Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 112, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 684 & 685, September/October 1998

A Publisher’s Dream by Phil Lovesey

©1998 by Phil Lovesey

With his first novel, Death Duties, just off the presses in England — and receiving rave reviews! — Phil Lovesey returns to EQMM with a story about the celebrity successful mystery authors often enjoy. The young British writer knows all about the world of mystery fandom, for his father, Peter Lovesey, has long been a favorite of both English and American readers — and it’s expected that Phil soon will he too!

“God, how I envy you chaps,” publisher began, leafing through IBM the battered typed manuscript. “It’s always been an ambition of mine to write a bestseller. Somehow, the joyful experience just eluded me.”

Gideon Plank shifted uncomfortably, anxious not to upset the man who seemed so taken with his novel. “I guess it’s just a matter of time,” he offered, mindful of the many hours spent torturously crafting the damn book in a damp bedsit just outside Reading. “It can’t be easy running a publishing business. I suppose I was just lucky, in so much as I had the time and space to write it.”

The portly publisher conceded the point. “Even so,” he mused, “it’s an author’s life, really. And I’m not saying it’s not without its drawbacks, but there’re precious few careers which allow one to indulge oneself quite so completely before such an adoring public.” He pointed to several well-known faces framed on the wall, famous authors, each striking the required “intellectual yet instantly approachable” pose. “How pleasant it must be,” he said, “to know an army of eager fans eagerly awaits every word which trips so delicately from the imagination onto the printed page. I’d give a hell of a lot for that, Mr. Plank.”

Gideon smiled, trying to suppress any premature feelings of excitement. Old duffer that the publisher undoubtedly was, he still owned one of London’s largest literary concerns, and more to the point, seemed unduly excited about Gideon’s tentative foray into the world of mystery fiction. He held his breath in the silence, barely daring to imagine that it was the remotest possibility that he might be published.

The publisher turned Gideon’s manuscript over in his hands once more. “I want to publish,” he said. “It’s a good book, eloquently written, with a most original prose style.” He held out a soft fat hand. “Welcome on board, Mr. Plank. And congratulations.”

Gideon offered a tiny hand in return, eyes twinkling with delight. God, it had been a hard struggle, but somehow every trial and tribulation incurred in writing the book vanished as he grasped the publisher’s puffy paw in his own. He sat back, utterly elated in the afterglow of his own efforts. He was going to be published. The euphoria, however, was short-lived.

“I should point out, Mr. Plank, that we do have one or two slight problems.”

Gideon sat straighter in the leather chair, wishing for the millionth time his feet might touch the ground. “Problems?”

“Nothing wrong with the book,” the publisher beamed patronisingly. “More to do with its author.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your stature, Mr. Plank.”

Gideon stared uncomprehendingly at the sagging face opposite his own, scarcely believing he was being manipulated into stating the obvious. The whole notion seemed too absurd, and furthermore, totally unrelated to the critical and commercial merits of the manuscript lying so innocently on the table between them. “My stature?” was all he could say, hoping against some incredible hope that he’d completely misheard the man.

“Your size, Mr. Plank.”

Gideon extended two child-sized arms. “I’m a dwarf,” he said. “Is that a problem?”

The publisher waited before replying, examining the ceiling carefully while formulating an answer. “Mr. Plank,” he said eventually, one hand on the manuscript. “You’ve given me a great book. A terrific first novel. This company takes a great many risks when it publishes a new author. We gamble thousands of pounds, hoping that the public will like what they see, buy it, read it, then look out for the next one.”

Gideon could sense what was coming. Besides, he’d taken his own gamble in writing the damn thing. They liked the book, they had the machinery to print the book, the marketing department to sell the thing, what sort of a gamble would they actually be taking? Unless... He spared the publisher the embarrassment of saying it. “You mean the book won’t sell if it’s written by a dwarf?”

The publisher tried his best to look empathetic. “The retailers want a package, Mr. Plank. The book forms maybe fifty percent of that.”

“And the other fifty?” Gideon pressed.

“The author,” the publisher replied, trying his most humble expression.

Gideon reached for the manuscript. “So this has all been a waste of time, has it?” he snapped. “You loved the book until you saw me? Until you realised there wasn’t that big a market for mystery novels written by ‘genetically restricted’ people?”

