The Final Hour by Caldwell Taylor;

Author:Caldwell, Taylor;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2018-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XXXIV

Peter Bouchard sat with Mr Cornell T. Hawkins in the warm and comforting seclusion of the Ritz dining-room. The last of the manuscript of The Fateful Lightning lay on the white table between them. Mr Hawkins thoughtfully sipped his cocktail and stared at the pages. Then he looked up and politely scrutinized Peter’s haggard face with its blue tint and white lips. He saw the ringed and sunken eyes, the feverish pulsing of the thin nostrils. Something of what he was thinking, in his cool compassion, must have communicated itself to Peter, for he said, with a wry smile: ‘I’m glad it’s done, Cornell. I’ve a feeling I won’t see its publication. I’ve just been to my doctor this morning, before I saw you.’

Mr Hawkins said nothing; his silence implied a concerned questioning. But Peter, with a restless movement of his head, dismissed the subject.

‘I’m working on other things, now, which will occupy all my attention. This book—you have no idea when it will be published?’

Mr Hawkins shook his head. ‘In about six weeks, perhaps, you’ll get the galleys for any corrections or deletions or additions. Then, later, the page proof. After that, we usually allow some time for the critics to read the book. Then, publication. It all depends on our list at the time. We want to make this a big thing. We’ll do our best, but there is no predicting what the public’s reaction will be. We base our advertising on prepublication sales to the various distributing agencies. That’s all I can tell you, Peter.’

‘I’ll be willing to pay for lavish advertising,’ said Peter, eagerly. Then he flushed, for Mr Hawkins’ frosty blue eyes were twinkling. ‘Please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not trying to log-roll. But, you see, it is so very important to me that the public read this book widely. I’ve even thought of free distribution.’

Mr Hawkins’ eyes continued to twinkle, though he did not speak. He turned his glass about in his fingers. Mr Hawkins had a deep and reserved cynicism, which he could not always control, and like all men with this particular brand of cynicism, he had a kind and sensitive perception of others, and a treacherous compassion which frequently made him uneasy and distrustful of himself. He looked steadfastly at Peter’s febrile expression and dying face, and that compassion made his heart contract very painfully.

Now Peter, with a look that begged forgiveness in advance, spoke hesitatingly: ‘My first book, The Terrible Swift Sword, was mysteriously squelched right at the height of its popularity. I’ve told you that before.’ He paused. ‘They might try to intimidate you—’

Now Mr. Hawkins’ own expression changed, became cold and tight. He said, with hard and quiet reserve: ‘No one has ever intimidated me yet.’ He added, curiously: ‘What you told me about Mr Henri Bouchard is very interesting. He was very frank with you. He knows about this book, of course?’

‘Yes.’ Peter became uneasily reserved, himself. ‘In fact, he gave me material for it that I wouldn’t have known, otherwise.

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