Rann shook hands. The man’s grip was strong and firm and Rann liked him. There was the air of one long accustomed to his profession in all that he did.
They settled comfortably into their chairs at the round corner table and ordered a supper of the well-known Sardi steak sandwich and a tossed green salad.
Emmet Caldwell led the conversation. “Rita, is the rumor I’ve heard true that you are considering purchasing the dramatic rights to Rann’s book?”
Rita looked thoughtful and delayed her answer until the waiter had served their drinks and left the table.
“Yes, I think you can truthfully say I am considering it. I have not decided and I am unable to do so without some very good advice. It is an excellent book, in my opinion, a moving story, beautifully told. Whether or not it will fit on a stage and do justice to the stage and the story, I do not know. Perhaps it needs film. About that I shall have to get advice. I have an appointment with a Hal Grey on Monday morning and I have asked him to read the book before then.”
Rann knew of Hal Grey as the head of the most successful independent production company in the country and winner of many awards for documentary films.
She continued, “I think if Hal is interested then he could do the right job with the book. It is a very historical novel.”
Emmet Caldwell unobtrusively made notes in a small pocket-size notebook. “And what do you think of it, Rann?”
“I haven’t, frankly, had time to think of it.” Rann was quiet for a moment. “Margie Billows of my publisher’s office mentioned I should have an agent to handle subsidiary rights, and she has made an appointment with me to introduce me to one. If Rita is interested, however, I am sure she would do well with the material.”
Caldwell smiled. “I know Margie well, Rann, and if she is interested in you then you will do well to follow her advice. She is an old hand at this business and there is none better. George Pearce is lucky to have her. She really knows her way around.”
The conversation continued through supper and Rann enjoyed the easy exchange between Rita Benson and Emmet Caldwell. Yes, a world within a world, he thought to himself, and its discovery fascinated him.
Sung was waiting for him when he arrived home and brought a drink to him in the library.
“Sung, you must not wait up for me when I am out late,” Rann told him. “It seems I shall be late often for a while.”
After a hot shower, Rann put on fresh pajamas and lay in the huge old bed in the darkened master bedroom, the night noises of the city beneath him giving a faint background for his thoughts as he remembered the events of the day and reflected on his life that had brought him here. He could almost hear his father’s voice speaking to his mother many years ago.
“Give our boy freedom, Susan,” his father often said. “Give him freedom and he will find himself.”
Had he found himself, he thought? Was this then Rann Colfax? he wondered as sleep came to him.
The room was still darkened when Rann opened his eyes the next morning and he had to think for a moment to recall where he was. His dreams had been a mixture of Lady Mary in England and Stephanie in Paris and his mother in Ohio. How would these women react to the changes taking place in his life? The now familiar surroundings brought him back into the present. He rose and opened the draperies and the French doors leading to the terrace. The warm sunshine fell into the room. Rann put on a pair of shorts and walked out into the sun and glanced at the angle of his shadow. About ten o’clock, he judged, and time for some sun before the afternoon shadows engulfed the terrace. He settled himself comfortably on a long chair, the sun warming his lean frame.
“I got all papers like you say, young sir,” Sung told him when he brought Rann’s coffee to the terrace. It still amazed and pleased Rann the way his servant watched him and anticipated his wants. “They are on your desk when you ready. Shall I bring here?”
“No, let them wait. I’ll enjoy the sun first.”
Margie’s phone call interrupted his thoughts.
“Rann, have you read the papers yet?”
Rann confessed that he had not.
“Well, I didn’t think anyone would make his deadline for today, but one did—Nancy Adams of the Trib. I’m afraid she is nasty, Rann. It will sell books, which is good, but her overall tone is nasty. You must pay no attention. What are you doing for luncheon? We have an appointment with the agent at three o’clock and I thought we might have luncheon beforehand.”
Rann agreed to meet her at noon, replaced the receiver, and began sorting through the papers for the Tribune. The article was on the bottom of the front page. BLACK MARKET BOY HITS BRIGHT LIGHTS. There was a photograph of him and Rita getting out of the limousine in front of the theatre. Rann read the article in which Nancy Adams explained that he, Rann Colfax—who had made a fortune on the black market in Korea, either through personal involvement or by writing about it—had been seen in the right places last night with wealthy widow Rita Benson, living high on his profits. Rann smiled bitterly as he remembered he had been Rita’s guest for dinner and his publisher had arranged ahead of time to pay for everything else.
The closing line in the article disturbed Rann deeply: “It would seem that someone should care enough to check with General Appleby in Korea to see exactly how it is that Mr. Colfax was so easily cleared of involvement with the black market. One has only to read his book to see he obviously must have firsthand knowledge of the entire sickening operation.”
“But she had no right to say the things she said,” Rann protested to Margie as they sat over luncheon later.
“Oh, but yes she has.” Margie’s voice was gentle but firm. “That is the price we pay for freedom of the press,” she went on. “She can write anything she wishes as long as she covers herself, which she did. She said you made a fortune off the black market—either by being involved personally, or by writing about it. That’s true. You did write about it in your book, and you are making a fortune. You will make even more after her article. But you can’t let it get to you.”
They continued the discussion throughout luncheon and later at the office of the agent.
“You are hot, Rann,” Ralph Burnett, the head of the agency, said to him. “We have plenty of clients already but we will take you on. Anything anybody wants to discuss with you about your work, refer them to us. That’s all there is to it. But you have to stay hot. If you do that, we’ll all make a bundle. After today’s article, your book will jump to number one within a week, you’ll see.”
And it did. Rann sat at his desk, the book-review section of the newspaper open before him. A long, thoughtful review of his book was on the page opposite the bestseller list. George Pearce, Margie, and Ralph Burnett should be very pleased, he thought to himself.
This review pleased him also. The reviewer had understood so well everything he had tried to convey that Rann, himself, was surprised. Not all of the articles that had appeared—and there had been many—were as thoughtful or as carefully written. They had all been good and factual, except that Nancy Adams had followed up with two more articles in the Tribune, one in which she told of a person-to-person phone call to General Appleby in Korea. General Appleby had not accepted her call, telling the operator merely that he had no comment to make, but reporting the phone call gave her the opportunity to write her nasty insinuations all over again. Two days later she had written of a meeting she had with Sen. John Easton, a young presidential hopeful from a New England state and a member of a committee investigating military affairs, who had promised to read the book and meet with her again. She vowed that her readers would have a full report on what the senator had to say and again used the opportunity to repeat her former remarks.