Hunting for Hemingway Read online

  "There's something I really need to talk to you about," he said. "I was looking for you because I've got big news. I finally made it. C'mon, have dinner with me. I need your advice."

  The David I knew never needed anybody's advice, least of all mine.

  I looked into his eyes, trying to read him, damning myself for a fool the entire while. This is always how I get into trouble.

  "Just what do you have in mind?" I asked.

  "You always could put things in perspective," he said, flashing that old David Barnes smile.

  If I really were to put things into perspective, I'd run for the door. For some reason, I didn't.

  "DD, right now everybody around me has an axe to grind, and I can't trust them," he said. "Will you help me?"

  My little internal voice was shouting no-NO. But he had me. I was curious, and being an insurance investigator teaches you to listen. So instead of ducking out I said, "Okay, let's hear it."

  Two

  Time... is all we have.

  -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  I DROVE US BACK to the city in my Miata convertible. It was one of those beautiful summer evenings that stay with you for the rest of your life. The night air was hot and steamy, but a small breeze coming in off Lake Michigan made the trees sing. Nighthawks circled above, dining on clouds of bugs, their sharp calls punctuating the din of traffic.

  It was strange to be talking to David, hearing his voice again after all the years and all the hurt. It wasn't romantic exactly, but I think you never get over your first true love.

  After stopping for Chinese take-out, we went to David's apartment. It was a converted loft on the outskirts of the Loop that had once been a vacant factory. This trendy area had attracted all the upwardly mobiles from the Loop's financial district who paid more rent per month than I earned per year. But today many units were vacant, their former occupants victims of the economic meltdown. Redevelopment used to be a good thing, but my, how times were a-changing.

  David flipped on the lights. His enormous living room was decorated with brown leather furniture and oriental carpets. I spotted a Wan Li clay horse that stood out among the antique Chinese pottery, and I wondered who'd done the interior decorating.

  Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls. Knowing David, they undoubtedly held a lot of first editions. And there were treasures, like the early typewriter with pride of place on the shelf among his extensive Hemingway collection. His artwork was an interesting, eclectic mix. I glanced around, wondering whether David had a roommate, but didn't see any evidence.

  David's place far outshone my shabby-chic third-floor Uptown walk-up. Even in this crappy economy, David could have bought ten of me.

  "That's very beautiful," I said, admiring a large bifold screen with hand-painted cranes reflecting the soft light.

  David smiled. "It's Tang and very unique. Did you know that cranes in flight symbolize good luck?"

  Furtively, I touched the screen, hoping some of it might rub off on me.

  His cell rang. He answered, excused himself and drifted into another room. Meanwhile I enjoyed the panorama of the city from his windows, breathtaking even to a native Chicagoan like me.

  "You've certainly done all right, David," I said as he returned. "English lit grads usually don't wind up in a place like this."

  "All right? As usual, you're the master of understatement, DD." His eyes twinkled. "I'm a genius at winning those big-buck research grants." "

  I thought money was getting really tight in this awful economy.

  "Yes, but I do know how to get whatever's out there-and that's the trick."

  More likely who to get it from, I thought, remembering his mastery at manipulating our university professors.

  "There's something special I want you to try. It's an Australian wine." He left the room, saying, "The Chinese haven't figured out how to make a good red yet. Ha."

  He returned with two glasses of deep red wine. "A Shiraz," he said, handing me one. "You'll like it. Full bodied, like the Aussies."

  We clinked glasses as he toasted, "To old times."

  The wine was lively and satisfying. "Mmm," I said appreciatively. "No hint of the outback."

  "I knew you'd approve." He took another sip. "DD, I heard about Frank. I'm sorry."

  I wondered how many times he was going to say he was sorry.

  "I heard you two were about to be married. He was a good man. But why didn't anybody at the university know where to find you?"

  "It was a long time ago. I'm not in the academic rat race anymore. I do claims investigations for insurance companies"

  "Insurance? That doesn't sound like you. What happened to that ground-breaking research you were doing in the seventeenth century?"

