Free One More Body in the Pool by Ray Bradbury Page A

the greatest play ever written, and it’s all about the death of the father—the murder—and the mystery behind it. And by the end the stage floor is littered with bodies; there’s hardly anyone left. So you’ve got killings all over the place and mysteries from start to finish. Part of it scares the hell out of you; part of it provokes you. Think.”
    F. Scott Fitzgerald waited for me to go on, which compelled him to take out a cigarette and light it and puff, waiting.
    I swallowed hard and said, “I chatted with Papa. He was willing to think about ideas and Faulkner, of course, has done some weird stories in his time, so he was open to suggestions.”
    F. Scott Fitzgerald’s eyes had begun to shine somewhat and he turned to a hamper nearby and brought forth a small silver flask.
    He offered it to me and I shook my head.
    He took a great swig from the silver flask and said, “Suddenly I’m fascinated by what you’re telling me. I know this chap, Hammett, and I found his characters in
The Maltese Falcon
fascinating, especially that fat man—what was his name? Gutmann. But what makes you think I could be a writer of murder mysteries?”
    “Well,” I said, “if people won’t accept you as a literary novelist like I do, and I really do, then perhaps they will accept you as a mystery writer, the critics being what they are.”
    “What did you say to Papa?” asked F. Scott Fitzgerald.
    “I told him that Africa is a wonderful place for someone to get shot in a mysterious manner.”
    “And did Papa react?”
    “He thought it was a very good idea since he’s seen a lot of shooting in Africa, accidental and on purpose. He mentioned someone he once knew named Macomber. He even bothered to make a note, which pleased me and made me feel less superfluous.”
    “And what about the old drunk?”
    “Faulkner?”
    “That one.”
    “He has contacts in Hollywood and I told him that he would be a natural to write something of a murder mystery for the screen if he moved ahead in that area.”
    F. Scott Fitzgerald nodded and took another swig. “And what makes you think I would be a proper writer of such fictions?”
    “Because of the people you’ve known,” I said. “You’ve encountered a much wider swath of characters from every level than Faulkner or Hemingway, men and women from a dozen countries and many strange cities. You’ve known the rich and you’ve known the poor. You’ve been in and out of the movie studios, where you’ve been put upon by maniacs who should have been murdered long ago. You know women very well and you know crazy young men and you know the environment in which they survive, sometimes New York, sometimes Long Island, sometimes Biarritz, or lost away down here in southern Florida. Your knowledge of the human condition could help you write a terrific murder mystery, if you put your mind to it.”
    F. Scott Fitzgerald leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Are you a literary agent then, as you claim?”
    “No, I don’t claim that,” I said. “I guess you might say I’m a provider, a manufacturer of ideas would be more like it.”
    “Well then, what sort of idea are you offering me?”
    I took a notepad from my pocket and glanced at it.
    “Well, sir, I have a title here.
The Body in the Pool.
”
    F. Scott Fitzgerald laughed quietly. “That doesn’t sound very original.”
    “Well, if it’s a rich man’s body, and a rich man’s pool, and the rich man’s body has a bullet in it, perhaps that would be more interesting to you,” I said. “There’s a lot to think about it you find a rich man’s bullet-pierced body in a rich man’s pool. Everyone would wonder how he had gotten there and why someone would shoot him and how long he’d been in the water before he was found and why he deserved to die at all in such a manner.”
    F. Scott Fitzgerald glanced at the notepad in my hand and reached out and took it. “Can I keep this?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    He studied the pad,