The Last Best Friend
Page 1
The Last Best Friend
George Sims
With an Introduction by Martin Edwards
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Originally published in 1967 by Gollancz
Copyright © 2017 Estate of George Sims
Introduction copyright © 2017 Martin Edwards
Published by Poisoned Pen Press in association with the British Library
First E-book Edition 2017
ISBN: 9781464209017 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
The Last Best Friend
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Introduction
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
To Réne & Doris Quero
Epigraph
‘My name is Death; the last best Friend am I’.
Robert Southey
‘Somehow in the case of Jews I always suspect suicide….’
James Joyce
Introduction
The Last Best Friend, set mainly in the London of the Swinging Sixties, was written in the days when John le Carré and Len Deighton were making a name for themselves. George Sims never became as famous as his two illustrious contemporaries, but twenty years after its publication in 1967, this novel was included by H.R.F. Keating, one of Britain’s leading crime fiction critics, in Crime and Mystery: the 100 Best Books. The accolade reflected Sims’ ability to appeal to the discerning. Graham Greene, for instance, encouraged him to publish his first novel, a book whose admirers included Evelyn Waugh, Frank Swinnerton, and Frederic Raphael. Yet since Sims’ death in 1999, his work has largely been forgotten. Half a century after The Last Best Friend first appeared, this British Library reissue gives a new generation of readers the chance to take a look at the book that Keating so enjoyed.
The story opens on an August afternoon in Paddington. A small man is standing on a ledge outside a window, ten floors above the street. Dizzy and frightened, he plunges to the ground ‘uttering a single short cry, a noise which did not sound particularly human, simply the ignominious yelp of an animal encountering death’. After this bleak beginning, which takes up little more than a page, there is a sudden switch of setting and mood. We are in Corsica, at the same time on the same day, and Ned Balfour, a middle-aged dealer in manuscripts and autograph letters, is in bed with a girl called Bunty who is young enough to be his daughter. Balfour manages to avoid discovery by Bunty’s mother, although his satisfaction is short-lived. He and Bunty are disturbed by the arrival of a postman bringing a telegram. It comes from Balfour’s closest friend, Sammy Weiss, who says he wants advice on a ‘terrible decision’. Sammy, it turns out, was the man on the ledge.
A second telegram, from Balfour’s estranged wife Barbara, tells him that Sammy is dead, and sends him hurrying back to London. Sammy, a jeweller, suffered from vertigo—so why was he out on the ledge? It seems unlikely to have been an accident, but if he intended to commit suicide, why choose that particular method? Balfour wants to find the truth about the reason for Sammy’s death, and his quest brings him up against thugs who rough him up, as well as members of the circle of dealers and gallery owners in which he and Sammy moved.
This is a short novel, yet Sims’ literary style is discursive, and Balfour’s investigation zig-zags around in an idiosyncratic fashion. Sims indulges not only in snappy descriptions of people (one or two phrases jar nowadays, such as ‘He looked like a homosexual of the rare, vicious kind’) but also in arresting portrayals of place: ‘With buildings springing up everywhere and the complicated preparations for new roads, the whole of London and its suburbs seemed to be writhing like a gigantic ugly chrysalis, threatening to break out into a new concept of life…’
Keating lavished praise on the sparkling nature of Sims’ prose, and—pointing out that ‘a crime novel that is about a man changing is a rarity indeed’—he appreciated ‘that intense interest in the hero that makes him a man…we seem to know in the flesh and to the depths.’ Yet he also acknowledged that Sims’ approach to his craft had limitations, such as an over-indulgence in descriptive writing, and a tendency to digress from the storyline. For Keating, these flaws stemmed from the fact that Sims was an ‘amateur’ novelist, who—despite possessing notable literary gifts—was first and foremost a man with a ‘day job’, that is, as an antiquarian bookseller. I’m not so sure that the perceived amateurism has much to do with being a part-time crime writer; rather, it stems from Sims’ determination to follow his instincts and avoid the formulaic at all costs. He was a writer who habitually took risks, and when those risks came off, they resulted in a writing that was both fresh and memorable.
Sims is skilled at capturing the atmosphere of places that attracted him, and in this book the scene set in Henry Parfitt’s scruffy bookshop off the Clerkenwell Road draws on his fascination with, and deep knowledge and understanding of, such haunts—most of them today long gone. His love of what Keating called ‘nuttily interesting’ facts, very often about aspects of London life, lends his stories texture, and there’s also a lightly worn erudition about his work that explains part of its appeal. The title of his first crime novel, The Terrible Door (1964), came from F. Scott Fitzgerald, while ‘the last best friend’ is a phrase by which Robert Southey described death.
Sims (1923–99) spent most of his adult life as an antiquarian book dealer (Waugh was one of his customers), and this helps to explain why Balfour, like the assorted other dealers who populate his novels, is such a credible character. An interview with Books and Bookmen captured Sims’ method of building a story: ‘the plots are entirely imaginary, problems to be solved, but the people are real, as are many of the incidents, but brooded over, re-assembled, translated, so that no actual person appears, yet every personage has the stamp of actuality!’ The dark mood of many of his storylines reflected his sombre worldview. As he told Weekend Scotsman: ‘You’ll never find a happy ending in any of my books because life doesn’t end happily.’
