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who was murdered at the book signing
outside of Philadelphia.”
    “Oh, yes, of
course,” Shields said quickly. “Forgot the name. Poor bastard. Well, what did
you think about the books?”
    “I should have
asked you for more money,” Scarne said.
    Both Shields
and Blue laughed.
    “That bad?”
    “Actually,
Arhaut has, or had, talent. Polgradsky is depressing, but well-written.
I glanced at a couple of earlier Quimpers on my Kindle and it’s obvious that
Sebastian didn’t have much, if any, input in Tehranity . Too literary.
I’m rather surprised they put it out without dumbing it down some. It makes it
look like Quimper recently had a brain boost.”
    “Actually,
Sebastian is a very intelligent man,” Shields said. “But the quality has
suffered after so many books.”
    A flock of
geese flew by, not 500 feet away. Scarne wondered if they could bring down a
copter as easily as a jetliner. 
    “Aside from
this latest threat,” he said, putting the thought from his mind, “doesn’t that
bother you? He’s the franchise.”
    Shields shrugged.
    “Of course it
bothers me. I’m not proud that we’re putting out such drivel, but his sales
have been going up! It’s almost as if he’s got the reading public on the
literary equivalent of heroin. They buy whatever has his name on it. Did you
see the book cover. His name takes up half the space. Then the title. And then
in small type at the bottom there’s a “With Roger Assholt,” or whatever the
guy’s name was.”
    “The man’s
name was Ralph Arhaut,” Nigel Blue said wearily.
    “My point,
exactly. No one gives a crap who the other author is. The Quimper name sells
books. But Jake makes a good point.”
    Scarne smiled
inwardly. Now it’s “Jake.” The old bastard would probably adopt him soon.
     “Someone is
dropping the ball,” Shields continued. “Let’s talk to the people at Schuster
about keeping the tone and style of Quimper’s books consistent. He can’t sound
like George Bush in one novel and F. Scott Fitzgerald in another.”
    “It’s the end
of Western Civilization as we know it,” Blue said.
    “Don’t be such
a snob, Nigel,” Shields said, smiling. “The end of Western Civilization goes
straight to our bottom line, and, not so incidentally, pays your salary.”
    Shields looked
thoughtfully at Scarne.
    “You know
about the merger.”
    Scarne
remained silent.
    “Of course you
do,” Randolph said. “Emma would have told you. Pillow talk? Now don’t look so
offended. I made a lot of money that way. I know she trusts you, and I guess I
do, too. Something, by the way, I never expected to happen.”
    “Actually, it
was at Babbo,” Scarne said evenly. “Thanks for the cognac, by the way.”
    He saw Blue
smile. Probably handled the bill.
     “Anyway,”
Shields continued, “one man’s crap is another man’s gold. I need Sebastian
Quimper alive.”
    Twenty minutes
later the copter landed on a broad expanse of lawn on Quimper’s 10-acre estate
north of Greenwich. It was met by three golf carts, driven by tough-looking men
who Scarne took to be private security. His impression was confirmed when the
jacket of his cart driver fell open to reveal a holstered Glock. When they got
to the main house they were met by another guard who opened the door for them.
    “No metal
detector?” Scarne said.
    “It’s being
installed next week,” the guard said. He saw the look Scarne gave him. “Hey,
what can I say?”
    Inside the
main foyer stood a young woman, her white blouse neatly tucked in a red skirt.
She looked to be in her early 20’s and was quite beautiful.
    “My name is
Audrey Perkins. Mr. Quimper is in the living room. Please follow me.”
     They all
walked along a long hallway to find Sebastian Quimper standing in front of a
roaring fireplace. There was a painting of William Shakespeare above the
mantle. Blue nudged Scarne and smiled.
    “Randolph, how
good of you to come.” The two men shook hands. “Blue, good to see