And then, at the end of what might have been centuries, Monday morning dawned outside; and the Saint looked at his watch and reversed the switches.
"You can go to sleep again now," he said for the last time; but Sir Melvin Flager was asleep almost before the last word was out of his mouth.
Sunken in the coma of utter exhaustion, Flager did not even feel himself being unstrapped and unhandcuffed from his perch; he did not feel the clothes being replaced on his inflamed back, nor did he even rouse as he was carried into his own car and driven swiftly away.
And then again he was being shaken by the shoulder, woken up. Whimpering, he groped for the steering wheel— and did not find it. The shaking at his shoulder went on.
"All right," he blubbered. "All right. I'm trying to do it. Can't you let me sleep a little—just once. . . ."
"Sir Melvin! Sir Melvin!"
Flager forced open his bloodshot eyes. His hands were free. He was sitting in his own car, which was standing outside his own house. It was his valet who was shaking him.
"Sir Melvin! Try to wake up, sir. Where have you been? Are you ill, sir?"
Flager found strength to move his head from one side to the other.
"No," he said. "I just want to sleep."
And with a deep groan he let his swollen eyelids droop again, and sank back into soothing abysses of delicious rest.
When he woke up again he was in his own bed, in his own bedroom. For a long time he lay without moving, wallowing in the heavenly comfort of the soft mattress and cool linen, savouring the last second of sensual pleasure that could be squeezed out of the most beautiful awakening that he could remember.
"He's coming round," said a low voice at last; and with a sigh Flager opened his eyes.
His bed seemed to be surrounded with an audience such as a seventeenth-century monarch might have beheld at a levee. There was his valet, his secretary, his doctor, a nurse, and a heavy and stolid man of authoritative appearance who held an unmistakable bowler hat. The doctor had a hand on his pulse, and the others stood by expectantly.
"All right, Sir Melvin," said the physician. "You may talk for a little while now, if you want to, but you mustn't excite yourself. This gentleman here is a detective who wants to ask you a few questions."
The man with the bowler hat came nearer.
"What happened to you, Sir Melvin?" he asked.
Flager stared at him for several seconds. Words rose to his lips, but somehow he did not utter them.
"Nothing," he said at length. "I've been away for the week-end, that's all. What the devil's all this fuss about?"
"But your back, Sir Melvin!" protested the doctor. "You look as if you'd had a terrible beating——"
"I had a slight accident," snapped Flager. "And what the devil has it got to do with you, sir, anyway? Who the devil sent for all of you?"
His valet swallowed.
"I did, Sir Melvin," he stammered. "When I couldn't wake you up all day yesterday—and you disappeared from the theatre without a word to anybody, and didn't come back for two days ——"
"And why the devil shouldn't I disappear for two days?" barked Flager weakly. "I'll disappear for a month if I feel like it. Do I pay you to pry into my movements? And can't I sleep all day if I want to without waking up to find a lot of quacks and policemen infesting my room like vultures? Get out of my house, the whole damned lot of you! Get out, d'you hear?"
Somebody opened the door, and the congregation drifted out, shaking its heads and muttering, to the accompaniment of continued exhortations in Flager's rasping voice.
His secretary was the last to go, and Flager called him back.
"Get Nyson on the telephone," he ordered. "I'll speak to him myself."
The secretary hesitated for a moment, and then picked up the bedside telephone and dialled the number dubiously.
Flager took the instrument as soon as his manager answered.
"Nyson?" he said. "Get in touch with all our branch depots immediately. From now on, all our drivers will be on a five-hour day, and they get a twenty per cent rise as from the date we took them on. Engage as many more men as you need to make up the schedules."
He heard Nyson's incredulous gasp over the line.
"I beg your pardon, Sir Melvin—did you say ——"
"Yes, I did!" snarled Flager. "You heard me all right. And after that, you can find out if that cyclist Johnson killed left any dependents. I want to do something for them. . . ."
