It sometimes happens that you meet a dame who's such a hot number that you want a second look. Maybe you're driving a car at the time of seeing her. Most likely you'll run up on the kerb or have a collision. Then, again, you may be walking along the street, and, turning your head as she passes, you bang into someone who starts bawling you out. Well, Fanquist was one of those take−a−second−look−dames. You know what I mean, don't you? An all−metal blonde with a build−up that does things to you, and a figure that weakens your resistance.
I saw her for the first time when she was working for a guy called Rabener. This guy ran a smart restaurant−floor show on Broadway. I'd known Rabener off and on for several months. He was smart; maybe he was too smart. Anyway, I didn't like him. He was a cold, hard−faced guy, and I guess he had a mean streak somewhere. It always knocked me how the hell he ever made a success of his restaurant; but he did.
Fanquist acted as his secretary. Odd name that, but it came out after that it was just a glamour build−up. I've forgotten her real name, but it was something pretty terrible. Anyway, we don't have to bother with that.
[James Hadley Chase est mort le 6 février 1985 - on en a lu comme tout le monde, à l'époque, tant et plus. On a aussi en stock clic-clac la plus que pertinente critique d'Orwell - several people, after reading No Orchids, have remarked to me, "It's pure Fascism." This is a correct description, although the book has not the smallest connexion with politics and very little with social or economic problems. It has merely the same relation to Fascism as, say Trollope's novels have to nineteenth-century capitalism. It is a daydream appropriate to a totalitarian age. Gaston Couté, autrement, jour de lessive clic-clac.]