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Tyrrell Blair the publisher was a famous host. Since early manhood it had been his ambition to have people say that he gave the best dinners in New York, and in the end he realized it. Whether in his own home or in a restaurant, he insisted on inspecting the food before it was cooked, and indeed he frequently interfered in the cooking too. It was his boast that the most famous chefs in the world were among his personal friends. There was never anything spectacular or bizarre about Blair’s dinners; the focus was exclusively upon food perfectly cooked and washed down by perfect vintages.

Amos Lee Mappin as he ate it, guessed that this particular dinner, simple as it was, had cost hours of planning and preparation. It was the classical Maryland dinner; Chincoteague oysters, terrapin stew, fried chicken with corn fritters that swooned on the tongue; no sweet, because Blair said that sweets spoiled the palate for wine, but a salad and an assortment of cheeses. With the successive courses came an Amontillado of distinguished lineage, a Montrachet that Titania might have sipped by moonlight, a Romanée Conti (“Not exactly de rigueur with chicken,” explained their host, “but for the sake of variety!”) and a marvellous champagne. From the bottles of the last-named the labels had been removed. “An importation of my own,” said Blair with a wave of the hand.

Lee Mappin loved to dine out, but limited himself to three nights a week in order not to dull the edge of his pleasure. Being a gourmet too, in his own quiet way, he could always be had for one of Blair’s dinners. At this one he was the guest of honor, the occasion being the publication that day by the firm of Blair and Middlebrook of Amos Lee Mappin’s latest studies in crime, “Murder and Fantasy.” Lee thought it a little silly to give a formal dinner for such a purpose, but of course he was not going to stand in the way of promoting his own book. Among the guests were Lewis Gannett, Harry Hansen, John Chamberlain and other distinguished reviewers. It was not easy to capture these birds for dinner.

Lee himself at all times was much sought after as a dinner guest. Nature had not done much for him outwardly; he was the smallest man at the table, besides being over-plump, and shiningly bald. But notwithstanding these physical disabilities he had a curious air of distinction. He was known to have a pretty wit all the more effective because his manner was so mild and disarming. His quiet voice was listened to with closer attention than many a bigger man’s roar.

In addition to good food Lee loved to watch the play of human expression around a dinner table; to note the impact of contrasting personalities. This, he claimed, was the purest pleasure known to man. To make it perfect, there must be beautiful women’s faces included; the average of good looks around this table was high. On Lee’s left sat Mary Blair, a distinguished, dark-haired beauty. Some thought her cold and inexpressive, but when you knew her better there was the suggestion of an inner warmth, very alluring. She was Tyrrell Blair’s third wife. It was occasionally the publisher’s humor to invite all three of his wives to lunch in a fashionable restaurant, and show them off to the amused spectators. Something of the Turk about Blair, thought Lee. Lee got along excellently well with Mary Blair. She had once confided in him that he was one of the few people she was not afraid of.

Later in the evening Lee was to broadcast. “Will this be your first time on the air?” asked Mary.

“My very first.”

“Are you nervous?” Her way of lowering her voice as if to single him out privately was charming. “I hope it’s not interfering with your appetite.”

“For terrapin?” said Lee. “Watch me! ... Why should I be nervous? The script has been prepared beforehand; all I have to do is read it to Mike.”

From the other side of Lee, Peggy Deshon broke in: “I was on the air last week. All the preparations were so solemn I was terrified at first, and then it roused the devil in me. You know, like a child is tempted to be naughty in church. I wanted to swear into the mike just to see what would happen. But I didn’t.”

They laughed. “You wouldn’t have got far,” said Lee. “I am told that the man at the controls is ready for anything.”

Peggy Deshon was the wife of the clever Rafe Deshon, who managed Tyrrell Blair’s promotion and publicity. She was a perfect flower of modern New York, the darling of the paragraphers, and quite as clever in her way as her husband. At the dinner table a man could not have asked for a better partner, Lee thought, though she might prove a little unrestful by the fireside—but he absolutely could not imagine Peggy sitting by the fire.

