Hunting for Hemingway Read online

  "Exactly," Matt replied. "We've just written a binder for fifteen million dollars on the manuscripts as artifacts. We believe that basing the insurance coverage on artifacts and not on genuine Hemingway manuscripts is sound risk management. But in fact the auction house is convinced the material is one hundred percent genuine, and we agree."

  "How can you be so sure?" Phil countered, his lawyer-ness coming to the fore.

  "They've contacted Hemingway experts, and we've done extensive computer checks on style and on word usage, proving definitively it was written by Hemingway."

  This whole conversation was extremely interesting, if not downright coincidental, considering last night. I silently chuckled. Was the universe finally handing me a boon?

  "Phil," I interjected, "I'm familiar with that computer software they probably used. I ran some of the programs myself to analyze various pieces of literature while I was at the university. It's amazingly accurate. If the tests are properly done, they can statistically analyze the number and sentence placement of nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, and pronouns; choice of words; punctuation patterns; frequency of word usage, and so on. It's like verbal DNA. If they ran the stuff right, and they concluded the stuff is Hemingway, you can be 99.9 percent sure they're right."

  "But," Matt held up his index finger, "there's one big problem. Nobody's seen more than a few assorted original pages of the manuscripts. We've had the available pages authenticated by the number one Hemingway expert in the country. Then the number one guy from the manuscript society certified that the paper was from the early 1920s, and that the typewriter was the same as the one Hemingway used. But we need to evaluate the rest of the material-all the original pages and all the carbon copies"

  "Seems not just reasonable, but necessary that you examine the entire lot," Phil said. "Why won't the owner agree?"

  I bit my lip, wondering what was coming next.

  "Good question," Matt said. "The owner's giving us problems. He wants to keep the manuscripts under wraps until the sale. His lawyer told him that if the stuff had never been printed, it's not protected by copyright. And even if, by some remote chance, it had been printed, his lawyer told him that any copyright attributable to Hemingway would have long since expired. There's no copyright from the Hemingway family or anyone else on the material right now. This being the case, the owner is unwilling to reveal the full contents because everyone would be free to print it without payment."

  This discussion was exactly what I'd planned on having with Phil later today. It looked like I might be able to help David after all. Sometimes things work out nicely.

  "Is that right, Phil?" I interjected.

  "It's a murky area of the law," he said, scratching his head. "And especially now with all the electronic media."

  He paused, then went on. "A good argument could be made that if these are the long-lost Hemingway manuscripts, they would be in the public domain, meaning simply that the public has a right to produce any part of them at any time. But if the contents themselves are not available, and the material is kept secret until the sale, then, even without the specific copyright to protect it from publication, it's still not open to mass dissemination. The public may have a de jure right to publish it, but they don't have the knowledge to publish it."

  "What do we know for sure?" I asked. Knowing what I knew, this conversation was getting to be more and more fun.

  Phil said, "It's well documented that the manuscripts were known to be lost. And it's also documented that the manuscripts were never printed. Therefore there was no contract with any publisher." He turned to Matt and asked, "Do you know for sure that the manuscripts were found, not stolen, by the current possessor?"

  "That's what he's certified," Matt confirmed. "And there's no reason to doubt him."

  "Then, taken together, this definitely gives the current possessor some de facto finder's keeper's rights. I would say that if the material is sold at auction strictly as artifacts, the auction house has a good chance of avoiding any adverse legal consequences."

  "That's what we at American Insurance believe," Matt said. "Hemingway's estate was settled a long time ago, and these manuscripts weren't a part of it. Our legal guys say that if the auction house sells them as artifacts, we're not going to get into any trouble. That's why the owner is trying to stay anonymous and auction the manuscripts as soon as possible. He can make a big splash and avoid a controversy that could hold up ownership for years in the courts."

  "But," Phil interjected, "if the auction house represents they're selling the publication rights also, copyright problems with Hemingway's heirs could arise down the line."

