Pretty Sinister Books

I really don't know what to make of Thirteen Women (1932) by the eccentric stylist Tiffany Thayer. Is it a thriller? Is it a character study? Is it some kind of allegory on Fate? What I do know is it's tawdry, vulgar, lyrical, pulpy, poignant, disgusting, frustrating, infuritiatng, and utterly addictive. It's sort of the equivalent of driving by an utterly grueseome car wreck on the highway. You don't want to look, you know better. You, of course, are not a gawker or a rubbernecker. But when you get close enough you do slow down and you stare in horror and then look away, but you look back and you gape again. Then you move on. That's what it's like to read Thirteen Women. What can you say about a book that in the first chapter includes a dinner party scene in which the guests discuss a sex act that a depraved nanny performed on her charge and who ended up giving the boy a venereal disease? Of course it's all done in a sly innuendo type of writing, but it's just down right wrong, isn't it?

Thayer is not interested in making you comfortable as a reader. He wants you to squirm and recoil and shudder. He's a bit too obsessed with the nastiness and cruelty of life. He revels in pointing out his character's flaws -- their ignorance, their stupidity, their hedonism. The book is, I guess, meant to be a nihilisitc view of the early years of depression era America told mostly from the viewpoint of female characters. But these women are merely symbols and puppets for Thayer's intensely cynical and fatalistic philosophies. Few of them resemble anything approaching a real person. The plot involves an absurd revenge plot decades in the making that stems from the villainess' life of abuse, neglect and bullying. She blames a group of schoolgirls for all her problems and vows vengeance on them all. She devises a ridiculous plan in which she creates the persona of an astrologer who sends letters to all the women in her past. The astrologer fortellls death, suicide and disease for everyone. And when the predictions start to come true one of the women sees not the power of superstition and Fate at work but a very real murder plot starting to unfold at the hands of a mad genius.

Illustrations from the 1st edition by David Berger
Laura Stanhope take her collection of letters to the police along with a packet of powder she received from the astrologer who goes by the preposterous name of Swami Yogadachi (a Japanese swami?). The powder was to be given to her son on his birthday according to the Swami's instructions and is meant to save the boy from a potentially fatal disease he predicts. Laura suspecting it harmful never did a thing but instead of disposing of it she saved it. For five months! She had to or else it wouldn't further the plot, right? The police have the powder analyzed and it turns out to be a highly poisonous compound usually intended as a pesticide for vermin. Thus begins the hunt for the murderous Swami Yogadachi and the search for the other recipients of his letters to prevent any further deaths.

The story is a veritable Pandora's box of ills and pestilence released upon the reader. Murder, suicide, insanity, venereal disease, abortion, sex addiction -- it's all there in abundance. In keeping with the shock factor Thayer also includes a lesbian romance and makes it as tawdry and unattractive as one can imagine for a 1930s audience. Simultaneously making fun of the butch/femme stereotypes and also writing in such a manner as to titillate the easily aroused. It's not as tasteless as the sex addicted nanny story -- at times the relationship between Hazel and Martha is touchingly rendered -- but clearly the scenes are there for the reader who picked this book to be shocked.

Thirteen Women is told in a hodepodge mess of letters, telegrams, newspaper articles, and author omniscient narration. We get to know the women through their own voices in their letters, but also through the condescending viewpoint of Thayer's narrator who at times is the author himself. Often Thayer steps into the story addressing the reader as "you" and giving his opinions of his characters as if they are real people ("You can't have Josephine Turner. Make up your mind to that. In the first place, I want her myself.") It's only one of the many unexpected parts of the book that make it a genuine head-scratcher yet strangely entertaining in a very offbeat way.

Tiffany Thayer's life, however, would make for a much more interesting book than any of his novels. There is a fascinating article here that goes into great detail about his beginings as a writer, his friendship with Charles Fort, the origins of the Fortean Society which Thayer helped found, and his megalomaniac takeover of the society and its first magazine/newsletter Doubt. Someone should write a biography of the man. I'd read that with great interest. But as for further investigating the fiction of Tiffany Thayer I have had my fill after indulging myself in the pages of Thirteen Women.

This review was suggested to me by Curt Evans who has written about Tiffany Thayer's publisher Claude Kendall here. This week we chose to write about Thayer's bookend titles Thirteen Women and Thirteen Men. His review of Thirteen Men can be found at his blog The Passing Tramp.

Superintendent Cobham is on the case in Between Twelve and One (1929) by prolific (but sadly overlooked) Golden Age detective novelist Vernon Loder. Cobham is a likable detective who does an early form of what Columbo did -- he misleads suspects into thinking he's absent-minded or less than intelligent. He also has the habit of humming operatic arias and music hall tunes while puttering about the crime scenes or waiting for suspects to be show into his office. He's one of the more human and eccentric characters I've come across in a long time.

THE CASE: Speculating financier Mr. Cupoli invites nine of his investors to his home for a weekend. While entertaining his guests he plans to make an announcement about the project in which they have put their money -- an industrial plant that will extract nitrates from polluted air. Before he can meet with his guests he is taken ill by an apparent overdose of cocaine. Next morning after a rousing and frightening thunderstorm Cupoli is found stabbed in his bedroom. His body is found half hanging out a window and medieval poniard is on the floor. But there is no blood on the poniard. The textured design of the blade should've caught flash or viscera, the medical examiner tells Cobham. However, the blade is absolutely clean. The poniard does not appear to be the weapon. What then caused the fatal stab wound?

Cobham does some nimble detection. Most of the time we get fair play mode but sometimes it's of the "he put it in his pocket" variety. That is, Cobham finds a piece of evidence and pockets it or does something inexplicable and the reader hasn't a clue what it means. Case in point -- the chair in Cupoli's bedroom. Cobham marks an X on the chair's underside then removes it to his office at Scotland Yard. Why? We only find out in the final chapter. And it has a great significance to what happened to the actual murder weapon. But the true detection in the novel makes up for these slight cheats in the narrative.

One of the better sequences involves the discovery of scratches on the outside window ledge indicating the use of a grappling hook. Later a grappling hook is retrieved from a pond. The hook is covered in fish spawn and bears traces of oil. The police will also find a brand new rope attached to a windlass of an ancient well that has been saturated with brackish, non-potable water. Cobham will eventually prove that the murderer went to great lengths to give the impression that someone climbed into the bedroom window using the rope and grappling hook, but his genius lab workers prove this all to be a charade. Comparison of well water and pond water; the life cycle of the roach, a fish that lives in brackish water, and other arcana enter into unveiling one of the most elaborate red herrings I've encountered in the genre.

There is are several clever sequences. One involving the investigation of the ancient well and what they find there. Another when Cobham asks suspect Vance Maud to give him a tour of a country club. He especially wants to see the locker rooms. Maud thinks the policeman has lost his mind, but nonetheless obliges with his odd request. Clive Merton, Cobham's right hand man, is also baffled. He thinks Cobham is being frivolous and unprofessionally curious about the operation of a country club and not focussing on the real reason for being there which is to find the possible hidden location of some missing money. But of course it's all Cobham's sly way of further proving his theories.

The detection in this novel is much improved from The Mystery at Stowe. Cobham's sham act manages to fool not only the innocent among the suspects but the arrogant murderer as well. It's a shame that this appears to be his only appearance in Loder's vast output as he is one of the more original policeman characters of this era. The uncanny similarity to Lt. Columbo one I couldn't get out of my head. For that reason I think this book would be of great interest to fans of that brilliant TV series.

Of all of Loder's books Between 12 and 1 -- which was originally published in the UK under the bland title Whose Hand? -- is the easiest to get a hold of. A few copies are available for sale via online bookselling sites and one copy can be had for as little as $10.

We have, in addition to my insanely large collection of vintage crime, adventure & supernatural fiction, a modest collection of vintage cookbooks thanks to Joe's interest in regional American cooking. The item below was found in a cookbook that appropriately enough focuses on low calorie dishes.

Who knew gardening burns more calories than a game of tennis? That seems wrong to me. I know I sweat a lot more gardening than I do bicycling, but that's mainly due to the unshaded place where we are growing our vegetables and sunflowers.

Pepsi-Cola was invented in 1893 by a druggist in New Bern, North Carolina and first was known as Brad's Drink. Five years later it was christened Pepsi-Cola, mostly to compete with the older Coca-Cola. Diet Pepsi didn't come along until 1963 and was the first diet soda sold in the United States. Originally it was called Patio, but I found that at Wikipedia so it may be dubious. It was primarily competing with Tab. Remember Tab? I think I saw a can of it somewhere recently. Who is making it again?