The Last Best Friend, like The End of the Web, which is also published as a British Library Classic Thriller, reveals Sims as a writer who dared to be different. The unorthodoxy, and occasional opacity, of his writing meant that he was destined never to become a bestseller, but his contribution to the genre was intriguing, and deserves to be remembered.
Martin Ed
wards
www.martinedwardsbooks.com
Chapter I
2 p.m., Monday, 1st August, 1966.
Paddington, London.
Vertigo? ‘Giddiness, dizziness (in which the patient feels as if he, as if surrounding objects, were turning round).’ The small man standing on the narrow ledge stared fixedly forward with eyes made wide and blank by terror. His face was ashen and veins stood out in his forehead as though he was straining to vomit. Very slowly he edged one foot sideways without looking down, but the movement was indecisive and feeble like that of a dying insect and he brought it back clumsily so that for a second he trod the terrifying emptiness that lay before him. When both feet were together again there was a sudden movement in his dark brown eyes, spiralling down to meet the treacherous, shifting surfaces of roofs and streets which began to spin below him. As they gathered speed his left arm was pressed ever tighter against the wall’s smooth stone blocks and his fingers scrabbled uselessly at the hardly perceptible divisions while he pushed at the air with an upraised right hand in an equally futile effort to steady himself.
Suicide? ‘Person who intentionally kills himself.’ The small man winced, shutting his eyes and cringing as though he had been punched in the stomach. His face was already streaked with greasy marks and sweat ran down steadily through his thin black hair to join drops which beaded his long top lip. He held his eyes tightly closed while he wrenched frantically at his tie, pulling it loose and tearing off the collar button, breathing noisily through his mouth with a gasping sound. Slowly his body began to sway backwards and forwards like a pendulum, taking up an apparently irresistible rhythm, a momentum to join with that of the crazy switchback ride over dizzy heights and depths which was taking place inside his brain. When he opened his eyes they showed despair but also some kind of resolution—his mouth was set firm, he lifted his chin and made a tiny gesture of defiance. He shouted something incoherently, leant forward at an angle impossible for recovery, appearing to defy the force of gravity for a second or so, then fell, uttering a single short cry, a noise which did not sound particularly human, simply the ignominious yelp of an animal encountering death.
Chapter II
2 p.m., Monday, 1st August, 1966.
Calvi, Corsica.
‘Ned, are you asleep?’
Balfour woke with a sensation of some grievous but hardly definable loss, just a dim sense of vanished beauty, and then, momentarily, a brief fragment of his dream returned—it had been a delightful little nod off, a glimpse of an Arcadian world where personality did not persist.
‘You were asleep. You absolute no-goodnik. Quelle insult!’
‘Definitely not an insult,’ Balfour said rather indistinctly, still nuzzling the girl’s shoulder which had the hue and texture of an apricot rose. ‘The opposite in fact. I was charmed and lulled.’
Already the dream’s atmosphere of complete tranquillity, such as he never experienced in his waking life, was vanishing irrecoverably, leaving only the vague and inadequate impression of a river’s surface glinting like gold in autumn sunlight. Another kind of vanishing trick had taken place as well. Where were the impatient lovers who had entered this darkened room, oblivious of their surroundings, leaving a meal half-finished, intoxicated with something stronger than wine, exchanging ever deeper kisses of an intense fig-like sweetness? What had become of that mutual madness which dictated such frantic undressing, deep sighs, lascivious embraces? The passionate lovers had disappeared, and in their place there was an indolent amiable girl and a middle-aged man with ‘a selfish expression’ and a scarred body. The tall, brass-framed mirror on the facing wall would have recorded, momentarily, all their hectic goings-on: if it had been a camera instead how ludicrous, even faintly sinister, a film of those few minutes would now appear—truly a study of folie à deux.
Balfour looked round the room: he had pushed Bunty through the first door that came to hand when they had emerged from the kitchen, entwined and slowly moving together like a clumsy animal; it was the one formerly used by the du Cros’ ancient aunt, now dead; it still contained a number of her possessions, mostly valueless bric-à-brac of the highly personal kind which is an embarrassment to relatives. In the room darkened by plastic mosquito shutters her pathetic treasures had taken on a depressing and slightly macabre aspect. There was another, smaller mirror in a passepartout frame, and they were also regarded by the daguerreotype of a grim-faced bearded poilu. On a sun-bleached rosewood table there was a disordered array of sea-shells, dusty invitations in outmoded typefaces, a chipped bonbonnière decorated with cherubs, and a Japanese fan. Balfour felt a long-dormant memory stirring in him, something at first inexpressible—then he recalled the odd and distinct smell of a similar oiled paper fan which he had found many years before in a box belonging to his mother.