  "The Oak Park Hemingway Trust is already in there fighting for control," Matt explained. "They're claiming that the manuscripts have personal and historic significance and should be returned to them. We negotiated an agreement to allow the auction to proceed and to stop any injunctions. After the sale, the owner and the Trust can duke out the proceeds in court. Our legal department says that since the manuscripts have never been published and there's certainly been no copyright renewal, the current owner has every right to sell them."

  "As I said, it's a murky area of the law," Phil repeated.

  "Wasn't there a similar case with a handwritten Celine manuscript that had disappeared for fifty years or so?" I asked. This was part of the discussion that David and I had had last night. This was definitely fun.

  "That's right, DD," Matt said, giving me his full attention. "The manuscript was Journey to the End of the Night, and it was missing for more than sixty years. I'm impressed you knew that." He nodded approval. "Our legal guys investigated it thoroughly. That manuscript, too, had been discovered by a private collector, and the French National Library tried to claim it."

  "As I recall," Phil interjected, "there was a fierce bidding war. Didn't the library finally end up getting it at auction?"

  "Yeah. They paid $1.7 million and got it only when they exercised their right to match the top offer of a private bidder," Matt explained.

  "And wasn't the longest chapter of James Joyce's Ulysses auctioned off recently for $1.5 million?" I added.

  "Also correct," Matt nodded. "And based on these and other similar cases like Rawlings' Blood of My Blood, our legal department assures me the chances are that whoever buys the manuscripts at the auction would prevail over any family challenger or the trust."

  "So they're going to be sold with expectations for publication?" Phil asked.

  "I'm putting myself and American Insurance on the line here," Matt said. "Sold as artifacts, the manuscripts would raise about fifteen million dollars and provide a nice, tidy premium for American Insurance."

  Phil said, "But selling them as artifacts with future publication rights will more than double that figure, am I right?"

  "Yes," Matt agreed. "And the nice fat premium will keep American Insurance in the black for quite some time, not to mention the hefty bonus coming my way. So I've personally convinced American that the risk versus gain factor is worth it."

  "But you're at a stand-off," I said, "because you can't collect those big premiums unless you can verify everything's genuine and write the actual policy."

  Matt nodded. "There's a lot of academics out there who wonder why only fragments have been authenticated. They're ready to denounce the find as the biggest hoax since the Kennedy-Monroe letters and the Jack the Ripper diaries. And let's face it, the media goes crazy over anything Hemingway related. These naysayers are hot to get the auction house, the owner, the buyer, the academics-you name it-on every talk show in the universe."

  "What about that professor in the news who swears the stuff isn't Hemingway? Won't he create problems for the sale?" I asked.

  Matt shook his head. "Don't be naive. Just the opposite will happen. If the sale is surrounded in controversy, the price will shoot up significantly. The auction house has stopped just short of classifying these manuscripts as part of `the realm of astonishing objects"'

 
; "So where does DD fit in?" Phil asked.

  Matt smiled at me, then turned to Phil. "We need Ms. McGil to help us out. A background check on the owner has revealed she knows him, and we think she can help persuade him to let us fully examine all the originals and the carbons prior to the auction."

  For once, I thought, I wasn't going to have to earn my money the old-fashioned way. This assignment was turning into a breeze. Not to mention, I'd be there firsthand for the literary revelation of a lifetime.

  "Well, who's the owner?" I asked, trying not to smirk.

  Matt's eyes narrowed. "Does the name David Barnes ring a bell?"

  Matt had undoubtedly been hoping to catch me off guard and put me in the squeeze. My past wasn't any business of his, and suddenly I saw him with a brittle clarity.

  "Well, DD," Phil asked. "What do you know about this Barnes guy?"

  "It was a long, long time ago," I said, turning back to Matt. "What makes American Insurance think I'd have any influence over David Barnes now?"

