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
Arthur Lyons
Trouble in Paradise
Jacob Asch was introduced in Arthur Lyons’s first novel, The Dead Are Discreet (1974), and in the eight Asch novels since, Lyons has written so convincingly about crime that he has been engaged as a consultant by the Los Angeles Police Department.
“Trouble in Paradise,” Lyons reports, “was inspired by a true case I learned of while doing research for a book in the Caribbean. Being a scuba diver myself, I was fascinated by the case, and although my version of what happened differs from the outcome of the actual case, I feel that this is the way it could have come down. It is the only Jacob Asch story in print.”
Arthur Lyons lives in Palm Springs, California, where he operates a restaurant called Lyons’ English Grill. He is thirty-nine.
“That whore did it,” John Anixter pro-claimed angrily. “I know she did. I want you to prove it.”
He was a tall and gristly forty-odd, with a long, rectangular face and brown hair that was deciding to be gray. His eyes were pale blue and had a no-nonsense expression in them. His dress was no-nonsense, too; a gray worsted suit, a white shirt, and a gray and blue striped tie. His hands were jewelryless except for an inexpensive Seiko watch. All in all, he looked no more than a fairly prosperous businessman; I would have had no idea he was worth $8 million if Harry Scranton hadn’t told me.
Harry was an attorney for whose firm I occasionally did investigative work and the one who had recommended me to Anixter. All that he had told me about the man, except for how much money he had, was that he had made it dabbling in the commodities market before starting up his own successful commodities brokerage firm, and that he was a hell of a nice guy. Oh yeah, he also told me that the man’s son had recently died in an accident, which was why he wanted to see me.
“What whore is that, Mr. Anixter?”
His face flushed. “The one Chip married. He couldn’t see what she was, but it was obvious to me the first time I laid eyes on her.”
“Chip was your son?”
He nodded, then turned and looked out the window. The office was plush, with elm burl walls adorned by deco light sconces and furnished with big, cushy chairs with great wide arms. “When I cut Chip off,” Anixter said, looking down the fourteen floors to the streets of Century City, “I thought for sure she would take the hint and leave, but she found another way to work it.”
He was trucking now and I was peddling slowly behind on my bicycle. I peddled harder, trying to catch up. “Work what?”
He turned and gave me a solemn look. “Three months ago, my son took out a life insurance policy worth $300,000, with her as the beneficiary. Two months later, Chip died under mysterious circumstances while scuba diving in the Caribbean. The authorities in St. Maarten have declared it an accident, but I’m certain that woman had something to do with it. Chip was an experienced diver and a super athlete. Scuba was one of his passions. She probably worked some sort of deal with the scuba instructor to do away with Chip and split the money.”
“Was an autopsy performed?”
“You have to have a body to perform an autopsy.”
“They never found his body?”
He shook his head. “All they found was his diving gear and swim trunks. Both were pretty chewed up.”
“Sharks?”
He shrugged.
One thing I have found with parents whose children have died unnaturally, murder is always a preferable alternative to suicide or accidental death. With the former comes a truckload of guilt and with the latter comes a capricious and uncaring universe.
“The insurance company has to have investigators on it, Mr. Anixter—”
He waved a hand in exasperation and sat back down at the desk. “There’s nothing they can do. Chip’s death is officially an accident. In the absence of new evidence, they’re going to have to pay off.” Two knots of muscle rose on his jawline, just below his ears. “I’ll see that bitch in hell before I let her collect a bounty on my son’s life.”