13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

"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."