Read Online Crime Writers and Other Animals by Simon Brett - Free Book Online Page A

any nibbles – can’t say fairer than that, can I?’
    The author considered the agent could say a lot fairer than that, but was in no position to argue. Meekly he left the office and went home to his flat in Upper Norwood to eat a boiled egg and wait for the phone to ring.
    It rang at a quarter to five. The mellowness of Dashiel Loukes’ voice suggested he had only just returned from lunch. ‘Had a ring round, old boy, like I said I would,’ he announced bonhomously. ‘Got quite a positive reaction to the idea of a book about Bartlett, but sorry, your name didn’t win too many coconuts.’
    â€˜How do you mean?’
    â€˜I mean there’s no chance of my getting a commission for this project with your name attached.’
    â€˜Oh. But I’m the one who’s got the dirt,’ Carlton Rutherford insisted.
    â€˜Maybe. I’m afraid that didn’t seem to carry much weight.’
    â€˜So what do you suggest I do?’
    â€˜Well, nothing. Nothing you can do, really. Unless, of course, you want to write the whole thing
on spec
. . .’ The agent’s voice was aghast at the alien nature of his own suggestion. ‘I mean, if you did come up with something really scurrilous, I might not have too much problem placing the completed manuscript. But it’d have to be pretty strong stuff . . .’
    â€˜Yes . . .’
    â€˜And you’d certainly have to talk to Mariana Lestrange. No book on Bartlett’s going to be complete without a few shovelfuls of shit from her.’
    â€˜Hm. Right . . .’ Carlton Rutherford was silent, until an unpleasant thought came into his head. ‘Meanwhile, I suppose, your calls will have planted in a few publishers’ heads the idea of doing a book about Bartlett Mears . . .’
    â€˜Possibly, yes . . .’
    â€˜
My
idea of doing a book about Bartlett Mears!’
    â€˜Well . . . They could have come up with it on their own . . .’
    â€˜No, they couldn’t! They’d never have thought of it if I hadn’t asked you to—’
    â€˜Carlton, Carlton . . .’ the agent remonstrated. ‘There is no copyright in ideas. Now you know that as well as I do – don’t you, old boy . . .?’
    It didn’t take Carlton Rutherford long to make his decision. He had no other means of revenge at his disposal. Besides, if he did not publish his findings, nearly thirty years of chronicling the misdemeanours of Bartlett Mears would have been wasted.
    And there was a new spur to action. Now that Dashiel Loukes had spread around London publishers the idea of a book on Bartlett Mears, it was only a matter of time before some suitably ‘sexy’ journalist was commissioned to write one.
    Carlton Rutherford reckoned that, because all his research was already done, he had a head start. But only if he got down to the writing straight away. He knew that experienced journalists could – and frequently did – paste-and-scissor together celebrity biographies over a weekend.
    He was greatly reassured as soon as he started the actual writing. So exhaustive had been his chronicling of Bartlett Mears’ life that he could copy out most of his notebooks verbatim. The book was virtually written; all it needed was a little judicious editing, to take out the only-mildly-scurrilous incidents and bring the thoroughly scurrilous ones closer together.
    He worked flat out for three weeks and the draft was done. It was the most searing indictment of a human being he had ever read.
    One thing still niggled, though. Dashiel Loukes had been right. No biography of Bartlett Mears would really be complete without an infusion of Mariana Lestrange’s distinctive vituperation. Her public set-tos with her former husband were well chronicled; but she was bound to have a store of character-destroying reminiscence of their life together. That was the dash of venom which the biography required.
    He got her