‘Have you read it?’
The young man shook his head. ‘It’s not come my way, sir.’
Soames was relieved. ‘Well, don’t! But just attend a moment. Can you buy ten copies of it, at my expense, and post them to ten people whose names I’ll give you? They’re all more or less connected with literature. You can put in slips to say the copies are complimentary, or whatever you call it. But mention no names.’
The young man Butterfield said deprecatingly:
‘The price is rising all the time, sir. It’ll cost you well on sixty pounds.’
‘Never mind that.’
‘You wish the book boomed, sir?’
‘Good Gad – no! I have my reasons, but we needn’t go into them.’
‘I see, sir. And you want the copies to come – as if – as if from heaven?’
‘That’s it,’ said Soames. ‘I take it that publishers often send doubtful books to people they think will support them. There’s just one other thing. Can you call a week later on one of the people to whom you’ve sent the books, and offer to sell another copy as if you were an agent for it? I want to make quite sure it’s already reached that person, and been read. You won’t give your name, of course. Will you do this for me?’
The eyes of the young man Butterfield again glowed.
‘Yes, sir. I owe you a great deal, sir.’
Soames averted his eyes; he disliked all expression of gratitude.
‘Here’s the list of names, then, with their addresses. I’ve underlined the one you call on. I’ll write you a cheque to go on with; and you can let me know later if there’s anything more to pay.’
He sat down, while the young man Butterfield scrutinized the list.
‘I see it’s a lady, sir, that I’m to call on.’
‘Yes; does that make any difference to you?’
‘Not at all, sir. Advanced literature is written for ladies nowadays.’
‘H’m!’ said Soames. ‘I hope you’re doing well?’
‘Splendidly, sir. I was very sorry that Mr Mont left us; we’ve been doing better ever since.’
Soames lifted an eyebrow. The statement confirmed many an old suspicion. When the young man had gone, he took Canthar. Was he capable of writing an attack on it in the Press, over the signature ‘Paterfamilias’? He was not. The job required someone used to that sort of thing. Besides, a real signature would be needed to draw fire. It would not do to ask Michael to suggest one; but Old Mont might know some fogey at the ‘Parthe-næum,’ who carried metal. Sending for a bit of brown paper, he disguised the cover with it, put the volume in his overcoat pocket, and set out for ‘Snooks’.
He found Sir Lawrence about to lunch, and they sat down together. Making sure that the waiter was not looking over his shoulder, Soames, who had brought the book in with him, pushed it over, and said:
‘Have you read that?’
Sir Lawrence whinnied.
‘My dear Forsyte, why this morbid curiosity? Everybody’s reading it. They say the thing’s unspeakable.’
‘Then you haven’t?’ said Soames, keeping him to the point.
‘Not yet, but if you’ll lend it me, I will. I’m tired of people who’ve enjoyed it asking me if I’ve read “that most disgusting book”. It’s not fair, Forsyte. Did you enjoy it?’
‘I skimmed it,’ said Soames, looking round his nose. ‘I had a reason. When you’ve read it, I’ll tell you.’
Sir Lawrence brought it back to him at ‘the Connoisseurs’ two days later.
‘Here you are, my dear Forsyte,’ he said. ‘I never was more glad to get rid of a book! I’ve been in a continual stew for fear of being overseen with it! Perceval Calvin – quel sale Monsieur!’
‘Exactly!’ said Soames. ‘Now, I want to get that book attacked.’
‘You! Is Saul also among the prophets? Why this sudden zest?’
‘It’s rather roundabout,’ said Soames, sitting on the book. He detailed the reason, and ended with:
‘Don’t say anything to Michael, or Fleur.’
Sir Lawrence listened with his twisting smile.
‘I see,’ he said, ‘I see. Very cunning, Forsyte. You want me to get someone whose name will act like a red rag. It mustn’t be a novelist, or they’ll say he’s jealous – which he probably is: the book’s selling like hot cakes – I believe that’s the expression. Ah! I think – I rather think Forsyte, that I have the woman.’
‘Woman!’ said Soames. ‘They won’t pay any attention to that.’
Sir Lawrence cocked his loose eyebrow. ‘I believe you’re right – the only women they pay attention to nowadays are those who go one better than themselves. Shall I do it myself, and sign “Outraged Parent”?’