13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

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 convenience,

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