Jackson stepped forward, giving Matt his best man-to-man grin, as he asked, “Mr. Anthony, have you ever written any type story except mysteries?”
“Oh, yes. I have written slick love stories, and what is known as quality yarns. In fact when I first started I had a story on O'Brien's honor roll. This was an anneal anthology of the best short stories of the year.”
Jackson nodded. “Then, as a professional writer, do you consider yourself capable of turning out any type of fiction?”
“Yes.”
“Then why is it, Mr. Anthony, that in the last 10 years you have confined your writing to crime stories?”
“They sell.”
“Can you give us a rough idea of how many people read your books?”
“Oh, on the average, taking in both hardcover and paperback sales, I would say about 300,000 people buy a copy of each book, which means the book is probably read by at least a million people.”
“How many books have you written during the last decade?”
“I turn out about three a year.”
“Roughly, then, some 30 million people hare read your novels—almost one-sixth of our entire population.”
Matt smiled. “Not quite that many. The same person may keep buying each new book as it's published.”
“In your opinion, as a professional writer, would romantic... eh... sweet, love stories sell as well as hardboiled action?”
“Indeed, no. There's little, if any, chance of a paperback reprint of the sugary love yarn.”
“Then you turned to crime stories solely because they sell well?”
“Yes.”
“If next year you found love stories selling better than crime novels, would you then write love novels?”
“Certainly. I write for a living, therefore I must always aim at the best paying market.”
“That's all.”
The judge glanced at Wagner who said, “No further questions, your Honor.” After the usual warning to the jury not to discuss the case, court was dismissed for the day. I waited outside until Brown came by, asked, “Where do you want to eat?”
“At the moment all I want is a drink. Let's drive to some place outside town. Wagner crucified Matt.”
“You think it was that bad?” I asked, as we went down the steps.
“The worst part was the fact it was true—Matt did write all that terrible trash. I told you Wagner was a clever fellow.”
“Actually, what did he prove, that Matt writes tripe? This is a courtroom, not a critics' group. I still don't see any proof of murder.”
“I think he influenced the jury, at least shocked them. But the legal aspect aside, Wagner stripped Matt naked in public, exposed him as a pitiful... literary pimp. Clair was a fool to place Matt on the stand. And he didn't fight back enough—I thought he was on the right track when he started talking about Matt not inventing the sex and violence books. But he didn't go far enough, he should have shown that so-called literary tastes boil down to the publishers trying for the fast buck.”
“Oh, hell, Hank, that's pure bunk. I'm not trying to gild the publishing industry, God knows, but you're putting the cart before the horse. Books go in cycles, fads, and right now the public is demanding the fast-paced story that reflects the tensions of our time. If you see a dirty face in a mirror— don't call the mirror dirty.”
“That's more bunk, Norm. Big business under the slogan it's good for business always gives the public an inferior product. And that goes for publishing, of course. Don't you know they can make a nylon stocking that will wear for years? That they could seal the lubrication of an auto so that one would never need a change of oil? But think what that would do to the stocking industry, or the oil business!”
As I opened the car door, Brown was lecturing on what the auto industry supposedly did to a Mr. Tucker who was ready to build a better car. I wasn't in the mood for a lecture, nor did I believe his line. As we started to drive I managed to change the subject with: “After hearing him testify, do you still think Matt never killed Francine?”
“I don't know, it all has an unreal quality. Yes, listening to him, I still can't believe he struck her. How easy it would have been for him to simply dive over the side of the boat when Francine tried to take the diving lung from him. And these diving things are hardly flimsy, I doubt if she could have damaged it much. It's all Alice in Wonderland. Why Wagner had the first of Matt's books marked exhibit C— meaning that State had only introduced two other exhibits thus far—and they had already stated their case. In most murder trials there's dozens of exhibits.”
“Proving?”
“Nothing, except I have this feeling it's all a play, not a trial. Jackson's strutting, Wagner the villain. Matt with his crazy smile, as if he already knows what the third act will be.”
“Yeah. That grin must be annoying the devil out of the jury. What was that cobra thing?”
Brown shrugged. “Some story idea Matt's had for a long time. He told me something about it. Somehow, I smell a frame-up here.”
“Oh, Hank. How can Wagner possibly be framing Matt?”
“I don't know, but I smell it. Perhaps Matt is framing himself. Maybe he's in love with the picture of Matt Anthony, harassed genius, Jackson gave the court. The genius writing all that dung—the poor dope. All very confusing, makes me uneasy.”