The publisher reached into a desk drawer and handed Gideon a spiral-bound catalogue entitled “Models 16.”

“What’s this?”

The publisher smiled. “The home of the new Gideon Plank, Mr. Plank. Or as I think he should be called from now on, James St. James.”

Disbelievingly, Gideon flicked through the catalogue, watching as page after page of male models fell through his stubby fingers.

“Page twenty-seven,” the publisher said helpfully. “I think he’s our man, don’t you?”

Gideon stopped at the appropriate spread, to be warmly greeted by a black-and-white photostat of a mature man in a variety of leisurely and athletic poses. “I’m not sure I...?”

The publisher smiled warmly. “Quite the perfect fellow, isn’t he? Square-jawed, broad-shouldered, dazzling smile, with just the correct air of literary arrogance and smouldering charm. The women will love him. And so, in turn, will you.”

“He’s me?” said Gideon incredulously.

The publisher lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “It’s a free-market economy, old chap. I don’t make the rules, but I do make a lot of money. Were it up to me, I’d publish you as you are. But I have to look at the risks involved.” He placed the open modeling catalogue next to Gideon’s manuscript. “Your literary talent and his looks could make for a highly lucrative combination.”

Gideon’s enlarged forehead began to swim. “You mean,” he said slowly, “I write the stuff, and this mannequin takes the credit?”

“I prefer to look at it this way, Mr. Plank. James St. James does all the PR work, leaving you the time and space to do what you’re best at. After all, you don’t want to be worried about signings, speeches, and conferences while working on your next opus, do you? You have the talent, he has the looks, I have the expertise and connections. Together, we all have an incredible opportunity. A viable package.”

“But it’s my book,” Gideon protested. “My ideas, my graft. It’s nothing to do with James St. James.”

The publisher stood and towered over the tiny author. “Mr. Plank,” he said, “do you want to get rich?”

“Well, I... er...”

“Not one single retailer will chance their shelf space on an untested mystery novel by an anonymous dwarf. Sounds cruel, but that’s how it is.” He fixed Gideon with his most persuasive stare. “Your book, by the physically acceptable, dare I say exceptionally handsome James St. James, could be riding high in the bestseller list for weeks. You get the money, Mr. Plank, eighty percent of it anyway, James St. James takes the rest. Either way, it’s a paltry price to pay for your anonymity. You turn them out, he sells them. And no one need ever know. You’ll never even meet the man. It’s the only way you’re ever going to get anywhere, Mr. Plank, believe me.”

Gideon began to feel as if the whole afternoon was tumbling away from him. “So you’re saying people only buy books if the author complies to accepted standards? That no one will buy a copy of the latest Gideon Plank simply because I had to sit on a cushion to write the thing?”

“No, no, no,” the publisher replied. “Any dwarf—”

“Person of restricted growth,” Gideon corrected through gritted teeth.

“Any person of restricted growth who happens to enjoy detective fiction would probably rush to the bookstore,” the publisher conceded. “But you must understand, it’s a rather restricted market.”

“Ha, ha,” Gideon sourly replied. “And everything I wrote would have to be stacked on the bottom shelf, no doubt, so all my freakish fans could reach it.”

“Not my rules,” the publisher replied. “The game’s.”

As his publisher had so confidently predicted, Gideon’s first novel, Grave Injustice, by James St. James, made the bestseller list for seventeen weeks. And so began two amazing years of change, seeing Gideon move from the damp bedsit into a charming Cotswold cottage, secluded from an unknowing public by three acres of finely tended gardens.

Novel number two eclipsed the first, while number three propelled the name of James St. James into literary stardom. For Gideon, the hours spent tapping at his word processor seemed all the more enjoyable for the clandestine hoax he was pulling. At nights he would waddle down to his local pub and enjoy every moment of his anonymity, feeling as if he’d slipped past the doormen at the Ritz to take afternoon tea without a tie. Occasionally he’d find himself at the same table as someone engrossed in the latest James St. James, and drew much comfort from the fact that he could sip his pint in contented silence while the reader remained transfixed in his narrative, ignorant of the real author’s presence just a few feet away.

