Mysteries Unlocked: Essays in Honor of Douglas G. Greene 0786478136, 9780786478132

Table of contents :
Table of Contents
Prologue: Meeting Doug Greene • Steven Steinbock
Introduction: Douglas G. Greene: The Man Who Explained Detective Fiction • Curtis Evans
SECTION ONE: DETECTION BY GASLIGHT
The Incandescent Claptrap of Hamilton Cleek • William Ruehlmann
The Strange Case of Max Rittenberg • Mike Ashley
J. S. Fletcher: Man of Many Mysteries • Roger Ellis
From the Sublime to the Ridiculous: The Fleming Stone Detective Novels of Carolyn Wells • Curtis Evans
SECTION TWO: CLASSIC ENGLISH CRIME
The Reader Is Warned: Discovering John Dickson Carr and the Works of Douglas G. Greene • Michael Dirda
Agatha Christie and the Impossible Crime • John Curran
Anthony Berkeley’s Golden Age Gothic Follies • Martin Edwards
The Left Hand of Margery Allingham • B. A. Pike
“Intuition’s Reckless Compass”: Margery Allingham’s The China Governess and a Problem of Literary Biography • Julia Jones
And Carr Begat Crispin: A Meeting of Criminal Minds • David Whittle
SECTION THREE: CLASSIC AMERICAN CRIME AND INTELLECTUALS
Patrick Quentin/Q. Patrick/Jonathan Stagge: A Phantasmagoria of Crime Writers • Mauro Boncompagni
Now You See It: Hake Talbot, Magic and Miracles • Steven Steinbock
Murder in The Criterion: T. S. Eliot on Detective Fiction • Curtis Evans
An Intellectual and the Detective Story: The Problems of Fernando Pessoa • Henrique Valle
SECTION FOUR: TOUGH STUFF
“The Amateur Detective Just Won’t Do”: Raymond Chandler and British Detective Fiction • Curtis Evans
Dying Is Easy, Comedy Is Hard: Craig Rice, Mistress of Madcap Mystery • Jeffrey Marks
A Deluge of Drunken Detectives: A (Strictly Sober) Look at Four Fredric Brown Novels • Jack Seabrook
“Stella Maris”: Poetry in Ross Macdonald’s The Galton Case • Tom Nolan
SECTION FIVE: MURDER IN MINIATURE, DEATH ON THE AIR, MURDER IN PASTICHE
Douglas G. Greene: Savior of the Short Form Mystery • Marvin Lachman
Experimenters, Pioneers, Prodigies and Passers-By: Ten Detective Story Writers in Search of an Anthology • Jon L. Breen
Knife Chords: The Radio Mysteries of John Dickson Carr • Sergio Angelini
Adventures in Radioland: Ellery Queen On (and Off) the Air • Joseph Goodrich
Parody, Pastiche and Presentism in Mystery Fiction: Sherlock Holmes, Lord Peter Wimsey and the Immortal Jane • Helen Szamuely
“Parlez-Vous Français?” The Riddles of René Reouven • Patrick Ohl
A FINAL TOAST: CLUBLAND
The Secret Life of Eric the Skull: Dorothy L. Sayers and the Detection Club • Peter Lovesey
Afterword: Prayers to Kuan Yin • Boonchai Panjarattanakorn
Appendix One: Works on Mystery Fiction by Douglas G. Greene
Appendix Two: Short Crime Fiction Collections Published by Crippen & Landru
About the Contributors
Index

Citation preview

Mysteries Unlocked

MYSTERIES UNLOCKED Essays in Honor of Douglas G. Greene Edited by CURTIS EVANS

McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers Jefferson, North Carolina

ALSO BY CURTIS EVANS Masters of the “Humdrum” Mystery: Cecil John Charles Street, Freeman Wills Crofts, Alfred Walter Stewart and the British Detective Novel, 1920–1961 (McFarland, 2012)

Frontispiece: Douglas G. Greene at home, 2012.

LIBRARY

OF

CONGRESS CATALOGUING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Mysteries Unlocked : Essays in Honor of Douglas G. Greene / edited by Curtis Evans. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-7864-7813-2 (softcover : acid free paper) ISBN 978-1-4766-1608-7 (ebook)

♾

1. Detective and mystery stories—History and criticism. I. Greene, Douglas G., honoree. II. Evans, Curtis J., 1965– editor of compilation. PN3448.D4M958 2014 809.3'872—dc23 BRITISH LIBRARY

CATALOGUING DATA ARE AVAILABLE

© 2014 Curtis Evans. All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Cover images © iStock/Thinkstock Printed in the United States of America

McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers Box 611, Jefferson, North Carolina 28640 www.mcfarlandpub.com

2014018792

Table of Contents

Prologue: Meeting Doug Greene (Steven Steinbock)

1

Introduction: Douglas G. Greene: The Man Who Explained Detective Fiction (Curtis Evans)

5

SECTION ONE: DETECTION BY GASLIGHT The Incandescent Claptrap of Hamilton Cleek (William Ruehlmann)

21

The Strange Case of Max Rittenberg (Mike Ashley)

33

J. S. Fletcher: Man of Many Mysteries (Roger Ellis)

43

From the Sublime to the Ridiculous: The Fleming Stone Detective Novels of Carolyn Wells (Curtis Evans)

60

SECTION TWO: CLASSIC ENGLISH CRIME The Reader Is Warned: Discovering John Dickson Carr and the Works of Douglas G. Greene (Michael Dirda)

81

Agatha Christie and the Impossible Crime (John Curran)

89

Anthony Berkeley’s Golden Age Gothic Follies (Martin Edwards)

101

The Left Hand of Margery Allingham (B. A. Pike)

109

“Intuition’s Reckless Compass”: Margery Allingham’s The China Governess and a Problem of Literary Biography (Julia Jones)

122

And Carr Begat Crispin: A Meeting of Criminal Minds (David Whittle)

133

v

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• TABLE OF CONTENTS •

SECTION THREE : CLASSIC AMERICAN CRIME AND INTELLECTUALS Patrick Quentin/Q. Patrick/Jonathan Stagge: A Phantasmagoria of Crime Writers (Mauro Boncompagni)

145

Now You See It: Hake Talbot, Magic and Miracles (Steven Steinbock) 158 Murder in The Criterion: T. S. Eliot on Detective Fiction (Curtis Evans)

171

An Intellectual and the Detective Story: The Problems of Fernando Pessoa (Henrique Valle)

183

SECTION FOUR : TOUGH STUFF “The Amateur Detective Just Won’t Do”: Raymond Chandler and British Detective Fiction (Curtis Evans)

201

Dying Is Easy, Comedy Is Hard: Craig Rice, Mistress of Madcap Mystery (Jeffrey Marks)

215

A Deluge of Drunken Detectives: A (Strictly Sober) Look at Four Fredric Brown Novels (Jack Seabrook)

224

“Stella Maris”: Poetry in Ross Macdonald’s The Galton Case (Tom Nolan)

231

SECTION FIVE: MURDER IN MINIATURE, DEATH ON THE AIR, MURDER IN PASTICHE Douglas G. Greene: Savior of the Short Form Mystery (Marvin Lachman)

241

Experimenters, Pioneers, Prodigies and Passers-By: Ten Detective Story Writers in Search of an Anthology (Jon L. Breen)

248

Knife Chords: The Radio Mysteries of John Dickson Carr (Sergio Angelini)

259

Adventures in Radioland: Ellery Queen On (and Off) the Air (Joseph Goodrich)

268

Parody, Pastiche and Presentism in Mystery Fiction: Sherlock Holmes, Lord Peter Wimsey and the Immortal Jane (Helen Szamuely)

276

“Parlez-Vous Français?” The Riddles of René Reouven (Patrick Ohl)

286

• Table of Contents •

vii

A FINAL TOAST: CLUBLAND The Secret Life of Eric the Skull: Dorothy L. Sayers and the Detection Club (Peter Lovesey)

297

Afterword: Prayers to Kuan Yin (Boonchai Panjarattanakorn)

312

Appendix One: Works on Mystery Fiction by Douglas G. Greene

315

Appendix Two: Short Crime Fiction Collections Published by Crippen & Landru

320

About the Contributors

324

Index

328

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Prologue

Meeting Doug Greene STEVEN STEINBOCK

It was an otherwise quiet afternoon in the late 1980s when Rita buzzed my office. “There’s a young man on the line from Old Dominion. He’s asking something about Kabbalah. Will you talk to him?” I took the call. It was, indeed, a post-grad student from Old Dominion University. I was working as director of education for a large synagogue in Norfolk, Virginia, about a mile from campus. The young man, David, was doing a master’s thesis on William Blake, and had encountered some images that he thought were connected with the Jewish mystical tradition known as Kabbalah. There were not many Hebrew scholars in southern Virginia at the time. I knew of one other person in town who knew about Kabbalah, but he was not willing to talk about it except with Jewish males above the age of forty. I spoke with David for ten minutes or so, then invited him to visit my office to talk further. I met with him a few days later. He showed me some samples of Blake’s mystical woodcuts, and I drew him a few Kabbalistic diagrams. I think he found it helpful. And that was that. Until two months later when I found an envelope from Old Dominion University requesting that I serve on David’s master’s thesis committee. A few weeks later I made my way to the office of a professor of English history, the head of the Humanities program at ODU. His name was Douglas Greene. Also in the tiny office was a philosophy professor and the master’s student, David. The meeting began, as we discussed areas to explore and ideas to focus on. But focus was not coming easy for me, because crammed into that office with the four of us were shelves upon shelves of books. Alongside tomes on the 1

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• PROLOGUE •

Tudor and Stuart monarchies were hundreds of mysteries. From Allingham to Zangwill, I gazed at the beautiful spines of gold-engraved leather, withering pulps, peeling old paperbacks, and more. When my eyes fell on a shelf of Oz books, early editions by L. Frank Baum and his successors, it took my breath away. The meeting formally ended and David and the philosophy professor left. I tore myself away from the bookshelves and said, “Professor Greene, I think you and I have much more to talk about.” I have been blessed with a life filled with serendipitous meetings and opportunities. But few have created the far-reaching and long-lasting wake as my friendship with Douglas Greene. Doug is a modest man, but has a talent for networking people and making things happen. He is both a genuine scholar and a fan’s fan. He is considered one of the world’s top experts on locked room mysteries and is the unrivaled authority on John Dickson Carr. Douglas G. Greene and his identical twin brother David were born on September 24, 1944, to George Greene and Margery Greene in Middletown, Connecticut. George was a Congregational minister and Margery was a preacher’s wife, with all that entailed. Three years later, Doug and David were joined by their new brother Paul. The family moved to Pass-a-Grille, an island off St. Petersburg, Florida, and Doug and his brother attended school and graduated from Boca Ciega High School in 1962. Doug went on to University of South Florida where he received his bachelor’s degree in 1966. At the University of Chicago he received his masters and doctorate degrees in history (his primary field was Tudor/Stuart England). In 1971 Doug joined the faculty of Old Dominion University, and he and his wife Sandi have lived in Norfolk, Virginia, since (he retired in 2012). Scott Moore, a former teaching assistant of Doug’s at Old Dominion, has compared his mentor to “Fezziwig from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol: Always jovial, always generous with time, advice and assistance and, most of all, genuinely interested in the lives of those he worked with and taught.” Doug is the owner and founder of Crippen & Landru Publishers, which has, since 1994, published over a hundred single-author short story collections by such diverse authors as John Dickson Carr, Edward D. Hoch, Lawrence Block, Ross Macdonald, Peter Lovesey, Mignon Eberhart, Erle Stanley Gardner and Mickey Spillane. Along with his work with Crippen & Landru, Doug is best-known for his landmark biography, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (1995). With his brother David and several other individuals, Doug also coauthored the authoritative guide to collecting the books of L. Frank Baum and other “Oz” related books, Bibliographia Oziana (1976). He has edited or coedited too many titles to list here, but they include Death

• Prologue •

3

Locked In: An Anthology of Locked Room Stories (1987), The Collected Short Fiction of Ngaio Marsh (1989), Detection by Gaslight (1997), Classic Mystery Stories (1999) and R. Austin Freeman’s The Dead Hand and Other Uncollected Stories (1999). Doug’s love of books came early in life. As children, the twin brothers Doug and David were avid fans of the “Oz” books. The brothers began collecting the books of L. Frank Baum, Ruth Plumly Thompson, Jack Snow and others who wrote about the Land of Oz. Before long the brothers had accumulated first editions of every Oz title, many of them signed (when the brothers finally put their collection up for auction at New York’s Swann Galleries in 1993, Doug’s half yielded enough money to put both of Doug’s children through college and provide startup money for his publishing firm Crippen & Landru). Doug and David Greene were also charter members of the International Wizard of Oz Club and regular contributors to the club’s magazine, The Baum Bugle. When Doug was eight years old, he discovered the Hardy Boys mysteries. When he was eleven, at his grandfather’s home in Maitland, Florida, he found a collection of Sherlock Holmes mysteries. At the age of twelve, he read Ellery Queen’s monumental collection of classical mystery stories, 101 Years’ Entertainment. He moved on to the novels of Queen, Carr and Agatha Christie. Since then, he has never wavered in his devotion to the mystery genre. Over the years, Doug has corresponded with Ngaio Marsh, Fred Dannay, John Dickson Carr, Michael Innes, Julian Symons, Mignon Eberhart, Gladys Mitchell and Elizabeth Ferrars. He has shared friendships with Peter Lovesey, H.R.F. Keating, Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller and Edward D. Hoch. And while on the subject of friendships, I never finished my story. In Doug’s office that day in 1988, I told him that I, too, enjoyed L. Frank Baum’s books about the Land of Oz. More importantly, I loved detective fiction. I enjoyed reading them. I’d already begun amassing a collection of histories and reference books about mystery fiction. When I finished a particularly good book, I would go back and chart out the plot on paper, looking at the clues I had missed, how the author had deliberately set down surprises and revelations, moments of tension followed by relief. Yes, I was a mystery nerd. And I thought I was all alone. At the time I had never heard of Bouchercon. Sisters in Crime had not been born, and the first Malice Domestic was still in the planning stage. I knew about Mystery Writers of America, but membership in it was something totally unattainable to someone like me. Doug and I made a lunch date, and so began our friendship. Once a month we met at a Chinese restaurant for lunch, then to various antiquarian book-

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• PROLOGUE •

shops. Once he gave me a tour of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, a beautiful structure dating from the 1730s, for which he served on the vestry. Soon our wives joined in the friendship, and Sue and Sandi took to each other instantly. Sue and I left Virginia in 1991. But we kept in touch with Doug and Sandi. Their kids, Katherine and Eric, were still in high school. Today, Doug and Sandi are the grandparents of Danielle, Henry, Alice and Forrest. Their son Eric, with his artist’s eye, designed the Crippen & Landru logo, set up the “Lost Classics” series, and did the publicity and various other functions for Crippen & Landru. Doug served as my gateway drug into the wide world of detective fiction. He introduced me to books, people and institutions that have changed my life. Through Doug I became friends with Ed and Patricia Hoch and through my friendship with Doug and the Hochs I befriended Janet Hutchings, the editor at Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, resulting in my coming to work with that esteemed magazine. My bookshop trips with Doug introduced me to such authors as Richard Forrest, Darwin Teilhet, Edmund Crispin and, as you will discover later in this volume, Hake Talbot. About ten years ago, as a result of a theological discussion during Bouchercon, Doug and I began a tradition of having an ecumenical dinner each year, at the Friday evening during Bouchercon. Along with Ed and Patricia Hoch (representing Catholicism), we would have lively, irreverent, and uproarious discussions that caused other diners to ask their waiters for whatever we had been drinking. Several years ago Doug had a close brush with mortality. Thankfully, his ticket had not yet been called in and he has been able to continue his voluminous work as a professor, publisher, scholar and mystery fan. His work in mystery genre history has been wide-ranging and influential, as the essays in this volume dedicated to him will attest. In my religious tradition, when we celebrate such accomplishments there is a toast that we utter: Doug, may you live to be one hundred and twenty. Thank you.

Introduction

Douglas G. Greene: The Man Who Explained Mystery Fiction CURTIS EVANS

Among the items in their keepsake boxes of imperishable literary memories, many mystery fans around the globe have a “Doug Greene experience” which they can relate. You have read about Steven Steinbock’s in the prologue; you will later read about (if you have not already peeked ahead) Michael Dirda’s, Jeffrey Marks,’ Sergio Angelini’s, Peter Lovesey’s and Boonchai Panjarattanakorn’s. Mine I have related before in the preface to my Masters of the Humdrum Mystery: Cecil John Charles Street, Freeman Wills Crofts, Alfred Walter Stewart and the British Detective Novel, 1920–1961 (2012), but it bears repeating here: “Over twenty years ago, in the spring of 1989 … I encountered John Dickson Carr in the mystery section of a basement Chicago bookstore…. I encountered three paperback reprint John Dickson Carr novels, to be precise—two with prefaces from the dean of American mystery genre scholars and future Carr biographer Douglas G. Greene—tales with the evocative titles of Hag’s Nook, The Burning Court and The Judas Window…. I realized there was more to classical fair play puzzle detective fiction than the myriad Agatha Christie novels I had read in the late 1970s and early 1980s.”1 Like William Manchester, the biographer of Winston Churchill, Doug Greene’s name has become inextricably bound with that of his biographical subject, the great Golden Age Anglophile American mystery writer John Dickson Carr (1906–1977). Greene’s years of research and writing about Carr— his first Carr article was published in 1978, the year after the author’s death—culminated in his John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (1995), one of the great biographies of a mystery writer. Most such biog5

6

• INTRODUCTION •

raphies tend to give short shrift to the mystery milieu, concentrating primarily on the subject’s personal life. Greene’s biography of Carr, however, illuminates both the man and his mysteries. This is only to be expected from a man of academic background who nevertheless is as steeped in knowledge about the mystery genre as the most devout of connoisseurs. As I argue in Masters of the Humdrum Mystery, academic detective fiction criticism sometimes is insufficiently grounded in facts about this fascinating literary genre. Over his long career as a mystery genre scholar, Doug Greene has never exhibited this failing. Greene has written with authority on an impressive array of mystery authors, including, besides Carr, G. K. Chesterton, R. Austin Freeman, Ernest Bramah, Thomas W. Hanshew, L. T. Meade, Robert Eustace, Rodrigues Ottolengui, Frederick Merrick White, Ellis Parker Butler, Mary Roberts Rinehart, Sax Rohmer, E. C. Bentley, A. A. Milne, Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, Patrick Quentin, Darwin Teilhet, Hake Talbot and Colin Dexter. To be sure, the detective fiction from the Golden Age (roughly 1920 to 1940) is a particular bailiwick of Doug Greene’s. As he has amply demonstrated in his work, John Dickson Carr—the king of the locked room, or miracle problem, mystery—was one of the great masters of the period. In a time when scholars have erected a rigidly bifurcated Golden Age, divided between male American hard-boiled/noir writers (Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, James M. Cain) on one side of the Atlantic Ocean and female British “cozy” writers (the crime queens Christie, Marsh, Margery Allingham and Dorothy L. Sayers) on the other, Greene’s scholarship on John Dickson Carr—an American-born master of classical detection typically set in England who hated the hard-boiled crime stories of Raymond Chandler—is a salutary reminder that the real history of the Golden Age of detective fiction is considerably less tidy than many academic studies would have us believe.2 Those wanting to better comprehend the Golden Age—in both its feminine and masculine manifestations on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean—should look to Greene’s work on Carr and other such writers as Patrick Quentin, Darwin Teilhet and Hake Talbot, whom Greene, as a consultant to International Polygonics, Ltd.’s estimable and influential Library of Crime Classics series of the 1980s and 1990s, helped to revive. Besides his introduction to IPL’s editions of Carr’s Hag’s Nook (1933) and The Judas Window (1938) (alluded to above by me), Greene also wrote introductions to IPL’s reprints of Quentin’s Puzzle for Players (1938), Darwin Teilhet’s The Talking Sparrow Murders (1934) and Hake Talbot’s Rim of the Pit (1944) and essays on Quentin and Teilhet for the five-volume Magill’s Critical Survey of Mystery and Detective Fiction (1989); and he edited and introduced a 2010 collection of the complete novels and stories of Talbot’s series sleuth, Rogan Kincaid, published by the

• Introduction •

7

Battered Silicon Dispatch Box. Greene makes compelling cases for the merits of all these writers. Essays on Quentin—actually four authors in one—and Talbot by, respectively, Mauro Boncompagni and Steven Steinbock, are found in this festschrift. Unquestionably John Dickson Carr was one of the great figures of the Golden Age, despite the unaccountable neglect of him today by genre scholars (though see, in this festschrift, Michael Dirda’s and Sergio Angelini’s essays on Carr). Many detective fiction connoisseurs have traditionally ranked Carr with Christie and Ellery Queen (the pseudonym used by a pair of American cousins) as the three greatest mystery writers in the history of the genre. That Carr along with Queen is so neglected in modern mystery genre scholarship today says more about modern mystery genre scholarship than it does about Carr and Queen. Carr’s consummate ingenuity and artistry, his fecundity and duration (he published over seventy detective novels between 1930 and 1972) and his energetic advocacy on behalf of “fair play” detective fiction have been amply demonstrated in Greene’s lifetime of work. Academic scholars have devoted many words to 1940s essays by Edmund Wilson and Raymond Chandler attacking the classical detective novel, but little attention generally has been paid by them to John Dickson Carr’s riposte, “The Grandest Game in the World” (1946), the first complete version of which was published in the 1991 edition of The Door to Doom and Other Detections, a collection of Carr short works edited and introduced by Greene. “A new [detective] novel is praised because it is well written, because the characters are admirably drawn, because it is ‘tough,’ because it is experimental in technique, because it is written sideways or upside down; on any grounds, in short, except that it is a good detective story,” Carr trenchantly observed in his essay. What makes a good detective story in Carr’s view? “It will contain the quality of fair play in presenting the clues,” he avowed. “It will contain the quality of sound plot construction. And it will contain the quality of ingenuity.”3 To be sure, such a view as Carr expressed, already under attack in the 1940s, today is deemed in many circles positively retrograde, an aesthetic crime in and of itself. One finds this view not only in academia but even (perhaps especially) within the mystery profession. Ingenuity is something that the great modern English detective novelist P. D. James, in her recent short mystery fiction survey, Talking about Detective Fiction (2009), believes modern crime writers “have largely outgrown. Realism and credibility have supplanted ingenuity.”4 Such a view—that ingenuity is something mature crime writers “outgrow”—would have struck many Golden Age writers and readers of detective fiction as utterly nonsensical. Even today, traditionalist fans of the detective story (myself included) have this reaction to James’ words.