  "It's over, that's all." I didn't want to talk about the whole lousy deal with Frank, with his death and with what happened afterward. We were about to be married and had been so happy. But after he died, his colleagues at the university needed to blame someone for what happened, and they blamed me. Not only did they insinuate I was responsible for his death, they also refused to publish my book, Restoration Scandals. They suggested it wasn't scholarly enough to merit publication by the University Press and debunked it as too risque. The research, they'd conceded, was flawless. But the content, they decided, appealed more to the prurient interest of the common man instead of to the rigorous requisites of a scholastic treatise. Never mind that's exactly what I'd aimed for. I understood why they were against me. With Frank dead, I didn't care any more what they thought, and I walked out. In a few weeks' time, I'd lost not only my husband-to-be but also my career. That's how I ended up doing what I do now, insurance investigations, and that's how I met Scotty Stuart. But I wasn't about to go into any of this with David, so I just stayed silent, hoping he'd drop the questions. He took the hint and said, "Well, face it DD, you were never a typical academic anyway. You always rubbed those people the wrong way."

  "Remember Dr. Bailey?" I asked.

  "She had the vapors over that genealogical research you did on the word `fly."'

  "Yeah. The verb was fine. So was the insect. But the nominative `gentlemen's apparel' was too much for her."

  "You know damn well that wasn't the phrase you used to describe that particular piece of clothing, DD" We both laughed, our shared past reforging an old bond.

  Debating with myself to go or stay, I took another sip of the Shiraz and asked, "So what kind of help do you need from me?"

  His eyes narrowed, and after a drawn-out pause he said, "Remember how I always wanted to unearth those lost Hemingway manuscripts?"

  "You mean the ones stolen from his first wife, Hadley, at the Paris train station?"

  "You remember. A-plus."

  "You used to say they might provide key elements to Hemingway's personality and writing style."

  "Ready for a surprise? I've got them."

  THREE

  The Corona #3 is the only psychiatrist I would ever submit to.

  -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  I STARED AT HIM. Here we were, sitting over Chinese take-out, discussing what, if true, would be the literary find of the twenty-first century. The incident at the Paris train station in December 1922, where Hemingway's first wife, Hadley Richardson, lost a valise filled with everything he'd written for the last year was well known. Scholars and Hemingway buffs have speculated for years about whether the stolen manuscripts survived and their possible whereabouts. But no clue has ever been unearthed. I wondered if this was a con-some sick ploy to attract my attention after all these years. But that didn't make sense.

  I put my wine glass on the coffee table and sat down on his leather sofa, stunned.

  "I'm having trouble taking this in, David. Where did you find them? Are you sure they're genuine? My God, if this is true, every one from the New York Times to the National Enquirer will be after you.

  He sat down too. "It's true, believe me. Eleven stories, the beginning of a novel, and twenty poems, to be exact."

&n
bsp; "This is incredible. After all these years..."

  He swirled his right hand in the air. "Bring on Oprah, Ba-ba Walters, and the three-ring media circus."

  I got up and paced the room. "David, at the risk of dumping cold water on your antics, how can you be so sure the stuff is really Hemingway?"

  "Modern technology. The easiest part was having the paper authenticated. Then I verified that the pages were typed on a typewriter similar to the one he used at the time-a Corona No. 3."

  "But that typewriter was from the early 1920s. How can they...?"

  "DD, ours is a truly marvelous world. There were two-not one but two original Corona Number 3 typewriters on eBay when I searched. And voila-" he pointed to the typewriter I'd noticed on the bookshelf, "there it is in all its glory."

  I crossed the room to examine it more closely. "It's still in fairly good condition. I thought it was just a prop."

  "It's no prop. It's vintage early 1920s-exactly like the one Hadley gave Hemingway on his twenty-second birthday in 1921 before they left for Paris. I even have the case for it."