Looking around the table, Lee saw that his two secretaries, Fanny Parran and Judy Bowles, for whom he had obtained invitations, were doing their full share to keep up the average of beauty. No prettier girls anywhere, he thought, the one as blond and fluffy as the other was dark and statuesque. But Fanny’s fluffiness was deceptive, as many a brash young man had discovered.

The faces of the men at the table, while less pleasing to the eye, were full of character. At the head, Tyrrell Blair, a big man, full-blooded, supremely confident, fifty years and some but as yet showing few signs of decay. The fact that he had been accustomed since boyhood to the world’s best, had given him a kind of kingly air—though palace-born kings seldom show it. His affairs with women were notorious; in his regal way he disdained concealment; the charmer of the moment was seated beside him now; his wife did not appear to resent it. Like other modern couples they were accustomed to go their separate ways. Blair could seldom be lured away from New York, but Mary spent long periods at their other houses in Florida, Old Westbury, or Bar Harbor.

Blair was announcing in his fruity voice: “I could sell the worst book ever written!”

Smiling to himself, Lee thought: Not the most tactful remark in the world. Luckily my skin is not as thin as some authors’. He saw Rafe Deshon glance at his employer dryly. Evidently Rafe was saying to himself: You mean I could sell the book for you.

Rafe Deshon was a perpetually interesting study to Lee, who could not quite get his number. Rafe had everything; good looks, brains, and wit. Lee had never seen Rafe do the wrong thing or get in his own light. Rafe was considered the mainspring of the Blair company, the man who really made the works go, while the senior partner amused himself. His salary was said to be $50,000 a year. In addition, Rafe conducted a column in the town’s most popular weekly and was one of the most run-after young men between Madison Square and the Plaza. All he seemed to lack was a heart.

Among the other men at the table was Fanny Parran’s red-headed journalist, Tom Cottar, who, disregarding Blair’s arrangements had contrived to get a seat beside his girl. Lee liked this homely, impudent lad, and was a little jealous of him, because Tom so conspicuously had what Lee had always felt that he lacked, an attraction for women. True, nowadays the ladies crowded around Lee, but that was because he had become famous, and it gave him little satisfaction as a man. Tom and Fanny were disputing in low voices. They could never agree about anything under the sun.

Next to Judy sat Boris Fanton, the preferred radio announcer of the moment, a dark, handsome man with passionate eyes. Lee distrusted emotional men. The fellow possessed a beautiful deep voice to which millions of ladies had succumbed on the air. He and Julia had become very friendly during the last few weeks, and Lee did not like it. There were said to be marital complications in Fanton’s past which had never been cleared up; moreover, there was a look of bad temper about him. In a lull of the conversation Lee heard him saying to Judy:

“I insist on editing my scripts. You see there is always an awkward way to speak a thing and an easy natural way, and writers don’t know the difference.”

Conceited puppy! thought Lee.

Since they were celebrating the publication of a book by Lee Mappin, the conversation inevitably got around to the subject of crime. Somebody asked the question:

“Why is crime so popular?”

There were several answers. One said: “Because we lead such dull lives.”

Another: “Because we all have suppressed criminal instincts.”

“If that is so, why does the detective always come out on top in crime novels?”

“Maybe the public would enjoy it more if the criminal came out on top, but the publishers don’t dare issue such books.”

“I will publish any book ever written if it has blood in it!” cried Blair, striking the table.

While the others lighted cigarettes, Lee took a pinch of snuff. “In my books,” he said mildly, “which are accounts of real crimes, the detectives don’t always come out on top. But of course my books don’t sell like novels.”

“Lee’s books sell better than novels,” cried Rafe for the benefit of the assembled reviewers.

At ten minutes past nine Fanton, with a glance at his watch, stood up. “If you will excuse us now,” he said in his deep, thrilling voice. “We have to go over the script, you know, for the timing.”

Lee and Rafe Deshon got up. “Good luck, Lee!” cried the other guests. “Don’t drop your script on the floor ... Don’t lose your place ... For God’s sake don’t sneeze!”

