This is what I call making the most of your postcard.

Over three hundred words, along with the creative use of a highlighter pen and a small-but-perfectly-formed drawing of a car, have conspired to create this little gem of a review. I love the incongruous snowboarder making his way off stage-right, and the fact that we have to improvise the words that have been lost beneath the stamp.

There’s not much more I can, or should, add to this splendid thing, so I’ll let it speak for itself.


Did you know? Peter Cheyney, not content as just a writer, was also ‘a fencer of repute, a golfer, a crack pistol-shot, and a jiu-jitsu expert.’

[review transcribed from unappreciated curvaceous secretary of Callaghan] In a spare minute between bandies, hailing Berkley Square cabs, cigarette offerings and answering to my alias ‘Slim’, I have a proposition for you. You won’t like […it…] but I assure your it’s better than anythin[g] else you’ll be offered. Just write me [a] cheque for £5,000 and don’t ask questions. If you deduce the nature of t[he] review by the outset I will tear up the cheque, or alternatively dispo[se] of your doped up girlfriend (with the nice fitting clothes). We’ll get […] somehow and who the hell cares how! The motto of my private investigation firm lives up to every word. Smoke? You’ll be lulled into that seems a sterile case, solved from the outset. Last night I was out on the San Pedro, a nice boat, good lines, inspected a murder between the crook Raffano and a young cad, who shot each other through the heart and lungs in a row over dough. Simple wrap up, one day job you say? Throw in Azelda, the sweet faced junkie, Mrs Riverton, an empress in ocelot, old Kells, and a pair of swimming trunks, and you have the makings of hard boiled detective fiction at its best. The tone drives an iciness into your very soul, dislodged only by copious underworld cigars and fixing tough men in shadows with razor blades in your fists. It’s a shame my respect for decent women is occasionally lost in telling them I have more experience in my little finger than they have ‘in the entire area of their nice figures’. But it’s a good thing it’s the forties and they love that sort of thing! Read it, I’ll distract the doorman and get the Jag. The reviewer of this book is a nice sort.
Keira Dickinson

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