Thrillseekers, or The Mysterious Case of Herbert Vandebilt, with Excerpts from his Journal and Artifacts

Heather Mitchell

 

Herbert T(imothy) Vandebilt (1882-1918) was an eccentric American author. Little-known on a national scale in his time, he is now known for writing one of the first "thrillers," entitled Thrillseekers. The recent discovery of his journal sheds some light into the mystery of his last work and his strange death.

April 12, 1916

My novel’s almost finished, and Christopher’s Uncle Robert won’t leave me alone. He stood next to my desk, his small piggy eyes glaring at me from his fat face. "Go away! I killed you off," I told him.

"I’m not really dead, you imbecile!" he exclaimed. At least he stayed in character; he always called his nephew "you imbecile."

"What?" I said. "Christopher killed you."

"No, no, no. Everyone thinks I’m dead. I return and kill him."

"But—but that’s impossible," I blithered. "In my outline, you—"

"Now listen here, young man, I would know what happens to me!" Seeing him before me, I realize why I made him my villain; he’s terribly forceful and ambitious.

I sighed. "All right, tell me how they discover you’re not dead."

"Christopher’s fiancée Annie sees what she thinks is a ghost outside her house, which is actually me trying to get inside and kill him. Write that down."

"Yes, I see it now," I said as he walked out the door. Today I finished that section, which I believe will make a surprising ending for Thrillseekers.

June 20, 1917

Mr. Kongsberg:

I received your letter of the 16th. I find your offer of an advance of $20,000 ridiculous! I will take no less than $2,000,000 (two million).

Yours sincerely,

Herbert T. Vandebilt

Herbert T. Vandebilt

 

June 23, 1917

Mr. Vandebilt:

Regarding your letter of the 20th, your offer of two million dollars is unacceptable. I am willing to advance you up to $200,000.

Respectfully,

Martin Kongsberg

Martin Kongsberg

St. Drogo (Mass.) Dispatch, August 12, 1918, p. 12A:

. . . Mr. Vandebilt’s new novel, Thrillseekers (Stonewood Press, $14.00), is atrocious drivel. I say that with all due respect. I enjoyed his previous novel, The Nunnery. His newest book, however, is filled with terrible clichés and twists which this reader could foretell twenty pages before they happen. . . .

 

November 15, 1918

No one bought my novel. At least the War is over. My own war has escalated. Little Jack wants me to write another novel where he grows up, fights in the War , and returns to find his family hates him. I don’t know where he gets that notion; I killed half of his family in this first book! And babies can’t talk, anyhow . . .

They won’t leave me alone. They want everyone to love them; I’ll have to have a second edition printed. But no one read it! Annie tells me that’s fine. The men don’t agree. Even shy Christopher hates me now.

How did he get my letter opener? He’s only a char

 

St. Drogo (Mass.) Dispatch, November 17, 1918, p. 5E.

Local author Herbert Vandebilt was found dead today in his study. The police suspect foul play. He was stabbed in the back with a letter opener. All the doors and windows were locked.