The Missing Chapter

“I’m afraid I have little — presumably nothing — that will be of help to you in the pursuit of this line of investigation,” Hobbs said, forming a chapel with his fingers. “But I came anyway, partially, I confess, because I was extremely interested in meeting you — and in seeing your library. I am leaving this afternoon for an extended weekend on Long Island and won’t return to the city until Tuesday.”

“I will not delay your departure,” Wolfe said as Fritz entered with his libation. “Were you personally acquainted with Mr. Childress?”

Hobbs smoothed his mustache with an index finger. “I never met the man. I make it a point to avoid functions where authors are likely to congregate. I prefer to know them only through their writing.”

“You had a low opinion of his work?”

“I have what you would term low opinions of many authors,” Hobbs replied belligerently, “and I would be less than forthright with readers of the Gazette if I did not express my opinions both clearly and forcefully. Writers — the majority of writers, that is — understand and accept this as part of the price of plying their craft — or art, depending on the writer. Charles Childress did not. As you undoubtedly are aware, his bruised and fragile ego drove him to excoriate me in the Manhattan Literary Times. It was an unconscionable diatribe.”

Wolfe sampled the beer and moved his shoulders. “Those who hurl javelins must be prepared to dodge them as well.”

“Hah! But there is a difference,” Hobbs snapped, punching the air with a fist. “I was reviewing his work, while his attack was personal — a vicious assault upon my integrity.”

If that little speech was intended to impress Wolfe, it failed. “You reviewed all three of Mr. Childress’s books about the Pennsylvania detective, Barnstable?”

Hobbs drew in air and expelled it, settling back into the chair, which dwarfed him. “I did.”

“And you disliked each of them?”

“In varying degrees. I thought I was relatively kind to the first one that he penned. Bear in mind, I was never a great fan of Darius Sawyer’s Barnstable books. Oh, Sawyer was a serviceable writer, I’ll give him that much. Better than serviceable. He had two or maybe three interesting characters, and some of his dialogue was actually quite amusing. As you know, he developed an impressive following — some might call it a cult — in his later years. Then he died and along comes this continuator, a man of whom I had no previous knowledge.

“Now I must tell you, Mr. Wolfe, that on principle I do not abide life-after-death in the world of literature. But I read the new book with an open mind — as I of course always do. Charles Childress did a marginally adequate job of re-creating this Orville Barnstable character and other members of Sawyer’s original ensemble company. His dialogue was acceptable in places, although uneven. But his structure...” Hobbs shook his head and compressed his lips. “His narrative structure was clumsy, ill-constructed, and—”

“And not challenging enough to befuddle a sixth-grader,” Wolfe put in.

“Ah, you went back and found my review of Childress’s first Barnstable book.” Hobbs’s well-tended face glowed with a satisfied smile. “That was three years ago.”

“No, sir, I ‘found’ nothing. It was on a right-hand page, either five or seven, across the top, with a thirty-six point, one-line headline, photographs both of Mr. Sawyer and Mr. Childress, and a reproduction of the new book’s dust jacket. I recall the review.”

“I am flattered.”

“Do not be; I retain what I read. Did Mr. Childress react publicly to your critiques of his earlier Barnstable books?”

“Not to the first. But to the second, I received a rude, boorish, handwritten note from him soon after my review of A Harvest of Horror appeared in the Gazette. Childress claimed I had it in for him because he was a continuator. He also claimed that I had not reviewed his book on its own merits, but rather had attacked it solely because it was a continuation. That charge was patently absurd.”

“Did you reply?”

“I did not,” Hobbs said primly, sounding offended and caressing his mustache again. “I answer civil letters, but Mr. Childress’s was hardly civil. He resorted to puerile name-calling, which shouldn’t have surprised me, given the paucity of his vocabulary.”

Wolfe raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. What did he call you?”

“Huh! It does not bear repeating,” the reviewer sniffed. “It is sufficient that he cast aspersions upon my parentage. Needless to say, I destroyed the missive immediately. I felt demeaned merely handling it.”

“No doubt, then, you expected some form of response from him when you reviewed book number three?”

“In all candor, Mr. Wolfe, the possibility that he might respond did not enter my mind at any time,” Hobbs answered crisply. “I review dozens of books each year. I never allow myself to be concerned about how their authors might react to what I write.”