The New Black Mask Quarterly (No 1)

George Sims Remember Mrs. Fitz!

George Sims lives in a village in Berkshire, England, where he is a dealer in modern rare books. The most recent of his eleven suspense novels, The Rare Book Game (1985) draws on his thirty-year experience in the book trade.

“I am incapable of writing a straightforward detective story because I am primarily interested in describing characters and conveying atmosphere,” Sims comments. “Remember Mrs. Fitz!” substantiates this claim.

Dear Barbara Benyon,

I expect you have already peeked to see who this letter is from. Ha-ha! that was no good as you do not know me and I shall not put my given name but the one assigned to me from The Other Side. Yes, ’tis true, I am only an admirer from afar, but I do know quite a lot about you. For instance that you work at Barclays Bank, in the Strand branch — in fact it was to Messrs. Barclays that I was first indebted for your name, Miss Barbara J. Benyon, on that plaque which you so dexterously and prettily place on the counter.

But I am not one of your customers — I was only in the Strand branch on an errand or “a chore” as Mother used to say — so that will stop you puzzling as to which one I might be. What else do I know about you? Well, that you travel to and from the bank on the No. 11 bus and that you sometimes have lunch at Mario’s on Agar Street. And occasionally you take sandwiches and eat them in Lincoln’s Inn Fields or on the Embankment. Down by the Thames you tend to “moon about” and stare at the famous old river as if it might reveal some of its strange secrets to you, and I do think you are rather “the dreamy, romantic type.” You have a tiny gold watch on a pigskin strap which you consult a good deal at lunch-time, and a gold locket, but no rings I’m glad to say! You are not tall, in fact “five foot two and eyes of blue.” You recently had a summer cold. You read the Daily Mail on the bus in the morning and sometimes you buy the Standard on leaving the bank. All correct so far? Obviously I know where you live. By the way that girl who shares your flat is definitely not the type I should trust but more of that anon.

As for myself? Well I can’t say too much at present but tallish and considered rather good-looking — if you like the dark, Romantic type. Perhaps more of a thinker than a man of action but reasonably outgoing with a good sense of humour, affectionate, responsive and above all sensitive! Much travelled and tanned!

I’ve been told that I’m inclined to be a bit suspicious, someone once said Paranoid (cheek!) and to search out other peoples’ faults but I have not discovered any in you so far. May I be rather personal for a moment and say how much I like some of the frocks and suits you wear to work? But I can’t say that I entirely approved of the rather revealing sunsuits you and your red-headed flat mate wore by the Serpentine last Sunday. And the horrid Lewd way she lay, exposing all she had got! She definitely flaunts herself does that one and is obviously obsessed by the evil Serpent SEX. You see it is true, as Mother used to say, that some girls “have no sense of what is proper.” They taunt men, lead them on and then are surprised when they end up in trouble! But that’s the red headed Tart’s problem, not yours. I see that I’ve been led away by her disgusting goings-on from saying that in your grey dress, the navy one and the dark brown suit you remind me more than somewhat of my Mother and that is really the reason I have written to you. She had tiny feet like you. She always got her “Boots” as she called them at the fashionable Mayfair shop Pinet which was the only place where she could obtain the extra narrow size 3 fitting. I still have a pair of her “Boots” in a special case of which I’ll tell you more some time. It is a very special case with three locks and a combination padlock so you can tell the contents must be important.

Well I must sign off now for “time’s a-fleetin’ ” — without of course any hope of a reply. Think of me just as a shadowy background figure, a humble patient sort of chap who does not intend to interfere with your life at all, but to remain watching over you with the very friendliest of intentions. Believe me ever

Sincerely yours

Laszlo

Dear Busy Bee,

Who sped away from Barclays Bank at lunch-time today and not on her usual stroll to Lincoln’s Inn Fields or the Thames? Who verily raced along the Strand and past the Royal Courts of Justice (Justice! — that’s a joke), then up Chancery Lane? Who had to jump out of the way of a mad lout in a careening black Bentley? Who went into Star Yard and entered the gloomy legal premises of Messrs. Castle, Harding & Walker? That’s right — Barbara Busy Bee. And who followed her and waited ever so patiently outside? Yes — Faithful Laszlo. My Mother always told me that Patience was a great virtue. “Just wait and see.” “Our turn will come,” she used to say. I do hope that there was no very serious reason for you having to consult those legal codgers. If I had to hazard a guess, and it is something that I am rather good at, then I should say trouble at home. By which, of course, I mean trouble with that red-headed Tart who takes men to your flat when you are not there!! Not that I should dream of interfering there unless, of course, I sensed you wanted me to. Sometimes we all have to turn at bay!

I’ve been brooding on this troublesome, indeed worrying, problem of yours despite glares from an ugly, probably disease-ridden, Keeper in a Park which shall remain nameless. I must say that it is a shame you have been forced to go to Law to get that Tart out. “You can’t trust the Law,” Mother used to say. How right she proved to be! Patient, clever, resourceful, “a woman of most unusual qualities,” as they admitted in Court, would you believe that such a woman could end up dying in a prison cell?

