Scarret laughed. "Oh, that? It's the title of a novel. By Lois Cook."
"What kind of a novel?"
"Oh, just a lot of drivel. It's supposed to be a sort of prose poem. It's all about a gallstone that thinks that it's an independent entity, a sort of a rugged individualist of the gall bladder, if you see what I mean, and then the man takes a big dose of castor oil — there's a graphic description of the consequences — I'm not sure it's correct medically, but anyway that's the end of the Gallant Gallstone. It's all supposed to prove that there's no such thing as free will."
"How many copies has it sold?"
"I don't know. Not very many, I think. Just among the intelligentsia. But I hear it's picked up some, lately, and ... "
"Precisely. What's going on around here, Alvah?"
"What? Oh, you mean you noticed the few mentions which ... "
"I mean I've noticed it all over the Banner in the last few weeks. Very nicely done, too, if it took me that long to discover that it wasn't accidental."
"What do you mean?"
"What do you think I mean? Why should that particular title appear continuously, in the most inappropriate places? One day it's in a police story about the execution of some murderer who 'died bravely like the Gallant Gallstone.' Two days later it's on page sixteen, in a state yarn from Albany. 'Senator Hazleton thinks he's an independent entity, but it might turn out that he's only a Gallant Gallstone.' Then it's in the obituaries. Yesterday it was on the women's page. Today, it's in the comics. Snooxy calls his rich landlord a Gallant Gallstone."
Scarret chortled peacefully. "Yes, isn't it silly?"
"I thought it was silly. At first. Now I don't."
"But what the hell, Gail! It's not as if it were a major issue and our by-liners plugged it. It's just the small fry, the forty-dollar-a-week ones."
"That's the point. One of them. The other is that the book's not a famous bestseller. If it were, I could understand the title popping into their heads automatically. But it isn't. So someone's doing the popping. Why?"
"Oh, come, Gail! Why would anyone want to bother? And what do we care? If it were a political issue ... But hell, who can get any gravy out of plugging for free will or against free will?"
"Did anyone consult you about this plugging?"
"No. I tell you, nobody's behind it. It's just spontaneous. Just a lot of people who thought it was a funny gag."
"Who was the first one that you heard it from?"
"I don't know ... Let me see ... It was ... yes, I think it was Ellsworth Toohey."
"Have it stopped. Be sure to tell Mr. Toohey."
"Okay, if you say so. But it's really nothing. Just a lot of people amusing themselves."
"I don't like to have anyone amusing himself on my paper."
"Yes, Gail."
At two o'clock Wynand arrived, as guest of honor, at a luncheon given by a National Convention of Women's Clubs. He sat at the right of the chairwoman in an echoing banquet hall filled with the odors of corsages — gardenias and sweet peas — and of fried chicken. After luncheon Wynand spoke. The Convention advocated careers for married women; the Wynand papers had fought against the employment of married women for many years. Wynand spoke for twenty minutes and said nothing at all; but he conveyed the impression that he supported every sentiment expressed at the meeting. Nobody had ever been able to explain the effect of Gail Wynand on an audience, particularly an audience of women. He did nothing spectacular; his voice was low, metallic, inclined to sound monotonous; he was too correct, in a manner that was almost deliberate satire on correctness. Yet he conquered all listeners. People said it was his subtle, enormous virility; it made the courteous voice speaking about school, home and family sound as if he were making love to every old hag present.
Returning to his office, Wynand stopped in the city room. Standing at a tall desk, a big blue pencil in his hand, he wrote on a huge sheet of plain print stock, in letters an inch high, a brilliant, ruthless editorial denouncing all advocates of careers for women. The GW at the end stood like a streak of blue flame. He did not read the piece over — he never needed to — but threw it on the desk of the first editor in sight and walked out of the room. Late in the afternoon, when Wynand was ready to leave his office, his secretary announced that Ellsworth Toohey requested the privilege of seeing him. "Let him in," said Wynand.
Toohey entered, a cautious half-smile on his face, a smile mocking himself and his boss, but with a delicate sense of balance, sixty percent of the mockery directed at himself. He knew that Wynand did not want to see him, and being received was not in his favor.
Wynand sat behind his desk, his face courteously blank. Two diagonal ridges stood out faintly on his forehead, parallel with his slanting eyebrows. It was a disconcerting peculiarity which his face assumed at times; it gave the effect of a double exposure, an ominous emphasis.
"Sit down, Mr. Toohey. Of what service can I be to you?"
"Oh, I'm much more presumptuous than that, Mr. Wynand," said Toohey gaily. "I didn't come to ask for your services, but to offer you mine."
"In what matter?"
"Stoneridge."
The diagonal lines stood out sharper on Wynand's forehead.
"Of what use can a newspaper columnist be to Stoneridge?"
"A newspaper columnist — none, Mr. Wynand. But an architectural expert ... " Toohey let his voice trail into a mocking question mark.
If Toohey's eyes had not been fixed insolently on Wynand's, he would have been ordered out of the office at once. But the glance told Wynand that Toohey knew to what extent he had been plagued by people recommending architects and how hard he had tried to avoid them; and that Toohey had outwitted him by obtaining this interview for a purpose Wynand had not expected. The impertinence of it amused Wynand, as Toohey had known it would.
"All right, Mr. Toohey. Whom are you selling?"
"Peter Keating."
"Well?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well, sell him to me."
Toohey was stopped, then shrugged brightly and plunged in:
"You understand, of course, that I'm not connected with Mr. Keating in any way. I'm acting only as his friend — and yours." The voice sounded pleasantly informal, but it had lost some of its certainty. "Honestly, I know it does sound trite, but what else can I say? It just happens to be the truth." Wynand would not help him out. "I presumed to come here because I felt it was my duty to give you my opinion. No, not a moral duty. Call it an esthetic one. I know that you demand the best in anything you do. For a project of the size you have in mind there's not another architect living who can equal Peter Keating in efficiency, taste, originality, imagination. That, Mr. Wynand, is my sincere opinion."
"I quite believe you."
"You do?"
"Of course. But, Mr. Toohey, why should I consider your opinion?"
"Well, after all, I am your architectural expert!" He could not keep the edge of anger out of his voice.
"My dear, Mr. Toohey, don't confuse me with my readers." After a moment, Toohey leaned back and spread his hands out in laughing helplessness.
"Frankly, Mr. Wynand, I didn't think my word would carry much weight with you. So I didn't intend trying to sell you Peter Keating."
"No? What did you intend?"
"Only to ask that you give half an hour of your time to someone who can convince you of Peter Keating's ability much better than I can."
"Who is that?"
"Mrs. Peter Keating."
"Why should I wish to discuss this matter with Mrs. Peter Keating?"
"Because she is an exceedingly beautiful woman and an extremely difficult one."
Wynand threw his head back and laughed aloud.
"Good God, Toohey, am I as obvious as that?"
Toohey, blinked, unprepared.