Pepsi has undergone a variety of changes in the formula, logo and its marketing jingle. I know the earliest tune was "Pepsi-Cola hits the spot/Twelve full ounces that's a lot/Twice as much for a nickel too/Pepsi-Cola is the drink for you." I sang it in a goofy little musical comedy called The 1940s Radio Hour back in my theater days and I managed through the miracle of YouTube to find a medley of the earliest Pepsi jingles in the clip below.

And for those of you of my generation or older (and perhaps a little younger) you may recall being part of "The Pepsi Generation." I thought this was the name of a long running jingle for Pepsi's ad campaign in the 60s and 70s, but the actual title is "You've Got a Lot to Give." It was on TV all the time throughout all of my teen years in the 1970s. "It's the Pepsi Generation/Comin' at ya, goin' strong" still pops into my head nearly every time I see a can of Pepsi Throwback -- the new name for the very old, original formula which is made with sugar and not the evil high fructose corn syrup that has ruined the taste of everything from soda to fruit juice to cereal. And I will dismount my nutritional soap box before I go off on a tirade.

Here's the full length 1970s version in a tempo I remember celebrating a variety of multi-cultural, multi-racial people in a typically upbeat and Utopian version of the turbulent 1970s:

Long before Kathy Reichs was writing forensic anthropology mysteries there was the long forgotten academic and physical anthropologist Ruth Sawtell Wallis who perhaps unknowingly created the first mystery that would eventually become a very popular subgenre. Her book Too Many Bones (1943) uses the study of a group of closely related skeletal ancestors as the intriguing background for her debut mystery novel. The involved study of those bones are integral to the solution of a mysterious death that occurs in the story.

Kay Ellis finds herself in the lucky position of assistant to Dr. John Gordon, a bookish and of course stunningly handsome scientist, currently very involved in studying the skeletons of the Holtzermann Collection housed in the William Proutman Museum in the Midwestern town of Hinchdale. Most of the staff is surprised that the K. Ellis they were expecting turns out to be a woman, but none so taken aback than the imperious director of the museum Zaydee Proutman, young widow of recently deceased William. Zaydee not only keeps her eye on the business of the museum but on the handsome Dr. Gordon in whom she is very interested. Mrs. Proutman is none too happy that the museum's new assistant is a 21 year-old woman with brains and looks.

A bitter rivalry starts up almost immediately between the two women and is worsened by the outbursts of alcoholic musician Randy Bill who has been spurned by Zaydee. Add into the mix the sinister Alpheus Harvey who would like to be running the museum himself while Zaydee he thinks is only fit for publicity fundraisers and newspaper photo-ops; spinsterish Alice Barton, the museum's librarian who has a waspish tongue and a taste for gossip; an opinionated Swedish immigrant engineer in charge of the museum's faulty furnace and heating system; and a friendly but secretive janitor named Esquire who would like to marry Mrs. Proutman's personal maid Isabelle but is prevented from doing so and you have all the ingredients for impending murder.

When Randy perishes in a horrific car accident and Zaydee disappears the very same night Sheriff Barton Brown suspects foul play. The museum and the town are searched thoroughly but it yields no sign of Zaydee or her belongings. Brown rushes through an inquest in order to put the blame solely on Randy calling it murder and suicide. Kay, however, sees lots of holes in Brown's hastily closed case. She turns detective to uncover the reason for Zaydee's sudden and convenient disappearance. In the course of her work she learns the grisly truth about what happened to Zaydee, digs up several deep dark secrets, and reveals an elaborate conspiracy to cover-up murder.

When Wallis finally gets around to making her book a real mystery -- more than halfway into the involved plot -- it picks up in momentum and interest. Prior to Kay's turning amateur sleuth the book reminded me of the kind of romantic suspense novel that was the specialty of Phyllis Whitney whose first mystery, Red Is for Murder, was coincidentally published the same year as Too Many Bones. Wallis' book is mostly about the rivalry between Zaydee and Kay and their attraction to the Byronic Dr. Gordon. There is a bit too much time spent in introducing her rather large cast and setting up the numerous motives for a possible murder. But her writing is always top notch, never dull, never stupid. There is some sly feminist commentary slipped into the story, too. Kay's complaints of the treatment of women in academia, especially unfair wage differences between men and women, make the book seem timely and resonant even for a 21st century reader.

The anthropological background enlivens the story when the soap operaish elements threaten to take over the book. Late in the story Kay talks about what the FBI can do with bones in determining blood type that made me think that Wallis was way ahead of her time in terms of new spins with the mystery novel. Even more remarkable is Wallis' treatment of the two black characters who have their own love story and are primary suspects in the murder investigation. Frequently in Golden Age detective novels (and nearly all popular fiction for that matter) minority servant characters serve as comic relief or are practically invisible in the story. Both Esquire and Isabelle have rather large supporting parts and are given a human dimension atypical for the era. Their roles, in fact, are larger and less cartoonish than than the gaggle of D.A.R. ladies who visit the car wreck site and gawk and gossip in one of the odder moments in the book. It's no wonder that for these innovations Wallis received the Red Badge Detective Novel Award from publisher Dodd Mead joining a list of writers that includes Clifford Knight, Hugh Pentecost, Christianna Brand and Marco Page.

Ruth Sawtell Wallis was herself an academic. Her work as a mystery writer was a happy accident and only a small portion of her professional life. Wallis' real body of work is devoted to anthropology and includes a book on the first Azilian remains found in France, children's growth studies for the Bureau of Home Economics, and with her husband an ethnography of the Micmac Indians in Eastern Canada. A brief overview of her work in the field of anthropology can be found here.

For once in a long time I have reviewed a book that is relatively easy to find. Too Many Bones was published in hardcover by Dodd Mead, reprinted in hardcover by Grosset & Dunlap, and once again in paperback by Dell. The Dell mapback can sometimes be found for $3 in used bookstores in North America. I found at least ten copies for sale online ranging from $7 to $20. Happy hunting!

READING CHALLENGE UPDATE: And finally -- Too Many Bones serves as my last book in the "Vintage Mystery Reading Challenge 2013 - Scattergories" sponsored by Bev at My Reader's Block. This fits the category Yankee Doodle Dandy for any mystery set in the USA.

Ruth Sawtell Walllis' Mystery Novels
Too Many Bones (1943)
No Bones About It (1944)
Blood from a Stone (1945)
Cold Bed in the Clay (1947)
Forget My Fate (1950)

Death Comes to Cambers (1935) was my second venture into the work of E. R. Punshon. I was slightly disappointed. The book is epic length for story essentially about one strangling murder and theft of some jewels. Its 288 pages felt twice that long due to long interview sequences between Bobby Owen, Punshon's policeman detective, and each of the suspects. The problem is that each of the suspects is interviewed twice. In some cases Owen returns for a third time to ask even more questions. This see-sawing between suspects draws out the story, lessens tension and frustrates the reader. A detective story while it may uncover the past and deal with past events should move forward in time, ever forward towards the solution. Travelling back to re-interview someone already given ample stage time in the narrative is allowable to a point, but constant instances of repeat interrogation seems to me like a writer who is padding his story unnecessarily.

Additionally, some of the characters take the time to pontificate on their personal views and raise some topical issues that Punshon apparently was taken with at the time. This is the second detective novel in which I have encountered a debate between religious views of the origin of man in stark contrast to a scientist exploiting Darwinian evolution theory for his own ends. An amateur archeologist and a rigidly conservative minister are at odds in their battle between science and faith throughout the novel. Punshon attempts to make this a possible motive for the murders that occur in the story but it's a weak attempt.

The archeologist is convinced his theory of the development of modern man will turn the world of anthropology upside down. He claims man's use of tools and the reason for using them is what separates man from ape. The conservative reverend calls his theories blasphemous.

Only in the final third of the novel when Owen starts to do real detective work as opposed to routine questioning does the book truly get interesting and enter the realm of originality. There are two encoded messages found in the Personals column of a newspaper Owen must solve. One is so involved the solution to the code rivals that of the mechanism of the Enigma machine that Alan Turing figured out. The murderer's ingenious fabrication of a machine using mice in a cage that allows him to have an alibi for the time of the murder is what I consider the book's saving grace. That and the fact that there are two criminals revealed in the finale -- one an opportunistic thief who complicates matters and the other the killer.

Unlike Diabolic Candelabra fascinating in its oddities from start to finish, the characters and situations in Death Comes to Cambers are overly familiar and often dreary to get through. The gossipy landlady, the garrulous tradesmen, a barkeep who knows everyone's business all turn up as they do in most of these mysteries set in small English villages. It doesn’t help that in this book Punshon is still clinging to a baroque writing style that belongs to the early Victorian era. He constructs paragraph long sentences that could be trimmed for coherence and readability. Often these long sentences are really several sentences run together with a series of useless commas and dashes. As a matter of course these long sentences then make many of the paragraphs run uninterrupted for the entire page length. Cumbersome is an understatement.

