AFTER The Hucksters it was inevitable that someone should explore the kindred world of literary agency, and no writer could have been better qualified to do so than Richard Mealand, who, as a former magazine and motion picture story editor, enjoyed the best possible angles for a clinical survey. Nothing but sheer writing talent, however, could have made Let Me Do the Talking what it is — a quick-pulsing novel that will entertain the general reader as well as fascinate those uncounted thousands who write, have tried to, or wish they could.

Mr. Mealand’s hero is Gabriel, a dapper little New York ten-per-center who knows all the tricks and can keep a bewildering number of irons white-hot in the fire. Selling author s material is only part of his work; the rest includes persuading the author to write it in the first place, cajoling him to stay on the job when once he has begun it, flattering him when he has finished it, satisfying him that the price obtained was absolutely the highest possible, and meanwhile outfoxing all the other agents who prowl stealthily in the jungle that surrounds the best-seller’s dollar-a-word output. It is a frantic world, a world in which knowing the answers is merely an aid to getting the ulcers; a world of rapier wits and superb double-crosses, of Napoleonic campaigns by telephone and Clausewitz strategy at “21’s” bar.

What makes Gabriel run? The answer is not hazarded, but the question acquires a somewhat terrifying urgency as we follow him through his daily chores, for his gallery of clients includes types that every writer will maliciously recognize, and the round-by-round account of negotiations leading to the movie sale of a number one fiction leader is as sheerly incredible as it is (to those who know) completely plausible.

Mr. Mealand’s writing has the cynical detachment necessary for his task; it is documented with diverting literary “shop”; and he has a true ear for HollywoodNew York commuters’ idiom. But the odd and really remarkable achievement is that, long before the story’s end, his Gabriel over the Madhouse has become a warm and almost endearing personality. You half like the man, you admire his brains, and you realize that, in a world of semi, pseudo, or vicarious creativeness, he is at least as much a creator as some of the big names he represents. You might, even feel that (with the help of logarithms) a line of business ethics might be drawn beyond which he would not trespass.

With fewer imperfections than The Hucksters, Let Me Do the Talking is also profoundly original by one important best-selling standard. Gabriel does not get his girl. But you are not really sorry for either of them. She could have shared only a fraction of his life — say ten per cent.

JAMES HILTON