I think we're on to a winner with
Mr Creecher, Giuseppe hates the writer because he had the temerity to end the first chapter. It feels like a film noir set in the rainy streets of London in 1818 and it's propelled along in a stream of similes, starting with the second sentence:
Billy pulled his clammy coat collar rightly to this throat. It was damp with the fog and felt like the tongue of a dead animal lolling against his neck.
No matter. Giuseppe gripped my arm as Billy discovered what he thought was a putrid corpse in the street, a corpse he would have robbed had he not been delayed by an armed gang intent on carving his eye out.