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• INTRODUCTION •

Fortunately for us, with his scholarship and publishing efforts (including not just his work with IPL but his own imprint, Crippen & Landru), Doug Greene has made a strong case for the intellectual and aesthetic worth of fair play detective fiction, both during and after the Golden Age, and he has recovered much of it for our reading pleasure. In his 1999 Dover anthology, Classic Mystery Stories, Greene contends that “when it comes to the mystery story, there is nothing to rival the genuine tale of—to use Edgar Allan Poe’s word— ratiocination, wherein the detective solves the crime by investigation and observation, by using his or her wits.” During the Golden Age the leisure reading of ratiocinative detective fiction was defended on explicitly intellectual grounds by some of the great highbrow writers of the twentieth century, such as the Portuguese Fernando Pessoa and the Anglo-American T. S Eliot (Henrique Valle are I have contributed essays in this festschrift on, respectively, Pessoa and Eliot). Golden Age mystery readers “believed that detective fiction had reached maturity” in the 1920s, notes Greene in The Man Who Explained Miracles. “No longer did crude sensationalism dominate the form; the emphasis was now on the intellectual challenge implicit in the fair-play principle.”5 Beyond the matter of the pure brain power called upon by ratiocinative detective fiction, there is also what might be termed the grander metaphysical aspect to it. On this matter I will quote at some length from Greene’s introduction to the IPL edition of Rim of the Pit, a detective novel by Hake Talbot, an American disciple of John Dickson Carr: It has been said, perhaps too often, that many detective novelists are social conservatives; Colin Watson wrote that some detective stories practice “snobbery with violence.” In fact, however, the best detective writers are less interested in human laws than in the more fundamental question of justice. To Montesquieu, “justice is the proper relationship actually existing between two things”; to a detective novelist, justice is the proper relationship not only of the individual to his society but also of the individual to a rational universe. Detective novels which are built around “miracle problems” begin with a challenge to our belief in a predictable universe and to our dependence on rational cause and effect. The most famous form of the miracle problem is murder in a locked room. A corpse is discovered alone in a room with all the windows and doors sealed. There is clearly no way that the murderer could have entered and exited, and yet he did….these stories are constructed around events that seem impossible in an ordered universe…. But the detective arrives and demonstrates that the seeming impossibilities are merely tricks created by humans for human motives, and the story ends by confirming the order of creation and the power of reason to unravel mysteries.6

This is powerful, elemental stuff of which Greene writes—what the late scholar Jacques Barzun memorably termed the “romance of reason”—and it goes to the very core of human need. Ironically, it is a quality that P. D. James,

• Introduction •

9

for all her dismissive references to the “mere” ingenuity of Golden Age detective fiction, seems herself to recognize and even laud, judging by the very words with which she chose to close Talking about Detective Fiction. The enduring popularity of the detective story, James concludes, “suggests that in the twentyfirst century, as in the past, many of us will continue to turn to for relief, entertainment and mild intellectual challenge to these unpretentious celebrations of reason and order in our increasingly complex and disorderly world.”7 Although Doug Greene has shown us that the Golden Age was an altogether richer and more complex affair than much of modern mystery scholarship would have us believe, in his work on the Golden Age he has not neglected those who have come to almost entirely represent classical detective fiction: the British crime queens. One of Greene’s finest essays is his introduction to The Collected Short Fiction of Ngaio Marsh (1989), which he also edited (an expanded version of the essay, “Marsh’s Miniatures: An Examination of Ngaio Marsh’s Short Mystery Stories,” is found in the 1995 centenary essay collection Ngaio Marsh: The Woman and Her Work). Greene points out in the essay that “Marsh’s books are part of the Golden Age tradition, in which crimes are solved by clues given to the reader and the murders are frequently bizarre.” Noting that Marsh admitted in a letter to him written late in her life (1981, when she was in her eighty-sixth year) that “the un-knotting of clues has never been one of my talents,” Greene observes: “Some current writers who share Marsh’s difficulties in handling clues have solved the problem by ignoring clues altogether. It says much for Marsh’s adherence to the form that she was willing to struggle with clueing, and she produced books as well structured and as fair to the reader as any of the Golden Age.” Greene also takes issue with those critics like Julian Symons who have asserted “that the detective story had to give way to the crime novel” because “the classical, fair-play form did not allow commentary on society or on people.” Showing how Marsh incorporated social commentary into her fairly-clued detective novels, Greene observes: “it is less the form than the talent of the writer that makes for insights.”8 Reflecting Greene’s recognition of the great merit of the crime queens, five essays in this collection are devoted to them, either in whole or in part. John Curran’s essay analyzes Agatha Christie’s dabbling in John Dickson Carr’s specialty, impossible crime, while pieces by Julia Jones and B. A. Pike look at aspects of the genre work of Margery Allingham, one of the best pure writers among Golden Age mystery authors. Peter Lovesey discusses Dorothy L. Sayers’ hugely important role in the Detection Club, an organization of the crème de la crème of British detective novelists, and Helen Szamuely looks at Sayers’ Peter Wimsey in pastiche. Another classical detective novel included in IPL’s reprint series for which

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• INTRODUCTION •

Greene wrote the introduction is Edmund Crispin’s The Case of the Gilded Fly (1944), a post Golden Age work inspired not by the crime queens but by John Dickson Carr. Although Crispin’s mysteries are in print today and enjoy a following among admirers of the witty, quotation-dropping, “donnish detection” school of crime writing that concededly is rather akin to the “manners” mysteries of Sayers, Allingham and Marsh, the influence that Carr had on Crispin, though little noted today in genre surveys, has been clearly established by Greene. Crispin’s “emphasis on formal, fair-play clueing, connected with a love of the bizarre and incongruous,” he notes in his introduction, “comes from John Dickson Carr.” In an essay in this festschrift, Crispin’s biographer, David Whittle, further details the Carr-Crispin connection.9 In addition to writing about the Golden Age of detective fiction, Greene in his scholarship has dealt extensively with the Victorian and Edwardian mystery. Especially notable is Greene’s work concerning the evolution of the female detective, a subject of considerable academic interest for the last fifteen years or more. In the 1990s he (along with Jack Adrian) edited and introduced The Detections of Miss Cusack, a collection of the tales of the investigative exploits of L. T. Meade’s turn-of-the-century lady sleuth, Florence Cusack; and he included stories about Miss Cusack and two additional women detectives, Catherine L. Pirkis’ Loveday Brooke and George R. Sims’ Dorcas Dene, in his 1997 Dover Press anthology, Detection by Gaslight: The Great Victorian and Edwardian Detective Stories, as well as one of Baroness Orczy’s Lady Molly of Scotland Yard tales in his 1999 Dover anthology, Classic Mystery Stories. In 2003 he published in the Baker Street Journal the essay “The Only Women: The Female Sleuth in Fiction” (in the essay on J. S. Fletcher in this festschrift, we learn of another early female investigator, Hermione Packer). Greene has written about numerous lesser-known gaslight crime and mystery authors. For the Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, he over the last decade has edited and introduced short story collections by Rodrigues Ottolengui (Before the Fact, 2012), Ellis Parker Butler (The Compleat Detectkative Memoirs of Philo Gubb, 2010) and Frederick Merrick White (The Romance of the Secret Service Fund, 2003). For the Magill’s Critical Survey he contributed an essay on Thomas W. Hanshew, creator of Hamilton Cleek, “the Man of the Forty Faces,” a popular early twentieth-century American gentleman rogue-detective, among whose most fervent admirers was a young John Dickson Carr. After Father Brown and Sherlock Holmes, Cleek is the detective, in Greene’s estimation, who had the greatest influence on Carr as a mystery writer. “Almost every Cleek story contains a new—and usually spectacular or apparently supernatural—method of committing murder,” an admiring Carr recalled in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine in 1948, “The Hanshews used ideas. They spun

• Introduction •

11

plots.” For this festschrift William Ruehlmann has contributed a suitably fantastic tribute to the bizarre Cleek. Additionally, Mike Ashley, Roger Ellis and I consider the careers of, respectively, Max Rittenberg, J. S. Fletcher and Carolyn Wells. The talented Mr. Rittenberg is largely forgotten today, while the fame of the once tremendously popular Fletcher and Wells has greatly dimmed. Wells was another adolescent favorite of Carr’s, as Doug Greene has detailed in The Man Who Explained Miracles, though Carr later came to include the author in his category of “lost ladies now well lost.”10 Classic crime fiction has played a great role in Greene’s Crippen & Landru press, which Greene founded in 1994 to reprint uncollected short works by notable mystery writers. As Marvin Lachman explains at greater length in his festschrift essay, one can make a strong case that Doug Greene has done more for the cause of the mystery short story than any individual since Frederic Dannay, one half of Ellery Queen and the longtime editor of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. In the two decades since Crippen & Landru’s founding, the imprint has published over one hundred short story collections (one of the writers published by Crippen & Landru, Jon L. Breen, in this festschrift scrutinizes detective story series that “have not been collected because they include too few stories to fill out a proper book”). In October 1994 Crippen & Landru’s first book appeared. It was, appropriately enough, a brilliant 1941 impossible radio crime mystery by John Dickson Carr, titled Speak of the Devil (I well recall buying a copy of this book, my first Crippen & Landru, when it was published). Along with Ellery Queen and Anthony Boucher, whose radio scripts Crippen & Landru has also published, Carr was one of the greatest exponents of radio mystery. Essays on the radio mysteries of Carr and Queen by, respectively, Sergio Angelini and Joseph Goodrich, are included in this festschrift. Crippen & Landru’s third published volume, from August 1995, was The Darings of the Red Rose, a collection of lady crook tales by Margery Allingham (see B. A. Pike’s essay). The imprint has gone on to publish a gallery of classic crime fiction collections, by Golden Age vintage authors (Ellery Queen, Christianna Brand, C. Daly King, Helen McCloy, Anthony Berkeley, Gladys Mitchell, Stuart Palmer, T. S. Stribling, Anthony Boucher, Mignon Eberhart, Michael Innes, Vincent Cornier) and more recent ones as well ( Julian Symons, Ellis Peters, Elizabeth Ferrars, Patricia Moyes, H. R. F. Keating, Michael Gilbert, Peter Lovesey, James Yaffe, Edward D. Hoch, Charles B. Child, Joseph Commings, Jon L. Breen). One of the finest volumes in Crippen & Landru’s Lost Classics series is its collection of Anthony Berkeley short stories, The Avenging Chance and Other Mysteries from Roger Sheringham’s Casebook (2004); and an essay on Anthony Berkeley by Martin Edwards is included in this festschrift.

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• INTRODUCTION •

Crippen & Landru has not confined itself to preserving and promoting the work of writers working strictly in the classical tradition, however. Since March 1995, when the imprint published The McCone Files, an award-winning collection of private investigator stories by Marcia Muller, the “founding mother” of the modern female P. I. tale, Crippen & Landru has produced an array of collections hailing more from the tough, or hard-boiled, school of crime fiction. These volumes include the works of Bill Pronzini, Lawrence Block, Ed Gorman, Michael Collins, Hugh B. Cave, Craig Rice, Joe Gores, Ross Macdonald, Max Allan Collins, Raoul Whitfield, William Campbell Gault, Jeremiah Healy, Erle Stanly Gardner and even Mickey Spillane. This substantial list is compelling evidence that Doug Greene is ecumenical in his approach to crime fiction. John Dickson Carr, on the other hand, had a feud of long standing with Raymond Chandler over whether classical or hard-boiled fiction was the superior form of mystery writing. “Carr disliked Chandler’s novels more than those of any other writer,” notes Greene in The Man Who Explained Miracles, “and Chandler hated Carr’s.”11 Although the two men sometimes acted as if the two mystery forms that they represented were mutually exclusive, in fact they are not. Fair play plotting is possible within the hard-boiled environment—even Raymond Chandler himself could do it (for a beautiful example see his 1943 detective novel The Lady in the Lake, which was much praised by the puzzle purist Jacques Barzun). In my Raymond Chandler essay in this festschrift, I take a new look at Chandler’s view of classical British detective fiction and argue it is not quite what most people seem to think it is. Whatever their personal differences, both Carr and Chandler had one quality in common, a great fondness for the liquor bottle; and hard drinking is a feature in books by both authors (“bibulousness is taken to extremes in [Carr’s] The Blind Barber,” notes Greene in Miracles).12 Alcohol, to be sure, is part of the trinity of hard-boiled detective novels (booze, babes and bedlam), but even by the salubrious standards of the subgenre the works of Craig Rice and Fredric Brown are seriously sloshed. Yet while Rice (Georgiana Ann Craig) and Brown suffered terribly in their personal lives due to their alcoholism, they also managed to produce complexly plotted—if bizarre and often surreal—mysteries. In this festschrift Jack Seabrook looks specifically at Brown’s gallery of “drunken detectives,” while Jeffrey Marks, biographer of Rice and editor of a collection of her short fiction for Crippen & Landru, provides a general overview of Rice’s writing career and colorful though troubled personal life. A hard-boiled writer Carr explicitly praised during his stint as a reviewer for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (1969– 1976) was Ross Macdonald. “Unlike the sneering, snarling heroes from Hammett and Chandler,” Carr

• Introduction •

13

declared, “[Macdonald’s detective] Lew Archer is a decent sort who does not make bad manners the guiding principle of his life.”13 In his essay on Ross Macdonald’s The Galton Case (1959), Macdonald’s biographer Tom Nolan scrutinizes the attitude toward poets and poetry in one of the most highly-regarded detective novels by this gentler hard-boiled writer, who was also, like Carr, a master of complex puzzle plotting. For historical crime fiction and mystery parody and pastiche Carr unquestionably had great empathy, as Greene details in The Man Who Explained Miracles. In the 1950s Carr—like Doug Greene, a longtime lover of English history—became a one of the finest writers of “history mystery,” with such accomplished works as The Bride of Newgate (1950) The Devil in Velvet (1951), Captain Cut-Throat (1955), Fear Is the Same (1956) and Fire, Burn! (1957) to his credit. Earlier Carr had published a remarkable, pioneering historical true crime reconstruction, The Murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey (1936), which in 1989 was reprinted for the first time by IPL, in an edition with an introduction by Greene. Carr also distinguished himself in the fields of Sherlock Holmes parody and pastiche, producing for performances at meetings of the Mystery Writers of America the memorable Holmesian parody playlets “The Adventure of the Conk-Singleton Papers” (1948) and “The Adventure of the Paradol Chamber” (1949) and with Arthur Conan Doyle’s son Adrian Conan Doyle publishing The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (1954), the first collection of authorized Holmes pastiches. In this festschrift essays by Helen Szamuely and Patrick Ohl address Sherlockian pastiche by modern-day crime writers. I have now alluded to all the festschrift essays, but some further words about the book’s structure are in order. Section One, Detection by Gaslight, has essays by William Ruehlman, Mike Ashley, Roger Ellis and Curtis Evans that deal with, respectively, the mystery fiction of Thomas W. Hanshew, Max Rittenberg, J. S. Fletcher and Carolyn Wells, much of which was published in the first two decades of the twentieth century, still an era of hansom cabs and gaslit interiors (a 1916 review of a Carolyn Wells novel stated, “this is a tale during the reading of which you will leave your chair only to turn up the gas”). Standards of fair play clueing in mystery fiction also were more antiquated. Although Wells and Fletcher were active during the Golden Age—indeed, it was after the Great War that J. S. Fletcher achieved his greatest fame as a mystery writer in the United States, where both he and Carolyn Wells were two of the most popular Golden Age mystery writers—even their later work is redolent of the gaslight era. Section Two, Classic English Crime, addresses classic detective fiction in England. Michael Dirda’s appreciation of John Dickson Carr, who spent much of his life in England and belonged to the Detection Club, is included

14

• INTRODUCTION •

here (“Carr could combine the witchy haze of the supernatural with fair-play detecting like no one else,” writes Dirda), as are essays on a pair of English crime queens, Agatha Christie and Margery Allingham, and two English “crime kings,” Anthony Berkeley and Edmund Crispin. Like Carr, Christie was an ingenious mystery plotter, and her approach to Carr’s specialty, the miracle problem, is examined by John Curran. Allingham’s evolution by the 1960s from a Golden Age thriller and detective fiction author into more of a mainstream novelist incidentally concerned with crime is the subject of the essay by Allingham’s biographer Julia Jones, while B. A. Pike’s essay shows how even in the 1930s Allingham was a highly original contributor to the mystery genre, even with her so-called “left hand” work. Like Allingham, Detection Club founder Anthony Berkeley was a major Golden Age innovator (though unlike Allingham he burned out creatively before the end of the Golden Age). Martin Edwards looks at Berkeley’s writing career, particularly as an author of detective short stories. The last essay in this section, by David Whittle, takes on a more traditionalist (at least in theory) post–Golden Age mystery author, the effervescent Edmund Crispin, and his fascinating creative and personal relationship with Carr. Section Three turns to classical detective fiction in the hands of individuals from two groups that many today seem to believe had little to do with it: Americans and intellectuals. During the Golden Age there were in fact many Americans mystery authors who worked outside the hard-boiled form, some of the better-known names today being Mary Roberts Rinehart, S. S. Van Dine, Earl Derr Biggers, Mignon Eberhart, Ellery Queen, Erle Stanley Gardner (the Perry Mason mysteries), Phoebe Atwood Taylor and Rex Stout. But there were as well many other accomplished individuals from this era, such as Rufus King, Stuart Palmer, Anthony Abbot, Patrick Quentin, Leslie Ford, C. Daly King, Todd Downing, Clyde B. Clason, Mabel Seeley, Anthony Boucher and Clayton Rawson.14 Section Three includes an essay by Mauro Boncompagni on Patrick Quentin, who was also the writers Q. Patrick and Jonathan Stagge. This multiplicity of pseudonyms hid what was, to quote from the essay title, a temporally shifting “phantasmagoria of crime writers”: two English-born men and two American-born women, who symbolized, like John Dickson Carr himself, the Anglo-American cross-pollination of classical mystery during the Golden Age. There is as well an essay by Steven Steinbock on Hake Talbot, one of the American followers of John Dickson Carr, who published a small corpus of miracle problem detective fiction in the 1940s—just a little beyond the Golden Age, strictly defined—that is much admired by classical mystery connoisseurs. Mystery-loving intellectuals receive their due in the next two essays, one by me and one by Henrique Valle on, respectively, T. S. Eliot and the Portuguese

• Introduction •

15

poet Fernando Pessoa, both titans of the modern movement in world literature. Eliot’s praise of Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone is routinely noted in academic mystery genre histories, yet Eliot’s broader mystery criticism, which is there for all to see in the pages of his literary journal The Criterion and evinces a pronounced taste on his part for Golden Age puzzle-oriented detective fiction (including the works of so-called “Humdrum” authors like R. Austin Freeman and Freeman Wills Crofts), is routinely ignored. Fernando Pessoa was also a great admirer of Freeman and Crofts and had traditionalist views of the detective novel. Valle examines in illuminating and authoritative detail Pessoa’s fascinating mystery fiction, most of which was left unfinished at his death. Section Four takes a turn down meaner streets, as “tough” authors are scrutinized. This section has already been discussed, in connection with John Dickson Carr’s often antagonistic attitude to the hard-boiled school, but it should be stressed that, taken together, the essays reveal the frequently unacknowledged variety of hard-boiled fiction, which had greater affinity with classical mystery than is generally supposed. In my essay on Raymond Chandler I show that the author, despite his authorship of the hard-boiled manifesto “The Simple Art of Murder,” actually enjoyed, like Eliot and Pessoa, the detective fiction of Freeman Wills Crofts and R. Austin Freeman; and I argue that his animus against English mystery was more narrowly focused on those books that made romantic heroes out of aristocratic sleuths. Nor were Fredric Brown, Craig Rice and Ross Macdonald, the subjects of essays by, respectively, Jack Seabrook, Jeffrey Marks and Tom Nolan, inimical to puzzle plotting in their work, although in the case of Brown and Rice surreal elements often come to the fore and Macdonald increasingly felt an imperative to “mainstream” his crime fiction by placing ever-greater emphasis on character and theme. In Section Five the essays examine other mystery forms: the short story, the radio mystery and pastiche. As discussed above and in Marvin Lachman’s essay in this section, Crippen & Landru has done wonderful work recovering mystery short stories from the Golden Age to the modern era, but Jon L. Breen’s essay reminds us that there are yet more good tales that remain uncollected, there being buried in the mystery genre’s past a seemingly inexhaustible vein of riches. Sergio Angelini and Joseph Goodrich examine the radio mysteries of, respectively, John Dickson Carr and Ellery Queen, both great masters of the form. Angelini’s essay is a warm appreciation of Carr’s inspired work in this area, while Goodrich’s poignant meditation on the cancellation of the radio series The Adventures of Ellery Queen (1939–1948) gives an early hint of the diminishment in popularity of the rigorously puzzle-oriented tale of detection, which in the 1940s was facing stiff competition from the tough stuff, both in paperback and on the air waves.

