By Anthony Powell
In Agents and Patients, we go back to London with the newly prosperous, memorably named Blore-Smith: an blameless, good sufficient chap . . . and a drip. prone to the machinations of these with much less funds and extra lust, Blore-Smith falls sufferer to 2 con artists whose ploys hold him via to the paintings galleries and whorehouses of Paris, Berlin, and beyond.
Written from a vantage element either excessive and unavoidably slim, Powell’s early novels however deal within the common issues that may develop into a considerable a part of his oeuvre: satisfaction, greed, and what makes humans behave as they do. full of eccentric characters and piercing insights, Powell’s paintings is achingly hilarious, human, and true.
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Fannin, you don’t know me, but my name is Sally Kline. ” “What? No. Please, Mr. Fannin, I started to say, I—” I lost the rest of it, or at least the next sentence. The doorbell blasted in my ear like time to change to the next classroom. When I caught Sally Kline again she was saying,”—and I think she might be in trouble, Mr. ” I said. “Listen, Miss Kline, hang on, will you? ” “A what? But—” “One minute. ” I left her angled on top of ponderous friend Mann and went to the buzzer. I’ve got one of those speaker things at the bell, rigged by an electrician who should have been a tuba player, and it sometimes works.
None of it looked real. It never does. It always looks like a promotion stunt for a cheap horror film where you follow the painted gore across the lobby to the ticket office. I went down the steps and out. No one was around. E. convention. There was a red MG at the curb with the keys in the ignition, but the blood did not lead to it. It went off at an angle to the edge of the sidewalk about a dozen feet behind it. To where the second car I’d heard had probably pulled in behind her. There had been a rush of blood when the knife had come out.
Oh, no, Harry—” I could hear him telling Helen. We had spent ten or a dozen evenings together the year before. I heard Helen cry out. “Listen, Dan—” “Right here. ” “Home. Look, I’m going out on it. The girl she’d been living with just called me, worried about her. ” “Right. Everything’ll be just the way it happened. Roughly 3:30, give or take five. Somebody knifed her on the street but she made it up. Give me an hour or so and then try to get Nate Brannigan at Homicide. Rouse him up if he’s off, his home number’s in the book on my desk.