  Matt's lips formed a tight smile. I kicked myself for not having noticed these objectionable tendencies about him earlier, before I'd so eagerly jumped into his bed. He reached across a pile of file folders on Phil's desk and grabbed the telephone.

  "Why don't we call him and find out?" Matt said, punching in David's number.

  Smiling, I took the receiver from him, catching another whiff of his cologne.

  The phone rang six times before a familiar voice said, "Yes, hello."

  "Hello? David? It's DD McGil."

  Matt reached over and brushed my arm. "Set up a meeting as soon as possible," he whispered.

  "DD? Hi. Is it morning? I'm still in bed, and I..."A loud explosion ripped through the phone connection.

  "David?"

  A second explosion boomed.

  "David," I screamed into the receiver. "David, what's happening?"

  I heard a click, and the line went dead.

  SIX

  Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he

  lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.

  -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  "I THINK DAVID'S BEEN Shot," I yelled. "We need to call the police." Matt grabbed the receiver, put it to his ear, then killed the connection. "There's something fishy here," he said. "Too much coincidence for me."

  "Coincidence? What are you talking about? I tell you there were gun shots. David could be lying there, bleeding to death. We've got to call the cops."

  Matt cradled the phone. "Your friend David Barnes is a real showman. Maybe this is another stunt of his to garner more publicity for the auction. Fifteen million isn't enough for him, it would seem. He wants more."

  Matt punched in a phone number. I exhaled, relieved he was finally calling the cops and hoping David wasn't turning into part of the curse, too. "Tell them to hurry," I urged Matt. "It doesn't make any sense that he'd try to pull a publicity stunt on me."

  "I'm calling David's number to see if he answers," Matt said.

  I should have known Matt wouldn't play by the rules.

  The three of us huddled around the phone, listening to the muted ringing on the other end. Matt let it ring a long time before he slammed down the receiver.

  "I'm telling you, I smell an insurance scam"

  "If you don't call the cops, I will. He's in trouble, and we could be accessories."

  I reached for the phone, but Matt gripped it forcefully. Instead of wrestling him for it, I let go, grabbed my purse, and pulled out my cell. It didn't do any good. It was dead. I'd forgotten to recharge it last night.

  "We've got a problem here," I told Phil, who was managing to look harassed and outraged at the same time.

  Matt smiled at us both. "Exactly. We don't know what happened on the other end of this phone," he said smoothly. "Whether David's been shot or whether this is a publicity stunt, I can't afford to be involved. This won't do my career any good either way. And Phil, if you value our business relationship, neither you nor your `investigator,"' he nodded in my direction, "will call the police or involve American Insurance in any way."

  In big business, ethics-be-damned is the norm. But there was no reason for it now. Was there?

  Matt stood up. "I'm heading back to New York immediately."

  "Phil," I pleaded as Matt left the office.

  "DD, we don't really know what happened, do we? So get over " there right away and check it out."

  I know you're trying to postpone calling the cops to save your butt,..."

  Phil peered out the door. "If David's been shot, what are the cops going to do except put up a crime scene tape?"

  "Phil, dammit, he could be dying."

  "Then get over there as quick as you can." He wrote something on a piece of paper.

  "But..." I protested as he handed me the paper.

  "That's David's address. It's not far from here. You can get there before the police would, if we did call," he said.

  I didn't need David's address. I knew exactly where he lived. I rushed out the door, shouting, "Dammit, Phil. Call the cops."

  It was less than a five-minute trip. I drove wildly, pushing hard to make time through the heavy morning Loop traffic. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and cursed Matt and Phil with every gear shift. Being in insurance investigations forces me to deal with probability statistics I don't really want to know. The odds were much more likely that David would die in a car accidentone in sixty, or a home accident-one in 130, than be murdered. But at the same time, the frightening statistics are that a murder is committed every twenty-one minutes, and there's a one in four chance of any of us becoming a crime victim. Maybe Matt's assessment was accurate about David being a showman. I hoped so, but something deep in my gut didn't agree.