Death Comes to Cambers is a very scarce book, possibly a genuinely rare book. I found a copy in France, but had to pay an exorbitant fee to have it shipped to me. Currently online there are only two copies for sale -- one in English, the other in French. There is a second English edition listed by Le-Livre.com, but this the one I bought and the seller has obviously not removed the listing from other bookselling sites. I wouldn't lose any sleep over not finding a copy. It's a good novel but it takes some endurance and patience to get to the meat of the story.

Work: Prince Izon by James Paul Kelly
(A. C. McClurg, 1910)
Listed in 333, a bibliography of lost race, fantasy, super-natural and science fiction works.

Artists: Harold H. Betts & Edwin Betts, Jr.

One of the many lost race novels that were popular from the late Victorian era through the early 20th century Prince Izon deviates from the usual African and South American tales and instead chooses for its setting the good ol' U S of A. In the story Professor Raymon and his team of explorers, along with their American Indian guide, go in search of a forgotten tribe who are presumed to be living in the Grand Canyon in Arizona. They get more than they bargained for when they encounter a tribe of Aztec warriors led by the title character.

Harold and Edwin Betts were the sons of Edwin Betts, Sr, a well established artist in Chicago who taught both his sons and daughter Grace in painting. Edwin Jr. had an exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago in the late 19th century. Other than that I could find little info about Edwin. His brother, on the other hand, has a much more prominent presence on the internet.

Harold Betts was an illustrator for magazines and books and an accomplished landscape and portrait painter. He traveled to the Southwest and began specializing in the Grand Canyon and its environs making him the perfect choice for illustrating Prince Izon. Like Edwin, Harold also showed his paintings at the Art Institute. A list I found at the U. S. Department of the State website gives the dates of eight different exhibitions at the AIC. Many of Harold's paintings are part of a large collection at the Smithsonian Institute and show he spent time in Rio Grande Pueblos from Taos to Santa Domingo; in Colorado Springs, Colorado; at the Grand Canyon, on the Navajo and Hopi reservations; and in Southern California.

Among the illustrations Betts did for books are Princess Sayrane by Edith Ogden Harrison and Ruth of the USA by Edwin Balmer. All of the illustrations in Princess Sayrane can be viewed here. Some of his paintings sold at auction can be seen at ArtFact,LiveAuctioneers,AskArt, and various other sites. Harold Betts' work is collectible and found in numerous galleries and private collections throughout North America and Europe.

Below are the five full color plates found in my copy of Prince Izon. Two -- the one used for the plate on the cover and the frontispiece battle scene -- are signed by Edwin Betts, the others are by his brother Harold. Only the battle scene on the cliffside can be enlarged by clicking on the image.

Spencer Day, an original young jazz vocalist, released a new album back in March. Here's the animated video that accompanies the title track "The Mystery of You." It's a film noir in miniature with a jazz vocal soundtrack.

I thought it was very appropriate for this blog. Check it out.

The video was created and directed by veteran animator Eric Deuel who is best known for his work on the two Kung Fu Panda movies. More about Deuel at his website here.

The Turkey described in Joan Fleming's award winning When I Grow Rich (1962) is not meant to be a temptation to tourists. This is not picture postcard pretty Istanbul. It's dirty, fetid, and decrepit city she describes. If we are to believe Fleming the population is made up of mostly self-interested market sellers, rude and foul speaking taxi drivers, outright thieves, and a crowd of bloodthirsty denizens who enjoy the occasional public hanging. Though we are in the 1960s it still feels like the Turkey of centuries gone by. Yet there are glimmers of beauty amid the ugliness. The bibliophile protagonist Nuri Izkirlak who goes by the formal moniker Nuri bey, and his mismatched partner in adventure the teenager Jenny Bolton are the part of that beauty and the true saving grace of the book.

Nuri bey is a philosopher in love with books. He has few friends and spends nearly all of his time in his home which is more of a library dedicated to the great thinkers of the East and West. He occasionally visits the home of Madame Miasma, a former member of the old Sultan's seraglio and not one of the pretty ones. At the start of the book we find Nuri bey being asked a favor. Her female companion Valance has recently died in a freak accident when she fell from a balcony into the sea and Madame is now short handed in the servant department. She wants Nuri bey to deliver an attache case to a young man waiting at the airport. He agrees without hesitation and unknowingly enters the Turkish criminal underworld.

The favor seems like the simplest of tasks but of course complications arise. Tony, Madame's courier, is travelling with Jenny Bolton, a ditzy Britisher only 19 who alternates between acting much younger and then much older than her chronological age. When the police show up at the airport Tony flees just as he is about to meet Nuri bey and somehow Jenny ends up with the case. She convinces Nuri bey to help her elude the police and he takes her to his apartment where he tries to figure out what to do now that he has failed Madame Miasma. Soon the story becomes a cat and mouse game between Jenny and Nuri bey on one team, and Madame Miasma and her eunuch henchman Hadjii on the other, as they all try to recover the case and get it back to Tony who seems to have vanished completely.

Madame Miasma at first appears to be an eccentric old woman but she develops into one of the most sinister and villainous characters of the book. Selfish, vengeful, spiteful, and cruel Miasma thinks of herself first and foremost and will stop at nothing to get her case and its mysterious contents back. Likewise, Jenny initially introduced to the reader as an airhead turns out to be one smart cookie who can hold her own against the malevolent ex-harem girl and her unctuous not to be trusted servant. But Miasma is wily and manipulative and can turn on the charm when she needs to. There will be several unfortunate traps that both Jenny and Nuri bey fall into before the Hitchcockian plot comes to its unexpected conclusion.

Though on the surface When I Grow Rich may seem to be yet another pursuit thriller set in an exotic locale Fleming is interested in a lot more than action and crime. The book discusses the still pertinent topic of recreational drug abuse and its insidious effects. Drug trafficking and smuggling play a big part in the plot and Fleming does not waste words criticizing a hedonistic lifestyle. She makes clear also her views on the potential for drug smuggling to create global havoc. But more subtly, and in the end rather powerfully, she is telling a story of obsession and misplaced devotion. Nuri bey comes to realize what a waste his life has been among his books. He loses a great deal over the course of the novel, both physically and emotionally, but that loss leads to a epiphany that changes him for the better. In contrast we get the constant longings of Miasma for riches and her long faded youth and Hadjii's perverted though hidden love for his employer. And there are Jenny's puzzled thoughts of how two people can thirst so wildly for money when they are both so close to the grave.

Fleming won the Gold Dagger from the Crime Writers' Association for When I Grow Rich and would win it again for the book she seems to be best known for Young Man, I Think You're Dying (1970). Several of her books have been reprinted as eBooks by The Murder Room, Orion's imprint devoted to reviving out-of-print crime writers' work. Some of the titles are also available in paperback editions. Joan Fleming is too much overlooked when crime writers of the past are discussed and much of her large body of work still remains out of print. But luckily nearly every title she wrote is available in the used book market in very affordable paperback editions, both from US and UK publishers.

The murder of a lawyer found in a studio apartment in Greenwich Village is tied to the death of a marine biologist in the Bahamas in the unusual and action-oriented sophomore effort The Case of the Frightened Fish (1940) by playwright and journalist William DuBois. Tabloid reporter Jack Jordan who first appeared in The Case of the Deadly Diary (repeatedly referred to throughout the course of this one) is worried for his friend Dave Yates, a PR man for a millionaire with interests in marine life. See, the studio apartment belonged to an artist and a painting that Jordan recognized as the work of Dave's fiancee Elsa Ulrich was found near the body. Jordan is worried Elsa may be implicated in the poisoning of the lawyer. Elsa, we will soon learn is also the daughter of famed ichthyologist Dr. Hubertus Ulrich whose research is being funded by Dave's millionaire brother Tony Yates. Feel like you're in over your head already? Well, grab your life preserver or your fins and mask because the waters only get deeper in this innovative, aquatic themed, and deftly plotted mystery.

Though we start in Bermuda with the expository set up about the murdered lawyer, the missing artist, and the mystery of why Elsa's painting is a the scene of the crime we (along with Jack, Dave and the rest of the cast of characters ) are soon headed on a boat headed for Tony Yates' private island in the Bahamas where he is funding Dr. Ulrich's research with a series of high-tech aquariums all set up for the study of rare fish species and life among the coral reefs. No sooner have they landed but a second body turns up, this time an apparent suicide. It's "Zoobug" (Alfred to his parents) Strong, one of Dr. Ulrich's research assistants and coincidentally an old college pal of Jordan's. Through some keen detective work Jordan learns that Zoobug is the missing artist who was renting the studio apartment where the lawyer was killed. Now he needs to find the link between the two deaths. Did Zoobug really commit suicide by drowning himself? Or was he too murdered? And why was a marine biologist masquerading as an artist in Greenwich Village?