Then things began to change. James St. James grew from a rugged black-and-white photo grinning reassuringly on the jackets of Gideon’s books into a media obsession. Gideon watched with increasing dismay as the square-jawed pretender to his literary throne began to appear on a succession of arts shows. After a few months it seemed Gideon could hardly turn on the radio or television without being subjected to James St. James’s carefully rehearsed opinions on the growing crime rate, methods and morality contained within his own works, political persuasions, even the lengths he’d gone to in order to redecorate his Kensington home.

Whenever Gideon phoned the publisher to voice his growing concerns, the answer was always the same. Wasn’t he happy enough with all the money their “package” was creating? Though in truth, Gideon was fast discovering that all the luxury in the world couldn’t compensate for an increasingly burning desire for his own recognition.

Gideon titled James St. James’s fourth novel Chameleon, and centered his story around an understudy who kills the lead actor in a West End show in order to win the role for himself. It was neither a groundbreaking nor particularly good book, but the very name of James St. James, embossed in three-inch gold letters on the cover, ensured it sold eighty thousand copies in less than a month. As expected, the money rolled in, but by now, Gideon had very different plans for James St. James.

An international literary conference was to be held in Birmingham, a huge festival of crime, mystery, and detection, attracting fans from around the world, eager to meet their favourite authors in the flesh. Naturally, James St. James would be attending, giving a live interview in the conference centre’s largest theatre, followed by an impromptu question-and-answer session to further delight his devoted audience. When Gideon found out about the convention, he decided two things: firstly, he would attend, and secondly, he would kill James St. James. He didn’t need any more money. The whole ridiculous business had to stop.

Gideon told no one he would show up, booking himself into one of the convention’s many recommended hotels, and setting out to sample the bizarre atmosphere. Someone had unimaginably entitled the thing “Knives in the Back,” although Gideon appreciated the unintentional irony with regards to his own situation. The talk of the conference was the arrival of the magnificent James St. James. Wherever Gideon went, huddled groups of fans, readers, publishers, and agents chatted excitedly about the great man’s achievements. And although conference organisers had provided a packed timetable of lectures, master classes, screenings, readings, signings, and authors’ panels, there was little doubt who the main attraction really was.

At night, alone in his room, Gideon formulated his plans, leafing through his copy of Chameleon for the deliberate inconsistencies he had laid so cunningly on the crisp white pages.

On the last day of the conference, Gideon made his way to the enormous theatre which was to play host to mystery fiction’s most popular name. Shuffling through a packed auditorium, he settled in his fifth-row seat, listening to the excited hubbub all around him. It seemed as if every nation was represented by its own group of adoring fans. For his part, Gideon felt a little proud, experiencing at first hand the awesome phenomenon he and his publisher had so devilishly created over the last three years. He noted, too, that the publisher, his partner in crime, was nowhere to be seen. This session seemed to be for fans only.

Eventually, a leading critic took to the stage, introducing the main act for the day. The theatre erupted in applause as two thousand hands clapped enthusiastically, welcoming James St. James into their midst. Gideon joined in, aware that to have done otherwise would have drawn premature attention to himself.

There followed an hour-long interview with the charming wordsmith, the audience encouraged to laugh long and loud in all the right places by the merest shrug of his massive shoulders or twitch of his perfectly groomed eyebrow. Even Gideon was forced to admit the man had tremendous presence, and that, in reality, he couldn’t have wished for a better salesman for his work. But however much he admired the man, he couldn’t suppress the overwhelming urge to end the farce. If anything, he owed it to the fans, devoted readers who’d paid for every improvement in his life, and who now sat around him completely unaware how they’d been deceived. Gideon gave way to a rising sense of shame, and if he could have sunk any lower into his seat, he would have done so.

At the end of the hour, the critic announced James St. James would take questions from the audience. Instantly, Gideon was lost in the forest of hands which shot up all round him. Anticipating the problem, he calmly stood on his chair, waving his programme frantically to be spotted. James St. James, perfectly schooled in PR, nodded encouragingly to Gideon, aware he should always appear gracious to minority audiences.

The crowd hushed as Gideon cleared his throat. “Mr. St. James,” he began. “While I acknowledge that your last book, Chameleon, is a blistering good read, it leaves several fundamental ends untied. Surely the purpose of mystery fiction is to set the reader a complex puzzle before revealing the complete solution in its entirety?”

