The archive, however, was prepared for just such a contingency. I had a computer that could handle them, and it was loaded with various word-processing programs. I ought to be able to read the contents of the disks with one of them.

This computer was on a desk in a corner, behind a range of bookshelves. I took all the disks with me and turned on the computer. While I waited for it to boot up, I examined some of the disks. They were labeled, and I recognized the words as the titles of some of Godfrey’s early books. There were also dates on them, so I could put them in chronological order.

When the computer was ready, I inserted the earliest disk of the group and executed a DOS command to see the directory of its contents. Judging from the file extensions, I didn’t think I’d have any trouble opening them. I scanned the directory. There were only twelve files, and they all had numerical names. Chapters one through twelve no doubt.

I opened the file named “one” and scanned through it. I recognized the text of what I thought was Godfrey’s first thriller, Count the Cost. The change in style from his early, more traditional mysteries, was clear. I closed the file and removed the disk. I didn’t see much point in reading through the text of the books, because I wasn’t interested in analyzing Godfrey’s prose.

There were three disks labeled “Cost.” I inserted the third one in the drive and executed the directory command. There were more files names with numbers, but there was one file called “letter.” I opened it and began to read.

The letter was addressed simply to “G.” I presumed that meant Godfrey. The writer stared by thanking G for taking time to read the manuscript and expressed the hope that G would like it enough to help get it published. The letter referred to the title Count the Cost.

By the time I finished the letter—unsigned, unfortunately—I was convinced Godfrey had not written a book that bore his name.

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-FIVE

Stunned by the contents of the letter, I stared blankly at the computer screen, trying to get my mind back into working gear.

If this letter wasn’t some kind of joke, then the implications were clear. Godfrey had stolen the work of another writer and published it as his own.

But how had he been able to get away with such a thing? Surely the writer, Mr. or Ms. X, would have figured it out. Godfrey even used the same title referenced in the letter.

I read through the letter again, more slowly this time, searching for any possible clues to the identity of the writer.