When another body turns up at the bottom of a tank filled with ravenous barracudas Jordan and Dave are convinced that someone is trying to sabotage the work at the research center. But why? Someone suggests that visiting rival scientist Dr. Karl von Merz, an Austrian, is actually a Nazi spy and wants the island for a submarine station. He'd have easy access to Miami's shoreline -- only a day's travel underwater -- thereby also gaining access to a key US port and naval air station. Nazis and barracudas! How can you pass this one up?

UK 1st edition (Gerald Swan, 1947)

This is a tightly plotted mystery with an exotic setting and background so far removed from the usual detective novels of the period. There isn't a last will and testament in sight, thankfully. The stuffy interiors of drawing rooms, studies and libraries are absent and instead we get mostly exterior scenes by boat docks, marine laboratories, the several fish tanks and aquariums and a smattering of exciting underwater sequences including a fight in the ocean that would play just as well in a Bond movie. DuBois' talent as a playwright is shown to great effect in his razor sharp dialogue and his skill at constructing cliffhanger chapter endings. You can't help but keep reading as the plot grows ever more complicated and the characters reveal hidden motives and deep, dark secrets.

If I have to find anything to criticize it's DuBois' embarrassing depiction of London, a black handyman and dock worker, described in animal terms best left unquoted. Although London has the ability to speak, he is not given one line of dialogue. Anytime he does speak it is rendered third hand or quoted by Jordan. I found that really odd, but not as odd as the writer's 18th century love of the "noble savage" idea. It's a minor fault, really, but still rather jarring in book that otherwise appears to be have been created by a sophisticated and smart writer. DuBois does redeem himself when he allows London to act selflessly and heroically in saving the life of two people in one action sequence and in recovering a piece of crucial evidence that had been submerged by the dock when everyone else failed.

Jack Jordan appears in a third mystery The Case of the Haunted Brides (1941) then disappears, along with William DuBois, from the mystery world. I suspect poor sales forced Little Brown to drop him from their list. After having had success in the 1930s as a playwright (four plays made it to Broadway though all had short runs), DuBois returned to writing primarily for newspapers with occasional stints as a scriptwriter for radio and the movie screen. Though he gave up as a mystery novelist he did pen at least one other novel, The Island in the Square (1947) about the world of newspapers and theaters in the Times Square district of Manhattan.

Jacques Barzun is quick to point out in his brief Catalog of Crime entry for this humanistic detective novel that the setting is not a nunnery but a convent school. True the primary setting is a school, but where do nuns live but in a nunnery? More hairsplitting from our dear departed academic. Titular misnomers aside Murder in a Nunnery (1940) was quite the sleeper when it was first published. Though published by small press Sheed & Ward it managed to get picked up by the Catholic Book Club in 1940 and turned into a minor sensation. Twenty two years later it was reprinted as a paperback from Dell's Chapel Books imprint and sold thousands of more copies.

Eric Shepherd has written both an engaging detective novel and a primer in the life of 1940s British nuns. Shepherd's sister was a mother superior according to a book review in Rockford, Illinois Catholic newspaper The Observer, (see the article here) so he presumably knows of what he writes. The most interesting thing I discovered was that most of the elderly nuns refer to themselves as Mother rather than Sister. Perhaps that's peculiar to England or to this order, though we are never told to which order these nuns belong. But onto the story itself...

Baroness Sliema, a temporary guest at the convent, has been found stabbed in the chapel during daily mass. Not particularly well-liked by both the staff and the students her death becomes the topic of girlish gossip peppered with flagrant talk of a well deserved violent end. When the police are called in we begin to see what Shepherd has in mind as the secular world meets the religious world head on. The police are in for quite an education themselves as the murder investigation progresses.

First to arrive on the scene is the brash Detective Sgt. Osbert whose insensitivity and rudeness is matched only by his own discomfort at being treated by so many old women in funny costumes. He can't wait to call in Scotland Yard and hand the case over to Chief Inspector Andrew Pearson. Pearson is the complete opposite of Osbert -- gentlemanly, suave, decorous to the point of embarrassment. He first mistakenly asks to see the Lady Abbess and is immediately corrected, almost reprimanded, by Mother Peck, second in command:, "Reverend Mother is not in the habit of receiving visitors on the doorstep." Pearson experiences his own level of discomfort as well, but he soon warms up to Reverend Mother Superior in whom he sees kindness, wisdom, and a love of strict discipline. It is the disciplined life of the nuns that most impresses Pearson and he surprises himself in drawing analogies between life in a convent and the life of a policeman. As the case progresses he sees that nuns and police have a lot in common.

There is an element of the rambunctious gang of St. Trinian's among the girl students. Led by Verity Goodchild, who is anything but good or truthful, they are the typical ragtag bunch of unruly girls you come across in books of this sort. Inez Escapado, a tall tale telling South American student, is saddled with thick phonetic accent Harry Stephen Keeler would've been proud of. And Philomene, Verity's best pal, has a temper issue and a speech impediment that comes and goes depending on how emotional she gets. You'd expect them to all turn Nancy Drew and try to solve the murder for themselves but they are more interested in the ghostly figure of a mysterious nun seen wandering the grounds at night. Only Verity is brave enough to wander the school grounds looking for evidence. While trying her best at girl sleuthing she encounters a group of nosy tabloid reporters and photographers and ends up the subject of exploitive glamour shots. One of the photographers rewards her with a piece of cloth he found that turns out to be a torn piece from a nun's veil. Evidence! Apparently, there was someone in a nun's habit roaming the grounds at night. Whether it was a genuine nun or someone in disguise Verity leaves to Chief Inspector Pearson to uncover.

Among the adults who are Pearson's primary suspects, is the haughty Venetia Gozo, a Maltese woman who acted as secretary to the Baroness; Mrs. Moss, the Baroness' companion; Baron Sliema, the victim's son; and Mr. Turtle, the handyman-gardener for the convent grounds. Turtle was my favorite of the lot. He seems to have wandered into the book from the pages of a George Eliot novel. He's filled with the refreshing kind of common sense and common talk so welcome after pages of theology and philosophy from Reverend Mother and girlish antics from the students. Turtle is also the only man in this world of women, Having the inspector around gives Turtle a chance to kick back and let down his guard. His invitation to Pearson at the tail end of his interrogation scene is priceless: "And should you ever find the oppression of women too much for you up at the 'ouse, you come down 'ere and refresh yourself with Turtle."

One more thing about Pearson's detective skills. He is equipped with an overly sensitive sense of smell. Throughout the book his olfactory bulb is assailed with a pungent odor that seems to permeate certain rooms. It's vaguely familiar, but each time he tries to put a name to the scent he comes up wanting. The piece of veil Verity finds is reeking with the smell. It trails throughout the cloisters near the scene of the crime. The smell haunts him throughout the story. And it will prove to be the most damning clue in determining the identity of the murderer when that odor's source is discovered and it's given a name.

Margaret Wycherly and Pedro de Cordoba in
the first production of the play version

In looking for images from the various published editions of Murder in a Nunnery I discovered it was also adapted into a play. Emmet Lavery, a screenwriter, condensed the large cast of characters to one of only eight adult female roles, three adult men, and five girls. It was produced in May 1942 for Catholic Theatre Guild of Los Angeles with the playwright also serving as director. Incredibly, for what appears to be a community theater troupe, several of the leading roles were played by film actors. Lavery must have had impressive studio connections. In the role of Reverend Mother Superior was Margaret Wycherly best known as James Cagney's mom in the classic gangster movie White Heat. Inspector Pearson was played by Pedro de Cordoba, a character actor with over 125 of films to his credit including Saboteur, The Mark of Zorro, Juarez, Captain Blood and Anthony Adverse. John McGuire, a B movie leading man and supporting player whose best role is probably as the reporter accused of murder in Stranger on the Third Floor, played the shifty Baron Sliema who in the play adaptation has an added secret and a surprise scene not found in the book. I bet that was some production to watch.

Fourteen years later Eric Shepherd wrote a sequel called More Murder in a Nunnery (1954). I have yet to find a copy so I am unsure if Pearson meets up with Reverend Mother Superior at Harrington Convent School again or if she acts as an amateur sleuth with her sister colleagues without Pearson.