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• INTRODUCTION •

As for pastiche, Helen Szamuely analyzes three recent examples of it— Anthony Horowitz’s The House of Silk (2011) (Arthur Conan Doyle), Jill Paton Walsh’s The Attenbury Emeralds (2010) (Dorothy L. Sayers) and P. D. James’s Death Comes to Pemberley (2011) ( Jane Austen)—and finds two of them infected with presentism, in contrast with Carr’s earlier pastiche work. Finally, Patrick Ohl provides an overview of René Reouven, a French author born in 1925 who is largely unknown in the English-speaking world but, is, in Ohl’s view, one of the greatest living crime writers. Among his many works are brilliant Holmes pastiches and his books in general evince a love for, and deep knowledge of, detective fiction history that assuredly would have pleased genre aficionado John Dickson Carr, whose first mystery series, incidentally, had, like that of another American, Edgar Allan Poe, an ingenious French sleuth. As a coda to the festschrift, another great modern detective fiction writer with a keen appreciation of mystery genre history, Peter Lovesey, offers a final toast to Doug Greene with “The Secret Life of Eric the Skull,” his history of the Detection Club, that supremely eccentric but utterly fascinating organization of (mostly) British mystery writers that has been meeting officially since 1930, the year Henri Bencolin in the novel It Walks by Night first prowled the streets of Paris in pursuit of a diabolically clever murderer. Greene, readers of Lovesey’s essay will learn, spoke to the group in 2006, in what he regards as one of the great moments of his life. Long ago the eye sockets of Eric the Skull, the Club’s mascot, were wired by John Dickson Carr’s ingenious detective novelist friend, John Rhode (Major John Street, a former army artillerist and an early electrical engineer), to glow eerily red during member initiation ceremonies; and they still do so today, even after all the Golden Age members have long ago passed on (the last was Gladys Mitchell, who died in 1983). Lovesey gives special consideration to Dorothy L. Sayers, the indomitable bulwark of the Club for nearly thirty years, though Carr too, as Lovesey notes, was a most enthusiastic member. As long as the Detection Club exists, one feels a certain sense of security that the classical detective novel will never die. Fifteen years ago, Doug Greene had his own brush with mortality, as related by Boonchai Panjarattanakorn in his poignant afterword. But Doug has survived, to the great relief and delight of his family, friends and fans around the globe. It is an honor for his seventieth birthday to be able to offer this collection of essays as a tribute to him and his important work in mystery genre history. Doug has already received the Ellery Queen Award from the Mystery Writers of America (2001), the Poirot Award from the Malice Domestic (2006) and the George N. Dove Award from the Popular Culture Association (2007). I hope this festschrift will serve as at least a modest star in this shining crown of much-merited honors.

• Introduction •

17

NOTES 1. Curtis Evans, Masters of the Humdrum Mystery: Cecil John Charles Street, Freeman Wills Crofts, Alfred Walter Stewart and the British Detective Novel, 1920–1961 ( Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012), 1. 2. For discussions of the matter of the academic bifurcation of Golden Age crime fiction, see Evans, Masters, 8–13, 257–259 and Jon L. Breen, “Ellery Queen” and “American Women Mystery Writers,” in Jon L. Breen, A Shot Rang Out: Selected Mystery Criticism (Surinam Turtle, 2008), 105–10, 179–184. Most recently, male classical detective fiction authors have been substantially overlooked in Lucy Worsley’s popular survey of mystery fiction, A Very British Murder: The Story of a National Obsession (London: BBC Books, 2013). Interestingly, Franklin Roosevelt, a fan of detective fiction, was reading John Dickson Carr’s The Punch and Judy Murders (in England, The Magic Lantern Murders) at his death in April 1945. See Tevi Troy, What Jefferson Read, Ike Watched, and Obama Tweeted: 200 Hundred Years of Popular Culture in the White House (Washington, D. C.: Regnery History, 2013), 87. Carr’s primary series detectives, Gideon Fell and Henry Merrivale, are distinctly unfeminine classical sleuths. 3. John Dickson Carr, The Door to Doom and Other Detections (1980; repr., New York: International Polygonics, 1991), 308–309. As Greene explains in this volume, Carr in 1946 wrote “The Grandest Game in the World” to serve “as an introduction to a never-published anthology of ten detective novels.” It first appeared in print, in truncated form, in 1963 in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. 4. P. D. James, Talking about Detective Fiction (Oxford: Bodleian Library, 2009), 91. In Talking about Detective Fiction James affords Carr only the most cursory of glances, referring to his fiction, along with that of Gladys Mitchell, Nicholas Blake and H. C. Bailey, as “emotionally unthreatening and nostalgic detective stories” (p. 155)—an unsatisfactory verdict on a disparate group of some of the finest Golden Age mystery writers, who produced such unnerving and non-nostalgic classics as, respectively, the novels The Burning Court (1937), The Devil at Saxon Wall (1935) and The Beast Must Die (1938) and the short story “The Broken Toad” (1934). 5. Douglas G. Greene, Introduction to Classic Mystery Stories (New York: Dover, 1999), iii; Douglas G. Greene, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (New York: Otto Penzler, 1995), 103. 6. Douglas G. Greene, Introduction to Hake Talbot, Rim of the Pit (1944; repr., New York: International Polygonics, 1985), ii. 7. James, Talking, 157. 8. Douglas G. Greene, Introduction to Ngaio Marsh: The Collected Short Fiction (New York: International Polygonics, 1989), 10, 11, 13. 9. Douglas G. Greene, Introduction to Edmund Crispin, The Case of the Gilded Fly (New York: International Polygonics, 1991), ii. 10. Greene, Miracles, 17, 18. 11. Ibid., 108. 12. Ibid., 144. 13. Ibid., 443. In one of his book reviews Carr also praised a young Bill Pronzini’s “Nameless” detective: “Though he professes admiration for the ancient pulp fiction of Hammett and Chandler, this unnamed sleuth bears no resemblance to dull, swollen-headed snarlers like Spade or Marlowe.” Ibid.

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• INTRODUCTION •

14. In the last decade novels by Palmer, Clason, Rawson, Seeley and Downing all have been reprinted, either in eBook or traditional form. I have written about Downing in Curtis Evans, Clues and Corpses: The Detective Fiction and Mystery Criticism of Todd Downing (Greenville, OH: Coachwhip, 2013).

SECTION ONE

Detection by Gaslight

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The Incandescent Claptrap of Hamilton Cleek WILLIAM RUEHLMANN

Thomas Hanshew was an American dime novelist who had worked on the Nick Carter series, among others, for Street & Smith, and who came to admire the “pure” detective story form. Dissatisfied with his lot as an uncredited purveyor of obscure sensationalism, he decided to purvey a brand of sensationalism that was neither obscure nor uncredited and that would garner him a legitimate reputation as a detective-story writer. Thus he begat Hamilton Cleek…. —Bill Pronzini, Gun in Cheek: A Study of “Alternative” Crime Fiction (1982) Thomas W. and Mary E. Hanshew are almost unknown today because, as Carr admitted, their tales were told “in prose of a hilarious nature.” —Douglas G. Greene, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (1995)

History and mystery scholar Douglas G. Greene has opened many a door for me (literally and figuratively—I have been his Norfolk, Virginia, neighbor for upwards of three decades), but none so satisfyingly “Inner Sanctum” stagy as the creaking portal to oddball investigator Hamilton Cleek. My wife Lynn and I purchased a sofa a while back. Among the display decorations scattered about the furniture store were sundry worn volumes on theft-immune subjects like accounting in 1937, principles of sewing-machine repair and a single tattered novel titled Cleek, The Man of the Forty Faces by T.W. Hanshew. By my count there were, in fact, only twenty-three faces on the cover. But one of them was a dog… 21

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Intrigued, I asked to buy the book and was generously given it gratis by the proprietor. That turned out to be a real deal. I looked up Doug’s essay on the author, in editor Frank N. Magill’s sizable Critical Survey of Mystery and Detective Fiction (1988), which noted: “Cleek resolves riddles by showing how a murderer can descend through a skylight on a balloon and how jewels can impossibly disappear by being secreted in the pouch of a kangaroo.”1 And so, in a heartbeat, he sold me. Cleek! The exclamation point is a frequently employed and entirely appropriate accompaniment to the explosive theatrical entrances of master melodramatist T(homas). W(ashington). Hanshew’s pyrotechnic protagonist: “The Vanishing Cracksman.” “The Man of the Forty Faces.” “The Man Who Calls Himself Hamilton Cleek.” After all, Hanshew (1857–1914), Brooklyn-born and latterly emigrated to Great Britain, had been a performer-playwright himself and well knew nobody captures a crowd sotto voce. “‘Cleek?’ ‘Yes! In the name of The Yard; in the name of the king! In with you, Dollops! We’ll get the brutes yet!’”2 Like his energetic chronicler, the chameleon detective throve in a colorfully exclamatory environment. “I am an Actor on the World’s Stage, Miss Lorne,” he announces himself early to the true love he will pursue through many fantastic stories and several books in the early twentieth century. “I should be but a very poor one if I could not accommodate myself to many roles.”3 What a character. “The great, the amazing, the undeceivable man, Cleek!”4 And, for the record: “‘Monsieur, speak, I beg of you. What are you? Who are you?’ ‘Cleek,’ he made answer. ‘Just Cleek!’”5 “Just”: an unassuming declaration of modesty, delivered at the top of his voice. All of which goes some distance toward accounting for the unique if grotesque method by which Hanshew’s master of disguise brings off his baffling impersonations. Early on Cleek explains himself. Formerly a thief, he turns his back on a life of crime to devote himself to redemption: “‘Look here! Could any man resist the temptation to use it when he was endowed by Nature with the power to do this?’ His features seemed to writhe

• The Incandescent Claptrap of Hamilton Cleek (Ruehlmann) •

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and knot and assume in as many moments a dozen different aspects. ‘I’ve had the knack of doing that since the hour I could breathe. Could any man “go straight” with a fateful gift like that if the laws of Nature said that he should not?’”6 Certainly not this one. Cleek is possessed of a putty kisser. The gag has confounded and even repelled latter-day critics. They invariably lampoon the stunt as (1) incredible (2) impossible and (3) gross. But eat your heart out, Vidocq, Arsène Lupin, Jimmy Dale. It remains consonant with Hanshew’s—and any other stage actor’s—almost as magical experience, staring bemused into the makeup mirror at the equally dramatic, if less sudden, transformations that artfully applied greasepaint, crepe hair and false noses can provide. Cleek’s criminous endeavors began appearing in Short Stories magazine in 1910, some of which in the United States were later cobbled together as the episodic novels Cleek, The Man of the Forty Faces (1913), Cleek of Scotland Yard (1914) and Cleek’s Government Cases (1917). They are laced, it must be noted, with the mingled mindless American racism and British classism of the era repellent to modern readers. Hanshew also can seem at times oblivious to other sensibilities, such as repugnance for gratuitous cruelty to animals, but modern mainstream suspense fiction on both sides of the water has long possessed a mean streak of its own when the hard-boiled meets the half-baked.7 Hanshew’s wife, Mary E. Hanshew, and daughter, Hazel Phillips Hanshew, published further accounts of the hyperkinetic Hamilton. All are readily accessible on the Internet. Let us rewind for a moment to Hanshew’s similarly fantastic influences. The foremost had to be late nineteenth and early twentieth century theater. Hanshew took to the stage at sixteen, playing minor parts in Ellen Terry’s company. (Baroness Orczy’s flamboyant Scarlet Pimpernel would later be performed by Ellen’s swashbuckling brother Fred, who helped with the stage adaptation.) Influential too was his contemporary Arthur Conan Doyle, whose shapeshifting Sherlock Holmes became an international exemplar of the master detective. Holmes was a master of disguise. Jaw-dropping proof of his prowess comes in “The Adventure of the Empty House,” which resurrected him in The Strand Magazine in 1903, ten years after Holmes’ supposed mortal plunge over the fierce Reichenbach Falls. One evening the detective’s former roommate and close friend Dr. John Watson finds himself amid a crowd of loafers on Park Lane in London, looking up at the window of a room in which terminally honest card player Ronald Adair has been murdered. As Watson turns away, he bumps into “an elderly

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deformed man, who had been behind me, and I knocked down several books which he was carrying.” Noting one of the titles (The Origin of Tree Worship), the impeccable physician picks up his books and returns them. “With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel,” Watson notes of the irritable oldster, “and I saw his curved back and side-whiskers disappear among the throng.”8 The good doctor returns to his study in Kensington, where he has a visitor, “none other than my strange old book collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of white hair.”9 They talk; it seems the hirsute senior runs a bookshop close by. Suddenly, without ceremony, the scholarly gnome unmasks to become— voila!—strapping Sherlock Holmes, risen from the dead, smiling, like an acrobatic vaudevillian after successfully completing a particularly spectacular stunt. The joke is certainly on John, who responds by fainting dead away. But when he comes around again, all is forgiven. The vigilant physician is keen enough to observe that Holmes has lost a little color and weight since last he saw him. And we move seamlessly on; but would a medical man of Watson’s acuity have been so easily bamboozled at such close range? Twice? By “the best and wisest man” of his long acquaintance? Of course he would. It had happened before. As the doctor observed in “A Scandal in Bohemia,” “The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.”10 After all, the astonishingly astute Sherlock himself had been quite taken in by opera singer Irene Adler in the surprising guise of “a slim youth in an ulster.”11 There even survives on the Web an arch photo of a badly disguised Sir Arthur, black-bearded and mercilessly mugging, in the persona of volatile Professor Challenger of The Lost World. As a stage-savvy American who left at mid-life to reside in England until his death, Hanshew would also have been well aware of the equally spectacular example of international stage star Harry Houdini (born Ehrich Weiss, an individual also partial to exclamation points), who specialized in magic, misdirection and sudden transformations like his signature “Metamorphosis.” Manacled, tied up inside a locked sack inside a padlocked trunk inside a curtained cabinet, the irrepressible Harry routinely switched places onstage with his wife Bess, outside the box, in a heartbeat. Well, three seconds. “Quickly as one can fire a self-cocking pistol!” Sometimes the heavily manacled Handcuff King would go into his substitution wearing a coat borrowed from an audience member; Bess, undeterred, would come out in it.12

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25

Cleek has his share of stunts, too, solving baffling crimes executed variously in glass rooms with smiling lions by invisible assassins. He acquires an omnivorous, street-smart young assistant named Dollops, less connected than Holmes’ chief Baker Street Irregular Wiggins but at least as devoted as Sexton Blake’s teen minion Tinker. Cleek, like Holmes, is on extraordinarily good terms with Scotland Yard; in fact, Superintendent Maverick Narkom takes him on as an admired collaborator after the cracksman suddenly renounces his old ways (including dumping understandably miffed former partner-in-crime Margot, sultry “Queen of the Apache”) to redeem himself, pursue the ungodly, make full restitution and become spiritually worthy of the girl of his dreams: pure, orphaned Ailsa Lorne, an underpaid vicar’s only child. “I’m tired of wallowing in the mire,” Cleek confesses. “A woman’s eyes have lit the way to heaven for me. I want to climb up to her, to win her, to be worthy of her. And to stand beside her in the light.”13 “Reformation by love,” pulp scholar Robert Sampson has written, “is a convention of the criminal hero story. Love spoiled the promising careers of such illustrious masters as Jimmy Valentine, Cleek, and the Lone Wolf. All these loved and repented and sought salvation from the mire of their past by good deeds in the present.”14 An indulgent Narkom even takes to tooling about London and environs, trolling for trouble with Cleek in a chauffeured red limousine. When this conspicuous conveyance becomes a dead giveaway to the enemy, Narkom shoots for anonymity: he tactfully substitutes another “glistening, spic-span, sixtyhorsepower machine, perfect in every detail.”15 But now the limo is blue. In fact Cleek is more than a Raffles-esque reformed thief and Holmesian consulting detective; he is also an incognito Balkan prince, heir to the throne of intrigue-rife Mauravania, a mythical eastern European kingdom contemporaneous to Anthony Hope’s Ruritania and George Barr McCutcheon’s Graustark. He must renounce, along with his nefarious activities, the throne in order to marry the exemplary Ailsa. But he is more than an amalgam of his influences; for sheer high-spirited, full-speed-ahead panache, Cleek surpasses category. He also likes to garden. With Cleek, not only do we willingly suspend disbelief, we touch a match to it and marvel at the fireworks. The key to his irresistibility, beyond the pyrotechnic trap-door secretpassage stagecraft, is sheer speed, which can be directly attributed to the influence of another spectacular medium already beginning to bloom even as these stories were written: film.

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The flickers picked up everybody’s pace. The first time we see our hero, approaching Blackfriars Bridge in Cleek, The Man of the Forty Faces, he is in character and coming cinematically straight at us, full tilt to the toot of a police whistle: “For of a sudden, through a break in the traffic, a scudding figure had sprung into sight—the figure of a man in a grey frockcoat and a shining ‘topper,’ a well-groomed, well set-up man, with a small, turned-up moustache and hair of that peculiar purplish-red one sees only on the shell of a roasted chestnut. As he swung into sight, the distant whistle shrilled again; far off in the distance voices sent up cries of ‘Head him off !’ ‘Stop that man!’ et cetera; then those on the pavement near to the fugitive took up the cry, joined in pursuit, and in a twinkling, what with cabmen, tram-men, dray men, and pedestrians shouting, there was hubbub enough for Hades.…” (A constable cuts through the din with shouted instructions to stop, but….) “Onward came the runner, with the whole roaring pack in his wake, dodging in and out among the vehicles, ‘flooring’ people who got in his way, scudding, dodging, leaping, like a fox hard pressed by the hounds—until, all of a moment he spied a break in the traffic, leapt through it and—then there was mischief. For [Constable] Collins sprang at him like a cat, gripped two big, strong-asiron hands on his shoulders, and had him tight and fast.…” (He’s got him … or has he?) “‘…[I]t’s part of the programme that you should get me. Only, for Heaven’s sake, don’t spoil the film by remaining inactive, you goat! Struggle with me— handle me roughly—throw me about. Make it look real; make it look as though I actually did get away from you, not as though you let me. You chaps behind there, don’t get in the way of the camera—it’s in one of those cabs. Now, then, Bobby, don’t be wooden! Struggle—struggle, you goat, and save the film!’” (Of course he hasn’t got him!) “‘Struggle—struggle—struggle!’ cut in the man impatiently. ‘Can’t you grasp the situation? It’s a put-up thing: the taking of a kinematograph film—a living picture—for the Alhambra to-night!’” (Exit hustling.) Yep, it’s Cleek—you can tell by the turned-up mustache, the purplish-red wig and the exclamation points.16 The movies remain, in and around the story. Action! And keep it coming, before anybody, including the reader, has any time at all to think. The method survives in our wider-screen superhero spectacles of today. Does anybody really mind that Iron Man defies the laws of physics? We simply want to see him fly. The 1914 Doubleday, Page & Company edition of Cleek of Scotland Yard:

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Being the record of the further life and adventures of that remarkable detective genius, “The Man of the Forty Faces,” once known to the police as “The Vanishing Cracksman,” is “Illustrated from photographs of the motion pictures,” “By courtesy of Thomas A. Edison, Inc.” The Edison Company had produced a series of thirteen short silents under the general title of The Chronicles of Cleek, the “Greatest Detective Series of the Year.” Each successive episode was released monthly, concurrent with the same exploit appearing in Short Stories magazine. The publication of Cleek of Scotland Yard in book form was the culmination of the publicity campaign.17 “BOOK CLEEK NOW,” exhorted the advertisement in Edison’s Kinetogram (a “semi-monthly Bulletin of Motion Picture News, with emphasis on Edison Films and kinetoscopes”) of March 15, 1914, adding this poignant assurance regarding the sudden departure of T. W. Hanshew: “the entire series was completed before his death and will be told just as he planned it.” The short of that month was “The Mystery of the Laughing Death,” a “cleverly worked out story with just enough of the atmosphere of mystery and dread to give it a distinct thrill.” The films remain remote from study, but the book, the story and the pictures are instructive. Entwined in the frontispiece are our stars, square-jawed Ben F(ranklin). Wilson, who also co-directed, as Cleek and adoring Gertrude McCoy as his lady: “My only kingdom is here … in this dear woman’s arms. Walk with me, Ailsa … as my queen and my wife.” They’re perfect in embrace, like cake decorations. Later images capture a grandfatherly Narkom, the luxurious red limousine, a damaged Dollops (hospitalized but well-attended), and an assortment of variously defiant and contrite adversaries. The prose is intense. “‘…I fancy we may set our minds at rest upon one point, however, namely, the identity of the person whose hand supplied the drawing found upon the body of the drowned man. That hand was a woman’s; that woman, I feel safe in saying, was Sophie Borovonski, professionally known to the people of the underworld as “La Tarantula.’ ‘I never heard of her, Mr. Cleek. Who is she?’ ‘Probably the most beautiful, unscrupulous, reckless, dare-devil spy in all Europe, Sir Charles. She is a Russian by birth, but owns allegiance to no country and to no crown. Together with her depraved brother Boris, and her equally desperate paramour, Nicolo Ferrand, she forms one of the trio of paid bravos who for years have been at the beck and call of any nation despicable enough to employ them; always ready for any piece of treachery or dirty work, as long as their price is paid—as cunning as serpents, as slippery as eels, as clever as

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the devil himself, and as patient. We shall not go far astray, gentlemen, if we assert that the lady’s latest disguise was that of Miss Greta Hilmann.’ ‘Good God! Young Beachman’s fiancée?’ ‘Exactly, Sir Charles.…’”18 One can always count on Hanshew for a sufficiency of intrigue. Narkom: “It’s a murder of a peculiarly cunning and cleverly contrived character, Cleek, with no apparent motive, and absolutely no clue as to what means the assassin used to kill his victim, nor how he managed to get in and out of the place in which the crime was committed. There isn’t the slightest mark on the body. The man was not shot, not stabbed, not poisoned, nor did he die from natural causes.”19 Routine. Cleek dearly loved, like a conjuror, to physically clap the cuffs on the wrists of his adversaries on site at the last second, faster than you can say Sophie Borovonski; it was the stage-business equivalent of a rim shot. “‘That,’ Cleek crowed, ‘is what makes the difference between the mere actor and the real artiste.’”20 Still, like any inveterate Ham(ilton), Cleek tended to have a difficult time getting off: “‘That’s all, Doctor; that’s all Mr. Drake; that’s quite all, Lord Fallowfield. A good, true-hearted young chap will get both the girl he wants and the inheritance which should be his by right; a good, true friend will get back the ancestral home he lost through misfortune and has regained through chance, and a patient and faithful lady will, in all probability, get the man she loves without now having to wait until he comes into a dead man’s shoes. Lady Marjorie, my compliments. Doctor, my best respects, and gentlemen all—good afternoon.’ And here with that weakness for the theatrical which was his besetting sin, he bowed to them with his hat laid over his heart, and walked out of the room.” Nunc dimmitis, curtain. “Hanshew’s inventiveness in plotting,” Doug Greene wrote in his Critical Survey essay, “and his love of the bizarre and the exotic influenced later writers, especially Ellery Queen and John Dickson Carr.”21 I would posit one other: syndicated cartoonist Al Capp (1909–1979). His weird, wild, satirical bent was well suited to the excesses of Cleek. Capp’s fiercely funny “Li’l Abner” comic strip was nationally distributed in nine hundred newspapers, daily and Sundays, from 1934 to 1977. Born Alfred Gerald Caplin to immigrant Jewish parents, Capp grew up hardscrabble in New Haven. At 9 he hitched a ride to a haircut on an ice wagon, fell off and was run over by an oncoming trolley; his left leg was severed six inches below the hip. The angry boy coped, fighting immobility and alienation.

