Page 76 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Cat’s Paw

lead. There was some old Chinese proverb, a bit of Confucian
wisdom, about fish rotting from the head, that I liked to apply to
bureaucratic subcultures. Just another cop-out, I suppose, for looking
like a slob. Mallard did not resemble a fish, however; just your typical
balding executive heading for a date with a coronary bypass surgeon.
He handed me a slip of paper. “That is the address of the late
Arthur Lesley. I had just finished negotiating for his manuscript when
he passed away, and unfortunately we had given him a sizable
advance. Now, I’ve got a signed contract here,” he patted a folder on
his desk, “but we don’t have the book. I’d like you to go down there
and retrieve it from his estate.”
“Uh, right. You mean, go to his house?”
Mallard nodded, no doubt noting my perceptiveness. “His ex-wife
Ruth will meet you there at two-thirty sharp. She’s the executor, and
has a key. As far as I can tell she will be completely cooperative: I did
mention the legal complications inevitably ensuing from non-
compliance with the terms of this contract.” Again he tapped the
sacred document. “Since the lady is a legatee as well as the executor,
she will want to keep the advance and avoid legal fees. But I did
dangle a carrot as well as brandish a stick, O’Bleakley. Remember
that: you’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”
It was my turn to nod, with vigor and sagacity in equal and, I hope,
not mutually invalidating, measures.
“Yes, I reminded her that should the book sell more than ten
thousand copies the estate would earn royalties. That certainly got her
attention.” He chuckled, and leaned forward with a conspiratorial leer
on his face. “Between you and me, there’s not much chance of that
happening, and even if we did go into enough printing runs to exceed
the advance, her share would barely stir a ripple on our profitability:
she’d get only five cents a copy. But she’d have to hire a lawyer to
read the fine print in the contract to arrive at that conclusion.” And a
third laying of hands upon the folder, this time the whole palm
slapping loudly. I may have twitched.
“Okay, sir. Piece of cake. Um, do I get mileage for this?”
He frowned. “All right. But I have a fair idea of how far away that
address is from here.”
I stood up. “Right. Oh, by the way, what is the title of this work? I
might not recognize it otherwise.”

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