His voice faded away, and the microphone slipped through his fingers. His secretary looked at him quickly, and saw that his eyes were closed and the hemispherical mound of his abdomen was rising and falling rhythmically.
Sir Melvin Flager was asleep again.
VII
The Uncritical Publisher
Even the strongest men have their weak moments.
Peter Quentin once wrote a book. Many young men do, but usually with more disastrous results. Moreover he did it without saying a word to anyone, which is perhaps even more uncommon; and even the Saint did not hear about it until after the crime had been committed.
"Next time you're thinking of being rude to me," said Peter Quentin, on that night of revelation, "please remember that you're talking to a budding novelist whose work has been compared to Dumas, Tolstoy, Conan Doyle, and others."
Simon Templar choked over his beer.
"Only pansies bud," he said severely. "Novelists fester. Of course, it's possible to be both."
"I mean it," insisted Peter seriously. "I was keeping it quiet until I heard the verdict, and I had a letter from the publishers this morning."
There was no mistaking his earnestness; and the Saint regarded him with affectionate gloom. His vision of the future filled him with overwhelming pessimism. He had seen the fate of other young men—healthy, upright, sober young men of impeccable character—who had had books published. He had seen them tread the downhill path of pink shirts, velvet coats, long hair, quill pens, cocktail parties, and beards, until finally they sank into the awful limbos of Bloomsbury and were no longer visible to the naked eye. The prospect of such a doom for anyone like Peter Quentin, who had been with him in so many bigger and better crimes, cast a shadow of great melancholy across his spirits.
"Didn't Kathleen try to stop you?" he asked.
"Of course not," said Peter proudly. "She helped me. I owe——"
"—it all to her," said the Saint cynically. "All right. I know the line. But if you ever come out with 'My Work' within my hearing, I shall throw you under a bus . . . You'd better let me see this letter. And order me some more beer while I'm reading it—I need strength."
He took the document with his fingertips, as if it were unclean, and opened it out on the bar. But after his first glance at the letter-head his twinkling blue eyes steadied abruptly, and he read the epistle through with more than ordinary interest.
Dear Sir,
We have now gone into your novel THE GAY AD VENTURER, and our readers report that it is very enter taining and ably written, with the verve of Dumas, the dramatic power of Tolstoy, and the ingenuity of Conan Doyle.
We shall therefore be delighted to set up same in best small pica type to form a volume of about 320 p.p., ma chine on good antique paper, bind in red cloth with title in gold lettering, and put up in specially designed artistic wrapper, at cost to yourself of only £300 (Three Hundred Pounds) and to publish same at our own expense in the United Kingdom at a net price of 5/- (Five Shillings); and believe it will form a most acceptable and popular volume which should command a wide sale.
We will further agree to send you on date of publica tion twelve presentation copies, and to send copies for re view to all principal magazines and newspapers, and further to pay you a royalty of 25% (twenty-five per cent) on all copies sold of this Work.
The work can be put in hand immediately on receipt of your acceptance of these terms.
Trusting to hear from you at your earliest convenienc
e,
We beg to remain, dear Sir,
Faithfully yours,
for HERBERT G. PARSTONE & Co.
Herbert G. Parstone,
Managing Director
Simon folded the letter and handed it back with a sigh of relief.
"Okay, Peter," he said cheerfully. "I bought that one. What's the swindle, and can I come in on it?"
"I don't know of any swindle," said Peter puzzledly. "What do you mean?"
The Saint frowned.
"D'you mean to tell me you sent your book to Parstone in all seriousness?"
"Of course I did. I saw an advertisement of his in some literary paper, and I don't know much about publishers——"
"You've never heard of him before?"
"No."
Simon picked up his tankard and strengthened himself with a deep draught.
"Herbert G. Parstone," he said, "is England's premier exponent of the publishing racket. Since you don't seem to know it, Peter, let me tell you that no reputable publisher in this or any other country publishes books at the author's expense, except an occasional highly technical work which goes out for posterity rather than profit. I gather that your book is by no means technical. Therefore you don't pay the publisher: he pays you—and if he's any use he stands you expensive lunches as well."
