! You got an acceptance speech ready?”
I won’t claim I’d forgotten about being nominated, but it hadn’t been the foremost thing in my mind today.
I said, “You don’t have an inside track, do you? ’Cause I don’t have anything prepared….”
Tom shook his head no. “I don’t know who the winners are. The results were given to me in sealed envelopes by the awards chairman; and the plaques are sealed up, too. But I think you’ve got a chance, Mal. I like your book.”
“It probably shouldn’t even’ve been nominated; the hero isn’t technically a private eye. Aren’t you up for something?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Best softcover.”
“Luck to you,” I said.
“Thanks, Mal. Thanks for everything.”
At two the awards ceremony started; R. Edward Porter, as one of the most respected short-story writers in the field, presented the short-story award to former Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine critic Jon Breen, who gave a brief self-effacing speech and sat down. Then best softcover was presented by last year’s winner, William Campbell Gault, who upon opening the envelope said, “Ah-the fix is in, I see.”
Tom had won, for his latest Jacob Miles novel; red-faced, he apologized for winning the award-then admitted he had helped found the organization in hopes that one day this might happen. That got a good, sincere laugh from the crowd, who applauded his honesty; the applause turned into a standing ovation and Tom just stood there, award in hand-a fancy wood plaque on which the cover of his book was embossed-and grinned like a kid on Christmas morning.
I looked past Kathy down at Donaldson and said, “Good luck.”
He was up for best hardcover, too; for Poisonous Wine.
He said, “And to you.”
We both lost; Bill DeAngelo won, for his latest Mark Kaub book. Bill said that since he hadn’t won an Edgar lately, he was very pleased to receive this. His delivery was funny, and he seemed genuinely grateful, and returned to his seat before the applause had died down.
Then Tom took the podium again and said, “We’ve saved the most important award for last-the Life Achievement Award. I suppose it’s no surprise to anyone here that this year’s award goes to Roscoe Kane. The loss of this important author, on the eve of receiving this recognition, is a tragic one. I’ve asked a good friend-and student-of Roscoe Kane’s, to say a few words, and introduce Mrs. Kane… who will receive the award for her husband. Mal?”
And I got up from the audience and climbed onto the stage and stood behind the podium. The minicams were trained on me. So was the crowd’s full attention.
“Roscoe Kane wasn’t a perfect man,” I said into the microphone; my voice was loud enough to do without a mike, so using one made it boom through the room, giving my words a certain added weight-and ominousness. “Roscoe Kane wasn’t even a perfect writer. His gift was a narrow one. Yet he was a genius of sorts. Like Edgar Rice Burroughs was a genius of sorts; or Ian Fleming; or Mickey Spillane. He created a vivid character in Gat Garson-like Tarzan and James Bond and Mike Hammer-a larger-than-life hero who, I think, will live on for as long as people like to read a good yarn. Which I trust will be forever.
“But Roscoe Kane wasn’t larger than life. I think his work may prove to be larger than death, but never mind. Roscoe was a flawed, eccentric man, and I loved him like a father.”
Halfway back in the audience, stage right, Jerome Kane leaned forward in his seat.
My voice continued to rumble through the big room: “I have to reveal something, now, that-unfortunately-may cast a shadow on Roscoe Kane’s reputation.”
Gregg Gorman leaned forward in his seat; Mae Kane covered her eyes with a gloved hand.
“You are all aware, I’m sure, of the forthcoming ‘recently discovered’ Dashiell Hammett novel, The Secret Emperor… only, the novel wasn’t ‘discovered.’ It was concocted out of a five thousand word fragment by Hammett, whose authenticity is not in any doubt. The novel, which is based on that genuine fragment, was written by Roscoe Kane.”
A collective gasp went up.
The reporters and TV people, at stage left and right, seemed to wake up; eyes popped open.
And Gregg Gorman, sitting forward in his seat, looked at me with red-faced anger.
“Roscoe Kane was a bitter man,” I said. “He had been blacklisted, or so he felt, by the publishing community; no new Gat Garson novels had been published in this country in fifteen years. He had also been largely ignored by mystery fiction’s fan community, their critics and reviewers. In his heart, Roscoe knew he was a mystery writer of the first rank; and when he was given the opportunity to finish a novel by his hero, Dashiell Hammett, he jumped at the chance. To prove his worth. And to put one over on those who’d blacklisted and rejected him. The publishers. The fans.”
The room got very quiet. Gorman had sat back in his chair, but his face was still very red. Jerome Kane had a small smile; Evelyn Kane did, too. In the front row, Kathy looked a little frightened. And Mae Kane was crying quietly into a handkerchief.