“‘Round and round the garden, went the teddy bear…’” Bunty tickled Balfour’s hand, breaking his reverie. She looked and smelt delicious—again like a rose, the André Le Troquer—but Balfour knew that further love-making would necessitate some acting on his part as he felt remote and slightly unreal; at first he blamed this on the rather claustrophobic atmosphere of the room, with its pointless collection of mementoes testifying to the fleetingness and futility of life; then, with a momentary flash of self-candour, he realized that this was just a subterfuge, an attempt to excuse a middle-aged man’s failing ardour.
He raised himself on his left arm and pushed her back firmly with his right hand, extending his fingers in a gently clawing motion like a cat. His heavily muscled arm held her prisoner, lying across her belly with his fingers pointing at the teardrop pearl which hung from a thin gold chain. The small erect nipples stood out like raspberry grains. It would make a good painting—the contrast between the thin brown hand, vigorous and masculine, and the cream-coloured breasts, the quintessential image of womanhood, of passivity and defencelessness. Already the hand showed some signs of ageing—there were tiny silver hairs in among the sun-bleached ones, and a few ‘grave’ marks. In twenty or thirty years it would be an old man’s hand, then after a few more years it would be burnt in an oven—a prospect he viewed with reasonable equanimity. Meanwhile it reached out for a share of the good things. ‘Let each man take up his chisel and inscribe his fate…’
Bunty lifted herself up on her elbows and regarded him dispassionately. ‘First of all you fall asleep on me, now you seem about a million miles away. I like not ye man who…’
‘Well, what can you expect if you will take up with an aged gent?’ Balfour countered. He traced the faint impressions of her ribs, sensuously enjoying the fullness and weight of her breasts pressing against the back of his hand. ‘What I like is this pearl between two rubies…’ He broke off abruptly, lifting his head like a cat sensing danger and holding up a hand in a silencing gesture. ‘I think I hear somebody.’
Bunty sprang from the bed, picking up Balfour’s butcher-blue shirt: with this held in front of her she advanced cautiously to the french windows which opened on to a low balcony and partly dislodged the green plastic mosquito screen.
‘Lord! It’s my mama. Quelle fate.’
Her tone of alarm petered out so that finally she did not sound too worried. ‘So what do we do now? Hide under the bed? I presume you’ve had lots of experience.’
‘Nasty.’ Balfour took back his shirt and gave her a light smack. ‘Well, we can’t keep her waiting there. The heat is terrific. I’ll go out…’
Bunty grinned. ‘Public prejudice runs to at least one more garment.’
Balfour grimaced and pulled on his dark blue swimming trunks, keeping Mrs Hillyard in view as she walked along the path, closely surveying the villa.
When he stepped on to the balcony the brilliance of the light-diffused scene forced him to hold a hand above his eyes. There was no sign of the brief rainstorm that had taken place before lunch and the atmosphere was again oppressive; the sky was a fla
t blue like a child’s painting and light shimmered on the sea and the distant Citadel and the cluster of white, beige and pink-washed buildings that was Calvi. The green tiles were so hot that it was painful to walk on them with bare feet and he moved gingerly on arched soles to the shallow steps which led down to the garden.
Mrs Hillyard stood on the stony path that was patterned with tough, feather-headed weeds. She wore a sleeveless canary-coloured cotton dress; her arms were badly sunburnt and her shoulders were covered with a white chiffon scarf. Fanning her face with a sprig of rosemary, with occasional swipes at some persistent insect, she looked very hot and uncomfortable. There were no trees in the parched-looking garden to give shade and the air was filled with the continuous noise of cicadas and loudly buzzing flies. She whistled faintly.
‘I knew it would be hot in Corsica but this is like being trapped in an oven.’ She gestured vaguely. ‘Is this yours?’ Her tone was intended to be light but it was tinged with envy and something else which Balfour could not pinpoint.
‘No—alas. It belongs to some friends of mine who live in Paris, Roger and Françoise du Cros. I expect you’ll meet them in a week or so.’ He noticed that there were mosquito bites on her arms and her hands were red and swollen.
‘I wondered—if you’d seen Bunty.’ This time her voice was sharply suspicious. Balfour met her look directly and replied quickly and honestly—evasions that avoided lying usually came easily to him:
‘I saw her swimming at the Sun Beach this morning. And she said something about water-skiing this afternoon.’
‘Water-skiing!’ Mrs Hillyard’s eyes blazed with irritation. ‘Really, that girl! She went off this morning without a word so naturally we thought she would be back for lunch. She knew we had hired a car and planned to go to Piana this afternoon.’
‘Do come in for a moment and have a cool drink.’ Balfour touched the back of her hand lightly, then pointed at the elegant white villa, with doors and shutters painted heliotrope, where she was staying. The garden there was shaded by giant palm-trees; it was regularly watered and tended throughout the year, unlike the du Cros’ which was not touched from October to Easter. ‘You’ve been weeding that magnificent garden.’ There was a hint of an accusation in the way he said this.