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“He loved to read and draw and go to the movies, all of which fed into a prodigious imagination,” record biographers Michael Schumacher and Denis Kitchen in Al Capp: A Life to the Contrary.22 Capp never graduated from high school, but he attended art schools in and around Boston. A hardscrabble New York apprenticeship led to his own strip. From the Depression forward, mythical Dogpatch became a raucous new microcosm of the world, out of which emerged not only dumb, though trueblue and handsome, Abner and dumb, though true-blue and beautiful, Daisy Mae, but also Abner’s red, white and blue-blooded clan, controlled with a doting but iron hand by indefatigable matriarch Mammy Yokum and emotionally sandblasted by social commentary in the form of metaphorical critters like shmoos, kigmies, turnip termites and bald iggles. Dogpatchers were further afflicted by dread enemies like the murderous Scraggs (decent Daisy’s demented family), porky Sen. Jack S. Phogbound (“There’s no Jack S. like our Jack S.!”) and arch-capitalist General Bullmoose (“What’s good for General Bullmoose is good for the U.S.A.!”). Competitive Capp’s trademark derision included fierce parodies of other national strips. Sometimes he swung wild. Note Schumacher and Kitchen, “Capp created his own success, but he might have been destroyed by it as well. … Even when he was at his silliest, as in ‘Fearless Fosdick,’ his long-running sendup of Chester Gould’s ‘Dick Tracy,’ something dark seemed to be bubbling just beneath the surface.”23 Gould’s strip was about a square-jawed, duty-bound plainclothes cop who meted out justice—often up close and personally—to criminals whose distorted faces mirrored their twisted antisocial ways, among them Pruneface, Trigger Doom, B.B. Eyes and Measles. Capp’s satiric eye, as usual, saw the flip side: Tracy could be every bit as deadly as his adversaries. Enter square-jawed and duty-bound, but by-the-book brainless, Fosdick, whose trademark method for saving the public from predators amounted to indiscriminately mowing down ambient civilians; that way, sooner or later, he was bound to get his man. “When Fosdick is after a lawbreaker, there is no escape for the miscreant,” wrote Capp of his creation. “There is however, a fighting chance to escape for hundreds of innocent bystanders who happen to be in the neighborhood, but only a fighting chance.”24 In Capp’s strip-within-a-strip by “Lester Gooch,” Fosdick marries his longsuffering, lantern-jawed girlfriend Prudence Pimpleton (like Ailsa, “as good as gold, and as pure as the driven snow”) in a crucial 1952 sequence. Li’l Abner, pledged to emulate his “ideel” of the funnies, follows suit and weds Daisy Mae. Fosdick’s ceremony turns out to be a dream, but Abner’s remains binding, a warning to those who would too closely model their fictive heroes.

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Fosdick’s arch enemy, and Capp’s most inspired character, is Cleek’s doppelganger, Anyface, “the world’s trickiest criminal,” who sports an authentically Cleekian elastic mug which he can refashion at will. Anyface is able to transform into anybody and does. In a 1947 episode, he emulates Fosdick, who, in turn, is exposed as Anyface. Ultimately, Anyface is us, fandom’s flip side. An upsetting revelation. Mammy Yokum herself, pipe akimbo, must straighten out Gooch’s warped talent by “bangin’ his brains into place.”25 Still, Anyface (“Master of a thousand disguises!”) survived to become Fosdick’s dandruff-promoting adversary in Capp’s famous Wildroot Cream-Oil for hair advertisements of the late 1940s and early 1950s: “‘(Chuckle!!) I cleverly absorbed all his bullets in my body! DROP THAT GIRL, ANYFACE!!’”26 Certainly one of the most enduring and successful latter-day sons of Cleek has to be social freebooter and iconic confidence man Simon Templar, a.k.a. the Saint, the Robin Hood of Modern Crime, master of a myriad of guises over many decades, often sporting the self-mockingly sepulchral alias “Sebastian Tombs.” Like Hanshew, Saint creator Leslie Charteris (1907–1993) had a transcontinental destiny, but Charteris (born Leslie Charles Bowyer-Yin) began his writing career in England and developed it in America as a naturalized citizen. Early on the insuperable Simon had a Cleeklike family of associates, including sometime main squeeze Patricia Holm (Ailsa with a sense of irony), veteran subaltern-butler Orace (supplanted later by ever-soused hitman Hoppy Uniatz), and an assortment of semi-friendly if frequently infuriated fuzz (in England, Inspector Claude Eustace Teal, and in America, NYPD’s John Henry Fernack). During World War II and after, Charteris found more formalized undercover work for Simon Templar: “The Saint couldn’t ignore what was going on, and he didn’t; and yet, to retain any realism, his contribution had to be minuscule, and for that he had to lose some of the spurious greatness I had endowed him with when the going was easy, and there were not so many real heroes to compare him with.”27 So by the 1940s the Saint became a government agent, his sole willing subordination in an otherwise notably anti-authoritarian lifestyle, and Templar’s supervising director at headquarters in Washington, D.C., became a curiously omniscient but utterly faceless figure at the other end of an OSS phone line. His name was … Hamilton. Later another international thriller writer would reduce his role-playing protagonist to a number—and his superior officer to a single letter: M.

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Which makes for another unlikely but interesting story. For details on that, and all other matters fictively murderous, I defer to my own preeminent mission control: DG(!).

NOTES 1. Douglas G. Greene, “Thomas W. Hanshew,” in Critical Survey of Mystery and Detective Fiction, ed. Frank N. Magill (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Salem Press, 1988), Vol. II, 839. 2. T.W. Hanshew, Cleek, The Man of the Forty Faces, (New York: Burt, 1913), 182. 3. Hanshew, Forty Faces, 105. 4. Ibid., 213. 5. Ibid., 304. 6. Ibid., 23. 7. See William Ruehlmann, Saint with a Gun: The Unlawful American Private Eye (New York: New York University Press, 1974). 8. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, “The Adventure of the Empty House,” in The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes, ed. Leslie S. Klinger (London: Norton, 2005), Vol. II, 787. 9. Doyle “Empty House,” 787–788. 10. Arthur Conan Doyle, “A Scandal in Bohemia,” in The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes, ed. Leslie S. Klinger (London: Norton, 2005), Vol. I, 30. 11. Doyle, “Bohemia,” 35. 12. Kenneth Silverman, Houdini!!! The Career of Ehrich Weiss (New York: HarperPerennial, 1996), 12–13. 13. Hanshew, Forty Faces, 23. 14. Robert Sampson, Yesterday’s Faces: A Study of Series Characters in the Early Pulp Magazines, Vol. 3: From the Dark Side (Bowling Green, Oh.: Bowling Green State University, 1982), 165. 15. T. W. Hanshew, Cleek of Scotland Yard (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, Page, 1914), 232. 16. Hanshew, Forty Faces, 2–4. 17. Anonymous, The Kinetogram (Orange, N.Y: Thomas A. Edison, Inc., Advertising Dept., 1914), vol. 10, no. 4. 18. Hanshew, Scotland Yard, 161. 19. Ibid., 235. 20. Ibid., 326–327. 21. Greene, “Hanshew,” 835. 22. Michael Schumacher and Denis Kitchen, Al Capp: A Life to the Contrary (Garden City, N.Y.: Bloomsbury, 2013), 17. 23. Schumacher and Kitchin, Al Capp, ix. 24. Al Capp, “Preface” to Al Capp’s Fearless Fosdick—His Life and Deaths (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1956). 25. Al Capp, Fearless Fosdick (Princeton, WI: Kitchen Sink Press, 1990), 5–28. 26. Anonymous, Wildroot Cream-Oil Advertisement, Life Magazine (1 March 1954), 69. 27. Leslie Charteris, “Foreword” to The Second Saint Omnibus (New York: Doubleday, 1951), xiii-xiv.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Advertising Department. The Kinetogram 10. Orange, NY: Thomas A. Edison, 1914. P. 14. Capp, Al. “Preface.” Al Capp’s Fearless Fosdick—His Life and Deaths. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1956. _____. Fearless Fosdick. Princeton, WI.: Kitchen Sink Press, 1990. Charteris, Leslie. Forward to The Second Saint Omnibus. New York: Doubleday, 1951. Doyle, Sir Conan Doyle. “The Adventure of the Empty House.” Edited by Leslie S. Klinger. The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes. London: Norton, 2005. Volume II. _____. “A Scandal in Bohemia.” Edited by Leslie S. Klinger. The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes. London: Norton, 2005. Volume I. Greene, Douglas G. John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (New York: Otto Penzler, 1995). _____. “Thomas W. Hanshew.” Critical Survey of Mystery and Detective Fiction. Edited by Frank N. MaGill. Englewood Cliffs, N.J., 1988. Volume II. Pp. 835, 839. Hanshew, T. W. Cleek of Scotland Yard. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, Page, 1914. _____. Cleek, The Man of the Forty Faces. New York: A. L. Burt, 1913. Pronzini, Bill. Gun in Cheek: A Study of “Alternative” Crime Fiction (1982; repr., New York: Mysterious Press, 1987). Ruehlmann, William. Saint with a Gun: The Unlawful American Private Eye. New York: New York University Press, 1974. Sampson, Robert. Yesterday’s Faces: A Study of Series Characters in the Early Pulp Magazines. Volume 3. From the Dark Side. Bowling Green, OH.: Popular Press, 1987. Schumacher, Michael and Denis Kitchen. Al Capp: A Life to the Contrary. Garden City, N.Y.: Bloomsbury, 2013. Silverman, Kenneth. HOUDINI!!! The Career of Ehrich Weiss. New York: HarperPerennial, 1996. Wildroot Cream-Oil advertisement. Life Magazine (1 March 1954). P. 69.

The Strange Case of Max Rittenberg MIKE ASHLEY

Until recently, when print-on-demand and e-book publishing has made available a mass of early books, there had been virtually nothing reprinted by Max Rittenberg (1880–1963) and his name was unknown to all but a few diehard collectors of the strange and unusual. His one book that stood out was The Mind Reader, published a century ago. It relates the cases of Dr. Xavier Wycherley, a psychologist who uses hypnotism and other techniques to unlock mysteries. That book is easily available today, as part of a “2 Detectives” omnibus, combined with Astro, the Master of Mysteries by Gelett Burgess, published in 2011 by Coachwhip Publications in Greenville, Ohio. Otherwise, before I reprinted “The Mystery of the Sevenoaks Tunnel” in my anthology The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries, I do not believe any of Rittenberg’s mystery stories had been reprinted. If you had been prepared to pay the high cost for George Locke’s 1999 anthology Mostly Ghostly, which was bound with his annotated checklist of The Premier Magazine and printed in an edition of only one hundred copies, you would also have found Rittenberg’s nautical horror and proto-sf story “The Purple Seaweed.” It was “The Purple Seaweed” that had first alerted me to Rittenberg’s name, not in Mostly Ghostly, but long before, in 1973, when George Locke listed the story in his groundbreaking index, “Fantasy in The Red Magazine,” in the first issue of his bibliographical magazine Search & Research. My mind has a habit of remembering writers of one-off (or apparently one-off ) weird stories and so if the name resurfaces, I rapidly latch on to it. 33

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And it did surface again, not once, but over and over. Once I began to develop my collection of British and American popular-fiction magazines, both pulps and some slick titles, I found a profusion of stories by Rittenberg, almost two hundred, concentrated into a comparatively short period, from 1911 to 1915. Thereafter he more or less stopped writing fiction, even though he survived for half a century after the outbreak of the Great War. During those five productive years Rittenberg wrote a wide range of stories and novels. Some were light society stories, some humorous romances, but among them were not only a few more science-fiction stories but, more interestingly, an entirely new series of detective stories, which had not been reprinted anywhere. Moreover, there were further Dr. Wycherley stories that had not been included in the book. Rittenberg, I realized, was a writer who needed more attention. When I came to reprint Rittenberg’s story in my anthology I had the good fortune to trace his daughter, learning that in fact both Rittenberg’s children— his son David and daughter Linda—were alive and well. What is more, Linda lived less than thirty miles from me, in Kent, England, and I was able to drive down and meet her. Although Linda was able to provide some background on her father’s life, she was unaware of the vast amount of short fiction he had written. She knew only of his published books, most of which were not fiction at all but useful guides on a variety of subjects such as running a business, publicity, mail-order and health. Indeed most of his working life was spent running his own Public Relations and Advertising Agency, Max Rittenberg & Partners. In the sixties he provided a start to the career of Charles Saatchi. When I took Linda photocopies of all of her father’s short fiction that I had been able to trace, she was utterly amazed. It seems he had not discussed any of this with either of his children and so my delving into these tales was a revelation to all. But it also meant that there was no base data, so I have no idea whether his full output will ever be identified. Some basic facts. The subject of this essay was born Max Mark Lion Rittenberg in Sydney, Australia on April 18, 1880. His father, Benjamin (1848– 1905), a merchant, was a Russian Jew from Walkowski, Lithuania (at that time part of the Russian Empire), who migrated to Australia in 1869 and took on Australian citizenship in 1878. The following year Benjamin Rittenberg married Lily Moss (1860–1934), an Australian by birth, of German-Jewish ancestry. The family moved to England when Max was about seven or eight and his father became a commercial agent in London. The father was not especially successful and his wife took to travelling around Europe, supported, in all likelihood by her father, who had made his fortune during the Australian Gold Rush at Ballarat. As a result Max had a

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cosmopolitan upbringing, which is reflected in his fiction. He won a scholarship to Tonbridge School, a private school in Kent, and then attended Caius College, Cambridge from 1899 to 1902, receiving a B. A. He wanted to be a doctor and had studied science and medicine, but finances dictated otherwise and for a few years he served as a teacher at Swansea Grammar School. He was very active, enjoying cycling holidays in the Alps, and was also a good bridge and chess player, later setting chess puzzles for Punch. Max’s father died in March 1905 of tuberculosis. He had been in a sanatorium for five years and the cost had drained the family’s dwindling resources. Max secured a teaching post in South Africa, which was thought would be better for his health, and he and his mother moved there, returning to Britain by late 1906. Despite his upbringing, perhaps even a reaction to it, Max had acquired an ordered mind and efficient approach to life. In January 1907 he launched the magazine The Organizer, aimed at advising businesses how to operate more efficiently, which included not just reorganization but market surveys, public relations and developing a mail order business. This was to be his primary work for the rest of his life. Max Rittenberg’s earliest books—such as How to Compose Business Letters (1909), Everyone Has Something to Sell (1910) and what would become the Bible to many businesses, Office Organisation. Buying, Selling & the Wholesale House (1911)—mostly deal with matters of business efficiency. Office Organisation was published by Harmsworth’s, the publishing enterprise of Lord Northcliffe, and it may have been this that brought Rittenberg to the attention of Northcliffe, though it is quite possible Rittenberg had already come within Northcliffe’s radar. In The Times in February 1908 Rittenberg had criticized the General Manager of the Central London Railway (better known today as the Central Line on the Underground) for not taking full account of the temperature and humidity on the existing underground railway and the planned extensions; and he provided details on how this could be overcome.1 Certainly for the period up to and during the War, Northcliffe took an interest in the energetic business organizer. For his part, Rittenberg found that, in order for him to remain peripatetic, a career in writing and journalism was the most efficient way to operate. He began writing for Northcliffe’s Daily Mail, becoming the paper’s Science Reporter. I am not sure exactly when Rittenberg turned to writing fiction. There was a small spoof, “Suffragistes in Evidence,” in the London newspaper The Express (29 October 1906), where he proposed the idea of granting female emancipists a separate Parliament and speculated on the consequences. Another story, “In the Under-Currents,” is a rather clumsily written tale of how a journalist and his friend thwart an attempt by a German submarine to lay mines around the

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English and French fleets in the Solent.2 Rittenberg had clearly turned his mind to writing because he produced in 1910 What Editors Want: A Reference Book for Every Free-Lance Writer. Rittenberg’s production of fiction began in earnest in 1911 with “The Adventures of Mr Banyard,” a short series published by The Weekly Tale-Teller, which related entrepreneurial episodes in the commercial (and romantic) life of a shopwalker. While the series evidently is based on the author’s own business acumen, it gave no clue as to what would follow.3 “The Strange Cases of Dr Xavier Wycherley, Mental Healer” began in Northcliffe’s London Magazine, in the issue for February 1911. The first episode, “The Man Who Lived Again,” tells of a chance encounter between a man, Chenieston, and Dr Wycherley in Monte Carlo. Rather in the manner of Sherlock Holmes, Wycherley seems able to judge Chenieston’s thoughts simply from his demeanors. Wycherley unveils Chenieston’s boredom with the world, missed chances, and his wish to live his life again. Through progressive hypnotism Wycherley provides Chenieston with just that opportunity. Wycherley is revealed as a “mental healer,” a specialist not on any register, but who has sufficient wherewithal to travel the world either in research or the treatment of exceptional cases. He has a London clinic, but is seldom there. In one story he states clearly, “I am not a detective, but a psychologist.” In another he remarks that detective work was “distasteful to him unless it were to open out fresh experiences in the realm of the human mind.” Thus, in “The Errand of Death,” he uses his abilities to help a man convicted of murder relive the events through hypnosis and identify the real killer. In “The Sorcerer of Arjuzanx,” Wycherley steps close to the realms of Algernon Blackwood’s occult detective John Silence, as he investigates a girl who appears to be possessed, leading to a battle of minds between Wycherley and his adversary. In fact Wycherley is arguably a true psychic detective, not an occult one. Although none of the stories is supernatural, his investigations do come close, because of his ability to apply a sixth sense or detect a mental aura. Even so, Wycherley takes great pains to explain his methods and as a consequence some later newspaper printings of the stories referred to him as a “scientific detective.” Wycherley’s abilities are used in a variety of ways. In “The Giant Sloth” the English police employ him to identify a murderer and his motive from a number of suspects. This is the closest he comes in the series to being a forensic psychologist. In “The Number 13” the French police employ him to identify how a Countess is able to send coded messages. In “The Betrayer of Secrets” a leading London banker employs him to discover how confidential information is being leaked from the business and by whom. The book edition, titled The Mind-Reader, was published in April 1913 in