Yours sincerely

Laszlo

Dear Barbara Benyon,

Today, rather selfishly I suppose, I want to write about a matter which does tend to weigh me down a bit. I say selfishly because I know I should only be concerned with that Scarlet Woman flat mate who is making your life hell at the moment, and turning your flat into a noisome pit with her SEX goings-on. But this personal matter oppresses me somewhat and I just feel I must get some of it down on paper, set it straight for once and for all. Obviously you can’t reply but I sense that you are “simpatico” and a trouble shared is a trouble halved. Anyway, see what you think.

A while ago now, I suppose it must be quite some years, against my father’s wishes, I instigated a long series of seances for communication with the control Black Feather and Mother’s mediumship.

The communicators who gave me the messages were the famous old Italian fiddle-maker Stradivarius and the Russian composer Rimsky-Korsakov. Up to that time you have my word for it that no messages from those illustrious gents had been received at our house! Strad who manifested first stated at once that he was sending the messages solely for me, and that I must collect them and write them all down, and that the financial results were to be solely for Mother and myself, and mainly for the purpose of assisting me and establishing me in my career. At hardly any of these seances was my father present!

Sorry if I have rambled on a bit but you know how it is, tilings do tend to get bottled-up over a period, particularly if you have no one to “chin-wag” with, and then it’s best just to let off steam. Anyway, thanks again for listening.

Sincerely yours

Laszlo

Dear Barbara Benyon,

Today I was very touched to see you looking pale and cast down with care — all because of the terrible troubles that the red-headed whore has brought upon you. She is definitely SEX mad — I know the type!

Of course I noticed that you did not go out with her this Sunday even though the sun was baking hot. Very wise. Take my tip and keep away from her as much as possible until the creaking, slow-grinding Law at last compels her to leave your flat! I noted by the way that she has now got some oily looking chap, probably her Pimp, to accompany her to and from work. But her time will come so please do try and cheer up. Forget her and that will undoubtedly bring the roses back into your cheeks.

Sincerely yours

Laszlo

Dear Barbara Benyon,

Only me! Yes, verily, I am doubly blessed. Fortunate indeed to have the famous Black Feather as my control — yes, you’re right, the very same Black Feather who was once “left-hand control” for the illustrious Madame Eusapia Palladino. And dear old Strad who manifests so readily, really “at the drop of a hat.” Rimsky is much more difficult I’m afraid, and sometimes seems to be sulking, but I suppose he is still much tied up with music matters on The Other Side.

Barbara — we are both, there’s no point in being falsely modest, generously endowed with blessings. However I do sometimes wonder if you may not be the type who accepts same without much thought for others less fortunate.

A friend of mine is a case in point. He happens to be smallish. For that reason he had to take humble employment — definitely not in keeping with his education, upbringing, family background, etc. This friend of mine was always most methodical, patient and anxious to please. But the men in the place where he worked were immediately jealous of him and could see that the Boss took a friendly interest in him and that he was well placed for early promotion. So they started a campaign! Threats, hints, lies and abuse! They tried a number of plots which all failed miserably. Vile libels, etc! The last straw was the planting of stolen goods! A fiendish set-up you say? But would you credit that such a chap would get his own back on that foul gang of toughs? Well he did! With Strad’s help! They certainly reaped the whirlwind, or should I say the furnace? Ha-ha! IT1 tell you all about it one day.

I don’t think I ever finished off the tale about the Rev. Gent my father. Through a foul trick he published all those confidential chats with Strad and Rimsky on his own!! This meant the loss of ten years’ work! After a lot of wrangling father gave us a signed contract that we should receive 50 % of the profits. And a signed confession of his own free will. Strad said that compromise was the only way and I thought we should listen to the wise old fiddle-maker. So, all serene. Then — what do you think? Father decamped, a moonlit flit no less, with that precious contract and confession. Now you may have some inkling of what Mother went through at that precious Vicarage! We of course wrote to the publishers insisting that a clause should be put in the contract to allow us a percentage. Result? — no reply.

What a nice new black dress! And I was glad to see the way you ignored that crude oaf who wanted to maul you in getting off the bus this morning. Don’t think that we are all like that (SEX mad).

Yours sincerely

Laszlo

Dear Barbara Benyon,

May a comparative stranger give you a word of advice? Fairly blunt but with the very best of intentions withal. Don’t encourage strange men by smiling at them. Now you see how closely I have you under observation.

Yours sincerely

Laszlo

Dear Barbara Benyon,

Did I ever tell you about Mrs. Fitz? Not her real name of course, I’m rather careful about such things. She definitely “took a shine” to me. Of course I could see some of her faults, at least some of the physical ones, from the start. Those great thick legs with ankles that bulged over her size 9 plates of meat — it amused her to contrast them with my own very neat size fives. That none-too-clean neck and oh those hairy moles! But something about her manner, at first she feigned a quiet modesty, reminded me of Mother. Later on I found out her true nature — how greedy she was — and other things!