"But Parstone offers to pay——"
"A twenty-five per cent royalty. I know. Well, if you were something like a best seller you might get that; but on a first novel no publisher would give you more than ten, and then he'd probably lose money. After six months Parstone would probably send you a statement showing a sale of two hundred copies, you'd get a cheque from him for twelve pounds ten, and that's the last trace you'd see of your three hundred quid. He's simply trading on the fact that one out of every three people you meet thinks he could write a book if he tried, one out of every three of 'em try it, and one out of every three of those tries to get it published. The very fact that a manuscript is sent to him tells him that the author is a potential sucker, because anyone who's going into the writing business seriously takes the trouble to find out a bit about publishers before he starts slinging his stuff around. The rest of his game is just playing on the vanity of mugs. And the mugs—mugs like yourself, Peter—old gents with political theories, hideous women with ghastly poems, schoolgirls with nauseating love stories—rush up to pour their money into his lap for the joy of seeing their repulsive tripe in print. I've known about Herbert for many years, old lad, but I never thought you'd be the sap to fall for him."
"I don't believe you," said Peter glumly.
An elderly mouse-like man who was drinking at the bar beside him coughed apologetically and edged bashfully nearer.
"Excuse me, sir," he said diffidently, "but your friend's telling the truth."
"How do you know?" asked Peter suspiciously. "I can usually guess when he's telling the truth—he makes a face as if it hurt him."
"He isn't pulling your leg this time, sir," said the man. "I happen to be a proof-reader at Parstone's."
The surprising thing about coincidences is that they so often happen. The mouse-like man was one of those amazing accidents on which the fate of nations may hinge, but there was no logical reason why he should not have been drinking at that bar as probably as at any other hostel in the district. And yet there is no doubt that if Mr. Herbert Parstone could have foreseen the accident he would have bought that particular public-house for the simple pleasure of closing it down lest any such coincidence should happen; but unhappily for him Mr. Herbert Parstone was not a clairvoyant.
This proof-reader—the term, by the way, refers to the occupation and not necessarily to the alcoholic content of the man—had been with Parstone for twelve years, and he was ready for a change.
"I was with Parstone when he was just a small jobbing printer," he said, "before he took up this publishing game. That's all he is now, really—a printer. But he's going to have to get along without me. In the last three years I've taken one cut after another, till I don't earn enough money to feed myself properly; and I can't stand it any longer. I've got four more months on my contract, but after that I'm going to take another job."
"Did you read my book?" asked Peter.
The man shook his head.
"Nobody read your book, sir—if you'll excuse my telling you. It was just put on a shelf for three weeks, and after that Parstone sent you his usual letter. That's what happens to everything that's sent to him. If he gets his money, the book goes straight into the shop, and the proof-reader's the first man who has to wade through it. Parstone doesn't care whether it's written in Hindustani."
"But surely," protested Peter half-heartedly, "he couldn't carry on a racket like that in broad daylight and get away with it?"
The reader looked at him with a rather tired smile on his mouse-like features.
"It's perfectly legal, sir. Parstone publishes the book. He prints copies and sends them around. It isn't his fault if the reviewers won't review it and the booksellers won't buy it. He carries out his legal undertaking. But it's a dirty business."
After a considerably longer conversation, in the course of which a good deal more beer was consumed, Peter Quentin was convinced; and he was so crestfallen on the way home that Simon took pity on him.
"Let me read this opus," he said, "if you've got a spare copy. Maybe it isn't so lousy, and if there's anything in it we'll send it along to some other place."
He had the book next day; and after ploughing through the first dozen pages his worst fears were realised. Peter Quentin was not destined to take his place in the genealogy of literature with Dumas, Tolstoy, and Conan Doyle. The art of writing was not in him. His spelling had a grand simplicity that would have delighted the more progressive orthographists, his grammatical constructions followed in the footsteps of Gertrude Stein, and his punctuation marks seemed to have more connection with intervals for thought and opening beer-bottles than with the requirements of syntax.