Crime and noir film devotees know the insurance policy plot is as old as Double Indemnity. Probably even older. A Life at Stake is yet another spin on the hapless mark duped into taking out a life insurance policy and realizing almost too late he's put a bullseye on his back. Just who is being duped in this story is something that is not all that clear at first. Screenwriter Russ Bender provides more than an ample amount of twists to what could have been a tired story.

Angela Lansbury turns in a neat performance as an unlikely temptress. She shows a glimmer of her monstrously manipulative mother soon to be unleashed in The Manchurian Candidate, a performance that earned her a third Academy Award nomination. As Doris Hillman she can flip the switch from sexy dame with dulcet voice and shapely gams to terrible termagant ready to slap a man's face and scream a torrent of abuse.

He-man hunk Keith Andes is Edward, the mark with a love of money and booze. In a gratuitous shirtless scene the viewer knows our hero is a manly man from the get-go. As the movie unfolds we may be watching him slowly wrapped around Doris' fingers but the director wants us to know that though he's weak of mind he's no Casper Milquetoast in the physique department. We also get to watch him fall in love with his framed $1000 bill, a chunk of cash that will come back to haunt him repeatedly.

As Doris' kid sister Madge, Claudia Barrett proves to be the biggest surprise of the movie. At first we think she's just hanging on to the muscular, lantern-jawed hero for a little thrill, stir up some sisterly jealousy. By the midpoint, however, she'll prove to be every bit as wily as Doris and her scheming husband. She adds a double dose of the twists to the plot with schemes of her own. The $1000 is released from its prison of a picture frame transforming itself from prop to a sort of a supporting character.

I liked this movie a lot. The plot seems heavily borrowed from Cain's novel but there's a delicious quirkiness to this movie's self-conscious low budget attitude. Offsetting Andes' mostly wooden monotone acting is the polished and sparkling performance from Lansbury and occasional inspired bits from Barrett combined with several expertly shot noirish scenes that lift A Life at Stake out of the realm of forgettable B flicks to make it something of a cult classic.

Jane Darwell: "He's a weird one. Him and his thousand dollar bill.

Framed like a picture and a-settin' on the table."

Douglass Dumbrille as Gus reminds his wife who's in charge

Other highlights include Jane Darwell in a cameo as a suspicious landlady and Douglass Dumbrille as Doris' urbanely menacing husband Gus. The melodramatic score is by Les Baxter and the clever script by B movie actor turned screenwriter Russ Bender. Another B movie stalwart, Paul Guilfoyle (dozens of character parts in films like The Grapes of Wrath, Mighty Joe Young, The Mark of the Whistler, Mad Miss Manton and White Heat) does a fine job in his directing debut. Guilfoyle teams up with neophyte cameraman Ted Allen (also his debut as Cinematographer) in creating some moody shots heavily influenced by classic noir movies of the 1940s and getting the most out of his capable cast. Maybe Guilfoyle could have cracked the whip a bit more on Andes. His strongman body deserved and could've taken the blows.

There are a couple of absurdities in the story (like a cabin in the woods with French windows that open onto a cliff side deck that was never finished) and the acting sometimes slips over into grandiose scenery chewing and posing for the camera, but it's such an odd film I was willing to overlook the few faults. In fact, by the midpoint when I realized the plot was headed straight into the land of weirdness I almost wanted more of the absurd and surreal. This is a little known movie that deserves full fledged cult status. It can be seen in its entirety on several streaming websites for free. As it's one of several movies that has slipped into the public domain you should feel no guilt about watching it on YouTube or downloading it as I did. I've watched it about four times in the past few months and as derivative and hokey as it may be I still find things to enjoy about A Life at Stake.

"I feel just luscious. Uh...how much insurance do you have?"

Gus Hillman's coffee will send you to sleep rather than keep you awake.

Madge (Claudia Barrett) and Edward discuss putting to good use his treasured $1000.

Doris asks Edward to admire the view from the porch-less French windows.

That's quite a drop. Hmm...

The battle for Edward between two scheming sisters.

A decrepit house on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi, an oppressive household overseen by the hawk-like Captain Jasper Yancy, a cook who practices voodoo, and a mysterious death should make up the ingredients for an exciting bloodcurdler of a mystery. I was all set for something along the lines of Mary Roberts Rinehart in a Southern Gothic setting. But Elizabeth Hughes Holloway's first and only attempt at a detective novel is a largely unimpressive mixed bag. Part of the problem can rest on the shoulders of her insipid heroine Anna Sue.

A batch of chatty letters written by Anna Sue to her boyfriend Jim serve as our introduction to the cast of characters made up of her grandfather Captain Yancy; two aunts, Aurelia and Maude; Veechie, the cook; Mr. Webley, the family lawyer; and a mysterious man on the beach. We never really understand why her grandfather invited her to visit or why she has decided to stay for several days since she seems to dislike the house intensely and is more than worried about the relationship between her two submissive aunts and the domineering Captain. Anna Sue is kept up at night by the typical noises and strange going s on in the creepy mansion and does the requisite spying on family members, targetting Veechie as her enemy and the wicked villainess of the piece. So dark is the portrait of Veechie seen only through Anne Sue's prejudiced eyes that I was convinced she would be redeemed in the end as a genuinely decent and good woman. Anna Sue, on the other hand, grows increasingly childish as the story progresses.

Amid all the fear and dread and oppression Captain Yancy dies in his bedroom. A sudden death, all agree, yet most likely natural due to his seventy years and failing health. But suspicious circumstances once again witnessed by Anna Sue lead her overly developed imagination to the conclusion that murder was done. She writes to Jim to come to the house and get to the bottom of the mysterious events. Jim arrives and learns of Aunt Aurelia's sleepwalking incident, the weird voodoo rite Veechie performed in the kitchen, and the disappearance of $200 in cash and over $15,000 in securities from the captain's study. Criminal behavior and murder seem more and more likely.

As an amateur sleuth Jim does yeoman work though it's offset by long interruptions and distractions that take the form of several lover's tiffs and arguments with his soon-to-be wife. Anna Sue has a tantrum every twenty pages or so forcing Jim to pause in his detective work to placate and soothe her. She provides most of the clues for Jim but due to her intense dislike of the servant Veechie, who admittedly is painted as a spooky menacing presence, she never sees things clearly. Jim tells her she'd never make a good detective and Anna Sue responds, "I'd never want to be one." Holloway stops short of having her stick out her tongue and saying "So there" but the reader can read between the lines.

Cobweb House (1931) includes an introductory note from the author giving credit to Magic Island by William Seabrook as her source for all voodoo related information. With that bibliographical tidbit under her belt I expected a lot more voodoo in the story. But there is really only one scene and it is partially witnessed by Anna Sue. A cross made of burned matchsticks is found and elicits terrified reactions from Veechie and a few locals for it is a death omen. It seems to be the only proof that a voodoo practitioner is either in the house or visited recently. One barely described ritual in a dimly lit kitchen and a burned cross are all Holloway picked up from Seabrook's utterly intriguing book? Sad.

Chemical analysis done on a medicine eye dropper is the only real evidence Jim has to prove a case of murder. The scene at a college professor's chemistry lab, however, is ineptly handled. Holloway either doesn't understand or never bothered to research how a chemist would find poison in a distillate. He ends making a dilution of a trace of dried liquid found in the eyedropper and injects that into a guinea pig. When the animal dies the professor is satisfied the liquid was poison. Never mind that the victim supposedly took the substance orally in a glass of medicine. Doesn't sound like an experienced professor of chemistry to me. More like mad scientist nonsense lifted from a Universal Studios monster movie. A supposedly scientific scene like this makes me question if Holloway ever read Seabrook's book for her other research. No wonder the voodoo scenes are so sketchy.

In spite of all these disappointments and an overall lack of verisimilitude I stuck with the book to the final page. If the revelation of the murderer is not all that surprising (after all, there are only five suspects) at least the unmasking is done with flourish. Veechie transforms from voodoo spook into Captain Yancy's Nemesis achieving a satisfying, appropriately melodramatic finale when she pulls off a trick that requires no voodoo magic. Jim takes credit for solving the case, but it is clear that Veechie did all the work.

Cobweb House is sometimes easily found in its very attractive, surreally illustrated, Dell mapback edition. I found a copy for $6 at the Printer's Row Book Fair in Chicago a few weeks ago. Almost thirty copies are currently available on-line at prices ranging from $15 for a collectible copy to $2 for a battered reader. The hardcover edition is rather scarce. I have yet to see a first edition of this book with a DJ, but courtesy of the huge collection of DJ facsimiles at Mark Terry's website I am displaying it here.