If St. James was at all worried by the question, he didn’t show it. “Go on,” he said politely.

“You expect us to believe,” Gideon continued, “that the female lead, the actress, walks calmly into the police station in chapter thirty and tells Detective Michaels the whole story of her affair with the killer. It’s almost as if you couldn’t be bothered to have Michaels detect anything. As if you just wanted the book finished and decided she’d spill the beans to save you the trouble of anything more elaborate.”

St. James smiled, taking the necessary five seconds to look terrific while formulating a response. “Chameleon was, for me, something of a departure,” he replied. “A more documentary approach to both plot and prose. In short, I suppose what I’m trying so ineloquently to express is the fact that I believe that in real life very few murders are actually solved in the way we have our detective heroes solve them. A terrified grass is, I believe, far more useful than a magnifying glass.”

A warm round of laughter and applause greeted the reply, causing Gideon to go for the jugular. “But don’t you feel you’re perpetrating a hoax on all your fans?”

St. James did his best to look bemused. “I don’t see how.”

“That you’re not really a crime writer at all,” Gideon replied, then waited before adding, “in so much as Chameleon sets us a puzzle which you only solve by way of a last-minute confession.”

One or two voices nearest to Gideon began to murmur disapprovingly, dismayed by the prolonged attack on their idol. The quality of the writing, the neatness of plot and sharpness of dialogue, were trivial concerns. What mattered was the man himself. If the next James St. James novel was the Road Atlas of Great Britain, they’d still be prepared to wait for hours in pouring rain for a signed copy.

Gideon continued his cross-examination for another five minutes, raising question after question regarding the validity of his own deliberately flawed plot. James St. James fired back a series of meaningless replies, each topped with a witty aside for the benefit of his devoted following. When it became evident that others were keen to interrogate their hero, St. James smiled apologetically at Gideon before turning to answer an endless stream of mundane enquiries, principally concerning his private life. Did he work out every day? Did he have a steady partner? Did he wear pyjamas in bed? Gideon shuffled unnoticed from the auditorium, crushed by the experience.

He made straight for one of the many bars, ordering two double whiskys, drinking the first in one shot before climbing unsteadily up onto a barstool, staring morosely into the second. The barman busied himself with chopping fresh fruit for the bar’s exotic collection of fresh cocktails.

“Not listening to the great James St. James, then?”

Gideon turned to the young woman to his left. “I have a feeling I know exactly what he’s going to say.”

She smiled. “Smooth, isn’t he?”

“Oily,” Gideon growled. “And largely vacuous.”

She laughed. “Jealous?”

He finished the second whisky, watching her carefully as she ordered for them both. She was hard-faced, with a husky voice honed by thousands of cigarettes. “You a journalist?” he guessed hopefully.

“Hack,” she replied, pushing another whisky along the bar. “Gutter-snoop, social parasite, whatever you want to call me. I’ll tell you this much, though, I’m not going to get much copy out of this boring affair. You’d think with a name like ‘Knives in the Back,’ there’d be something I could get my teeth into.”

Gideon felt like jumping for joy. Here, out of the ashes of defeat, rose a magnificent cigarette-smoking tabloid phoenix, waiting to tear her talons into another’s flesh. This time, he’d do it properly, kill the whole business stone dead, and let the papers bury James St. James in the morning. “I’ve got something for you,” he said, trembling slightly.

“Uh-huh?”

“An exclusive. Mind-blowing. Shattering.”

“Go on.”

“James St. James,” he said. “I write all his books for him.”

For a second she looked stunned, then she began to giggle.

“It’s true,” Gideon insisted. “Every bloody word is mine. Only I’m not considered as marketable as he is.”

“Right,” she laughed. “And I’m Mother Theresa on her day off.”

Gideon placed a hand on her forearm, feeling increasingly desperate as she pulled away distastefully. “Come to my house,” he begged her. “See the disks, plot structures, character profiles. It’s all there.”

“You sad bastard.” She finished her drink and began to leave the bar.

“I’ll even show you his next bloody book!” Gideon cried, watching sorrowfully as she left the bar without looking back.

He ordered another double, watching as a group of children began assembling outside the exit to the main auditorium, each clutching a copy of the books Gideon had written. The barman answered a telephone call, leaving the vicious-looking knife just inches from Gideon’s trembling grasp. Apparently St. James would be out in half an hour. Dark thoughts began to cross Gideon’s mind.

