Stranger Than Truth
STRANGER THAN TRUTH
a novel
Vera Caspary
Books by Vera Caspary
The White Girl
Thicker Than Wwater
Laura
Bedelia
No character or incident in this book is drawn from life. It is all fiction—except the idea.
FOR GEORGE SKLAR
Severest of Friends and
Best of Critics
Contents
• Part One
THE WILSON STORY by John Miles Ansell
• Part Two
TESTIMONIAL by Grace Eccles
• Part Three
WHOSE TARTAN? by John Miles Ansell
• Part Four
THE SERPENT’S TOOTH by Eleanor Barclay
• Part Five
TO A GENTEEL LADY by John Miles Ansell
• Part Six
A SHORT HISTORY OF HOMER PECK by Lola Manfred
• Part Seven
THE TERRACE
Part One
THE WILSON STORY
BY JOHN MILES ANSELL
“Buried truth is ever in conflict with its dark surroundings. In its restless movement toward the light, it causes ferment and revolution in the social environment, and neuroticism and disease in the individual.”
My Life Is Truth
NOBLE BARCLAY
CAPTAIN RIORDAN told me the Wilson story in September. We were sitting behind a bottle of Canadian rye in a Third Avenue bar. He drank and I paid. I considered this a good investment because Riordan’s stories were always better when he was mellow.
I had recently become editor of Truth and Crime, and was still new enough to believe I could improve the magazine. Truth and Crime was just another of the fact-detective magazines, filled with hashed-over newspaper stuff and old police-blotter cases, served up with sensational titles and pious crime-does-not-pay endings. The Wilson story had no ending, so I decided to use it as an Unsolved Mystery of the Month.
Instead of assigning it to a staff writer, I handled it myself. Although I had to use the Truth and Crime formula, I felt that I had written it so that an intelligent reader might find something more in it than the conventional mystery. I saw it as a bit of Americana, a comment on a curious phase of our national culture.
On Thursday morning, November 22, 1945, I was sitting in my private office in the Editorial Department of Barclay Truth Publications. It was my first private office and I was still new enough to enjoy seeing my name and the title, Editor, in gold letters on the door.
I was feeling good that morning. Righteous. Our February issue was to go to press that day, and all but one story had been sent via the Production Department to the printer’s. The January and December issues had gone to press under my authority, but they had been filled with old stuff, stories ordered by my predecessor and not to my taste. The February issue was my own job, the first all-Ansell number, and I felt like a proud papa putting his firstborn to bed.
The telephone rang.
“The Production Department,” Miss Kaufman said. “They want to know why your Unsolved Mystery hasn’t come through.”
I took the phone. “Look,” I shouted, “what are you worrying about? You’ve got everything except the Unsolved Mystery and I’m expecting to get the okay on it any minute now.”
There was a rumble at the other end of the wire.
“Don’t blame me,” I said. “I sent that script through three weeks ago. It’s in Barclay’s office now, and as far as I know he’s using it for toilet paper.”
The rumble at the other end of the wire grew ominous.
“Look,” I demanded, “can I help it if Mr. B. holds up the works? He’s boss here, he made the rules, he knows when we go to press. Look,” I continued as the rumbles grew louder, “here’s my secretary. She’s just come back from Barclay’s office. What did they tell you about the Unsolved Mystery, Miss Kaufman?”
Miss Kaufman who had not been near Mr. Barclay’s office merely raised her bushy eyebrows.
“Good news!” I shouted into the phone. “Mr. Barclay’s secretary told her he hadn’t had time to get to the script until this morning, but he’s just finished reading it and he’s crazy about the yarn. I’ll have his okay any minute now, and I’ll get it to you pronto. How’s that?”
Just then an office boy came in and dropped into my In Basket an envelope decorated with red stickers which meant Rush and yellow stickers which meant Scheduled for Current.
“Just keep your pants on,” I told the rumbles. “The script’s here now. We’ll send it right over.”
Miss Kaufman had opened the envelope. She grabbed the telephone. “Mr. Ansell will call back in a few minutes,” she told the Production Department. Then she handed me the manuscript. Attached to its upper right hand corner was a green sticker. Green stickers meant rejected.
“What the hell!” I said. “They can’t turn down this story.”
“But they did,” said Miss Kaufman and handed me a memorandum typed on blue paper. It read:
Memorandum
From the office of: Edward Everett Munn
To: John Miles Ansell
Date: 11/22/45
Ref: Ms. 1028-TaC
In accordance with our editorial policy, cannot allow publication of above ms. Have read myself and called attention of Mr. Barclay to such objections as would offend readers. Would suggest you substitute material discussed in conferences, Dot King or Elwell cases, more nationally known and of wider interest. Hope this does not seriously interfere with your schedule.
E. E. Munn
Enclosure: Memo to N.B.
“Hope it doesn’t seriously interfere with our schedule! That son of a bitch!” I said. “He’s been holding it in his office until the last minute, so he can put me on the spot.”