"Mr Duffield," interrupted the judge, "I am always loath to intervene when counsel is addressing the jury, but there is a limit you know. You are not entitled to tempt the jury to acquit the accused just because good may have resulted from the crime." -- Mr. Justice Pantin in According to the Evidence

There are probably other legal mysteries that spoof the court system but I have never encountered any of them. There is Rumpole of the Bailey, but I don't recall the humor in those stories being specifically related to the law. The humor there arises out of character relationships. And when a writer is part of the legal system himself, like Henry Cecil, the books tend to be rather serious. If any attack is made on the course of circumvented justice or loopholes in the law that they tend to be scathing and admonishing. Not so with Cecil's series of courtroom hijinks and legal satires. He slays the fearsome dragons of the law with a rapier wit not the sword of wrath.

What would happen if witnesses were canny enough about the law to make choices that they legally and rightfully can make and yet manage to obstruct the course of true justice? What would happen if a private enquiry agent like Ambrose Low were hired to prove an absolutely guilty man were innocent? These dilemmas and more are posed in the often witty story in According to the Evidence (1954), one of the many comic crime novels of Henry Cecil, a County Court judge in England for several decades.

One can imagine that many of the strange incidents recounted in this book were experienced first hand by Cecil. Either that or he took something like the confusion of a garrulous witness' testimony and thought: "What if this witness' accounts were crucial to the prosecution's case and yet because the witness is so entirely literal minded the process of eliciting his testimony becomes a verbal farce?" Such is the case with Colonel Brain who has been manipulated by Low to give eyewitness account which can possibly exonerate his client of a murder accusation.

The basic plot involves serial killer Gilbert Essex who is acquitted of one murder only to be released and kill again. Alec Moreland, an artist and former soldier, decides to take the law into his own hands and execute the unjustly freed Essex. Through a combination of chance and his own confession to Jill, his fiancee, Alec is arrested for the murder. Jill approaches Ambrose Low and pleads with him to help her man escape the gallows. It was a service to the community killing that acquitted murderer, she tells Low. Alec is sure to be found innocent. But in an ingenious twist to the story rather than discovering (or even manufacturing) evidence to prove Alec innocent Low engineers a series of events that will prove him even more guilty. And the literal minded Colonel Brain is Low's patsy. But the plan backfires spectacularly and hilariously.

Cecil begins with satiric attack on the legal bureaucracy and piles on comic episodes in quick succession. He has a lot of fun with spoofing the overly formal way in which lawyers and judges address one another with their string of "my learned friends" and "your Worships." As they grow ever exasperated and frustrated with the confusing trial the implied courtesy in their address erodes into subtle ironic insults. The satire then turns to all-out farce when dealing with Cecil's obvious favorite (and my personal favorite), the blustery and amiable Colonel Brain. The resulting badinage is worthy of Tom Stoppard. The farce continues into the jury room when one of those good and true twelve is revealed to have a limitation that results in a ludicrous retelling of the events and nearly leads to a mistrial. That would be a disaster for Duffield, the counsel for the defense, whose intent is to have the trial stopped. Duffield is a master of oratory and his tactics and delays are positively magical examples of legal language put to its extreme test.

With its combination of linguistic wizardry and dazzling Socratic method According to the Evidence is a comic achievement. This book (and I suspect several of the others by Henry Cecil) would make an exceptional TV program or movie. I did a quick search at imdb.com to see if any of his books were adapted and I see only one short story and one novel. But apparently Cecil made it to TV with two series. Whether or not they are based on characters in his books I can't say.

This was found inside one of the many copies of The Omnibus of Crime I have purchased over the years. The Omnibus of Crime was the Book of the Month Club selection for August 1929. Inside the copy I bought was the ad seen below for the September BOMC selection, Ultima Thule by Henry Handel Richardson, a book and author I knew nothing about until I did my research for this post.

The Book of the Month Club was only three years old in 1929. Weren't they polite in their requests? And that deadline date in giant red letters is very helpful. I remember being a member of one of their offshoots, Quality Paperback Book Club, in the 1980s and the reminders were not anything like the one above. I usually lost the dumb postcard or forgot to mail it back by the deadline and ended up with books I had no desire to read let alone own.

"Henry Handel Richardson" turns out to be the pseudonym for Australian writer Ethel Florence Lindesay Richardson who you can read about at the website for the Henry Handel Richardson Society. (Is there a society for every forgotten author of the past?). Ultima Thule is the final novel in a trilogy about an Australian physician named Richard Mahony and is based in part of Richardson's own father and her upbringing. The three novels that make up the trilogy are Australia Felix (1917), The Way Home (1925) and Ultima Thule (1929). All three were later published in an omnibus edition and titled The Fortunes of Richard Mahony in 1930. For a synopsis of Ultima Thule click here. Interestingly, it was only with the publication of the final volume that the entire trilogy, The Fortunes of Richard Mahony, was suddenly recognized as a great work of fiction.

I wanted a western for today's tribute to Grand Master Elmore Leonard so I chose Forty Lashes Less One (1972) And here were my reasons: very odd title sure to have some unusual meaning, the very cool cover with two gun-toting characters in threatening poses and early 20th century prison garb, and a mention in a 2009 blog review that the book was going to be a Quentin Tarantino movie. While he may have been inspired by this book Tarantino's Civil War era spaghetti western Django Unchained, which won him his second Academy Award for Original Screenplay, has little in common with Leonard's novel. I have not seen the movie but based on the trailer and reviews I have read the only thing it shares with Forty Lashes Less One is a lead character who sticks it to the white man. And but good!

Based on the cover of the original 1972 paperback (seen at left) I expected this to be a prison break novel. I was pleased to discover it's more than that. There is a helluva a lot going on in this book beyond the actual plan to escape from jail. Ostensibly set in 1904 in a crumbling prison in the Arizona desert where the inmates are awaiting transfer by train to a brand new facility it felt more like a book set in the 1950s. No matter, the characters and situations are the selling point as they usually are in any book by Leonard. Everett Manly, a failed minister, volunteers to serve as interim superintendent of the Yuma prison and while there decides to try some inventive forms of prisoner rehabilitation involving an unusual combination of Bible thumping sermons, lessons in the origin of different races, and -- of all things -- athletic competitions.

It's all sort of an accident how it comes about. Harold Jackson, a wily black prisoner, and his cell mate the simple-minded Raymond San Carlos, an Apache who likes to think of himself as Mexican, have not been getting along. The insult each other and have been fighting regularly. The usual punishments don't seem to be working. Mr. Manly is determined to bring out the good in each man and make them friends, but his Bible lectures fall on indifferent ears. Until he makes the mistake of saying "We are all related by blood" leading to a hysterical discussion that begins with Adam and Eve and leads to talk of incest and miscegenation. Harold and Raymond grill Manly mercilessly. At first Manly taken aback but since he finally has gotten their interest he answers their questions getting into deeper water as he goes. Then he hits upon a brilliant idea. He talks of the legacy of Geronimo as a hero to the Apaches and the legends of the Zulu warriors of Africa. Manly shows that not only do Harold and Raymond share metaphoric blood they share an ancestry of heroic warriors. It's an epiphany of sorts for all three.

Soon Mr Manly finds he has two warriors in training on his hands. There are foot race competitions and handmade spear throwing contests. Harold and Raymond now make up their faces with stripes of iodine and white paint inspired by illustrations they saw in Mr. Manly's books. Harold even says all that is missing is a real lion for him to spear. The prison yard becomes an arena for a mini Olympics between Black man and Indian with all the white prisoners acting as their audience of gamblers and hecklers. And all the while Mr Manly never realizes that his seemingly naive pupils are waiting for the precise moment to prove what they truly are capable of.

While the dubious religious education and more successful athletic transformation of Harold and Raymond is going on Alpha prisoner Frank Shelby and his gang of sycophants are plotting their escape. With the help of Frank's brother Virgil who makes weekly visits each Sunday Shelby is hoping to sabotage the train that will transport the prisoners from Yuma to the new prison in Florence and free the gang of eight including Norma, one of two female prisoners who has a few tricks up her sleeve. But no fictional prison break ever goes as planned and with two warriors on the verge aboard the train, underestimated by both Shelby's gang and Mr. Manly, there is plenty of action and revenge waiting to explode.

