“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.
They carried the story through Election Day up to the end of the year, and while they had no names or addresses they had about everything else. I even got interested in them myself, and was wondering what was going to come next.
Lon's bosses were glad to get them on Wolfe's terms, including the surety protection against libel suits, but decided not to start them until Sunday. They gave them a three-column play on the front page: HOW THE AMERICAN COMMUNISTS PLAY IT THE RED ARMY IN THE COLD WAR THEIR GHQ IN THE USA There was a preface in italics: The Gazette presents herewith the first of a series of articles showing how American Communists help Russia fight the cold war and get ready for the hot one if and when it comes. This is the real thing. For obvious reasons the name of the author of the articles cannot be given, but the Gazette has a satisfactory guaranty of their authenticity. We hope to continue the series up to the most recent activities of the Reds, including their secret meetings before, during, and after the famous trial in New York. The second article will appear tomorrow. Don't miss it!
Then it started off just as Wolfe had dictated it.
I am perfectly willing to hold out on you so as to tell it in a way that will give Wolfe's stratagem the best possible build-up, as you may know by this time, but I am now giving you everything I myself had at the time. That goes for Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday up to 8.30 p.m. You know all that I knew, or you will when I add that the third article was revised Sunday and delivered to Lon Monday noon for Tuesday's paper, that Weinbach's final report on the stone verified the first one, that nothing else was accomplished or even attempted, and that during those four days Wolfe was touchier than I had ever known him to be for so long a period. I had no idea what he expected to gain by becoming a ghost writer for Mr Jones and telling the Commies' family secrets.
I admit I tried to catch up. For instance, when he was up in the plant rooms Friday morning I did a thorough check of the photographs in his desk drawer, but they were all there. Not one gone. I made a couple of other well-intentioned efforts to get a line on his script, and not a glimmer. By Monday I was grabbing the mail each time a delivery came for a quick look, and hoping it was a telegram whenever the doorbell rang, and answering the phone in a hurry, because I had decided that the articles were just a gob of bait on a hook and we were merely sitting on the bank, hoping against hope for a bite. But if the bite was expected in the form of a letter or telegram or phone call, no fish.
Then Monday evening, in the office right after dinner, Wolfe handed me a sheet from his memo pad covered with his handwriting, and asked, “Can you read that, Archie?” The question was rhetorical, since his writing is almost as easy to read as print. I read it and told him, “Yes, sir, I can make it out.” “Type it on a Gazette letterhead, including the signature as indicated. Then I want to look at it. Address a Gazette envelope to Mr Albert Enright, Communist Party of the USA, thirty-five East Twelfth Street. One carbon, single-space.” “With a mistake or two, maybe?” “Not necessarily. You are not the only one in New York who can type well.” I pulled the machine around, got the paper out and put it in, and hit die keys.
When I took it out I read it over: June 27,1949.
Dear Mr Enright: I send this to you because I met you once and have heard you speak at meetings twice. You wouldn't know me if you saw me, and you wouldn't know my name.
I work at the Gazette. Of course you have seen the series that started on Sunday. I am not a Communist, but I approve of many things they stand for and I think they are getting a raw deal, and anyway I don't like traitors, and the man who is giving the Gazette the material for those articles is certainly a traitor. I think you have a right to know who he is. I have never seen him and I don't think he has ever come to the office, but I know the man here who is working with him on the articles, and I had a chance to get something which I believe will help you, and I am enclosing it in this letter. I have reason to know that it was in the folder that was sent to one of the executives to show him that the articles are authentic. If I told you more than that it might give you a hint of my identity, and I don't want you to know who I am.
More power to you in your fight with the imperialists and monopolists and warmakers.
A Friend.
I got up to hand it to Wolfe and returned to the typewriter to address the envelope. And, though I had done the whole letter without an error, on the envelope I fumbled and spelled Communist “Counimmst', and had to take another one. It didn't irritate me because I knew why: I was excited. In a moment I would know which photograph was going to be enclosed in that letter, unless the big bum dealt me out.
He didn't, but he might as well have. He opened his drawer and dug, held one out to me, and said, “That's the enclosure. Mail it where it will be collected tonight.” It was the picture, the best one, of the Communist Party membership card of William Reynolds, Number 128-394. I withered him with a look, put the letter and picture in the envelope, sealed it and put a stamp on it, and left the house. In my frame of mind I thought a little air wouldn't hurt me any, so I walked to the Times Square Station.
I expected nothing more from Wolfe that evening, and that was what I got. We went to bed fairly early. Up in my room undressing, I was still trying to map it, having been unable to sketch one I would settle for. The main stratagem was now plain enough, but what was the follow up? Were we going to start sitting and waiting again? In that case, how was William Reynolds going to be given another name, and when and why and by whom? Under the sheet, I chased it out of my mind in order to get some sleep.
The next day, Tuesday, until noon and a little after, it looked like more sitting and waiting. It wasn't too dull, on account of the phone. The third article was in that morning's Gazette, and they were wild for more. My instructions were to stall. Lon called twice before ten o'clock, and after that it was practically chain phoning: city editor, managing editor, executive editor, publisher, everybody. They wanted it so bad that I had a notion to write one myself and peddle it for fifteen thousand bucks flat. By noon there would have been nothing to it.