“What are you going to do about an Unsolved Murder?” asked Miss Kaufman.
“The Elwell case! Dot King! As if every true-crime magazine in the country hadn’t reprinted them a dozen times. I’m going to tell Edward Everett Munn…”
“Don’t shout so, Mr. Ansell. They can hear you all over the office.”
“What do I care? Let’s give the stooges and spies something to report. I know when I’ve got a good story and I don’t intend to have it sabotaged by a cretin who ought to be collecting garbage…”
“Please, Mr. Ansell.”
“Yes, yes, I know they’re listening. I hope there arc no garbage collectors around because I don’t want to insult their trade. Garbage collectors are good honest efficient men and I’m sure they’d never let E. E. Munn into their union. Do you know the real unsolved mystery, Miss Kaufman? How he ever got the job of Supervising Editor and how he manages to hang on to it. Solve that and you’ll win the love of all those who slave in this jute mill.”
Our private offices were private in name alone. They were divided from each other and from the General Office by frosted glass partitions that stopped three feet short of the ceiling. Loyal employees said that this was a health measure, allowing free circulation of air, but cynics hinted of espionage. The older Barclay editorial workers were a discontented lot.
“Before you shoot off your mouth about what’s wrong with other people,” Miss Kaufman remarked, “maybe you’d better find out why they’ve turned your precious story down.”
She handed me a carbon copy of the memo that Edward Everett Munn had sent the publisher. I tried to read it, but I was angry and the lines seemed to blur. I took off my glasses and looked around for something to wipe them with. As usual my handkerchief had disappeared. Miss Kaufman found a square of pink cotton and wiped my glasses.
“Thanks,” I said gruffly.
“Read it,” commanded my secretary.
&n
bsp; Memorandum
From the office of: Edward Everett Munn
To: Noble Barclay
Date: 11/22/45
Ref: Ms. 1028-TaC
In order that we have on record our objections to above ms.—Unsolved Mystery, Feb. ’46—I herewith submit the following reasons why said ms. is unfit for publication:
1. The crime is unknown. Has it not been definitely decided in conference that the chief sales feature of the Unsolved Mystery is popular knowledge of the featured crime?
2. Satirical tone of article. It is not the object of Barclay-Truth Publications to point out the ironies of life, nor to assume a derogatory tone toward matters which our readers do not see in the same light as so-called sophisticates. This is not the New Yorker. Our readers are serious-minded, thinking men and women.
3. Frivolous attitude toward alcoholic beverages. Editors should be conversant with our policy in this matter.
4. Facetious remarks about correspondence schools. The writer evidently forgets that many of our best friends and oldest advertisers are reputable institutions of this nature. Is it not in bad taste as well as financially unsound to criticize a large group of advertisers?
Inasmuch as the above embodies several angles of destructive criticism, we have offered constructive advice in the attached memo to the editor.
E. E. Munn
Enclosure: Memo to John Miles Ansell
I crushed the memo into a ball and aimed it at the waste-basket.
Miss Kaufman fished it out. “For our files,” she said.
“You don’t think I’m going to take that hogwash seriously?”
“What can you do?”
“For once in the history of Truth Publications, Miss Kaufman, an editor is going to fight for his magazine.”
“But your job, Mr. Ansell.”
“Think I’m afraid?”
“What about the forty a week you send your mother?” asked Miss Kaufman. Then she smiled and added, “You’d better comb your hair, Mr. Ansell. And straighten your tie.”
I whirled around. I embraced her. She was on the wrong side of forty and her breasts would have been a bumper crop in any harvest. “Kaufman, old girl, you’re tops.” I kissed her full on the mouth.
“None of that. I’m a respectable married woman.”
I combed my hair, straightened my tie and took off my glasses. “Good or bad, that story’s going into the February issue. I’m fighting to the finish.”
She handed me the crumpled memo. “Take this along. Don’t ever try to rely on your memory, not around here. Well, good luck, little David.”
“Don’t you worry, I’ve got my slingshot with me.”
Typewriters stopped as I crossed the general office. Everyone who had listened while I shouted my opinions of Munn watched as I opened his door. I held my head high, thrust out my chin, stood straight, so I’d seem taller. This time, I told myself, Ansell triumphs. Come back with your shield or on it. People have always liked you, John Miles Ansell. You’ve never had to speak French nor play the piano, and everyone hates Edward Everett Munn, that is, everyone who is young and healthy and intelligent and right.
“Good morning, Mr. Ansell. Would you like to see Mr. Munn?” his secretary asked.
“No, dear, I’ve come to ask your hand in marriage. Will you make me the happiest man on earth?”
Pale lips tightened. Munn’s secretary never laughed at my jokes. She was anemic and not very bright. People said she was Barclay’s third cousin. The editorial department was a garden of nepotism. Poor relations blossomed all over the place.
“Mr. Munn is tied up now. He’ll be free in a little while. Won’t you sit down?”