This was one quirky western. I liked the subversiveness of it all. The characters are so utterly unexpected in how they change from beginning to end. Harold and Raymond seem like patsy symbols, dumb and dull at first but Leonard cleverly undermines the entire story as roles are reversed and Black man and Indian once sworn enemies become ever sure and true allies. Manly who you want to succeed at his goofy experiments is a character to be both ridiculed and pitied. Shelby is typical of the villains Leonard creates -- vile and loathsome without one redeeming quality you're hoping for an equally vile end for the man. Somehow everyone around Shelby suffers worse than he does. Glib, self-assured, conceited, and essentially untouchable, he's a bad guy you'll see again and again in Leonard's books. Does he get his comeuppance? You'll have to read the book to find out. The ending is absolutely perfect. If you don't bust out laughing I guarantee that you'll break out in a broad grin.

Yvette who blogs at "In so many words..." offered up a Flash Fiction Challenge for today. Participants were to write a brief story about what's going on in the painting by Mario Cooper shown at the left. The picture was used to illustrate a story in one of the many magazines for which Cooper often did artwork. Writers were to ignore the original story (I don't even know what it was) and make up their own tale of why the young man in the swimsuit and the woman in the flouncy dress were locking the door.

Mine is a very strange blend of psychological and material horror. Today also happens to be Gay Pride Day in Chicago and I believe I was visited by the ghost of a certain playwright whom I have always admired. So here's a tribute to him. Apologies to the man for borrowing one of his characters and quoting a few of his lines. I secretly think might see the humor in it all.

* * *

The Terrible Thing at the Edge of the Lake

Why they called it a summerhouse was a mystery to her. It was barely more than a single room, sparsely furnished with a tiny fireplace in the corner as its sole source of heat. Far too small for a house, you could barely call it a cabin. A shack really. But a cozy shack someone transformed into a private retreat here tucked away in the woods just a few yards from the shoreline of Moon Lake. The casino was only a ten minute walk through the neglected path and polka music was drifting from the ballroom. She glided to its syncopated rhythm thinking to herself. She came here for an escape, to meditate, quietly summoning the courage she needed. In her mind she carefully constructed the sentences, choosing the words carefully, trying not to make it as hurtful as she knew it was going to be.

The door burst open. A rugged young man drenched from head to toe in a tight fitting swimsuit that showed off his athletic build came rushing in. He was startled when he saw her dancing with herself.

"Huh? What are you doing here?"

"Oh Allan, you've been swimming. Come here by the fire."

"Allan? You've got the wrong guy." He headed for a small bureau, opened a drawer and pulled out a towel and began drying himself.

"You know what's going on out there?"

"Dancing, gambling, drinking, laughing. They're all too gay for me. Such a sad night this is. The loss of love is always sad."

He stared at her and smirked. Drunk. Sure as hell she's drunk. Dancing with herself in this shack.

"Someone said a guy fell in the lake. I jumped in and pulled him out. His throat was torn open, his head's a bloody mess. Looks like some kind of animal got him."

"Allan, I know all your secrets. There's no use covering them up with romantic tales."

The music stopped by now. Sounds of a crowd replaced the lilting jaunty melody. A woman screamed.

"Listen, I'm not Allan, lady. I told you that. What are you doing here? This is for the lifeguards only."

"I saw you with him. Caught you in flagrante delicto. Disgusting it was. No… that's not right. You. You disgust me! Yes. That's it."

She paused, took her scarf from her neck, and draped the lampshade. The light in the room softened and was tinged with the colors of roses and lilacs that made up the printed pattern. She started to sway to a melody only she could hear.

"Say… Do you know something about that kid out there?"

"A boy. Only a boy. And so beautiful."

"Well, I wouldn't call him a boy. Looked to be early twenties. I don't know about beautiful either. His face was pretty much gone. And there were weird footprints around the shore edge, too. Some kind of animal attack, I'm sure. But never seen any prints like those."

Another scream. This time not a woman's. Something bestial. Something from the abyss.

"What the--?" He ran to the door and threw the bolt. Grabbed the only piece of furniture, an overstuffed armchair, and shoved it against the doorway.

"Don't be frightened, Allan. You are what you are. A temptation to everyone, both women and men."

"Stop calling me Allan. Didn't you hear that? That thing by the lake out there?"

"Je suis la Dame aux Camellias. Vous etes --Armand?" She smiled at him. "Do you speak French?"

"Cripes! I'm stuck in this shack with a kook. We've gotta get outta here. There's a way out through the basement I think. Come with me, lady."

"Call me Blanche, please. After all, we're husband and wife, Allan." She was at the other window seemingly ignoring him and the threat at the door. She looked out into the cloud covered sky. "I've been looking for the Pleiades tonight -- the Seven Sisters -- but those girls are not out tonight."

A shot. Then another and another. More screams and shooting. Once more that terrible unearthly cry echoed in the woods, closer this time. Footsteps crunching in the pine needles strewn in the pathway to the door of the shack. Scratching at the door. A pair of gleaming eyes peering in the window.

"God Almighty!"

The window burst in a shattering of glass. A hairy clawed arm intruded into the space. The young man who wasn't Allan grabbed a log from the pile near the fireplace and beat furiously at the arm, claws digging into the wood, then his wrist. He let loose with an excruciating wail of pain.

"Help me! Blanche! Help!"

She stood in place with a look of concentrated effort. Thinking of the lack of stars in the night sky, thinking of the right words for Allan. She watched as the young man who wasn't Allan was dragged out of the window frame screaming for his life, screaming for Blanche.

"Sometimes -- there's God -- so quickly," she whispered.

The music started up again. Blanche unbolted the door and made her way back to the ballroom. She resolved to have one last dance with Allan. She would abandon him there with the choice words she just composed. He was never really hers. And it was all so disgusting. She cocked her head and caught that haunting tune again. She started to cry. That melody -- that lively polka of the Varsouviana -- would never sound the same to her after tonight.

Fans of Foyle's War, the British television series about a policeman who during World War 2 finds himself solving crimes involving military personnel, might be interested in Subject-Murder (1945) a detective novel by Clifford Witting based on his personal experience as a bombardier in an anti-aircraft detachment. The detail about military life in a detachment as opposed to a regular army base is fascinating and when the story finally makes its way to the investigation of a murder of a warrant officer Witting once again proves he has the stuff of a high ranking officer of detective novel plotting.

Peter Bradfield, the detective constable colleague of series character Inspector Charlton, is the narrator. Most of the book is devoted to Bradfield's reporting his military training from the summer of 1942 through November 1943. We follow him from basic training in Wales to his various transfers to other posts eventually landing him in an anti-aircraft detachment between the villages of Etchworth and Sheep, and coincidentally just outside of Lulverton where he and Charlton are based as policemen.

Battery Sgt. Major Yule -- "Cruel Yule" to the bombardiers he oversees -- is a sadistic, manipulative and narcissistic bastard. No other words describe him better. Throughout the novel he proves to be one of the most odious villains in the entire genre. In his indifference to human feeling and his perverse joy in causing misery for the soldiers Yule has managed to drive one man to suicide, got men he dislikes transferred to other bases, and punished others with demotions based on trumped up charges.

40mm Bofors Anti-aircraft Gun

When we first meet him through the eyes of Johnny Fieldhouse Yule is seated at a desk in his office taunting a mouse he has trapped under a drinking glass. Fieldhouse, a man of honesty and integrity, is appalled and immediately frees the mouse and gets into a tussle with Yule in doing so. This brief encounter will put Fieldhouse on Yule's list of marked men for the remainder of the book. Though he is consistently warned by Bradfield and others to rein in his self-righteous indignity Fieldhouse pays no heed. He is who he is and cannot change, especially when confronted with the monstrous and amoral behavior he sees exhibited by Yule. Damned be his higher rank, is the bombardier's attitude. Fieldhouse's moral integrity will lead to a world of trouble for him including court-martial, brief imprisonment, and prime suspect in the murder case.

Is it any wonder that Yule in creating false incidents, framing men he dislikes for imaginary offenses while protecting lazy good-for-nothings like himself, becomes the target of everyone's enmity? His demise is long overdue when it comes. Fittingly, he dies a gruesome and horrid death -- dragged by his legs while tied to an enraged horse, trampled and beaten by its hooves. When murder occurs on a military base the structure of a soldier's life -- or rather a bombardier's life -- reverts to that of a civilian. All men are on equal footing as suspects in a crime; no one can pull rank now as the police become the officers in charge.

Royal Artillery Cap Badge

The detection in this book is top-notch. Clues and red herrings are abundant as in any of the best examples of the fair play detective novel. Charlton is allowed to team up with his old colleague Bradfield and together they uncover such intriguing evidence as unusual knots in the rope and dog leash used to tie up the murder victim, a book on torture practices of the Spanish inquisition that has certain passages bracketed, and the double life of a mysterious soldier named Alexander Templeton.