  I squealed into an illegal parking spot and ran into David's building, forcing awful images of finding David's corpse out of my mind.

  His apartment number was 721. I frantically buzzed every other apartment but his for entry while I searched in my purse for my trusty Dyno Quick Lock Pick, a handy mail-order tool I'd given myself last Christmas. It lets me open almost anything, and in a pinch, doubles as a weapon if I run into an intruder, or worse yet, a murderer.

  "Who is this?" a crackly voice asked via the intercom system.

  "Who's there?" an elderly male voice demanded through a burst of heavy static.

  Just then, a pretty young mom pushing a pink bundle in a stroller opened the door from inside. I yanked it wide to assist, then ducked in and rushed to the elevator, afraid of what I'd find once I got inside.

  David's apartment was at the farthest end of the hall. My pulse raced when I saw the doorknob. I wasn't going to need my lock pick after all. One look at the marks and distortion told me it had been pipe wrenched. I recognized the damage easily because, although I'd never admit this to anyone, I'd had to do it myself a time or two in my work.

  I grabbed what was left of the doorknob and swung open the door, peering through the crack at the hinges to be sure no one was hiding behind it. Then I stepped in, ignoring the little voice in my head saying, No, don't.

  I paused to slip off my high heels. I listened, but there was only a hollow, reverberating silence.

  To my right was the living room. I didn't need to turn on any lights to see the chaos. The beautiful oriental screen with its golden cranes had been slashed and thrown onto a pile of overturned furniture, smashed Buddhas, shredded papers, rugs, paintings, broken lamps and ripped pillows. Strewn around the pile were needles of glass, all that was left of the wine glasses we'd toasted with last night.

  I held my sharp Dyno tool tightly and stood very still in the midst of the mess, listening, afraid that whoever had done this might still be around. But all I heard was the sharp beat of my own heart.

  Other rooms spilled off a long corridor, the kitchen at the farthest end. I tiptoed quietly, checking each room, terrified of what I might find. The spare bedroom office, the bathroom, all in
disarray. If someone was still lurking, I'd have to rely on my Aikido training to defend myself, and Sensei would kill me if he knew I was on tiptoes.

  As I entered David's bedroom I could see the unmade bed in the dimness. It was a jumble. A red jumble.

  "David," I called. He was lying on the bed in almost the same position as when I'd left this morning. Only now one arm arched downward, nearly touching the beige carpet, where blood had dripped into a big red stain around his fingers.

  My heart raced, and I prayed he was still alive. I started toward him when I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head. My eyes clouded, my ears rang, my knees buckled and I pitched forward onto the floor in a dark haze.

  My family's always telling me I'm hard headed, and technically I guess they're right. I was dizzy and my stomach was topsy-turvy, but I never blacked out. Skirting the edges of consciousness was Sensei, scolding me for the fundamental error of getting caught from behind. Through the pounding in my ears, I clearly registered a soft sound of running footsteps, and I fervently hoped whoever had hit me was gone.

  I tried to stand. My legs were rubber. Nausea welled up, and I dropped back to the floor. My head throbbed, and there was a warm liquid behind my right ear. Ignoring it, I took a few deep breaths and, despite the pain, slowly crawled to the bed.

  David's blood had soaked everything. My knees were sticky with what had dripped onto the carpet. When I touched his arm, his skin had the cold, clammy feel of cement and his color was a dull gray. He was dead.

  I looked at him closely. He'd been shot twice, once in the chest where blood coagulated around a gaping hole, and once in his head. Behind him, congealed blood matted the pillow along with other things that were probably brain matter. His blue eyes stared vacantly up at the ceiling. Faint traces of projectile gunpowder were embedded in his skin near the head wound, so I knew he'd been shot at close range.

  I looked away and swallowed hard, trying to conquer my nausea and horror. I was not going to vomit on a crime scene. The phone on the bedside table jangled.

  "Hello," I croaked into the mouthpiece, realizing immediately I shouldn't have touched it.