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America, by Appleton’s. Rittenberg dedicated the book to Appleton editor Rutger Bleecker Jewett. However, the relationship between the book and the original stories is complicated. The book is presented in thirty-one chapters, but in all cases each story is split over two, sometimes three, chapters (full details are given in the bibliography at the end of this essay). Not all of the original stories appeared in Britain. The London ran an initial series of six, from June to July 1911, and then dropped the series. It was later picked up by The New Magazine for the final set of six stories, from November 1912 to April 1913. However the total series ran to eighteen stories and these ran complete only in the USA, in Blue Book magazine, often under different titles, with a first series of twelve from June 1911 to May 1912 and a second series from February to July 1913. The book ran the stories in a different order, revising them to provide greater continuity and additional detail, sometimes changing them significantly, but four stories were omitted. These may have been left out simply because they focus more on the psychological than detective aspects. “The Thrall of the Past” looks into the psyche of a young girl who has violent, even murderous, moments. In “The Sunken Memory,” Wycherley has to discover what it is that triggers a cataleptic trance in an old woman. “The Woman Who Found Herself ” shows how the implanted idea of a family curse nearly drives a woman insane. The final story in the series, “The Call to New York,” concerns a businessman who has moments when he slips back to functioning as if it were three years earlier. The reordering of the story sequence is also a puzzle, particularly with “The Sending.” This was the fourth story in the sequence in The London and the fifth in Blue Book, but in the book version it is the penultimate story. Moreover Rittenberg radically revised it to the extent that the main adversary, a ruthless shipping magnate, Lars Larssen, meets a different fate from that in the original story. In one version Larssen dies, almost certainly by his own hand. In the other, more plausible version, he survives and is prepared to change his ways, provided Wycherley can cure his son of his weaknesses. Lars Larssen was a character Rittenberg had developed in his novel Swirling Waters. Although published two months after The Mind-Reader, in July 1913, it had almost certainly been written earlier. It is set two years before the events in “The Sending” and follows the intrigue between two equally obstinate businessmen: Larssen, who is intent on becoming the most successful entrepreneur in the world, the Emperor of the Seven Seas, and Mathieson, who wants to turn his back on the harsh world of commerce and dedicate himself to scientific research. In the end each succeeds in attaining his desire and Larssen goes on to become even more ruthless, until he comes up against Wycherley in “The

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Sending.” Considering that Swirling Waters was published just after The MindReader, it is strange that Rittenberg should change the perfectly sensible ending of the original story, unless it was to draw a line under that sequence and allow him to turn to new ventures. By the time these two books appeared, Rittenberg was not only producing stories on a regular basis for a wide range of magazines, he had almost certainly become the new anonymous editor of The Lady’s Realm, to which he also contributed stories and articles, and had written a boys’ story of public-school life, The Cockatoo, which had been serialized in The Captain (October 1912-March 1913) and published in book form soon after. Among this proliferation of fiction were two other series of interest for the crime fiction devotee. The June 1912 issue of the premier American pulp magazine Adventure introduced readers to the reminiscences of John Hallard and his wife Renie, confidence tricksters and society swindlers. Starting with “Big Game,” Hallard recalls how, soon after he was married, he revealed his crooked lifestyle to his wife, to find she that had already guessed and was keen to join him in his escapades. Gentleman-thief stories were very popular at this time in the wake of E. W. Hornung’s Raffles, so the series lacks the originality of Dr Wycherley, but Rittenberg nevertheless tries his best to develop the crimes on a major scale. The first two, though, involving a theft from a rich banker at a Monte Carlo casino and a theft from nobility on a yacht in the Mediterranean, were routine. More daring was the third, “Versus the Bank of England,” where Hallard uses a double bluff to drain funds out of the Bank. After two more scams, one involving the Ascot Gold Cup horse race and one with an off-shore casino, the final story reintroduces the victim from the first story and has the Hallards’ cover blown and their final escape to an island hideaway to plan their future adventures. The stories, which also ran in the UK in The Grand Magazine, were collected as the volume Gold and Thorns, released in April 1915. Soon after that series finished, and despite the demands of his editorial work, Rittenberg began a new series, and the one that I believe is his best, even though it was never collected as a book. They featured Professor Magnum, a scientist who is consulted from time to time by various parties to resolve unusual or complicated crimes. Though bald, Magnum is not unlike Arthur Conan Doyle’s Professor Challenger, with bushy red eyebrows, an unkempt beard, and an explosive temper. He is assisted in his cases by the shy young Ivor Meredith, a superb chemical analyst. As with the Dr Wycherley series, the stories ran in both The London Magazine and Blue Book, though not in the same order and, as before, The London only ran four before the series switched first to Pearson’s Magazine and then

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to occasional appearances in its companion, The Novel Magazine. Blue Book, though, ran them all, with seventeen in total. The first in The London, for October 1913, was “The Mystery of the Sevenoaks Tunnel” in which a man, recently heavily insured, is found dead, having fallen from a railway carriage and been run over by a passing train. Mysteriously, he had a phial in his pocket containing the antidote to sleeping sickness. The first story in Blue Book (and the second in The London) was “The Cyanogen Affair,” in which a family believe they are being poisoned as they wake each day dizzy and nauseous. In the third tale, “The Bond Street Poisoning Bureau,” Magnum’s adversary is not unlike Dr Wycherley, a veritable mindreader who claims to be a clairvoyant. “The Mystery of the Vanishing Gold,” the fourth story in The London, but the fifth in Blue Book, was an impossiblecrime story, where six large ingots of gold, conveyed across the capital, reach their destination considerably lighter than when they started. There are a few other impossible crime stories in the series. In his best, “The Invisible Bullet,” a man is shot dead with two bullets in a gymnasium, with a policeman on the scene within seconds, but no perpetrator visible, no means of escape and no sign of the second bullet. In the “The Empty Flask” a man is killed, evidently by some toxic substance of which there is no evidence either following an autopsy or after an analysis of how it must have been administered. “The Disappearance of Mr. Holsworthy” explains how a man can be kidnapped in broad daylight on a busy London street without anyone noticing. Perhaps most intriguing of all is “The Three Henry Clarks,” in which three people with the same name die within hours of each other, apparently poisoned, and yet their deaths are witnessed and there was no poison present. Other stories have cryptic plots. In “The Secret Analysis” Meredith is kidnapped and Magnum must deduce from minimal information where he is. Similarly, in “The Message of the Tide” Magnum traces the whereabouts of a kidnapped man from a message in a bottle. “Dead Leaves” also requires detailed analysis, as Magnum must determine a dead man’s thought processes to find his lost will. I have no idea why the Magnum stories were not collected as a book. They are certainly among Rittenberg’s most ingenious work. He published only one further novel, Every Man His Price (1914), a light romance against a background of international rivalry in the development of wireless telephony, as it was then known. By now, of course, the First World War had intervened. Rittenberg had poor eyesight so was unfit for service. He became involved with the Overseas League which had been founded by Sir Evelyn Wrench in 1910 to foster international friendship and understanding. It was while working for the League that Rit-

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tenberg met his future wife, Daisy Minter, who worked as his secretary. In October 1916 Rittenberg, with the support of Northcliffe, went to the United States for the League, partly to avoid the anti–German prejudice in Britain (at that time he had no intention of changing his name). Daisy followed about a year later and they were married in Baltimore in 1918. After the Great War Rittenberg wanted to travel to Hollywood, but Daisy wished to return to Britain where Rittenberg settled into business life, first working as the Advertising Manager for the cigar company, Martin’s, Ltd., and then, in 1920, establishing his own Advertising and Public Relations company, Max Rittenberg & Partners. He became highly respected in the business. Rittenberg continued to produce reference books for businesses, such as Effective Postal Publicity (1923) and How to Finance a Business (1923), but he no longer seemed to have the desire to write any more fiction. He had a family to raise and a business to run. His daughter, Linda, was born in September 1920, and his son, David, in November 1924. When warning signs of a second world war loomed in the 1930s, he changed the family name to Ritson (David’s first, by deed-poll in 1937, and then his own, in June 1940). He was known as Max Ritson ever after and his crime-fiction career as Max Rittenberg seems to have been completely eclipsed. He died on January 15, 1963, at Haverstock Hill in London, aged 82. Internet accessibility to The Mind-Reader will give devotees of crime and mystery fiction some idea of the originality and creativity of Max Rittenberg, but for a full appreciation they must seek out the stories of Magnum, the Scientific Consultant. It is time these were also available in more permanent form as a record of the author’s undoubted talent.

NOTES 1. The Times, 6 February 1908. 2. I have not found the original source for this story. It was reprinted in the Australian newspaper The Clarence & Richmond Examiner, 6 July 1907. 3. The series ran from 7 January to 11 February 1911.

CRIME FICTION WORKS BY M AX RITTENBERG DISCUSSED The Mind-Reader. New York: Appleton, April 1913. Fourteen of the eighteen stories of “The Strange Cases of Dr Xavier Wycherley, Mental Healer” first run in The London Magazine and Blue Book, as follows: 1. “The Man Who Lived Again.” The London Magazine, February 1911; Blue Book, June 1911 (reprinted, February 1943). The Mind-Reader chapters 1–3 [“His Life to Live Over Again,” “The Garden of Spice,” “The Zeal of the Scientist”].

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2. “The Errand of Death.” The London Magazine, March 1911; Blue Book, July 1911 (reprinted June 1943). The Mind Reader chapters 4–5 [“Blind Justice,” “The Errand of Death”]. 3. “The Thrall of the Past.” The London Magazine, April 1911; Blue Book, August 1911. [Not included in The Mind Reader.] 4. “The ‘Sending.’” The London Magazine, May 1911; Blue Book, October 1911. The Mind Reader chapters 27–29 [“Labour Against Capital,” “A Battle of Wills,” “The ‘Sending’”]. 5. “The Sorcerer of Arjuzanx.” The London Magazine, June 1911; Blue Book, November 1911. The Mind Reader chapters 10–11 [“ ‘They Say She is Bewitched’” and “The Hut on the Marsh”]. 6. “The Shadow Behind the Throne.” The London Magazine, July 1911; Blue Book, December 1911. The Mind Reader chapters 6–7 [“A Royal Command” and “The Decision”]. 7. “The Sunken Memory.” Blue Book, September 1911. [Not included in The Mind Reader.] 8. “The Number ‘13.’” Blue Book, January 1912. The Mind Reader chapters 8–9 [“The Countess Plunges” and “The Number 13”]. 9. “The Mystery of Castle Kremenz.” Blue Book, February 1912. The Mind Reader chapters 18–20 [“The Mystery of Castle Kremenz,” “Inside the Castle” and “The Secret of the Laboratory”]. 10. “The Supreme Test.” Blue Book, March 1912 (reprinted September 1943 as “Queen of my Heart”); English Illustrated Magazine, June 1913. The Mind-Reader chapters 16–17 [“A Wandered Returned,” “The Supreme Test of Courage”]. 11. “The Hour of Eleven.” Blue Book, April 1912. The Mind-Reader chapters 23–24 [“The Hour of Eleven,” “Aftermath of Revenge”]. 12. “The Fortieth Milestone.” Blue Book, May 1912. The Mind-Reader chapters 30–31 [“On Medenham Down,” “The Fortieth Milestone”]. 13. “The Betrayer of Secrets.” The New Magazine, November 1912; Blue Book, February 1913. The Mind-Reader chapters 12–13 [“A Man’s Honour at Stake,” “The One Who Betrayed”]. 14. “The Smile of the Black Virgin.” The New Magazine, December 1912; Blue Book, March 1913 (reprinted April 1943). The Mind-Reader chapters 25–26 [“Courtesan Sands,” “The Green Flare”]. 15. “The Voice from the Other World.” The New Magazine, January 1913; Blue Book, April 1913. The Mind-Reader chapters 21–22 [“The Voice from the Other World,” “Breaking the Chains”]. 16. “The Giant Sloth.” The New Magazine, February 1913; Blue Book, May 1913. The Mind-Reader chapters 14–15 [“Accident or Murder,” “Between a Man and His Conscience”]. 17. “The Woman Who Found Herself.” The New Magazine, March 1913; Blue Book, June 1913. [Not included in The Mind-Reader.] 18. “The Call to New York.” The New Magazine, April 1913; Blue Book, July 1913 as “The Man Who Was Three Years Ago.” [Not included in The Mind-Reader.] Swirling Waters. London: Methuen, June 1913; New York: Dillingham, 1913. Every Man His Price. London: Methuen, October 1914; New York: Dillingham & Chicago: Donohue, 1914. Gold and Thorns. London: Ward, Lock, April 1915. The John Hallard series from Adventure and The Grand Magazine, as follows: 1. “Big Game.” Adventure, June 1912; The Grand Magazine, December 1912.

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2. “The Lucky Bag.” Adventure, July 1912; The Grand Magazine, January 1913. 3. “Versus the Bank of England.” Adventure, August 1912; The Grand Magazine, February 1913. 4. “A Case for the Big Stick.” Adventure, September 1912; The Grand Magazine, March 1913. 5. “The Rival Montes.” Adventure, October 1912 as “The Rival Monte Carlo”; The Grand Magazine, April 1913. 6. “The Grand Coup.” Adventure, November 1912; The Grand Magazine, May 1913. The Strange Cases of Magnum, Scientific Consultant. 1. “The Cyanogen Affair.” Blue Book, October 1913; The London Magazine, November 1913 as “The Queer Case of the Cyanogen Poisoning.” 2. “The Mystery of the Sevenoaks Tunnel.” The London Magazine, October 1913; Blue Book, November 1913 as “The Seven-Oaks Tunnel Enigma.” 3. “The Bond Street Poisoning Bureau.” The London Magazine, December 1913; Blue Book, December 1913 as “The Society Murder Bureau.” 4. “The Secret of the Radium Maker.” Blue Book, January 1914. 5. “The Mystery of the Vanishing Gold.” The London Magazine, January 1914; Blue Book, February 1914 as “The Vanishing Gold.” 6. “The Invisible Bullet.” Blue Book, March 1914; Pearson’s Magazine, April 1914. 7. “The Rough Fist of Reason.” Blue Book, April 1914; The Novel Magazine, April 1914. 8. “The Three Ends of a Thread.” Blue Book, May 1914. 9. “The Empty Flask.” Blue Book, June 1914 (reprinted February 1944). 10. “The Secret Analysis.” Blue Book, July 1914. 11. “The Mystery of Box 218.” Blue Book, August 1914. 12. “The Secret of the Tower House.” Blue Book, September 1914; The Novel Magazine, September 1914 as “The Hidden Menace.” 13. “Dead Leaves.” Blue Book, November 1914; The Novel Magazine, April 1915. 14. “The Three Henry Clarks.” Blue Book, December 1914. 15. “The Disappearance of Mr. Holsworthy.” Blue Book, January 1915. 16. “Cleansing Fire.” Blue Book, February 1915. 17. “The Message of the Tide.” Blue Book, March 1915.

J. S. Fletcher: Man of Many Mysteries ROGER ELLIS

In “The Mystery of J. S. Fletcher,” an article that appeared in The Bookman in 1925, at the height of J. S. Fletcher’s popularity as a crime writer, literary critic Alfred C. Ward detected “mystery in the case of Joseph Smith Fletcher, of whose overwhelming output as a writer the half is not told in the usual references.” How true Ward’s words remain today. Over the course of his interesting life, Englishman J. S. Fletcher (1863–1935) wrote over two hundred books, a daunting number for any writer seeking to assess the astoundingly prolific author’s career. Fletcher’s literary cornucopia overflowed with one of the last three-decker Victorian novels as well as books of poems, biography, religion, history, topography and regional and detective fiction. It is of course the latter that concerns us here. Although largely forgotten in the mystery world today, J. S. Fletcher in fact was one of the most successful and esteemed of Golden Age crime writers, heralded in the United States in the 1920s as no less than the literary successor to the great Arthur Conan Doyle. Surely it is time to tell the story of J. S. Fletcher and his many mysteries.1 Joseph Smith Fletcher—known to his family as “Joe”—was born in the former West Riding of Yorkshire at Halifax on February 7th, 1863 (the same birthday as Charles Dickens, Fletcher informed readers of his charming though circumspect 1912 autobiography, Memories of a Spectator). Joe’s Nonconformist minister father, the Reverend John Fletcher (a passionate bibliophile, as his son would be), died when Joe was but eight months old. In 1870 Joe and his mother, Sarah Smith Fletcher, moved to the Yorkshire village of Darrington to live with Joe’s maternal grandmother, Annie Harrison Smith, a comfortably 43

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circumstanced farmer’s widow. Young Joe enjoyed rambles along the highways and byways over the surrounding district, but Annie Smith, a devout Methodist, saw that he spent the Lord’s Day at home, purportedly in religious contemplation. This strict religious regimen lay uneasily on the shoulders of Joe’s youthful, restless spirit. Yet Annie Smith also encouraged her grandson to read poetry and prose, fostering in him a desire to become an author. Later in life Fletcher reflected that he was “one of those unfortunate people who never had an education.” He meant by this formal schooling, which in his case was continuously disrupted by a malady of the foot that left him a semi-invalid for much of his youth, “much more familiar with doctors than with pedagogues, and with sofas and crutches than with classrooms and playgrounds.” Until he was sixteen Fletcher remained under the tutelage of various governesses, including his mother. Despite his infirmities, however, he read voraciously (by the age of sixteen Fletcher “had made acquaintance with over two thousand” books, including “everything—I am sure, literally everything— of Sir Walter Scott, Harrison Ainsworth, Fenimore Cooper, Captain Marryat, James Grant, Jules Verne”). Happily in 1879 he saw his lameness cured by, he believed, a village woman’s herbal remedy (“a brew of the roots and stalks of marsh-mallows”); and he was able to attend Crammers, a school located at the town of Ilkley, in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales, famed for its moorland scenery and health-giving waters. Flectcher considered Crammers ideal, reflecting in his biography: “It was an excellent arrangement…. It set me up for life.”2 The same year Fletcher enrolled at Crammers he published by private subscription a collection of poetry entitled The Juvenile Poems of Joseph S. Fletcher. In his preface to his book Fletcher noted that the poems included therein were the “effusions of one who has not yet completed his seventeenth year.” Some in Fletcher’s family were not over-impressed with the young man’s poetic effusions. “An aunt, whose husband was in trade with a very big T, suggested that the business of a chemist and druggist was a most respectable and gentlemanly one,” recalled Fletcher sardonically. “I had no doubt that it was, but after a life of wholesale liberty I was not going to imprison myself in a retail shop.”3 Two years after his nascent literary venture Fletcher left Ilkley to take up the post of usher at a fee paying educational establishment in Cockermouth, Cumbria (“I wanted to see the town wherein Wordsworth was born,” he later declared). There he taught elementary subjects to boys only slightly younger than he. Fletcher soon found that he greatly disliked Cockermouth, Wordsworth notwithstanding. In his memorable words, Cockermouth was “as bare and bleak a town as the north can show.” Within two months Fletcher and the head of the school had “mutually agreed” that whatever Fletcher’s talents were they did not include serving as “an usher in a small school.” At the behest of a schoolmaster

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friend, Fletcher headed south to London to take a post as a journalist on The Scholar—A Monthly Educational Paper for School and Home. It was for this periodical that Fletcher, now an enthusiastic but poorly paid journalist living on one guinea a week, was offered sub-editorial work. His first article, which appeared in the premier March 1882 issue, was a biographical account of the life of William Shakespeare.4 Fletcher enjoyed cosmopolitan London life, especially attending plays and operas for the first time. However, in 1883 Fletcher left London to take up residence in the Yorkshire mill city of Bradford. The next year, at Bradford’s Roman Catholic Church of St. Mary Magdalene, Fletcher wed Annie Busfield, a twice-widowed Catholic opera singer and daughter of a Bradford wool merchant (Fletcher himself was received into the Catholic Church in 1887). With Annie’s daughter from a previous marriage, the couple took up residence at White Abbey, one of the Bradford’s poorest neighborhoods, where the back-to-back houses were airless, cramped and dirty, with dark, damp rooms and cellars that flooded when there was rain. Later Joe and Annie and their expanding family—the couple would have three sons—moved to Horton, where Fletcher resumed his meagrely paid writing career. In his first year of authorship as a family man, Fletcher earned “exactly one hundred and two pounds and some odd shillings,” entirely through writing and contributing short stories and articles to numerous journals. Popular novelist Frederick William Robinson later told Fletcher that he ought to think himself “lucky in having made a couple of guineas a week in my first year of authorship,” for two guineas a week “meant all sorts of good things—butter on your bread, and a bit of meat on Sunday, and an occasional glass of ale or spoonful of jam; beyond that it meant that you had better go on and make some more.”5 Fletcher would do just that. In 1884 the newlywed husband founded a small publishing house, appropriately called J. S. Fletcher & Co., to use as a vehicle for getting his own writing into print. Anima Christi, a small volume of religious verse, appeared that same year. On the last page of the book is an announcement of a forthcoming further Fletcher title, Heather and Hyacinth (presumably another collection of poems), yet this book never appeared. Whether the company went into early liquidation we cannot say because there is no record. For whatever reason the venture was short lived and Fletcher moved on, a feature that became all too familiar throughout those early years, indeed throughout his much of his life.6 In the 1890s Fletcher lived in the vicinity of the ancient Yorkshire market town of Pontefract (pronounced “Pumfret”). While in this district he wrote what he saw as his “first novel of any length or moment,” a triple-decker historical saga entitled When Charles the First was King (1892). Yet by 1899 Fletcher had once again moved on, this time to Doncaster. He was now leading