  "Does this one still type?"

  "Technically, DD, the typist types, not the machine."

  "Ha ha. Very cute. Well, can you use it to type something?"

  "Absolutely. They were made to last. Remember Hemingway lugged his all over the world in war zones when he was working as a correspondent. On this one, some of the keys were sticking, but I cleaned it and oiled it and now everything works fine. I had to get a ribbon for it-that was the hard part." He inserted a piece of paper, moved it into position with the carriage, and pecked out "Hello DD McGil. It's about time I found you."

  "Amazing"

  "Amazing you're here right now, DD." "

  There was a sudden pause. I kept silent and carefully avoided making eye contact.

  "Well," he finally continued, "what's also amazing is the highly sophisticated software program I used to prove it was written by Hemingway. It categorizes word, sentence, and punctuation usage patterns. Believe me, the results indicated positively that the material is all one hundred percent pure Hemingway."

  "Unbelievable," I said, sinking back into his sofa and ignoring the odors of the untouched Moo shu pork and Mongolian beef take-out. "Tell me everything"

  "Years ago when I arrived in Paris on that fellowship, I started looking for them."

  "That part I remember," I said wryly.

  I really am sorry, DD. I meant to keep in touch, but..."

  "Forget it."

  "Anyway, I went everywhere Hemingway lived or visited in Paris, even traveled to Spain, but all I ran into were brick walls. When I came back to the states, I investigated every place that had any connection to Hemingway, no matter how remote. I went to Michigan, Oak Park, Wisconsin, Kansas. Even Toronto. Nothing. Until three months ago. That's when someone sent them to me."

  Now I knew David was conning me. I got up from the sofa and headed toward my purse, next to the untouched food.

  "Wait. Seriously, DD, I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. Please stay." The words tumbled from his mouth. "I really need your help. Please."

  I stopped, clutching my purse to my chest, and looked at him. "Who sent them to you?"

  "I have no idea. I wish I did."

  "This whole thing sounds like something out of the supermarket tabloids," I told him.

  "You know how much work I did for years trying to unearth these manuscripts, DD. But the honest truth is, the package arrived at City College simply addressed to Professor David Barnes. I'll show you."

  "This sounds preposterous. Was there anything on the package? Any clues you could follow?"

  "Nothing. I tried, but it's a complete mystery. Inside the package was an old valise, the manuscripts and poems, and a cryptic note in a purple, hard-to-read script listing the titles of the stories and poems along with the dates they were written. The note was signed, `Regacs Ma Fily."'

  "Do you still have the note? Did you try to trace the shipper? Let me see the manuscripts."

  "The manuscripts aren't here, and the note is with the manuscripts."

  "That's it," I said, heading for the door. "I know bullshit when I hear it."

  "DD, please. This is all true. After the way I left you, I know it's hard to trust me. But I'll let you see everything. I did put a trace on the package, but the shipper was a blind alley. It was sent from a shipping company in Quakertown, Pennsylvania. They searched their records, but the receipt contained a phony company name and false address." "

  I can look at everything?"

  "Absolutely. The only reason the stuff isn't here right now is that my attorney is concerned that other interested parties could get a warrant and seize the manuscripts when the news breaks. And it's going to break any day now. Probably tomorrow. I've got them in a safe place where they can't be taken."

  "What are you going to do with the material?" I asked, still not convinced this wasn't some kind of con.

  "Auction everything off. I've got a contract with a big auction house."

  "You're not going to keep the manuscripts for research? You're already a big name in Hemingway scholarship, but this would put your name in the history books."

  "My name will be in the history books even if I don't keep them. If I keep them, I'll be living in court and doing nothing but paying lawyers. The Hemingway estate, the Oak Park Hemingway Trust, the City College, they're like a school of hungry sharks. I need to sell everything as soon as possible. And it's important not to have any of the manuscripts published before the sale because of questions over public domain."

