Gideon told no one he would show up, booking himself into one of the convention’s many recommended hotels, and setting out to sample the bizarre atmosphere. Someone had unimaginably entitled the thing “Knives in the Back,” although Gideon appreciated the unintentional irony with regards to his own situation. The talk of the conference was the arrival of the magnificent James St. James. Wherever Gideon went, huddled groups of fans, readers, publishers, and agents chatted excitedly about the great man’s achievements. And although conference organisers had provided a packed timetable of lectures, master classes, screenings, readings, signings, and authors’ panels, there was little doubt who the main attraction really was.
At night, alone in his room, Gideon formulated his plans, leafing through his copy of Chameleon for the deliberate inconsistencies he had laid so cunningly on the crisp white pages.
On the last day of the conference, Gideon made his way to the enormous theatre which was to play host to mystery fiction’s most popular name. Shuffling through a packed auditorium, he settled in his fifth-row seat, listening to the excited hubbub all around him. It seemed as if every nation was represented by its own group of adoring fans. For his part, Gideon felt a little proud, experiencing at first hand the awesome phenomenon he and his publisher had so devilishly created over the last three years. He noted, too, that the publisher, his partner in crime, was nowhere to be seen. This session seemed to be for fans only.
Eventually, a leading critic took to the stage, introducing the main act for the day. The theatre erupted in applause as two thousand hands clapped enthusiastically, welcoming James St. James into their midst. Gideon joined in, aware that to have done otherwise would have drawn premature attention to himself.
There followed an hour-long interview with the charming wordsmith, the audience encouraged to laugh long and loud in all the right places by the merest shrug of his massive shoulders or twitch of his perfectly groomed eyebrow. Even Gideon was forced to admit the man had tremendous presence, and that, in reality, he couldn’t have wished for a better salesman for his work. But however much he admired the man, he couldn’t suppress the overwhelming urge to end the farce. If anything, he owed it to the fans, devoted readers who’d paid for every improvement in his life, and who now sat around him completely unaware how they’d been deceived. Gideon gave way to a rising sense of shame, and if he could have sunk any lower into his seat, he would have done so.
At the end of the hour, the critic announced James St. James would take questions from the audience. Instantly, Gideon was lost in the forest of hands which shot up all round him. Anticipating the problem, he calmly stood on his chair, waving his programme frantically to be spotted. James St. James, perfectly schooled in PR, nodded encouragingly to Gideon, aware he should always appear gracious to minority audiences.
The crowd hushed as Gideon cleared his throat. “Mr. St. James,” he began. “While I acknowledge that your last book, Chameleon, is a blistering good read, it leaves several fundamental ends untied. Surely the purpose of mystery fiction is to set the reader a complex puzzle before revealing the complete solution in its entirety?”
If St. James was at all worried by the question, he didn’t show it. “Go on,” he said politely.
“You expect us to believe,” Gideon continued, “that the female lead, the actress, walks calmly into the police station in chapter thirty and tells Detective Michaels the whole story of her affair with the killer. It’s almost as if you couldn’t be bothered to have Michaels detect anything. As if you just wanted the book finished and decided she’d spill the beans to save you the trouble of anything more elaborate.”
St. James smiled, taking the necessary five seconds to look terrific while formulating a response. “Chameleon was, for me, something of a departure,” he replied. “A more documentary approach to both plot and prose. In short, I suppose what I’m trying so ineloquently to express is the fact that I believe that in real life very few murders are actually solved in the way we have our detective heroes solve them. A terrified grass is, I believe, far more useful than a magnifying glass.”
A warm round of laughter and applause greeted the reply, causing Gideon to go for the jugular. “But don’t you feel you’re perpetrating a hoax on all your fans?”
St. James did his best to look bemused. “I don’t see how.”
“That you’re not really a crime writer at all,” Gideon replied, then waited before adding, “in so much as Chameleon sets us a puzzle which you only solve by way of a last-minute confession.”
One or two voices nearest to Gideon began to murmur disapprovingly, dismayed by the prolonged attack on their idol. The quality of the writing, the neatness of plot and sharpness of dialogue, were trivial concerns. What mattered was the man himself. If the next James St. James novel was the Road Atlas of Great Britain, they’d still be prepared to wait for hours in pouring rain for a signed copy.
Gideon continued his cross-examination for another five minutes, raising question after question regarding the validity of his own deliberately flawed plot. James St. James fired back a series of meaningless replies, each topped with a witty aside for the benefit of his devoted following. When it became evident that others were keen to interrogate their hero, St. James smiled apologetically at Gideon before turning to answer an endless stream of mundane enquiries, principally concerning his private life. Did he work out every day? Did he have a steady partner? Did he wear pyjamas in bed? Gideon shuffled unnoticed from the auditorium, crushed by the experience.
He made straight for one of the many bars, ordering two double whiskys, drinking the first in one shot before climbing unsteadily up onto a barstool, staring morosely into the second. The barman busied himself with chopping fresh fruit for the bar’s exotic collection of fresh cocktails.
“Not listening to the great James St. James, then?”
Gideon turned to the young woman to his left. “I have a feeling I know exactly what he’s going to say.”
She smiled. “Smooth, isn’t he?”
“Oily,” Gideon growled. “And largely vacuous.”
She laughed. “Jealous?”
He finished the second whisky, watching her carefully as she ordered for them both. She was hard-faced, with a husky voice honed by thousands of cigarettes. “You a journalist?” he guessed hopefully.
“Hack,” she replied, pushing another whisky along the bar. “Gutter-snoop, social parasite, whatever you want to call me. I’ll tell you this much, though, I’m not going to get much copy out of this boring affair. You’d think with a name like ‘Knives in the Back,’ there’d be something I could get my teeth into.”
Gideon felt like jumping for joy. Here, out of the ashes of defeat, rose a magnificent cigarette-smoking tabloid phoenix, waiting to tear her talons into another’s flesh. This time, he’d do it properly, kill the whole business stone dead, and let the papers bury James St. James in the morning. “I’ve got something for you,” he said, trembling slightly.
“Uh-huh?”
“An exclusive. Mind-blowing. Shattering.”
“Go on.”
“James St. James,” he said. “I write all his books for him.”
For a second she looked stunned, then she began to giggle.