Mrs. Fitz lived all alone like a hermit in a great big dark house, but pigged it in only two rooms, never cleaning anything and hardly ever washing her crocks. It was a very gloomy house with big trees that shut out the light and the garden was all overgrown with weeds. Every single room in the house was full of junk. She never threw anything away and there were hundreds of empty bottles and piles of tins and bags in the kitchen. Another pile of unread newspapers and unopened letters in the hall. There was so much stuff in some rooms that you couldn’t get into them. I only hung around there as she promised to set me up in my career.

In a hurry so I must close.

By the way am I mistaken or is someone following you? I mean someone apart from me of course.

Sincerely yours

Laszlo

Dear Barbara Benyon,

“Suffocated with a pillow!” I hear you exclaim your doubt and derision at the very suggestion. Yes, indeed, how could they be sure? Who is to say that the Rev. Gent did not suffocate himself? One thing is certain — Mother was quite innocent! But you see Strad says there is no justice in this world. He says that on The Other Side all is different. Sometimes, I must admit, I do rather long to be there.

Ever sincerely

Laszlo

Dear Miss Benyon,

Just to say that I am definitely on to the blonde beast who is now your constant companion and his Jewboy friend. Are the police really recruiting Yids now? Well they must be hard up if they stoop to having Kikes working for them! The police would be well advised to keep out of my affairs. Where do they all skulk when they are really needed?

One tries hard only to think of pleasanter subjects but under pressure it is difficult. Oh yes I was telling you about Mrs. Fitz (not her real name so no investigations about that by request please). Would you believe she had kept all her old toys and those of her long-dead brother? On the sideboard in the diningroom there were long lines of toy soldiers smothered in dust. One afternoon she fell asleep, looking a disgusting sight with her large mouth wide open and showing her denture plate. I explored the whole place and decided on a plan.

Feeling rather down and “put upon.” However Strad says “Not to worry.”

Faithfully yours

Laszlo

Dear Miss Benyon,

Today when you stopped to buy your Standard you were carrying a small parcel. Blonde beast was wearing a shoddy blue suit while Jewboy skulked along behind, looking furtive and ashamed of himself. Now you can see you are all closely observed.

At no time did dear old Strad speak to my father!

Shall I give you a clue as to my present whereabouts? A café in the Strand not a million miles from Barclays Bank & Barbara Benyon. I can say that as I shall not come here again. A giant of a pimply waitress flicked some crumbs on me.

Strad has just come through loud and clear. Danger ahead! So I’m off. Your bullies are even worrying Strad now but I don’t suppose that bothers you.

Faithfully yours

Laszlo

Dear Miss Benyon,

We wrote to the publishers on countless occasions in re the Rev. Gent and his claims that Strad had first manifested to him.

Had to move in a rush as you undoubtedly gleefully heard and lost all my notes regarding the trial. Also various files of useful information, OFFICIAL DOCUMENTS and other valuable possessions. A savage blow but I keep trying to look on the bright side.

Did I ever tell you about that terrible woman Mrs. Fitz? That’s what I called her as she thought she was “out of the top drawer” all right. Lording it like Lady Muck. Behaved as if she was made of money but had hardly anything apart from that old house which she could not sell as it was riddled with dry rot. She didn’t wash but smothered herself in cheap scent. And the house stank because all the windows were closed and nailed up fast. She was scared stiff of burglars!

Father said that he would have to take legal proceedings. That he was determined to stop us “making his life a misery.” We soon settled his hash!

Faithfully

Laszlo

Miss Benyon,

Not to mince matters your louts are making my life a misery! In a second rush move I lost Mother’s precious case! I am definitely being hounded. Not a nice feeling. I have written to the Papers and the Authorities about this sort of thing before but nothing is ever published as they are all in cahoots.

I stake my reputation on the authenticity of Strad’s messages. But for say £100 I would have been willing to relinquish all rights. This letter is a jumble because of your loathsome bullies.

Faithfully

Laszlo

Benyon,

Mrs. Fitz was disgusting. I stuck it out there even when she tried to make a fool of me by sitting me on her lap — just like a ventriloquist’s dummy. She said she was sincerely interested in The Other Side and promised to help me with my career. She even wanted to act as my medium — as if I would ever use anyone apart from Mother! Finally I realised that all she was interested in was SEX. So I tied her up when she was sleeping and forced her head down the lavatory pan to stop her snoring. Then I smashed everything in the house and emptied every tin and jar in the kitchen. Then I left all the taps running. That showed her, eh!

Of course the police lied when they said Mrs. Fitz was dead. They were just trying to frighten me, to hound me like they did my sainted Mother, “a woman of most unusual qualities” as that Fiend/Judge was forced to admit.

Strad insists that I “go underground” for a while. All this anxiety on top of losing the case containing Mother’s “Boots” is just too much to bear. I sincerely advise you to call off your hounds. Anyway they are sure to lose interest if I lie doggo for a while. Then I shall return. Remember Mrs. Fitz!

Ever faithfully

Laszlo