I did not like being confined in a small space with that case of pernicious anemia, so I asked her to send for me when Mr. Munn was ready. I strolled out, trying to look as debonair as possible, for the eyes of the General Office were still upon me.
Instead of returning to my own office I sauntered along the linoleum, past the offices of Truth and Health and Truth and Beauty. In front of the door lettered Truth and Love I paused. The door was open.
“Hey, Ansell,” boomed a rugged female voice.
I straightened my tie once more, smoothed my hair and entered jauntily. The effect was wasted. The smaller desk stood empty and Lola Manfred was alone with the manuscripts.
She noticed my wandering gaze. “Eleanor’s downstairs in the Studio,” Lola said. “I always relegate to her the duty of posing models in those amorous photographs which prove so conclusively that our love tales are life experiences. What’s this I hear about your entering the lists and challenging the doughty Munn?”
“News travels fast around here.”
“You said it.” Lola ran her hands through hair dyed the color of a Christmas tangerine. “What’s the matter anyway? Can’t you take a rejection?”
“When I was a freelance writer, I used to eat rejection slips for breakfast.”
“Then what’s the shooting for?”
“It’s not the rejection,” I said. “It’s the principle.”
“What principle?”
“I’m supposed to be an editor,” I said. “At least that’s what I was told when they hired me. And then, just when I’ve started getting my monthly routine working, they hold up a manuscript for three weeks and don’t let me know it’s rejected until the day we go to press. How do you like that?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time in the history of this dump,” Lola said wearily. She swung around in the swivel chair, bent over and opened the lower drawer of her desk. Her voice, which ordinarily boomed over the frosted-glass partitions, softened. “Close the door.”
“Why?”
Lola had dainty hands and the movement of her thumb was incongruous as she jerked it toward the door. I closed it. As I returned to the desk, I saw with a start that Lola had pulled a milk bottle out of the lower drawer. I was more shocked than if I had seen her take a whiskey bottle out of a desk owned by Noble Barclay. Lola’s reputation was not precisely milky.
She pulled off the paper cap, tilted the bottle against her mouth. She grimaced as if the milk were so distasteful that she drank it on doctor’s orders. When she handed me the bottle I noticed that her long drink had not drained out any of the cream.
I smelled it.
Lola laughed. “Isn’t it clever? One of the boys in the Art Department painted it for me. He even put some yellowish paint on the top as if the cream had risen.”
I gave her back the bottle. “Not in the office,” I said.
“Is that a principle, too?”
“I like to get my work done. You can’t write well or make decisions when you’re foggy.”
“Edgar Allan Poe drank like a fish and I bet they’d never print his stories in Truth and Crime.”
“I can make the grade without alcohol,” I said.
“But what’s the advantage?” asked Lola and took another drink.
She put the bottle away, and leaned so far back in the swivel chair that I was afraid it would tip over. “Now that I’ve got my strength back,” she said, “I’d like to know just what principles you’re prepared to defend so vigorously.”
“I was hired to do a job. When I first came to talk to Barclay about it, he said he wanted me because my stuff was different. He said I had a touch you don’t often find among detective-story writers. He wanted me to lift the magazine out of its present rut and make it an outstanding monthly.”
“You’re not by any chance alluding to Truth and Crime” Lola sneered.
“Look,” I pleaded, “there are hundreds of ways of handling a crime story. After all, crime is as much an indication of the state of our civilization as our laws or our codes of conduct. After all, a murder story has social significance.”
Lola groaned.
“I don’t mean to be pompous,” I protested.
“How old are you?”
“I’ll be twenty-six in March.”
“Poor lamb.”
“Has your rejected manuscript social significance?”
“Not in the conventional way. There’s a bit of comment that Munn thinks is satirical, but if he and Mr. Barclay insist, I’ll take it out. What they don’t seem to understand is that I’m trying to give our readers something new and fresh.”
“What’s so new and fresh about it?”
“It hasn’t been in any other detective magazine or Sunday supplement or murder anthology. That’s the trouble with most of our stuff; it’s hashed-over and dull to our readers. They’re detective-story fans, they probably know all the good murders.”
“Is this such a good murder?”
“Nothing extraordinary, except for one angle. The victim. He was…”
Lola yawned. My arguments had bored her. “Is the story good enough to lose your job over?”
“Why don’t you read it? Then you’d see my point.”
“Good God!” she cried. “It’s bad enough to read what I’m paid for. Why did you take this job in the first place, Ansell? Was it to put social significance into Truth and Crime or to make a hundred dollars a week?”
“A hundred and twenty-five,” I boasted.
“Most of the hacks around here would consider that principle enough for anything.”
“I’m not so cynical that I can’t believe you can’t make a decent living and be true to your principles, too.”
“If it’s social significance you want to get into your stories, you’d better quit here and go to work for The New Masses. If it’s principle, the place for you’s a garret where you can starve comfortably. But before you give up that hundred and twenty-five berries and a job where you can get out a magazine with one hand and hoist drinks with the other, you’d better learn the difference between a principle and the desire to get your own way.”