I Like It Here

dark and for Hiscock that meant keeping it dark from everybody, including the other directors and his own wife. It also meant keeping all the contracts and correspondence—both ends of it —locked away. But when Hiscock goes round the corner and we look through his papers, not so much as a bloody twitter do we find about Strether—couple of years ago now, that was, just about the time I got on to the Board. Well, old Hiscock went very suddenly, down at his place in Sussex on Friday night and dead in bed on Sunday morning. He may have felt himself going, not had time to get hold of Strether and ask him what to do about all the stuff, so he burns the lot to be on the safe side. Anyway, we’ve hunted high and low, boy, believe me. Not a bloody twitter.”
“Yes, I can see it’s annoying.”
“Annoying, Christ, I could stand it if it was just annoying, I get all the practice I need. It’s far more than that. Ten days ago a typescript turns up in the office, a novel, a long one, about a hundred and twenty thousand, called—I can hardly bring myself to say it—called One Word More. See what I’m on about?”
“I’m ahead of you, chum, don’t worry. And there’s really no way of telling if it’s genuine?”
“I’ve passed it round on the quiet to a couple of chaps. Bad Strether, they say, and I agree with them. Fat lot of use that is. Anybody with the kind of mind that wins the literary competitions in the weeklies, plus the necessary energy, could have done it. So could Strether himself, granted that he’s out of practice and a bit past it. And we’re completely on our arse when it comes to deciding which it is, whether it’s genuine or not. You can see the little difficulties that that raises.”
“I take it Strether and Hiscock had never met?”
“Too right, sport. There’s no way of checking up on this fellow at all at the moment. Just assume for the sake of argument that he’s a fake. At different times he reads in the papers, (a) that Hiscock was as close as an oyster about the Strether business, (b) your point about them never having met, (c) there’s a fighting chance that the real Strether’s under the sod, and (d) old Hiscock’s death to round it off. Well then, why not try it on? To a certain kind of mind it’d be irresistible.”
“A disappointed writer who wants to make fools of the literary world? Like that Dutch chap who painted the Vermeers?”
“Could be; I wouldn’t know. Anyway, we’re all a bit nervous about it. We’ve written straight back, of course, saying how delighted we all are. Always withdraw it later on if we’ve got to. We’re having another look for the Hiscock dope too, naturally, though I doubt if we’ll find anything as late as this. But you see how we’re fixed. We don’t want anyone else to publish this thing if it’s genuine. On the other hand we don’t want to publish it if it isn’t. I say ‘we’. Speaking for myself I don’t think it would matter; we publish enough fakes under their real names as it is. It’s old Weinstein who’s a bit edgy about it, and the others tend to take their time from him. Don’t know whether you remember that book on linguistics we did a year or two ago, turned out to be a thesis the author had pinched from some Belgian or Luxemburger or what-have-you. It’s made poor old Weinstein a bit sensitive about things. You know, a bit niggly. He doesn’t want any more allegations of inefficiency and gullibility and so on for a few months. There’s plenty of time to play with and I’m sure we can get it all sorted out if we put our minds to it. But what old Weinstein’s after just now is someone to go and see the author of One Word More, whoever he may be, and probe him, manoeuvre him into producing something that’ll clinch things, a letter from Hiscock or a bit of fan-mail or something. I told him we hadn’t got to that stage yet. But it would be very interesting if someone could go and see this character and sort of see what the score is, kind of thing. That’s where you come in.
“Do you know,” Bowen said, “I was expecting me to do that round about here. So whoever it is lives in Portugal, does he? Why can’t he live in England like everyone else?”
Hyman glared at him as he signed the bill. “Still on that one, are you?”
“No, just coming back momentarily to that one. Anyway, as they say, what’s in it for me?”
“Well, obviously, if it turns out to be Strether—and personally I’m pretty sure it will—there’s an article there you’ll be able to name your own price for, once we’ve given you the go-ahead. In the second place we’ll weigh in with your expenses however the business turns out. And then there’s that job with us you’re after. Things aren’t too bright at the moment, but…”
“But old Jorkins—I mean old Weinstein might look on me rather more favourably if I do this chore for him, is that it?”
“More or less it, yes. What about it? I thought it might be a bit of fun for you with some financial interest thrown in.”
“But this bloke won’t want me charging in, will he, if he’s a sort of hermit like they say?”
“Ah, that’s all changed now. He knows he won’t write anything else now, he says, so he’s abandoning secrecy. Hopes to come to London in a year or so. That’ll be the day. Mind you, it gives you a place to dig. Ask him why he’s changed his line.”
“Yes. But I don’t much fancy the idea of spying on him.”
“You know, you’re wasted over here, Garnet. Ought to be in the States, giving your integrity