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the life of a single man, his relationship with Annie having ended in turmoil. The possible reasons for this marital strife—Fletcher’s conversion into the Catholic faith, his mercurial career fortunes or, possibly, the allurements of companionship with other women—are uncertain. The failure of Fletcher’s marriage is one of the greatest of the enigmas in the author’s life. In the 1920s and 1930s Fletcher refused even to discuss what occurred during these years with his son Valentine, the single offspring of a later, lasting union.7 Despite personal stresses, Fletcher continued to pursue his writing career, both as a journalist and an author. After the success of When Charles the First was King, Fletcher began experimenting with about every conceivable form of authorship. In the decade following 1898 he published thirty-seven books, including biography and autobiography, history, topography, poetry and a myriad of fiction: mystery, science, regional, juvenile and fantasy. Fletcher also was gaining a reputation as a journalist of distinction. During this time he contributed editorials to the Leeds Mercury, as well as rustic sketches under the pseudonym “Son of the Soil.” These latter pieces “at once became popular all over Yorkshire,” Fletcher recalled. He continued writing them for years and eventually began receiving “letters from all parts of the world about them— from islands in the Pacific, from lonely ranches in Texas, from lonelier sheepfarms in Australia. They were all written by folk who had gone far afield from the old country, but had not forgotten the fields and the woods.” Fletcher published two well-received collections of these sketches: The Wonderful Wapentake (1894) and Life in Arcadia (1896).8 As a Yorkshire journalist Fletcher covered a variety of local affairs, including murder trials and labor conflicts. In 1893 the Leeds Daily News commissioned Fletcher to compile a series of articles concerning the living and working conditions of families in the Great Northern Coalfield. This was during a period of strike action in the coal districts, about which Fletcher wrote: “For some weeks the countryside presented the spectacle of a theatre of war.” Finally on September 7 the situation came to a head with what Fletcher termed “a night of horror,” the Featherstone Riot, during which troops shot and killed two miners.9 Fletcher would later use this tragedy in a 1906 regional novel, The Threshing Floor. Violence in Yorkshire notwithstanding, stability came to Fletcher’s personal life with the new century. In 1922 T. S. Stribling (1881–1965), the future Pulitzer Prize winning American novelist and creator of the short story sleuth Dr. Poggioli (Clues of the Caribbees), wrote Fletcher asking whether he was the same Fletcher “with whom I used to room in Paddington, London” during his European tour in 1910–11. “If so,” Stribling added, “you will recall Miss Rosamond Langbridge, the playwright.” Indeed Fletcher would have recalled

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the playwright, novelist and poet Rosamond Grant Langbridge (1880–1964). Journalistic duties with the Leeds Mercury took Fletcher to Limerick, Ireland in 1897 to interview Canon Frederick Langbridge, a playwright and writer of sentimental, pietistic verse. During his sojourn in Limerick, Fletcher became acquainted with the Reverend Langbridge’s middle daughter, Rosamond, of whom Valentine modestly stated: “My father was quite taken with her.”10 Following Fletcher’s visit to interview Canon Langbridge, Joe and Rosamund began corresponding with each other. Around 1900 Rosamond joined Joe, her senior by seventeen years, in London. Evidence of an affiliation between the two can be found in Fletcher’s popular science fiction thriller The Three Days Terror (1901), which is dedicated To ROSAMOND my fiction for her facts London New Year’s Eve 1900. Rosamond became a successful writer herself, in the first decade of the twentieth century publishing a succession of mainstream novels set in her native Ireland. A son, Valentine Fletcher, was born to the couple in 1914. Marriage followed thirteen years later in 1927, not long after Annie Fletcher’s death.11 By the time of his second marriage, Joe Fletcher himself was enjoying a new level of literary success, for he had become one of the most celebrated mystery authors of the era known as the Golden Age of detective fiction (roughly 1920 to 1940). In the 1920s Americans dubbed Fletcher “The Dean of Mystery Writers”—a worthy name for an author who had an ecclesiastical father. Yet with The Investigators (1902), The Secret Way (1903) and The Diamonds (1904), Fletcher actually had begun writing crime novels just after the turn of the century, not long after Rosamond Langbridge came to London and many years before he published his most celebrated mystery, The Middle Temple Murder (1919). Mystery fiction was much in demand. Arthur Conan Doyle’s perennially popular Sherlock Holmes tale The Hound of the Baskervilles was serialized in The Strand Magazine in 1901 and 1902, for example, and R. Austin Freeman’s landmark forensic detective novel, The Red Thumb Mark, appeared in 1907. In turning to mystery writing, Fletcher was trying his hand at a lucrative line of fiction.12 Between 1902 and 1910, J. S. Fletcher published seven mystery novels. A Saturday Review notice praised The Investigators as a good example of a detective novel “in which the detection is done by amateurs” (the reviewer deemed such stories “obviously an improvement on those of the old professional type”). Fletcher was said to have developed the plot “with a light and capable touch” and made the characters of the titular investigators—Napthali Hopps, Specialist and Expert, and Miss Hermione Packer, a slangy and indomitable Chicago pork heiress—“distinctly amusing on their own merits.”13 Both Marchester Royal (1909) and Hardican’s Hollow (1910) are orthodox detective

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tales with traditional English settings. In the former whodunit the question is who slew Lord Marchester at his country house, while in the latter detectives are tasked with discovering who murdered the man found in the ditch of the old Roman camp named “Hardican’s Hollow” (after Hardeknud, the last Danish king of England). Other Fletcher mysteries from the first decade of the twentieth century are in the nature of what came to be designated crime thrillers or “shockers”—the type of book associated during the Golden Age with such hugely popular crime writers as Edgar Wallace and Sax Rohmer. Such tales eschewed strict detection in favous of pure, visceral excitement, depicting the diabolical machinations of criminal genius masterminds and their merciless gangs. With some of his early crime novels, Fletcher appears to have blazed trails for Wallace, Rohmer and other Golden Age shocker kings. For example, in Fletcher’s Paradise Court (1908), according to a notice in The Westminster Review, “Anarchists, hypnotism and the now inevitable motor-car play their respective parts in the evolution of the story, the last chapter of which is about the weirdest thing we have ever read.” The Secret Way (1903) details the nefarious plots of a wicked French Riviera medico. With this novel Fletcher was praised for “the neat and natural manner in which he deals out a sensation every few pages.” Quoting Bob Sawyer, a character in Charles Dickens’ The Pickwick Papers (1837), a delighted Australian reviewer termed Fletcher’s The Mantle of Ishamel (1909) “an unmitigated staggerer,” adding: “From first to last there is not a dull page within its covers. It is the story of a very Monte Cristo of criminals, of plans and plots for the purpose of ransom in the very heart of London that are worthy of the Balkans.”14 Another early Fletcher crime thriller, The Diamonds (1904, published in the United States in 1929 as The Diamond Murders), concerns the theft of a precious necklace and the determined attempts made by various bloody-minded parties to recover it. With the inevitable mysterious Hindu and fabled eastern relic, the tale is reminiscent of—though more lurid than—Wilkie Collins’ great mystery novel The Moonstone (1868). Although both Fletcher and his son claimed that Fletcher abstained from reading mysteries, preferring history and theology, it is difficult to believe that the author failed to peruse The Moonstone before writing The Diamonds. A reviewer in The Bookman praised the sensational events in Fletcher’s novel, avowing that they formed “a chronicle the most exacting lover of thrills must be satisfied with. We seldom ask for ‘literature’ of this style, we seldom get it; but [here] we get real entertainment.”15 In addition to writing crime novels, Fletcher also was a prolific author of mystery short stories. Most of Fletcher’s stories, criminous and non-criminous,

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were collected in thirty or so volumes published between 1883 and 1935. Notable early Fletcher story collections with partial criminous content are The Death That Lurks Unseen (1899), The Fear of the Night (1903) and The Ivory God (1907). The Adventures of Archer Dawe (Sleuth-Hound) (1909) is the best known Fletcher mystery story collection, having been listed in Ellery Queen’s Queen’s Quorum. Yorkshireman Archer Dawe seems clearly to have been the forerunner of the great English crime writer Edgar Wallace’s highly regarded short story sleuth J. G. Reeder, who debuted in 1925. Judge for yourself from the following descriptions of the two characters: Archer Dawe was now a man of sixty, a little, squat-figured man who dressed, Sunday or weekday, in rusty black; was never seen, indoors or out, without a very high-crowned, wide- brimmed silk hat; and who wore only old-fashioned stick-up collars, held tightly to his wizened throat by swathes of black neck-cloth. He was a notable figure enough, seen in this wise and in company with a gamp-like umbrella which he always carried with him wherever he went, wet or fine…. —The Adventures of Archer Dawe (Sleuth-Hound) (1909) Mr. Reeder was somewhat over fifty, a long faced gentleman with sandygrey hair and a slither of side whiskers that mercifully distracted attention from his large outstanding ears. He wore half-way down his nose a pair of steel-rimmed pince-nez, through which nobody had ever seen him look—they were invariably removed when he was reading. A high flatcrowned bowler hat matched and yet did not match a frock coat tightly buttoned across his sparse chest. His boots were square-toed, his cravat— of the broad, chest-protector pattern—was ready-made and buckled into place behind a Gladstonian collar. The neatest appendage of Mr. Reeder was an umbrella rolled so tightly that it might be mistaken for a frivolous walking cane. Rain or shine, he carried this article hooked to his arm, and within living memory it had never been unfurled. —The Mind of J. G. Reeder (1925)

As the first decades of the twentieth century passed, Fletcher metamorphosed into essentially a detective fiction writer. Between 1913, a year before Fletcher’s youngest son was born, and 1935, the year of Fletcher’s death, the author wrote some seventy mystery novels, an average of three annually for over twenty years. Fletcher’s decisive development into a nearly full-time crime writer was presaged in earlier mainstream novels, particularly The Town of Crooked Ways (1912). Although arguably Fletcher’s single most highly praised work—reviewers compared it to Scotsman George Douglas Brown’s muchlauded 1901 novel The House with the Green Shutters—The Town of Crooked Ways provoked outrage in Fletcher’s native Yorkshire, on account of its stinging

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portrayal of the nefarious activities of the dignitaries of a Yorkshire town based on Pontefract. As one reviewer put it, the story of The Town of Crooked Ways is “entirely taken up with the petty squabbles, swindles, innuendoes and general muck-raking of the particularly blackguardly and back-biting populace of a North of England provincial town.” Scheming Borough Alderman and businessman Solomon Quimperdene is one of the most detestable characters that Fletcher ever created. While The Town of Crooked Ways is not, strictly speaking, detective fiction, its labyrinthine plot takes ever more devious twists and turns with each passing page, finally leading to murder.16 It was not until after the Great War that the American public discovered in J. S. Fletcher a “new” author of detective fiction that was “ingenious, complicated and much better written than the average.” In 1920, United States President Woodrow Wilson, while convalescing from his grave stroke, read (or had read to him?) a Fletcher novel, The Middle Temple Murder, that had been published in August of the previous year and quickly gone through six printings; and it was widely reported in the American press that he had praised it as the best detective story he had yet come across.17 In the novel Frank Spargo, an eager young journalist seeking an exclusive for his newspaper, the London Watchman, inveigles himself into the investigation of the slaying of a man in London’s Middle Temple. The culprit of the crime is not finally revealed until nearly the very end of this swiftly paced and entertaining tale, which skilfully draws on Fletcher’s experience as a journalist and his familiarity with London. Making much use of President Wilson’s commendation, publisher Alfred A. Knopf successfully ballyhooed J. S. Fletcher in the United States as the greatest modern purveyor of mystery fiction. In 1922 a much impressed T. S. Stribling wrote his old friend, “I congratulate you on the way your novels are getting about … here in the States you can find them absolutely all over.” Two years later The Outlook reported that Fletcher “has been crowned king of recent crime and detective stories by lovers of that kind of literature.” Most certainly in the 1920s King Fletcher did not lack courtiers in the American print media. Greenwich Village intellectual Herbert Sherman Gorman (1893–1954) declared that “Fletcher is a master hand when it comes to concocting detective stories that hold the reader absolutely breathless,” for example, while New York literary critic James Lauren Ford (1854–1928) fervently avowed: “I simply live from Fletcher to Fletcher.” In The Outlook another reviewer discerned in Fletcher’s mysteries appealing qualities of Englishness and literary refinement, which go a long toward explaining the author’s great popularity in the 1920s with Anglophile American readers: Mr. Fletcher respects, without magnifying, his art. His intricate plots and tangled clues, presented as mere dehumanized puzzles, would probably suffice to please an

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unexacting public; but in all his novels the people, though lightly sketched, are real people, neither types nor wooden figures…. His real people live in real places, and in certain cases where the action occurs in small and very ancient English towns he has succeeded in making his locations and communities a distinctive and interesting part rather than a background of the story. His style is always lucid, easy and pleasant—one is tempted to add, with apologies, the discredited Victorian epithet “refined,” in view of the happy scarcity of thieves’ argot and underworld slang. He seems to realize that, while it is interesting and exciting to meet crooks occasionally and briefly, their continued company is rarely to be desired.18

No doubt influenced by such enthusiastic critical praise, mystery-mad Americans clamored for more Fletchers, which the Yorkshireman happily supplied. During the 1920s over forty Fletcher mystery novels and short story collections appeared in the United States (some of these reprints of works published in England before 1920). This hugely successful tapping of the American book market made Fletcher one of the world’s most successful mystery writers and meant sweeping improvements in the living standards of the Fletcher household. Awed critics eventually began referring, when reviewing Fletcher mysteries, to the “Fletcher Factory” or “Fletcher Mill.” A New York Times Book Review notice of the author’s The Great Brighton Mystery (1926), solemnly proclaimed Fletcher detective fiction’s greatest exemplar of the mass production methods of modern industrial capitalism: J. S. Fletcher is surely the shrewdest and most progressive of novelists. For he is forward looking enough to apply to the novel-writing craft the principles that are making modern industrialism the greatest force in the world. He has seen the advantages of standardized mass production in the making of automobiles and reapers and other machinery, and has applied those triumphant principles of American industry to the writing of his particular brand of tales. The results surely cry aloud his wisdom. For no other novelist of any land can equal his output of fiction, nor can the reader be so sure of what he is buying when he purchases a novel by any other author. If he buys a Fletcher mystery story he can be absolutely sure of its dependable quality.19

Given Fletcher’s terrific output of crime fiction during the 1920s and 1930s, mention of the mysteries that at this time were read with such avidity by his global legion of fans must necessarily be limited. The Lost Mr. Linthwaite (1920) concerns the disappearance of a retired solicitor with a keen interest in old ruins (he is one of the many elderly antiquarians of comfortable means whom readers encounter in their travels through Fletcherdom). The police suspect murder but are stymied by the lack of an apparent motive for anyone to want to do away with the old gentleman. Mr. Linthwaite’s Fleet Street journalist nephew, who like Frank Spargo before him sees a scoop for his newspaper, takes the investigative field and unravels a tangled web of intrigue. Noting

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that in Linthwaite J. S. Fletcher had produced quite a “complicated and interesting tale,” a New York Times Book Review critic warned the “wise reader” not to start perusing the engrossing novel “until he has several clear hours in front of him—hours free from dinner engagements or train-catching.”20 Fletcher once had lived near the Doncaster Race Course, home of the famous St. Leger Stakes, and in 1902 he published The History of the St. Leger Stakes, a detailed history of the famous horse race. A keen cricketer once he had overcome his lameness, Fletcher also greatly enjoyed sport on the Turf. Anticipating Dick Francis by four decades, Fletcher in 1923 wrote a horse racing crime novel. In England the novel was called The Mysterious Chinaman, but in the United States Fletcher’s publisher changed the title to the more appropriate Rippling Ruby, this being the name in the story of a young mare racing in the Derby. Lady Renardsmere fastens a ruby around the neck of her horse to bring it good luck. Fatefully (and again recalling The Moonstone), it seems that a certain determined individual from the Far East—the “mysterious Chinaman” of the English title—is on the hunt for this very same ruby. The New York Times Book Review praised the novel, declaring that “by the simple expedient of peopling his tale with credible men and women, Mr. Fletcher has contrived something fresh and individual out of such well-worn material as a stolen jewel and a valuable race horse … a very real suspense is maintained to the end as the narrowing circle of probable victims take to wondering who will be next.” Because of such works as Rippling Ruby, J. S. Fletcher was deservedly enjoying popularity in the United States even “with those who ordinarily shun the average crime and detective yarn.”21 Fletcher set a great many of his mysteries in his native Yorkshire, a locale that greatly appealed to his American audience. The most obvious example of Fletcher’s use of Yorkshire in a detective novel doubtless is The Yorkshire Moorland Mystery (1930, published as The Yorkshire Moorland Murder in the US), which also involves another common element in the Fletcher corpus, bibliomania. In this novel a Yorkshire shepherd makes a grisly discovery in a crevice at the foot of Harlesden Scar: the battered body of the wealthy American book collector Charles Essenheim. A first edition of John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress plays a role in the tale, as does Harlesden Hall, the ancestral haunt of the Lomas family (“Old family, that, sir, but fallen on evil times this last generation or two”).22 Another Fletcher Yorkshire mystery, In the Mayor’s Parlor (1922) (published in the US in 1924 as The Time-Worn Town), is set in “a graft-ridden English pocket borough” reminiscent of the one in The Town of Crooked Ways. Fletcher also employed stately Yorkshire cathedral cities as settings in such crime tales as Wrychester Paradise (1921, The Paradise Mystery in the US) and his penultimate novel, The Eleventh Hour (1935).

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Surprisingly, given J. S. Fletcher’s terrific productivity, in his novels he never created a memorable series detective, some brilliant personage like Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot or Dorothy L. Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey. Regrettably, Frank Spargo never returned to crack another case, nor did Archer Dawe, gamp-like umbrella at the ready, ever again go a-sleuthing in an additional short story collection. However, Fletcher did have two sets of sleuthing teams that appeared in more than single volumes. Criminologist Paul Campenhaye originally appeared in the 1913 mystery novel The Secret Cargo (A Story of Norwich and the Norfolk Coast). The frontispiece of the first edition of The Secret Cargo shows an elegant Edwardian lady offering a gentleman in evening dress a casket containing the heart of a man, on consignment to Russia. Campenhaye and his assistant, who is appropriately named Killingley, investigate not only the theft of the heart but also that of a fabulous diamond stolen from a safe on the boat in which the heart is being transported. Under the eponymous title Paul Campenhaye, Specialist in Criminology (1918), Fletcher also published a collection of short stories that featured Paul Campenhaye and Killingley, (the collection saw posthumous publication in the US in 1939, as The Clue of the Artificial Eye). Campenhaye and Killingley would make their last bows in a 1926 short story collection, The Massingham Butterfly. The duo appears in the title story, as well as “Safe Number Sixty-Nine.” In 1931, at the twilight of his long writing career, Fletcher introduced into his mystery fiction Ronald Camberwell, his final and most enduring series detective character. As a partner in Camberwell and Chaney, Private Enquiry Agents, Camberwell sleuthed in eleven Fletcher mysteries, beginning with Murder in Wrides Park (1931). Even with Fletcher’s introduction of a new series detective team, however, the Fletcher mystery fiction formula for some 1930s readers had worn thin. To return to the industrial metaphor used earlier in the New York Times Book Review, in Fletcher’s detective tales quality seemed to have suffered as a result of overproduction. Moreover, Fletcher mysteries could seem rather old and fusty in the 1930s, a decade that saw global economic depression and the rise to popularity of Dashiell Hammett and writers from the American “tough” school of racy urban violence and cynicism. “Those who favour the newer hard-boiled school of detective fiction may find Fletcher a bit slow,” admitted a New York Times reviewer of a 1934 Camberwell and Chaney novel. Nevertheless, the reviewer loyally avowed that Fletcher’s mysteries “continue to have a charm all their own.”23 Following a writing career spanning over five decades, Joseph Smith Fletcher died of a heart attack on January 30, 1935 at his home near Dorking, Surrey, just one week short of his seventy-second birthday. A new Camberwell and

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Chaney detective novel, set evocatively and appropriately in Fletcher’s beloved Yorkshire, lay about four-fifths finished on his desk. It was announced that Rosamond Fletcher would complete Todmanhawe Grange (The Mill House Murder in the US) from the copious notes left by her husband concerning the pattern and outcome of the plot. However, the novel was instead finished, extremely ably, by the translator and poet Edward Powys Mathers (1892– 1939), who as “Torquemada” reviewed mystery fiction and devised cryptic crossword puzzles for The Observer. When Todmanhawe Grange finally appeared in 1937, the novel included an introductory note by Mathers, in which he paid fitting tribute to a man of many mysteries: It may be said that with the late J. S. Fletcher, Yorkshireman, journalist, historian and nature lover, the detective story was only a parergon; yet he played a considerable part in its literary development, and the earliest books on his long list of mystery stories, which ends with Todmanhawe Grange, were worthy pioneers in an army which has since invested England in its hundreds of thousands. To me, at least during the barren years just before the war when there were too few crime tales to satisfy a boy’s appetite, the publication of a new Austin Freeman or J. S. Fletcher assured ingenuity, excitement and comfortable writing. In the last few years, when every third person one meets is singular if he or she is not responsible for a roman policier of some sort, the sound of Fletcher’s name was a little lost in the noise of the universal orchestra, but he continued to give us workmanlike problems of the old school, unmarred by sensation.24

To be sure, some critics faulted Fletcher’s mysteries for their bland sleuths and insufficient fair play clueing. In his 1927 essay “The Great Detective Stories,” Willard Huntington Wright (author, as “S. S. Van Dine, of the Philo Vance mysteries), while allowing that Fletcher was “the most prolific and popular of all the current writers of detective fiction,” nevertheless found fault with him as a mystery writer: “His detectives are too often banal and colorless; and in many of his books the solution of the crime is reached through a series of fortuitous incidents rather than through any inherent ability on the part of his investigators.” Similarly, in Masters of Mystery: A Study of the Detective Story (1931), the first English language book length scholarly survey of the mystery genre, H. Douglas Thomson declared that “Mr. Fletcher is not a very good detective; he has little use for minute tangible evidence, and has not the patience to build an intricate structure of hypothesis.” More favorably, however, Dorothy L. Sayers explained, in a review of Fletcher’s Camberwell and Chaney novel Murder of the Only Witness (1933), that “Mr. Fletcher, in fact, does not write detective stories in the modern sense of the phrase…. For those who are weary of the cross-word type of detective fiction, [his mystery stories] are often a relief, and Mr. Fletcher has the knack of writing briskly and holding the

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attention.” His books appealed to those readers “who like being puzzled, but do not want to sit down to a mystery story as though it were an examination paper.” Several decades later the late Jacques Barzun concurred with Sayers, avowing enthusiastically that Fletcher “can make suspense out of a thread of milkweed.”25 Whatever one’s stance on the overall merits of J. S. Fletcher as a mystery writer, Yorkshire’s most prolific author unquestionably enjoyed tremendous popularity on both sides of the Atlantic and did much to satiate the ravenous hunger of early twentieth-century detective fiction fans for their favored form of literary sustenance. Mystery writing may have started out for Fletcher as, to use Edward Powys Mathers’ word, a parergon; yet over time it became Fletcher’s primary career preoccupation, drawing to it his considerable powers as a writer. With J. S. Fletcher, a poet, historian, biographer and regional and topographical writer became one of the mystery genre’s most prolific, popular and praised authors—surely an exceptional feat in English literature.

