The Emerald Cat Killer by Richard A. Lupoff Page B

editor-in-chief of Marston and Morse. I understand that you’re investigating this Emerald Cat matter. What can I do to be helpful?”
    Lindsey said, “I want to be honest with you, Mrs. Morse. My company insures Gordian House. If your claim against them holds up, International Surety stands to lose a good deal of money.”
    â€œOf course.” She was seated opposite Lindsey. They were in matching chairs, separated only by a blond-wood coffee table. The walls, between well-stocked bookcases, featured some very good abstract paintings. And they didn’t look like prints. “I hope that doesn’t create ill will between us. Marston and Morse doesn’t operate that way. We prefer to think of Gordian House and ourselves as fellow problem-solvers.”
    She’s actually serious, Lindsey thought. In this day and age. Truly amazing. He said, “I’d like to hear Marston and Morse’s side of this complaint.”
    â€œMarston and Morse isn’t a very large company, but it’s been in business since the 1950s. Delbert Marston was a popular novelist who wrote for Paige Publications in Chicago. They published mainly paperback fiction. A lot of it was fairly lurid. And, yes, in case you were wondering, Delbert Marston was my great-uncle. Mr. Marston had his eye on more literary productions. In the 1960s, he moved to the West Coast and started a company of his own, publishing literary biographies, philosophy, poetry, and what we like to think of as serious, quality fiction.”
    She stood up and walked to the side of the room.
    â€œHe had a partner, Paul Morse. In time, Paul Morse had a son, Paul Junior. Delbert Marston stayed in touch with Paige Publications, and eventually … well, stranger things have happened. I wound up married to Paul Junior. Both Paul Senior and Delbert Marston are deceased now but we kept the name.”
    â€œBut this Emerald Cat situation—”
    â€œYes, I’m sorry. Marston and Morse finally absorbed Paige Publications. We’ve kept a few of their old titles in print. It’s a sentimental gesture, I suppose. Only a small part of our business. And we do issue an occasional pulp paperback. It’s a guilty pleasure of the publishing business, I suppose.”
    She removed a handful of paperbacks from a bookshelf and spread them on the table between herself and Lindsey. “Oh,” she said, “how discourteous of me! Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Lindsey? Or coffee?”
    Lindsey declined the offer. The books looked oddly familiar. “This may surprise you, Mrs. Morse, but I was once involved in a life insurance settlement in Chicago, and I met a Patricia Paige.”
    â€œMy aunt Patti!”
    â€œAs I recall, she didn’t like her name. People kept confusing her with a popular vocalist of the 1950s.”
    â€œOh, I know, I know.” Suddenly Paula Paige Morse looked like a college girl. “I remember how much she hated that song. ‘How Much is that Doggie in the Window?’” She had a lovely laugh.
    Lindsey scanned the old paperbacks. Buccaneer Blades by Violet de la Yema. Cry Ruffian! by Salvatore Pescara. Teen Gangs of Chicago by Anonymous. Death in the Ditch by Del Marston.
    â€œAnd lately we’ve published a series of detective novels by a local author, Gordon Simmons. He wrote as Wallace Thompson. Quite good books, of their sort. He wrote about a private detective called Tony Clydesdale and his girlfriend, Selena Thebes. I can give you copies of the books if you’d like. We’d published eight of them and Gordon was working on the ninth. He’d been in the office and told us that he’d finished a draft and just had to polish it up before turning it in—when he died.”
    â€œWas murdered.”
    â€œYes. We never got that book. Angela Simmons, Gordon’s wife, told us that the book existed only as a computer file. You know how they keep saying, back up