The following morning, Gideon sat in the fat publisher’s London office, staring at the mass of newspapers telling of the tragedy. WHODUNNIT? cried one; ST. JAMES’S FINAL MYSTERY! bayed another. Each front page seemed devoted to the tragic events in Birmingham the previous afternoon.

The publisher lit a long cigar. “An extraordinary turn of events, Mr. Plank,” he said. “And as a humble publisher, I feel duty-bound to protect the hard-won reputation of my authors.”

Gideon said nothing, numbed by the last twenty-four hours.

“A limited-edition presentation set should do the trick. All St. James’s work lovingly presented in a commemorative black box. A final tasteful souvenir for his most ardent admirers.”

“You think of everything,” Gideon replied bitterly.

“Unlike your good self, Mr. Plank.”

“I don’t understand.”

The publisher blew a large plume of smoke towards the ceiling. “I had a jolly interesting time with the boys in blue yesterday evening, most informative.”

“You were in Birmingham?” Gideon asked, a bead of sweat trickling down his back.

“Of course. For the whole three days. You wouldn’t have seen me amongst the crowds, but I was there, doing deals, behind the scenes.”

“I wasn’t there,” Gideon stressed.

The publisher tutted. “Come on, Mr. Plank, you’re disappointing me. I heard about the little show you put on in the main theatre. Hardly conspicuous behaviour, eh?”

Gideon blushed. “But I didn’t kill him. I wanted to, but I didn’t do it.”

The publisher tutted again, picking up the nearest newspaper and reading aloud. “As the dashing author left the auditorium he was surrounded by a group of excited local schoolchildren begging for autographs. When Mr. St. James duly obliged, the killer struck. An eyewitness reported, ‘One minute he was laughing and joking, surrounded by all these kids, the next he just suddenly went down. There was panic everywhere, kids screaming and running towards their parents. Everything was a blur. Then we saw he had a knife sticking out of his chest.’ Police later traced the murder weapon to the cocktail bar nearby. Seven youngsters were treated for shock, and detectives at the scene admit they are clueless as to how the tragedy could have happened.”

Gideon cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Of course,” the publisher continued, “I told the police everything I knew. That I’d been lunching at a separate site when the tragedy occurred, and that you were with me. I instructed three others from the company to verify my story.”

“I was with you?”

“Don’t you remember?” the publisher prompted. “You left the bar twenty minutes before the tragedy happened. We talked business for the next hour, Mr. Plank, after which you left the conference, totally unaware of Mr. St. James’s bizarre fate. I suggest you tell the police the same when they come to see you.”

“Come to see me?”

The publisher sighed wearily. “You were seen drinking heavily before the attack took place. A woman journalist swears you were acting very strangely.” He extinguished the half-smoked cigar. “You’ve been a very naughty boy, Mr. Plank. Very naughty indeed. But like I said, I always believe in protecting my best assets.”

Gideon held the publisher’s gaze, unsure whether to laugh or cry. He was tired, so very tired, and in the harsh light of morning, yesterday’s act of brutal revenge lacked any of the whisky-fueled dignity which had prompted him to act as he did. Even as he slid the knife into St. James, he’d still felt that this was the right thing to do. For himself, for the fans, and most of all for all struggling less-than-perfect authors in tatty bedsits everywhere. When the panic erupted, he too had been caught up in it, thanking his lucky stars that he could run away, hidden in the churning melee of frightened, tiny people.

“Which brings us to your next book,” the publisher said cheerily.

“My next one?”

“Of course, Mr. Plank. The show must go on. Unless of course you intend to use prison notepaper for your jottings.”

Gideon held his head in his hands, a victim of his talent and physique. “You mean I keep on writing, or you retract my alibi?”

The publisher reached into a drawer and placed a black-and-white photo on the desk. “Let’s just say James St. James was fast approaching his sell-by date anyway. I’d like you to meet your new sales assistant.”

Gideon stared at the picture in sheer disbelief. “But it’s you,” he said, noticing how even the publisher had managed to capture the required “intellectual yet approachable” pose.

The publisher smiled. “Like I said, Mr. Plank. I’ve always wanted to write a bestseller.”