NOTES 1. Alfred C. Ward, “The Mystery of J. S. Fletcher,” The Bookman (February 1925). Even Fletcher did not know how many books he had written. Asked to settle a dispute between two members of his London club as to whether or not he had written more than one hundred books, Fletcher “pondered deeply, and declared that he must have written over a hundred, but the exact number he was quite unable to say.” Brisbane Sunday Mail, 7 April 1935, 27. In his genre survey Crime Fiction Since 1800: Detection, Death, Diversity (Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave, 2010), Stephen Knight takes note of Fletcher as a “successful, but now forgotten” mystery author; yet he does not highlight Fletcher’s remarkable popularity, particularly in the US, during the Golden Age of detective fiction (pp. 74–75). 2. J. S. Fletcher, Memories of a Spectator (London: Eveleigh Nash, 1912), 99, 128, 131– 132, 134, 139, 140. Concerning the treatment of his foot, Fletcher thought rather more of village herbalists than professional doctors, one of whom had wanted to amputate his foot! 3. Fletcher, Spectator, 169. 4. Ibid., 170, 180, 181–182. 5. Ibid., 192, 222–223, 225. Fletcher would dedicate his book Memorials of a Yorkshire Parish: An Historical Sketch of the Parish of Darrington (1917) “to the memory of my son Wilfrid John Liddon Fletcher who gave his life for his country near Gheluvelt in Flanders October 29, 1914.” 6. Valentine Fletcher, A Son of the Soil (unpublished biography, c. 1970s), Fletcher Collection, Pontefract Library. 7. Valentine Fletcher Interview; Fletcher, Soil. 8. Fletcher, Spectator, 229–231. 9. Ibid., 236–237. 10. T. S. Stribling to J. S. Fletcher, 12 August 1922, Fletcher Collection, Pontefract Library. Fletcher, Soil. T. S. Stribling stayed in London for three months, during which time he boarded at the same guest house with Fletcher. The two men “were together constantly,” notes Strib-

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ling’s biographer. “Fletcher’s companionship; his love of debate about fiction, religion, current events; and his tendency to pick up the check at a meal, eased the American’s homesickness.” Kenneth W. Vickers, T. S. Stribling: A Life of the Tennessee Novelist (Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press, 2004), 39. 11. Liberal social attitudes on the part of Rosamond Langbridge are suggested by her iconoclastic psychobiography, Charlotte Bronte: A Psychological Study (London: Heinemann, 1929), which shows the influence of Lytton Strachey’s Eminent Victorians (1918) in its scathing portrait of Bronte as a victim of Victorian-era sexual repression. See Lucasta Miller, The Bronte Myth (New York: Anchor Books, 2001), 144–148. 12. The term “Dean of Mystery Writers” originated with American mystery critic and humorist Will Cuppy and was, naturally, picked up by Fletcher’s American publishers. 13. Saturday Review 93 (April 1902): 530. 14. The Westminster Review 169 ( June 1908): 725; Sydney Freeman’s Journal, 1 July 1909, 26. 15. London Sunday Times, 16 July 1933, 25; Interview with Valentine Fletcher; The Bookman (March 1904): 266. Presumably by 1929, J. S. Fletcher had read at least a few detective novels, for on the back of the dust jacket of a reprint edition of E. C. Bentley’s Trent’s Last Case (1913), he is quoted (his name above those of Dorothy L. Sayers and Agatha Christie) praising Bentley’s landmark mystery as “the very best and cleverest detective story I have ever read.” H. Douglas Thomson, Masters of Mystery: A Study of the Detective Story (London: Collins, 1931), 149. Yet in an interview Fletcher gave only four months before his death, he stated that he did not read detective stories and that sometimes in a given novel he did not even know who the murderer was until he had nearly completed it. “Never Reads Thrillers,” Mount Gambier Border Watch, 18 September 1934, 4. 16. “The Parish Pump,” Perth The West Australian, 29 March 1912, 8; Fletcher, Soil. It is said that local resentment over the novel prompted Fletcher to depart permanently from his native county, settling for the rest of his life in London. The Town of Crooked Ways was adapted as a film in 1920. 17. New York Times Book Review, 15 August 1920; 30 September 1923. In the 1930s, Franklin D. Roosevelt would keep up this American presidential Fletcher-reading tradition, taking two Fletcher mysteries with him on his summer vacation in 1934. Los Angeles Times, 15 July 1934. 18. T. S. Stribling to J. S. Fletcher, 12 August 1922; The Outlook, 3 September 1924, 26, 4 June 1924, 200–201, 27 January 1926, 144; New York Times Book Review, 15 August 1920, 27 May 1923, 2 July 1933. Stribling also noted: “I bought some [Fletcher books] down in Porto Rico, and also in Venezuela.” On Herbert S. Gorman, the first biographer of the writer James Joyce, see The Greenwich Village Bookshop Door: A Portal to Bohemia, 1920–1925, at http://norman.hrc.utexas.edu/bookshopdoor/signature.cfm?item=72#1. James Lauren Ford’s Fletcher article in The Outlook was appropriately titled “The Fletcher Cult.” Author and Jazz Age guru F. Scott Fitzgerald (1890–1940) was not an apostle of this cult. In a 1924 essay Fitzgerald dismissed the “so dull, so worthless, so devoid of ideas” generation that preceded his own—“the men who were young in the nineties”—as those who “were brought up on Anthony Hope and are slowly growing senile on J. S. Fletcher’s detective stories and Foster’s Bridge.” F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Wait Till You Have Children of Your Own!” (1924), in F. Scott Fitzgerald, A Short Autobiography, edited by James L. W. West III (New York: Scribner, 2011), 80. 19. “Literary Mass Production; The Great Brighton Mystery,” New York Times Book Review, 8 August 1926. Ironically, in Memories of a Spectator Fletcher had vociferously condemned the impact of modern industrial capitalism on agrarian life in his native Yorkshire:

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“Once upon a time a harvest-field was a scene of life as well as of labour; there would be women and girls and boys at work, as well as men, and you would find younger children minding the babies under the trees, and hear voices and laughter on every side; nowadays, if you look into a cornfield which is being reaped, you see some hideous thing from Chicago, or some equally God-forsaken hole, at work amongst the wheat and barley, and a couple of men or lads doing what it used to take a dozen to do” (p. 56). 20. New York Times Book Review, 14 January 1923. 21. New York Times Book Review, 11 November 1923. 22. J. S. Fletcher, The Yorkshire Moorland Murder (New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1930), 31; The Bookman (September 1924): 83. In the novel, Fletcher references A. S. W. Rosenbach (1876–1952), the celebrated American book dealer and collector, who frequently visited England, in search of rare editions. 23. New York Times Book Review, 25 March 1934. Fletcher fans reading Murder in Wrides Park got a hint of the rising new crime order from the back panel of the book’s dust jacket, which was entirely devoted to THE NEWEST HAMMET THE GLASS KEY. 24. Torquemada, Introduction to J. S. Fletcher, Todmanhawe Grange (London: Thornton Butterworth, 1937). 25. “The Great Detective Stories” (1927), reprinted in Howard Haycraft, ed., The Art of the Mystery Story (1946; repr., New York: Carroll & Graf, 1992), 61; H. Douglas Thomson, Masters of Mystery: A Study of the Detective Story (London: Collins, 1931), 234; London Sunday Times, 14 August 1933, 7; Jacques Barzun and Wendell Hertig Taylor, A Catalogue of Crime (1971; repr., New York: Harper & Row, 1989), 616.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Books by J. S. Fletcher The Adventures of Archer Dawe (Sleuth-Hound). 1909. The Death That Lurks Unseen. 1899. The Diamonds. 1904. The Eleventh Hour. 1935. The Fear of the Night. 1903. Hardican’s Hollow. 1910. In the Mayor’s Parlor (US, The Time-Worn Town, 1924). 1922. The Investigators. 1902. The Ivory God. 1907. Life in Arcadia. 1896. The Lost Mr. Linthwaite. 1920. The Mantle of Ishmael. 1909. Marchester Royal. 1909. The Massingham Butterfly. 1926. Memories of a Spectator. 1912. The Middle Temple Murder. 1919. Murder in Wrides Park (US, The Murder in Wrides Park). 1931. The Mysterious Chinaman (US, Rippling Ruby). 1923. Paradise Court. 1908. Paul Campenhaye, Specialist in Criminology (US, The Clue of the Artificial Eye, 1939). 1918.

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The Secret Cargo. 1913. The Secret Way. 1903. The Threshing Floor. 1906. The Town of Crooked Ways. 1912. When Charles the First Was King. 1892. The Wonderful Wapentake. 1894. Wrychester Paradise (US, The Paradise Mystery, 1920). 1921. The Yorkshire Moorland Mystery (US, The Yorkshire Moorland Murder). 1930.

Works by Other Authors Barzun, Jacques and Wendell Hertig Taylor. A Catalogue of Crime. 1971. Reprint. New York: Harper & Row, 1989. Ellis, Roger and Richard Williams. A Bibliographical Checklist of the British First Editions. Winterton, UK: Dragonby Press, 2013. Fitzgerald, F. Scott. “Wait Till You Have Children of Your Own!” 1924. Reprinted in F. Scott Fitzgerald, A Short Autobiography. Edited by James L. W. West III. New York: Scribner, 2011. Fletcher, Valentine. A Son of the Soil. Unpublished biography (c. 1970s). Fletcher Collection. Pontefract Library. Knight, Stephen. Crime Fiction since 1800: Detection, Death, Diversity. 2004. Revised Edition. Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave, 2010. Langbridge, Rosamond. Charlotte Bronte: A Psychological Study. London: Heinemann, 1929. Miller, Lucasta. The Bronte Myth. New York: Anchor Books, 2001. Thomson, H. Douglas. Masters of Mystery: A Study of the Detective Story. London: Collins, 1931. Torquemada. Introductory Note to J. S. Fletcher and Torquemada, Todmanhawe Grange. London: Thornton Butterworth, 1937. Van Dine, S. S. “The Great Detective Stories.” 1927. Reprinted in The Art of the Mystery Story. Edited by Howard Haycraft. 1946. Revised Edition. New York: Carroll & Graf, 1992. Vickers, Kenneth W. T. S. Stribling: A Life of the Tennessee Novelist. Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press, 2004.

Journals and Newspapers The Bookman 1904, 1924, 1925, 1926 The Bookseller 1899 Brisbane Sunday Mail 1935 London Sunday Times 1933 Los Angeles Times 1934 Mount Gambier Border Watch 1934 New York Times Book Review 1920, 1923, 1926, 1933, 1934 The Outlook 1924, 1926 Perth The West Australian 1912 Saturday Review 1902 Sydney Freeman’s Journal 1909 The Westminster Review 1908

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Letters and Interviews T. S. Stribling to J. S. Fletcher, 12 August 1922, Fletcher Collection, Pontefract Library. Valentine Fletcher Interview (by Roger Ellis).

Webpage The Greenwich Village Bookshop Door: A Portal to Bohemia, 1920–1925, at http://norman.hrc. utexas.edu/bookshopdoor/signature.cfm?item=72#1.

From the Sublime to the Ridiculous: The Fleming Stone Detective Novels of Carolyn Wells CURTIS EVANS

“The period after World War Two,” observes Douglas G. Greene in John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (1995), “was a time of increasing dissatisfaction, disillusionment, and restlessness for John Dickson Carr.” The great Golden Age émigré American mystery writer’s romantic view of the world seemed to have cindered to ashes amidst the blaze of atrocities committed during World War Two and the postwar imposition of a drab gray regimen of regulations and restrictions by Britain’s Labour government. “The kind of world [Carr] admired seemed irrelevant,” notes Greene. “It was difficult for him to pretend that it had anything to do with modern life.” In his postwar mysteries Carr would increasingly seek refuge in an idealized fictional past. Period novels like The Bride of Newgate (1950) and The Devil in Velvet (1951) took the author and his readers back to what a colleague of his characterized as colorful eras of “sword play and sudden personal dramas, with costumes and carriages, and beaus and belles.”1 Carr sought mental refuge not merely in his own writing, but also in the books of other mystery authors he had read as a youth in Pennsylvania in the 1920s. While visiting the United States in November 1945, Carr, accompanied by his bibliophile friend Frederic Dannay (one-half of the mystery author Ellery Queen), toured New York’s antiquarian bookshops, in search of works by an author who was one of his adolescent favorites: the recently deceased Carolyn Wells (1862–1942). Carr collected a complete set of Wells’ eightytwo detective novels. When he returned to England in December, however, 60

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he faced obstacles to bringing these books with him. Only after some six months, in May 1946, he angrily reported to Dannay, did the British government grudgingly consent to allow the Wells novels in the country: “I finally got their permission—i.e., license to import—the Carolyn Wells books, after an incredible amount of wrangling and a stern letter saying it is not customary to allow importation of fiction.” Carr’s troubles with the British government over his anodyne (if hefty) collection of Carolyn Wells’ mystery fiction inspired in him this bitter denunciation of what he deemed outrageously overweening governmental authority: “The regulations in this country grow more and more damnable. One more war for liberty and we shall all be slaves.”2 In this case having been able to reach accommodation with authority, Carr spent the summer renewing his acquaintance with Wells. Sadly, he experienced that disappointment which is all too familiar to those seeking to rekindle an old flame, literary or otherwise. In late August he sadly wrote to Dannay of Wells, “I never want to see the lady’s literary face again.” The same year, when Carr penned his memorable essay on detective fiction, “The Grandest Game in the World,” he implicitly referred to Carolyn Wells when discussing, with gentle derision, the gaslight era of pre–Golden Age mystery fiction: “Regarding those who were not first class or anywhere near it, there is no need to mention names. Most of them were women, one or two of whom are still writing today…. We have pleasant memories of them all; theirs is the scent of arsenic and old lace. They call to mind colored frontispieces from their own books: the yellow gowns sweeping the floor, the padded rooms cozy with crime.” Many years later, in 1968, Carr more bluntly dismissed Wells, along with other old favorites Anna Katharine Green (1846–1935) and Isabel Ostrander (1883–1924), as “lost ladies now well lost.”3 After her death in 1942, Carolyn Wells, once one of the most popular American mystery writers, indeed became a “lost lady.” Over the remainder of the twentieth century not one of her many mystery novels was reprinted in the United States. Even before her demise, Howard Haycraft, in his influential survey Murder for Pleasure: The Life and Times of the Detective Story (1941), had reflected that In recent seasons Miss Wells has written on a definite schedule calling for the publication of three Fleming Stones, on fixed dates of the calendar, each year. The surprising fact, perhaps, is not that some of the stories scarcely rise to the mark, but that they have not perceptively diminished in popularity. Carolyn Wells is in many ways a remarkable woman—gracious, well-loved, gallant. She would presumably be the last to maintain that Fleming Stone belongs in the company of the immortals of detective literature. The fact that his adventures have given harmless pleasure to many thousands of readers she undoubtedly considers full and sufficient reward.4

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When, forty years later, the crime writer Bill Pronzini took notice of Wells in his 1982 book Gun in Cheek, it was to crown her, with dubious honor, a Queen of Alternative Crime Fiction (writing so monumentally bad it attains its own form of “classic” status). Similarly, the late Jacques Barzun and his colleague Wendell Hertig Taylor, in their massive mystery genre encyclopedia, A Catalogue of Crime (1971; expanded in 1989), allowed that Wells “was not a stupid woman,” yet concluded that “in almost all her novels of crime she supplies the reader with very little he can get a grip on: the situations are silly, the characters unbelievable, and the detection so at odds with the foolishness as to seem intrusive when it appears.”5 Fortunately for Wells, a knight—academic scholar Stephen Knight, to be precise—ventured forth with his Axe of Academe to slay the dragons of literary disdain and rescue the author’s gravely imperiled critical reputation. In Crime Fiction since 1800: Detection, Death, Diversity (2004, expanded in 2010), Knight argues that Wells with her debut mystery novel, The Clue (1909), “imagined into being the essence of the golden age story, which largely ignored social messages to concentrate on the deep-seated deceptions and possibly fatal betrayals of life in extended but also isolated families.” While conceding that Wells “had neither the literary style nor the technical polish that brought fame to later clue-puzzlers,” Knight urges nevertheless that “she deserves at least some recognition” as “someone who focused the preceding tendencies into what became the clue-puzzle.” To support this view, Knight offers a cursory discussion of The Clue, along with a consideration of Wells’ noteworthy pioneering study of mystery fiction, The Technique of the Mystery Story (1913; expanded in 1929).6 In this essay I offer the first lengthy analysis of Wells’ career as a mystery writer, based on a consideration of her greatest contribution to the genre, her Fleming Stone detective novels, which comprised three-fourths of her tremendous output of mystery fiction. While allowing that Wells’ critics in the twentieth century gave insufficient attention to the matter of the role she may have played in influencing the form of the Golden Age mystery, I concede the truth in some of their criticisms of the author. To say that Wells’s mystery fiction often lacked the “literary style” and “technical polish” of later Golden Age detective writers is something of an understatement (in fact, to say it is something of an understatement is something of an understatement). As Carr’s pronounced letdown after his 1946 Wells reading binge suggests, it simply cannot be gainsaid that during her career as a detective novelist Wells published a great number of bad mysteries, “classics” only in Bill Pronzini’s alternative sense; and that this fact necessarily limited her influence, even in the United States, where admittedly she enjoyed a faithful fan base of readers (in England she

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was much less well-known, although G. K. Chesterton read and praised her mystery Vicky Van). Yet earlier in her career Wells did in fact produce some excellent detective novels and she was a prolific and popular mystery author for over three decades, publishing eighty-two mystery novels and a single mystery novella between 1907 and her death in 1942. She indeed merits more serious attention from mystery genre scholars. Carolyn Wells was born in 1862 in Rahway, a place to which she refers nostalgically in her autobiography, The Rest of My Life (1937), as “a gay and airy little town in middle New Jersey.” Her parents, “the very ultramarine of Blue Presbyterians,” were William Edmund Wells, a wealthy realtor descended from a colonial Connecticut governor, and Anna Potter Woodruff, a descendant of some of the earliest New Jersey settlers. Two of Carolyn’s sisters died in childhood, one from the same scarlet fever contagion that struck Carolyn, leaving the future author’s hearing progressively impaired over time (she needed hearing aids ever after in order to hear at all). “[Deafness] doesn’t bother me so much,” Carolyn later wrote resignedly, “but it is a hardship, and though I bear it smilingly it is an insincere smile.”7 Carolyn and her remaining sister, Ida Eloise, remained at the family home, enjoying “its broad lawns, big trees, flower gardens and pleasant verandas.” Carolyn finally left Rahway in 1918 when at the age of fifty-five she married Hadwin Houghton, a sixty-two-year-old widower of less than three months duration who was a partner in Valentine & Company, a maker of paints and varnishes, and a cousin of Henry Oscar Houghton, co-founder of the publishing firm Houghton, Mifflin. Born in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1855, Hadwin Houghton had a somewhat sophisticated background, having represented his company in Paris for six years, supported women’s suffrage as far back as the 1890s and been a longtime member of a social circle in New York that included numerous literary types. The couple took up residence in Manhattan at the newly erected Hotel des Artistes, an elegant and exclusive apartment building overlooking Central Park that was later home for a time to such luminaries as Rudolf Valentino, Norman Rockwell and Noel Coward; but their connubial bliss was short-lived. Both Houghton and Carolyn’s mother died the next year (Ida Wells had passed away back in 1902 and William Wells in 1906). “I had him with me but a few years,” Carolyn recalled of Houghton in her autobiography, “and those were so crammed with joyful interest that they are now my most blessed memory.” Carolyn remained in New York, residing until her own death in 1942 at her Hotel des Artistes apartment with a housekeepercompanion and a cook.8 Unlike her brother, Walter Farrington Wells, a Rutgers-educated electrical engineer who became vice-president and general manager of the Edison Elec-

