“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.