Does He Write His Thrillers in the Bath?

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 654, 4 May 1929, Page 18

Does He Write His Thrillers in the Bath?

IT is seven a.m. A short, rather haadsoace in n a*- tn an exr*ensrrt /a rubbing* himl >i>4ask* inn’ himself with expensive-:ookint: va'D-*:-. *Jn a Table, resting on the expensively tiled ft or tnere :" a r —ic tap none. The man speaks, with a far-a ay look in his eyes. ... . . and in an instant * vlack-t*earuem man had whipped, out his revolver, levelled it straight at PhOlip’t — - ’ the floor The man pauses, while he chases the soap again. . .. The man is Edgar "Wallace-

O the ordinary man w h o reads every Edgar Wallace “thriller” as s Pdus off the press—cr igi tries to——it must seem that this is how the most popular writer of detective stories of to-day does his work - - - dashes off a few chapters of a novel in his bath: dictates a short story while shaving; rattles off an article between the porridge and the eggs; concocts a ; new thriller in the morning; spills ani other article into the dictaphone at lunch; and scribbles off a musical comedy libretto in the afternoon — sometimes rounding off the day's work with another novel or two after din- : ner. linpossible, of course—yet not such a gross exaggeration ol Edgar Wal- ; lace's astounding activity as it seems i writes R-C. in the “Sunday iTmes" . For he is the most fecund writer of ! the day. The mere thought of doing the quantity of work that Wallace ! does would send another writer writhing to his grave. Remarkable Industry This is the feat of work he actually performed on one occasion: While waiting for his shaving water, he sketched out the libretto of axnusical comedy: in a taxi-cab in the morning he rattled off the first act to his secretary, and two days later the rej maining two acts were finished! He then engaged a couple of hacks to supply the lyrics and music. This musical comedy was “The Yellow Mask * and, in spite of its hurried composition—or because of it?—it proved a big success. And in the meantime, mark you, he manages to be one of London's most popular hosts, attend all the important race meetings, moves about the social swirl with his beautiful daughter, and trip across to Europe ever and anon. It was in Africa that Wallace first began to write short stories. Years b€*ore he had been a newspaper seller in Fleet street—and to-day on the very spot that was his “pitch,” there is a!

■ bookstall which sells his aovdsfeyfe ’ hundreds. In South Africa he edited a kvpaper, served in the Boer Wax at i private until he got a job as wareerespondent, and then set out to tl a tombstone in Wesumiaster Abbey * —a poet. Seme where about this tiaae he wrote “The Four Just Men,” ani k was so certain that H was a good hew that he published ix himself. It cost him £. 4-JO. In the foflowiK fortnight he wrote fwiiaca arode- . and seven short stories, and te! tfe printers bill for that book was pad: That was twenty years ago. T&dr publishers clamour for the right tc publish his works. ... Nowadays he must be bored wit making money. He has more tbask •tan comfortably spend. Yet fee m tinues to write stories because ft* public says he must. If Edgar Wi lace pet down his pen and said, * shall "write no more detective stone? thousands of women would fatal, t: strong men weep. Bet to keep up with the demand,/ has found it necessary to ran his wiring n lines that are somewhat fc® ness like. Red For Murder Fiis study in his London bowse is * marvel of inspirational aids. Dnat or Dickens would hare regarded with unbelieving eyes. The roon k fitted up with an arrangemak c: lights, so that he can diffuse orer “ whatever colour he feels will be ®* conducive to the mood he wishes t: sammciL For instance, a baleful red glows switched on when he arrives it fc point in the story where the dßsu. stabs the housemaid in the back win 1 a dagger: when the gang is ptottfcs. he switches on a dark blue; for Q* trigue. it is purple . . . and so on. Furthermore, his study is fitt*. with dictaphones—although be does:' really need them, for he has a ***** grapher who. he declares, writes shsrhand faster than he can think. B® always works in a long dresSScgown, and Russian boots, smokaa eiMUess chain of cigarette* fro® seemingly endless holder, and drink endless cups of tea. . . . Ec centric, you say? . . . FertetBut he realises, like so many <<& writers of to-day, the inestn®value of developing a bump of tricity as a means of gaining pob&oc But then . . . does Edgar need publicity?