Moreover, like most first novels, it was embarrassingly personal.
It was this fact which made Simon follow it to the bitter end, for the hero of the story was one "Ivan Grail, the Robbin Hood of modern crime," who could without difficulty be identified with the Saint himself, his "beutifull wife," and "Frank Morris his acomplis whos hard-biten featurs consealed a very clever brain and witt." Simon Templar swallowed all the flattering evidences of hero-worship that adorned the untidy pages, and actually blushed. But after he had reached the conclusion—inscribed "FINNIS" in triumphant capitals—he did some heavy thinking.
Later on he saw Peter again.
"What was it that bit your features so hard?" he asked. "Did you try to kiss an alligator?"
Peter turned pink.
"I had to describe them somehow," he said defensively.
"You're too modest," said the Saint, after inspecting him again. "They were not merely bitten—they were thoroughly chewed."
"Well, what about the book?" said Peter hopefully. "Was it any good?"
"It was lousy," Simon informed him, with the privileged candour of friendship. "It would have made Dumas turn in his grave. All the same, it may be more readable after I've revised it for you. And perhaps we will let Comrade Par-stone publish it after all."
Peter blinked.
"But I thought——"
"I have an idea," said the Saint. "Parstone has published dud books too long. It's time he had a good one. Will you get your manuscript back from him, Peter—tell him you want to make a few corrections, and after that you'll send him his money and let him print it. For anyone who so successfully conceals a very clever brain and wit," he added cruelly, "there are much more profitable ways of employing them than writing books, as you ought to know."
For two weeks after that the Saint sat at his typewriter for seven hours a day, hammering out page after page of neat manuscript at astonishing speed. He did not merely revise Peter Quentin's story—he rewrote it from cover to cover, a
nd the result would certainly not have been recognised by its original creator.
The book was sent in again from his own address, and consequently Peter did not see the proofs. Simon Templar read them himself; and his ribs were aching long before he had finished.
The Gay Adventurer, by Peter Quentin, was formally pushed out upon a callous world about two months later. The Times did not notice it, the library buyers did not refill their fountain pens to sign the order forms, Mr. James Douglas did not take it as the text of a centre-page denunciation in the Sunday Express, the lynx-eyed scouts of Hollywood did not rush in with open contracts; but nevertheless it was possible for a man with vast patience and dogged determination to procure a copy, by which achievement Mr. Parstone had fulfilled the letter of his contract. Simon Templar did not need to exercise patience and determination to obtain his copy, because the author's presentation dozen came to his apartment; and it happened that Peter Quentin came there on the same morning.
Peter noticed the open parcel of books, and fell on them at once, whinnying like an eager stallion. But he had scarcely glanced over the first page when he turned to the Saint with wrathful eyes.
"This isn't my book at all," he shouted indignantly. "We'll call it a collaboration if you like," said the Saint generously. "But I thought you might as well have the credit. My name is so famous already——"
Peter had been turning the pages frantically. "But this—this is unlawful!" he expostulated. "It's—— it's——"
"Of course it is," agreed the Saint. "And that's why you must never tell anyone that I had anything to do with it. When the case conies to court, I shall expect you to perjure yourself blue in the face on that subject."
After the revelations that have been made in the early stages of this chapter, no one will imagine that on the same morning Mr. Herbert Parstone was pacing feverishly up and down his office, quivering with anxiety and parental pride, stopping every now and then to peer at the latest circulation figures rushed in by scurrying office-boys, and bawling frantic orders to an excited staff of secretaries, salesmen, shippers, clerks, exporters, and truck drivers. As a matter of fact, even the most important and reputable publishers do not behave like that. They are usually too busy concentrating on mastering that loose shoulder and smooth follow-through which carries the ball well over that nasty bunker on the way to the fourteenth.
13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle) Page 10