The dinner was being held in a private room of the Louis XVI Restaurant in the R.C.A. Building, consequently the three men had only to take an elevator to the appointed studio. Blair had installed a big radio cabinet in the dinner room so that the other guests could hear Lee’s talk.

Above in the studio, Lee looked around with interest. Like everything connected with the show business, the long room exhibited an orderly disorder. All the strange and varied properties required by the acts using that room were scattered around, together with weird electrical gadgets that he could not guess the use of. It was an extraordinary litter of incongruous objects, but he knew that nothing was unnecessary, nor would anything be mislaid.

Fanton had three clean scripts, one for each of them. “This incorporates all the changes we agreed on this afternoon,” he said.

Deshon was supposed to be interviewing Lee. They sat down opposite each other at a small table, each with a microphone hanging before him. Fanton, standing nearby, read his script from a lectern. Alongside the table stretched a large plate glass window, but Lee paid no attention to it since all was dark on the other side.

Lee was warned not to rattle the pages of his script during the broadcast. “The best way is to let each page flutter to the floor as you finish it,” said Fanton.

The announcer glanced at the studio clock and began to read. Nature had given him a fine speaking voice, and the voice had procured him a well-paid job. Unfortunately, Lee noted, he had now fallen in love with it; he caressed it, he played on it like an organ. He won’t last long, thought Lee. After Fanton, Rafe took up the story, and finally Lee got his cue.

While Lee was speaking a great sound filled the room like the voice of God. “You don’t need to speak so fast, Mr. Mappin. We are giving you all the time you want.”

Lee looked around him wildly and at last found the little control room on the other side of the plate glass, where a young man was seated before his instruments. This one he suspected, was the real boss of the proceedings.

When the rehearsal was over Lee said in his mild way: “There is a change in the script that I was not consulted about.”

“What’s that, Mr. Mappin?”

“You make me get off the old gag here that murder will out. In my original script I said the exact opposite. Did you edit me, Mr. Fanton?”

“No,” said the announcer a little sullenly. “That was done upstairs.”

“But why? In my books I have said over and over that of course there are murders which never come to light.”

“They considered upstairs that it would be against the public interest to broadcast such an idea.”

Lee tapped his snuff box and took a pinch. “How solicitous of them! However, these are supposed to be my ideas, aren’t they?”

“What do you want to do about it?” asked Rafe Deshon.

“God forbid that I should go against the public interest,” said Lee dryly. “I suggest that we cut out the whole section dealing with the prevalence of murder, pages six and seven.”

“You can’t do that,” said Fanton excitedly. “We’d be a couple of minutes short.”

“Then I’ll write in something else.”

“There’s no time. We’re on the air in forty-five seconds. And you’re not allowed to ad lib.”

Lee ran up his eyebrows. “Not allowed?”

Fanton glanced at the studio clock. “Get ready.”

One cannot keep millions waiting. Rafe Deshon was biting his fingers in anxiety. “What am I to do when I get to page six?” he demanded.

Lee was a good-natured man. “Oh, let it go,” he said. “It’s not of world-shaking importance ... next time—if there is a next time, I will take care that my ideas are not tampered with.”

Afterwards when he remembered his easy acquiescence, Lee thought: It’s a good thing we can’t foresee the consequences of our careless acts or we’d be afraid to do or say anything.

Meanwhile when the red second hand of the clock pointed to 60, a little sign flashed in fiery letters: “You are on the air!” Fanton turned on his mellifluous voice. Following him, Rafe Deshon’s voice by contrast was crisp and telling. Rafe was an old hand at this, and Lee noted with what accuracy he attuned his effects to the ear. When it was Lee’s turn to speak, a little thrill of excitement possessed him. He tried to visualize the listening audience of millions but was quite unable to do so. During Lee’s talk Rafe punctuated it with little chuckles of appreciative amusement into his mike; but Fanton, when he was not speaking himself, was merely bored.