  "Public domain? I don't see what that has to do with it."

  "My lawyer says that if anything gets into print, that puts it into the public domain, which could mean that I'd have a harder time proving ownership."

  "It sounds like your attorney's made it into a nice Catch-22. The sale of the stuff itself validates your ownership of it. I admire the mobius logic. He must think you've got a good claim if he's recommending you auction it all."

  "He thinks it's air-tight because I've got possession. Nobody associated with the manuscripts is alive, so nobody can say what really happened to them."

  "But won't the Hemingway Trust file an injunction to stop the sale?"

  "The auction house tells me that generally only the government or a library challenges a sale. But because Hemingway is so hot and the time to sell is now, they didn't want to take any chances. They've already contacted the law firm for the Hemingway Trust and managed to get a signed release from them to allow the auction to take place."

  "So you're free and clear?"

  "Not exactly. I had to sign it too, agreeing that we'd fight out the proceeds from the sale in court."

  "Does that mean you could be left with zero?"

  "Au contraire. They had to acknowledge in the agreement that I have the manuscripts, possession being nine-tenths of the law and all that. So I've negotiated a guaranteed minimum percentage of the sale price. A percentage I'm happy with, even if the court awards me nothing additional."

  "Clever," I agreed. "This agreement establishes provenance, and whoever buys the manuscripts at the auction will be the new legal owner.

  "My lawyer thinks so. So does the auction house. Whoever buys stands to make a bundle if they want to get them published. And my court case with the Hemingway Trust over the proceeds will be fodder for even more publicity and drive up the value for the new buyer."

  "I see." I was becoming convinced now in spite of myself that David was telling the truth. "This reminds me of the Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings manuscript of Blood of My Blood that was lost for seventy-four years and finally turned up in a box in somebody's house. Her second husband fought for ownership, but lost."

  "The head of the auction house cited that case, too. They felt it strengthened my claim."

  "So what do you need me for?"

  "The manuscripts are insured, and the insurance company wants a look at all the material. So far I've dealt onl
y with the top guy at the insurance company, and I gave him a few sample pages-nothing he could publish. Now they want to see it all or they won't insure. I don't seem to have a choice. I've got to show them everything."

  "Okay, but you still haven't answered my question."

  "I told you when we first met in the theatre that I had been looking for you. I was. I know you, DD. I can trust you. I still can't believe how lucky it was to just bump into you tonight"

  Yeah, I thought. Luck with a healthy dose of Tom Joyce. I was going to get even with Tom for giving me that ticket.

  "You realize what a colossal find this is, DD. I can't have the manuscripts in my possession. Think about it. It's way too easy for someone to serve me with a warrant and walk away with them. I'd loose everything. But you could take them in for verification. No one knows who you are, so they'll be safe. And I know you'll keep an eye on them to make sure no duplicates are made."

  I sat down again, stunned.

  FOUR

  DAY 2: MONDAY

  About morals, I know only that what is moral is what you feel

  good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.

  -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  I WOKE UP THE next morning in David's bed. It was still early, and it had been a long night. David was still asleep. I needed to get out and think.

  I pulled on yesterday's outfit and drove to my apartment to make up with my cat. All the way back, I tried not to think about David. I knew I would have to deal with it, but like Scarlett, not right now.

  I live in a third-floor walk-up and continually remind myself that climbing stairs is cheaper than a Thighmaster for staying in shape. My apartment's the size of a matchbox compared to David's spacious loft, but it has the advantage of being only two blocks from Wrigley Field where the Cubs play. I try not to miss many home games, and being able to walk to the ballpark has saved me a ton of money in parking fees.

  They were predicting a heat wave for Chicago-ninety-five degrees for today. It hadn't cooled off overnight, and my window airconditioner unit buzzed loudly, clearly not up to the task set by Mother Nature. I silently cursed myself for not moving into a building with central air or, better yet, to Alaska. In Chicago, it's hard to decide if you're for or against global warming.