The large cast of characters of military men and the few civilian women make for a varied bunch. Witting finds ample opportunity to show off a skill in replicating regional dialects and his gift for creating lively dialogue. Several of the minor characters like Gianella, a clever recruit whose specialty is playing stupid in order to get out of being assigned dangerous tasks, are the highlights of the book. In addition to the detective story plot Witting gives us a few romantic subplots with Bradfield and Fieldhouse both pursuing the girls of their dreams with some interesting sometimes amusing complications that arise.

We were in the Des Moines/Ames, Iowa area for Fourth of July weekend. At one of the many rest stops where Joe likes to gather brochures and flyers on intriguing restaurants that serve up regional cuisine he found a flyer for the Ox Yoke Restaurant in Amana. I said, "That place still exists?" I was a bit surprised because I have a post card advertising that eatery in my ephemera collection. We tried to get down to the home of the Ox Yoke Inn, but the bike trails kept us very busy. Next time...

The post card was left inside one of my many vintage mystery books (title long forgotten). The restaurant was started in 1940 and is now owned by an organization that owns three different OxYoke Restaurants.

More about the Ox Yoke Inn for those interested can be found at their website here.

It takes a while for The Obeah Murders (1937) to live up to its alluring title hinting at black magic practices in the Caribbean. The novel starts off with Phil Nevitt, employee with an American liquor company, being sent to Annunziata, a mythical island of Footner's creation in the West Indies, to learn all he can about the rum distillery of Randall Trantor. I'm thinking this is going to be some kind of industrial espionage story. But the first encounter with one of the Annunziata inhabitants takes the story into a completely different realm.

Nevitt meets Eve Brinsley, a 17 year-old spitfire, who while astride her horse during a pig sticking hunt is seen whipping her black servants for their failure to corral the pig she managed to wound. Nevitt intervenes, rescuing the servant from the whip, receives a harsh reprimand from the teenager and is nearly whipped himself. This is followed in quick succession by a barroom brawl that lands Nevitt in jail, a jail break, and an attempt to smuggle Nevitt off the island before he causes any more trouble. While waiting for his jail break co-conspirators Nevitt learns that Eve has been abducted by the man who he assaulted in the bar. So Phil is off to save Eve from the bad guys. From corporate spying in the booze biz to western movie serial adventures. Where was the West Indian sorcery known as Obeah, I wondered?

The book is well past the middle mark before the Footner remembers that he intended to write a murder mystery. Eve having been rescued from the West Indian version of the guys with black hats is soon being married off to Randall Trantor, the distillery owner and the island's richest man. At the wedding banquet the newly married Trantor gets stupefyingly drunk, orders a special bottle of his private reserve of Spey Royal whiskey, tosses off his umpteenth drink, and immediately drops dead. There are cries of "Obeah! Obeah!" from the superstitious wedding guests for Trantor had earlier been seen stepping over a bad luck charm which signals imminent death. Eve is suspected of committing the crime as she is the one closest to her husband and the bottle was delivered straight from the cellar to their wedding table. The cellar was kept locked at all times and was only accessible with Trantor's key. The bottle could only have been poisoned by someone at the table. Or was it somehow bewitched via black magic?

Portrait of Hulbert Footner by painter Mabel Welch

As the murder investigation proceeds Footner uses the story to raise some progressive ideas (for the late 1930s) about race and power. Talk of skin color and how that decides how one is treated on Annunziata often comes up throughout the story. Though the island is fictional its history is heavily borrowed from the Danish West Indies. Footner goes out of his way to talk about the white invaders from Denmark who took over in the early 17th century and subtly introduces into the narrative topics like miscegenation and oppression of the native people. Skin color is always being brought up whether it be the yellow of the Creole, the brown of the children of mixed marriages, or the black of the natives often referred to by the N pejorative.

I know that I've read several detective novels with plots featuring white privilege in island populations be they in the South Pacific or Caribbean, but this is the only detective novel to date from the era spanning the 1920s through the 1940s I have encountered in which native culture and race relations play an important part in the solution of the crime. In fact race is the key to understanding the motive of the murderer who is striving to achieve a place of power on the island. He does so by exploiting the cultural superstitions of the population and at the same time playing up to the prejudices of the white policemen in charge of the murder investigation. He nearly eludes capture but for some luck and intuition on Phil's part.

As for the Obeah there is a sprinkling of lore and legend throughout the book. Interestingly, Footner casts in the role of the powerful sorcerer an elderly woman character and she becomes suspect number two in the murder. There is a bizarre and richly detailed scene towards the end of the book showing off how intimidating the magic of Obeah can be even to a skeptical outsider like Phil Nevitt.

This Gothic supernatural novel with detective novel elements wavers between genuinely creepy and outrageous self-parody. At the time I was reading it I wondered if Karlova is a pseudonym for some better known writer. The name seems influenced by Universal horror movie characters and actors. I later learned that I was correct.

The author’s real name was Helen Mary Elizabeth Clamp (sometimes noted as H. M. E. Clamp), and she was extremely prolific throughout her lifetime. In addition to writing three supernatural novels using the Karlova pen name, she wrote over 60 novels from main- stream to romance to adventure under her given name. Using yet another pseudonym -- Olivia Leigh -- she wrote a few more romances and eleven literary biographies on historical figures such as Nell Gwynn, Charles II of Spain, and Louis XV. Her writing career lasted from 1925 to 1970.

It certainly seems to be more than coincidence that those Universal horror films with all the Eastern European atmosphere and characters should share such a similarity with this book written several years after those films were popular. Dreadful Hollow (1942) is peopled with Hungarian gypsies, a mysterious countess of either Czech or Hungarian descent, a stuffed werewolf, and the dread vampire legend looms large over the story.

Although it borrows a framework from the detective novel in that the two narrators do some digging up of clues and interview servants and neighbors, it really is nothing more than a pulpy, over-the-top horror novel with all the usual HIBK trappings of the neo-Gothic novel. Whereas most of those books are pale imitations of a Gothic novel, Karlova’s book is indeed a true Gothic. She does very well with all the Radcliffian elements – emphasis on dreary landscapes and decaying households, a real femme fatale, a ninny of a heroine who suspects she is losing her mind, and genuine supernatural beings and activity.

Interestingly, the structure of the novel seems inspired by Stoker’s Dracula. The first person narrative journal entries of young Dr. Clyde (who seems to have escaped from the pages of a pulp magazine like Speed Detective— he speaks in an entirely American wiseacre slang) are interspersed with third person limited sections focusing on Jillian Dare, the young girl hired to act as a companion to an ancient crone. Unintentionally funny at the most inappropriate moments the mystery is sadly rather obvious from the opening chapters. When young Countess Vera arrives on the scene, any reader who hasn’t instantly figured out the mystery has probably never seen a vampire movie in his or her lifetime.

That isn’t to say the book is not without its deliciously gruesome surprises. There is a disappearance of a young boy that isn’t fully explained until the final pages, for instance. I have to confess that I was alternately raising my eyebrows, gasping and laughing in the final pages which really do get rather wild and bizarre for a book of this era. Even the most jaded contemporary reader will find something to enjoy in Dreadful Hollow.

Clamp wrote two other supernatural books under the name "Irina Karlova" and they are extremely scarce. I own a copy of Broomstick (1946), a period piece that deals with witchcraft, but her other novel The Empty House (1944) has proven to be as elusive as the Loch Ness monster or a yeti. If anyone out there has a copy of The Empty House I would love to borrow it...or buy it if you haven't priced it at the equivalent of a monthly car payment.

(This post originally appeared at Mystery*File in December 2010 in slightly different form.)

FFB: Thirteen Women - Tiffany Thayer

NEGLECTED DETECTIVES: Superintendent Cobham

LEFT INSIDE: The Pepsi Generation

FFB: Too Many Bones - Ruth Sawtell Wallis

IN BRIEF: Death Comes to Cambers - E.R. Punshon

Drawing on the Past #11: Edwin & Harold Betts

Animation Noir - "The Mystery of You" by Spencer Day

FFB: When I Grow Rich - Joan Fleming

The Case of the Frightened Fish - William DuBois

FFB: Murder in a Nunnery - Eric Shepherd

COOL FLICKS: A Life at Stake (1954)

Cobweb House - Elizabeth Hughes Holloway

FFB: According to the Evidence - Henry Cecil

LEFT INSIDE: Book of the Month Club Advert, 1929.

FFB: Forty Lashes Less One - Elmore Leonard

FLASH FICTION: The Terrible Thing at the Edge of the Lake

FFB: Subject--Murder - Clifford Witting

LEFT INSIDE: Ox Yoke Inn post card, circa 1950s

The Obeah Murders - Hulbert Footner

FFB: Dreadful Hollow - Irina Karlova