Free Crime Writers and Other Animals by Simon Brett Page B

hour before the chauffeur-driven car arrived.
    Bartlett Mears staggered out, with no word of thanks to the driver, and fumbled with his keys for a while before managing to open the front door.
    Still icy calm, Carlton Rutherford waited another full hour for Bartlett Mears’ nightcaps to be consumed and for the bedroom light to be switched off.
    He gave it another half-hour, then got out of the car and sauntered across to the house opposite.
    He doused some of the envelopes of literary literature with vodka, and slipped them through the letter box. Then, casually, he lit a cigarette, drew on it a few times to get it thoroughly going, and dropped that through.
    He waited.
    At first he thought he had failed and was on the point of starting again, when he was rewarded by a reflected orange glow on the hall ceiling.
    Gently, he dropped through more of the envelopes to build up a substantial bonfire.
    Then, even more gently, he trickled the contents of the second vodka bottle in through the letter box, careful to restrict its flow so that it would not douse the growing fire, but rather spread across the carpet, warm up slowly and ignite.
    He stayed on the doorstep for two more full minutes, until he could feel the heat of his blaze through the wood of the front door; then sauntered back to his Austin Allegro.
    He was back in Upper Norwood, in bed and asleep, within the hour.
    He slept well, and was wakened by the
Today Programme
’s seven o’clock news on his clock radio.
    It was exactly as he had wished. The last item of the bulletin announced the death of the popular author Bartlett Mears, in a fire which had gutted his Hampstead house.
    Carlton Rutherford leaped out of his lonely bed, and danced a little jig of triumph which left him flushed and breathless.
    It was agony to wait till ten, when he reckoned Dashiel Loukes would have arrived in his office. Back in the sixties, when Carlton Rutherford had been one of the white hopes of the agency, Dashiel would have encouraged the author to ring him at home. But those days were long past, and the agent had moved upmarket through a good few addresses since then. His favoured espionage authors were granted his current home number, but for lesser mortals it remained firmly ex-directory.
    Eventually the hands of Carlton Rutherford’s clock radio moved round to ten o’clock, and he rang through to Dashiel Loukes’ office.
    â€˜I’m afraid,’ said the dauntingly pretty assistant, ‘that Mr Loukes is busy on another call.’
    â€˜Well, get him off it!’ snapped the author, confident of his sudden value to the agent. ‘Tell him it’s Carlton Rutherford on the line!’
    His confidence had not been misplaced. Dashiel Loukes was through to him immediately, almost fawning in his delight to have made contact with one of his most potentially lucrative authors.
    â€˜Carlton, terrific to hear you! Just about to ring you! I assume you’re calling about what I think you’re calling about . . .?’
    â€˜I would imagine so. Rather changes the situation, doesn’t it?’
    â€˜That, old boy, is the understatement of the year! Wonderful thing is – there’ll now be a whole rash of Bartlett Mears books commissioned, and we’ve stolen a march on the lot of them, because our manuscript is already finished!’
    It was interesting to hear how
your
manuscript had suddenly become
our
manuscript, but Carlton Rutherford was too excited to comment. ‘So what’s the next step?’
    â€˜The next step, old boy, is that I set up the most almighty auction that London has seen for a long time. Bartlett Mears sells in the States too, and he’s translated everywhere. We are talking about a really big international book here. It’s going to be
the
title at Frankfurt, no question. We are talking big, big bucks. You’ve really come up with the goods this time, Carlton Rutherford!’
    Those were the words