The Monet Murders by Terry Mort Read Free Book Online

I did tell him. I just gave him the broad strokes, leaving out locations and names, but positioning myself as an undercover operative for the FBI, which was nothing more than the truth, although not the whole truth. His eyes grew wider and wider as I explained some of what had happened.
    â€œI’ll be damned,” he said when I had finished. He was almost giddy with pleasure. “I knew it was a good idea.” He looked at me with increased respect. “So all the time that you were out here posing as an aspiring actor, you were really a G-man.”
    â€œMore or less.”
    â€œBut now you’re in private practice.”
    â€œYes. The FBI was too big an organization. I like being my own boss better.” Once again, something close to the truth.
    He nodded ruefully. “I understand.” He gestured over to the lineup of swaying writers. “All of us out here are used to being our own bosses. If we put something on paper that we like, it stays there. Not here. Here you get a committee looking over your shoulders every minute. Do you realize that they actually expect us to keep regular office hours?”
    â€œI’ve heard.” We were silent for a while, puzzling sadly over the indignities you had to endure in exchange for a thousand a week. “What are you working on now?” I asked finally.
    â€œBetween projects. That’s why I came to the Garden—to relax and unwind. I just got fired from an epic called The Redheaded Woman . They gave it to some woman from New York to finish. They said my approach was too serious. And guess who is set to star in the picture? Jean Harlow! Ha! I guess they’ll put a wig on her. Either that or hope the public doesn’t notice that the redheaded woman is a platinum blonde.”
    â€œYou don’t seem too upset about being fired.”
    â€œIt happens. As long as the checks keep coming, I can put up with just about anything.” He looked as though that was almost true. But not quite. He sighed without melodrama. He seemed more depressed than he wanted to admit.
    â€œDo you ever get tired of being yourself?” he asked.
    â€œI guess everyone does, now and then.”
    â€œSome more than others. You know who I’d like to be? Hobey Baker. Ever hear of him?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBefore your time, I suppose. He was a little before me, too, at Princeton, but we all knew about him. He was like a blond god on the football field. And in the hockey rink, too. He was handsome and gifted and celebrated in the newspapers. He played football without a helmet, and his blond hair was always visible even in the most terrible scrums. We all idolized him.”
    â€œWhat happened to him?”
    â€œHe was killed in the war. Actually it was just days after the war ended, I think. He was taking his Spad out for a test run and crashed. An athlete dying young. Do you know that poem?”
    â€œI don’t think I do.”
    â€œ Smart lad, to slip betimes away / From fields where glory does not stay / And early though the laurel grows / It withers quicker than the rose . I sometimes think that sentiment applies to writers, too. The ones who have early success. Far better to get it over with early than to wither away on Hollywood and Vine. Ha! A good pun.”
    He was silent for more than a few moments, obviously remembering something he didn’t want to share.
    â€œShall I call you Hobey from now on?” I asked, after a while. The idea appealed to him, and he perked up and grinned.
    â€œYes! By god, I can kill two birds with one stone—lose myself and become my hero. Good idea. How about a drink?”
    â€œSuits me.”
    â€œSo tell me. What are you doing out here? Working on anything interesting?”
    â€œMore or less. Not government business, of course. Private.”
    â€œAnd? Anything juicy? A story idea is always welcome.”
    â€œWell, kind of.”
    â€œWell? I’m always