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tric Illuminating Company of Brooklyn, Carolyn Wells eschewed college, telling her parents that from her experience in primary and high school she had concluded “that there was more waste motion in school routine than in anything else I knew of ”; yet in her life she unquestionably enjoyed a great deal of exposure to book learning. “I do not say I am highly educated,” she wrote in her autobiography, “but I know a lot.” Already reading at the age of three, she eventually “romped like mad though Dickens and Thackeray, Scott and Hardy, Trollope and Jane Austen” and “reveled in the Elizabethan poets, essayists and humorists.” Wells became the valedictorian of her Rahway High School class and in lieu of college—to which she objected to attending, she writes, because she “found that the girls at the college Mother liked had to make their own beds”—she was taught at home by private tutors in languages, history, science (including Evolution, which she “swallowed whole”), psychiatry, religion and philosophy. In later life she recalled with particular fondness the three years of summer school classes in Shakespeare that she took in Massachusetts under William James Rolfe. Eventually Wells became librarian of the Rahway Public Library. Although she modestly admitted that the library “was open only three days in the week and three evenings,” making this position “not onerous,” she nevertheless avowed that “it was a source of joy and pride to me to have full sway over library affairs.”9 Wells’ entrée into the literary world came through her interest in the nonsense works of Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll. Her earliest publications were humorous poems that appeared in the 1890s in Punch and The Lark, a journal published and edited by Gelett Burgess (1866–1961), creator of the Goops and author of “The Purple Cow.” Beginning in 1900 with Idle Idylls, Wells began publishing successful volumes of verse; her best-known book overall probably remains A Nonsense Anthology (1902). Wells was adept at word games and puzzles, a talent which obviously served her well as a writer of nonsense verse but also came of great use to her in another of her major literary endeavors: the writing of detective fiction.10 Like Agatha Christie, Carolyn Wells first became smitten with detective fiction after hearing read aloud a mystery by the American detective novelist Anna Katharine Green. Christie was eight years old at the time, which dates her mystery “christening” to 1898 or 1899. Well’s Green-inspired epiphany apparently took place in the same period, perhaps 1900 or 1901, when Wells was in her late thirties, for in May 1902 she published in The Bookman a poem, A Ballade of Detection, that made clear she was now well-acquainted with detective fiction: To my mind nothing can exceed The tales of Edgar Allan Poe;

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Of Anna Katharine Green I’ve need, Du Boisgobey, Gaboriau; I’ve Conan Doyle’s works all a-row, And Ottolengui and the rest; How other books seem tame and slow! I like Detective Stories best.11

In her 1937 autobiography, Wells fondly recalls the day she was introduced to the wonders of detective fiction: It was a hopelessly rainy day, and a jolly neighbor of ours came over in the morning, saying that she had come to spend the day, and as she had planned to read a new detective story that day, she had brought it along and would read it aloud to as many of us as cared to listen. She gathered an interested audience of three or four, and began to read. I had never read a detective story, had scarcely even heard of one, and I was spellbound from the first page. The book was one of Anna Katharine Green’s, not her earliest, but a later one, called The [sic] Affair Next Door. To a listener entirely unversed in crime stories or detective work it was a revelation, and I fell for its theme song at once. I had always been fond of card games and of puzzles of all sorts, and this book, in plot and workmanship, seemed to me the apotheosis of interesting puzzle reading. The mystery to be solved, the clues to be discovered and utilized in the solution, all these appealed to my brain as a marvelous new sort of entertainment which I eagerly longed to become more familiar with. Needless to say I snapped at this bait like a hungry turtle, and my omnivorous taste took in all mystery tales, backward to Poe and Wilkie Collins and forward to Sherlock Homes and Fleming Stone.12

Carolyn Wells’ greatest Great Detective, Fleming Stone, debuted in 1907 in the author’s first published work of mystery fiction, a novella of some 40,000 words titled A Chain of Evidence that was published in Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine (in 1912 she expanded this novella into the third Fleming Stone novel; see below).13 Her first full-fledged detective novel, The Clue, was published on September 27, 1909 (again her publisher was Lippincott, who would publish all her detective novels). This novel, which set the mold for most of Wells’ other pre–Golden Age mysteries, also features Fleming Stone, who over thirty-four years appeared in sixty-one novels in the United States. Given that Wells’ mysteries were often serialized in American newspapers, Fleming Stone surely was one of the most omnipresent and familiar of all Golden Age sleuths, though he is little-known today. Wells opens The Clue, as she would so many of her mysteries, with an admiring description of the murder setting, a palatial country mansion located in the northeastern United States. Here the mansion is the New Jersey home of

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haughty heiress Madeleine Van Norman. On the eve of her wedding, with the house full of guests, “Magnificent Madeleine,” as she is nicknamed, is found dead in the library from a single stab wound from an ornate Venetian letter opener. Wells repeatedly states that on the night of the murder the house was securely locked, surely leading the modern reader to suspect the one significant character who was not actually staying at the house that night. Fleming Stone—“nearly fifty years old, with graying hair and a kindly, responsive face”—is not called in until page 313 of a 341 page novel, but he solves the murder of Magnificent Madeleine in incredibly short order. Somehow Stone is able to immediately divine that the murderer entered the house through the basement and then squeezed himself up the ash-chute of the drawing room fireplace; and he soon nabs the murderer through a series of deductions that he bases mostly on facts to which the author never made her readers privy (the clue of the title, by the way, is a cachou, or lozenge, dropped by the murderer at the scene of the crime). Even though Stone’s case is as flimsy as cardboard, the murderer promptly confesses and obligingly commits suicide on the spot.14 In addition to the setting of wealth and privilege, other elements in The Clue that recur frequently in Wells’ later books are: murder by stabbing (presumably shy of ballistics, Wells rarely used gun murders); naïve, or to put it less charitably, blithely inept police procedure; a prolonged inquest; a preoccupation with beautiful, willful and wealthy young women; a locked room, access to which is obtained by some form of secret passage; a worshipful attitude to what Wells terms “aristocracy”; and the immediate confession and suicide by the murderer upon her/his exposure. Additionally, the very late entry of Fleming Stone is a common feature of Wells’ pre–Golden Age novels. In most of these early mysteries, well-meaning but insufficiently adept investigators flounder for 90 percent of the novel until Stone arrives. In The Clue these early investigators include a young man and woman, members of the wedding party, who fall in love during the course of their amateur sleuthing. This attractive and appealing couple, who anticipated Agatha Christie’s Tommy and Tuppence in The Secret Adversary (1922) by a dozen years, actually is much more interesting than Fleming Stone, whose appearance in the novel feels positively perfunctory. As already indicated, the mystery plot itself is a fizzle. Wells followed The Clue with The Gold Bag (1911), an inferior knock-off of Anna Katharine Green’s landmark The Leavenworth Case (1878) that also has a country house setting. Next came A Chain of Evidence (1912), which is set in an expensive New York apartment building rather than a country mansion, yet also, like The Clue, offered readers a weak and amateurish locked room problem. Both these novels also have obtuse male narrators who fall in love

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at first sight with beautiful young female suspects and bumble about as amateur detectives before Fleming Stone comes to save the day, as do Wells’ next novels, both country house tales, The Maxwell Mystery (1913) and Anybody but Anne (1914), the latter of which also features a secret passage. Wells reverted to third person narration with The White Alley (1915), but she again resorted to a country house setting and the devices of a locked room and a secret passage. Although not one of these mysteries is an outstanding work of genre art, as a group they are remarkable in the way that in them cohere many of the elements that are associated with the Golden Age mystery, most obviously wealthy country house settings, locked rooms and domestic squabbles. During this time, it should be noted as well, Wells helped establish her credentials as an authority on mystery writing with the publication of The Technique of the Mystery Story (1913), a pioneering genre study wherein she anticipated Golden Age aesthetic theorists like S. S. Van Dine (Willard Huntington Wright), Ronald Knox and T. S. Eliot by rigidly defining the pure detective story as “a stirring mental exercise, with just enough of the complex background of life to distinguish it from a problem in mathematics.” Yet Wells also anticipated Dorothy L. Sayers in discussing the relationship between the detective novel and the novel of manners (in the 1930s Sayers would advocate merging the two forms). “The technique of the Mystery Story does not permit it to be a novel of manners, and yet the manners must not be neglected,” pronounced Wells. “If a Detective Story is to be literature, what may be called its manners must be looked after quite as carefully as its plot, though by no means with such conspicuous result.”15 Adopting more of a manners novel approach, Wells added a new twist to her formula in 1916, with her seventh Fleming Stone novel, The Curved Blades, in which she introduces her Great Detective much earlier and has him fall in love with a beautiful young female suspect in the case, in a move reminiscent of a recent English detective novel, E. C. Bentley’s Trent’s Last Case (1913; in the US The Woman in Black), that she had assuredly read (for the rest of her life she cited Bentley’s landmark mystery as one of the greatest detective novels). Happily not dependent on a locked room problem, the solution to which inevitably rests with a secret passage, The Curved Blades is easily Wells’ best novel up to that time, being in some ways a much-improved reworking of plot elements from The Clue. The book also inaugurated the most accomplished period of Wells’ work in mystery fiction, around 1916 to 1920, when she produced ten detective novels, five of them with Fleming Stone. All the Stone books from these years— The Curved Blades, The Mark of Cain (1917), Vicky Van (1918), The Diamond Pin (1919) and Raspberry Jam (1920)—are of consistently good quality.16 The events of The Curved Blades take place primarily at Garden Steps, yet

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another great country mansion in the vicinity of New York City (specifically Merivale, Long Island). The querulous and imperious mistress of Garden Steps, Lucy Carrington, is found dead at her dressing table. In a tableau the ghastly incongruity of which is worthy of P. D. James, she is decked out in two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry, with a smile on her face and a paper snake wrapped around her neck. Suspects include Carrington’s beautiful brunette niece, Pauline Stuart; her beautiful blonde social secretary, Anita Frayne; her ingratiating cousin, Gray Haviland; her French maid, Estelle; her prying parvenu neighbor, Mrs. Frothingham; and Mrs. Frothingham’s houseguest, a bogus French count named Henri Charlier. Fleming Stone arrives on the scene in the middle of the novel, soon clearing up a subsidiary mystery, though the main conundrum is not solved until the final few chapters. The solution, which includes an explanation of the novel’s enigmatic title (for the victim was not stabbed) is quite clever and pleasingly arises organically from the character of the murder victim. To be sure, in The Curved Blades there is the snobbery and condescension characteristic of many of the Wells mysteries. This time it is not directed solely at servants, but rather a polyglot of foreigners, be they French, Spanish, Arab or African (at one point, Pauline Stuart, visiting Egypt, recoils “in a panic of fear” when an importunate native guide lays “his brown, long fingers on her arm”). None of Wells’ characters, especially the haughty Pauline, are particularly sympathetic to modern-day readers and the love passages between Fleming Stone and Pauline are improbably stilted, following a mystery genre convention unfortunately still prevalent at the time, where lovers speak to each other like actors in Victorian stage melodramas: “You don’t want to stay in Cairo, do you? Shall we try Algiers for a honeymoon spot? Or, if you don’t want Africa at all, how about Greece, or over to Algeciras? Whither away, my Heart’s Dearest?” “Whither? Together, then what matter whither?” said Pauline….

The ending of The Curved Blades leaves readers with the impression that Fleming Stone is on the verge of wedded matrimony (in this respect Wells anticipated Dorothy L. Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane by two decades). Possibly Wells, like Arthur Conan Doyle, contemplated having her Great Detective make his exit from fiction. Suggestively, the same year that The Curved Blades appeared, Wells introduced a new series detective, Alan Lane. However, Lane appeared in only two novels, while Stone soon reemerged in The Mark of Cain (1917). We learn in The Mark of Cain that Fleming Stone indeed has married, but to my knowledge Pauline never appeared again in the series (indeed, in later novels we are left with the impression that Stone is a bachelor). However, in The Mark of Cain Wells introduces a new person into

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the life of Fleming Stone, Terence “Fibsy” McGuire, a fifteen-year-old office boy drawn into a murder case when his boss is slain. Upon meeting Fleming Stone, Fibsy confides to the great man that he has the “detective instinct” and is a keen reader of pulp fiction: “You see, I read every week ‘The Sleuth’s Own Magazine’…. I know them magazines like a mother’d know her own children. I read ‘em over and over.” With Fibsy—redhaired and freckled, feisty yet mindful of Fleming Stone’s authority—Wells offered a refreshingly positive portrayal of a striving representative of America’s working and immigrant classes. He serves as Fleming Stone’s assistant in eight novels and in all of them is a much more interesting character than any of Wells’ bland patricians, Stone included. Fibsy McGuire does much of the key leg work for Fleming Stone in what probably is Wells’ finest detective novel, Vicky Van. Published in February 1918, shortly before the April Fools’ Day wedding of Wells and Hadwin Houghton that was performed at the home of inventor Frank Julian Sprague (1857–1934), Vicky Van is dedicated to Sprague’s fourteen-year-old son, Julian King Sprague, who Wells designates “one of my best chums.” This popular novel, which was filmed in 1919, tells the story of Victoria Van Allen (“Vicky Van” to her numerous friends), a well-off single woman living alone in a New York town house (but for her loyal maid) who loves to give mildly Bohemian parties.17 It is narrated by one of the lady’s admirers, the lawyer Chester Calhoun, who, though rather prim on the surface, has an unorthodox streak himself. One terrible evening a man is fatally stabbed at one of Vicky Van’s soirees and the lady herself is glimpsed standing over the slain man’s body, holding the knife that accomplished the dark deed. Along with her maid, she flees the scene of the crime; and the rest of the novel is devoted to settling two questions: who killed the dead man and where is Vicky Van? The plot that Wells put together for this novel is wonderfully constructed, anticipating several favorite gambits of Agatha Christie. Additionally, with the question of women’s suffrage looming large on the American political horizon, Wells addresses, in a more sophisticated way than usual, the question of female autonomy. Wells’ interest is firmly class-oriented, resting with privileged white women; yet the seriouslyhandled theme gives Vicky Van some of the depth of mainstream fiction. There even is some surprising resemblance to weightier works like Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence (1920) and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby (1925). Surely if Wells was meant to write a detective novel, that novel is Vicky Van. Critics adored Vicky Van. “Seasoned devotees of this class of fiction … will be made to gasp with amazement when the truth comes out,” declared a delighted reviewer in the Boston Transcript, while Publishers Weekly singled out for particular praise not Fleming Stone, but his young assistant: “The mys-

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tery is finally solved by quite the most fascinating young person in the whole gallery of detectives’ helpers, Terence McGuire, alias Fibsy.” A dozen years later, no less an authority than the great G. K. Chesterton, creator of Father Brown, recalled “Mrs. Carolyn Wells” as “the author of an admirable mystery called ‘Vicky Van.’”18 In the years immediately after Vicky Van, Carolyn Wells’ critical reputation crested. In 1922 Chesterton warmly referred to her as “the American lady who has produced many of our most charming stories of murder and mystification.”19 Yet soon a remarkably steep decline overtook her mystery fiction. Between 1921 and 1942, Wells published sixty-two detective novels, including fifty Fleming Stones, that were, for the most part, not just mediocre, but downright awful. Of the numerous Fleming Stone books from this period I have found only a couple that I could recommend: a goodish New England village mystery intriguingly titled The Furthest Fury (1924) and a flawed but naively appealing late country house tale, Gilt-Edged Guilt (1938). Sadly, much more characteristic of Wells’ output in the Golden Age are books like The Tannahill Tangle (1928), The Umbrella Murder (1931), The Roll-Top Desk Mystery (1932), The Clue of the Eyelash (1933) and The Beautiful Derelict (1935). In these detective novels Wells seems primarily interested in complacently detailing the splendid lives of the rich and famous denizens of her various locales, be they New York or New England country mansions, New York City brownstones or Atlantic beach resorts. Although hard-boiled crime fiction was gaining popularity in the 1920s and 1930s, Wells was having none of it. She consistently disclaimed any interest in social realism and underworld crime, loftily declaring in one interview: “My murders always take place in the white collar class.”20 Certainly the lower criminal elements are nowhere in sight in The Umbrella Murder, when foul death strikes fashionable Club Spindrift on the coast of New Jersey. “Neither effort nor expense was spared to make the best and most elaborate beach resort in the country,” reports Wells of Club Spindrift. “The Clubhouse was a gem in itself, and the Casino was another. It was all exclusive, and expensive.” Sadly a cloud drifts over Club Spindrift’s sunny horizon when wealthy and beautiful heiress Janet Converse is fatally dispatched with a poisoned syringe while she lounges under a beach umbrella, clad in her gaily striped beach pajamas, this season’s IT fashion trend. Police and Club patrons alike have trouble believing that the murderer could be one of those “rollicking youngsters” in Janet’s smart crowd, who naturally are beloved by all on account of their good looks, stylish clothes and lavish living—all sure signs, evidently, of impeccable breeding. As one man fervently avows: “Those girls are as handsome as any I ever saw. And the boys are thoroughbreds.” Be that as it may,

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suspicion starts to focus on Janet’s aristocratic fiancée, Stacpoole Meade (son of Stuyvesant Meade, don’t you know)—until he too is murdered. From here, the tale becomes—not to put too fine a point on it—utterly ridiculous. Drawing upon “scientific” principles cribbed from the physiological criminologist Cesare Lombroso, Fleming Stone to everyone’s surprise spots in Janet’s crowd a barking mad murderer. More inane yet is Wells’ immediate follow-up to The Umbrella Murder, The Roll-Top Desk Mystery. Here we are introduced to an “aristocratic” New England family, composed of father Linus Berkeley, son Lowell and sister-inlaw Marie Winslow. Linus Berkeley is actually a Virginian, explains Fleming Stone’s friend Mayo Farnum, but withal he is yet another one of Wells’ thoroughbreds. “The gentleness and courtesy of the Southern gentleman never deserted him,” explains Farnum, “while the absorption of straight-backed New England ruggedness rather built up a character of sterling worth, and in consequence Berkeley is one of the finest personalities I know.” Over the course of this supremely batty novel, the purportedly gentle and courteous Linus Berkeley slays Lowell’s two successive girlfriends, in both cases to prevent his son from marrying a woman whom the proud southern “aristocrat” deems unworthy of the Berkeleys. Yet more repulsively, he kills the women by breaking their necks, in the first case by means of a roll-top desk and in the second by means of a window sash. Making this novel worse yet are the revelations that the first murder victim, Rosalie Buchanan, was one-eighth African-American, and that Linus’ knowledge of Rosalie’s mixed-race ancestry is precisely what motivated him to kill her. “Never mind details,” he declares, “you can imagine what it means to a Virginian gentleman to have his son contract an alliance with one who has even the slightest trace of Negro blood.” Although Rosalie’s friend, Mimi Bell, did not share Rosalie’s “tainted” racial heritage, she too had to die, once Lowell, on the rebound, became matrimonially interested in her. “Oh, I know you will say there were other ways out,” states Linus succinctly, “but there weren’t.” Modern readers will beg to differ, but Lowell, Marie Winslow, Mayo Farnum and, worst of all for the maintenance of even the merest shred of detective novel propriety, Fleming Stone all agree that Linus was eminently justified in savagely breaking the necks of these two provokingly forward young women of questionable social backgrounds. Wells gives the last words in the novel to her purportedly Great Detective, and outrageous words they are: “‘Good night, Mr. Berkeley,’ Stone said, holding out his hand. ‘I offer you my respect and my congratulation. You found yourself in a mighty difficult position, from which you saw only one way out and you took it. You had the highest and finest motive possible, and it goes to prove that Love will find a Way.’”21

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Unquestionably, Carolyn Wells reached her career low with The Roll-Top Desk Mystery, one of the most risible mysteries published during the Golden Age of detective fiction. The novel deservedly drew an appalled reaction from at least one book reviewer, who hailed from a state that was not even known, to say the least, for liberal views on black-white social relations. In the Oklahoma City Daily Oklahoman, May Frank Rhoads, the editor of the newspaper’s literary page, noting that Wells had a new detective novel out, disgustedly declared: “I don’t want to see it unless I find that she has publicly repented (before a notary) for ‘The Roll-Top Desk [Mystery].’” The best that can be said in Wells’ defense was that at the time she wrote this embarrassing book (and The Umbrella Murder, which immediately preceded it), she was confined to her home on account of chronic heart disease and had been given a prognosis of two years to live. With the use of digitalis, Wells in fact recovered to the point where she was able to become ambulatory again in 1934 (and she would live eight more years), but her early 1930s health problems surely were not conducive to good writing.22 Unfortunately, most all the mysteries that Wells published over a twentyyear period are poor, a fact recognized by many contemporary critics. In the Saturday Review of Literature, for example, Dashiell Hammett ridiculed Wells’1928 detective novel The Tannahill Tangle: “This carelessly put-together detective story deals with our old friend, murder-in-the-practicallyhermetically-sealed-room…. Most of the people in the book are detective-story readers and they spend a lot of time talking about detective stories, which is bad enough, but their dialogue reaches its real depths when they indulge in what is supposed to be sophisticated banter. Toward the end, as usual, Fleming Stone is brought in, and clears things up by means of new developments and of clues that the readers hasn’t been told about. It is all quite fourth-rate.”23 To be sure, Hammett in general despised the sort of country house mysteries Wells wrote, yet other reviewers in the 1920s and 1930s joined him in particularly heaping scorn on Wells’ books. In the New York Times Book Review, for instance, a reviewer huffily complained of the plotting incoherence of The Beautiful Derelict (Wells’ 1935 take on the Mary Celeste maritime mystery): “When an author describes a murder as having been committed by means of an ingenious mechanical device, it is, in our humble opinion, the duty of that author to explain how that device worked and how it was made to appear something other than what it was.” Other reviewers, like the Daily Oklahoman’s Todd Downing, himself an accomplished classical detective novelist, were more indulgent of Wells’ fictional inanities, treating her rather like a favored eccentric aunt. “A pleasant time was had by all in adjusting artificial eyelashes, drinking cocktails and discussing the murder of Mr. Vane and the blonde ste-

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nographer,” he wryly wrote of the Fleming Stone mystery The Clue of the Eyelash. “Wells fans will like it,” was the common refrain from more tenderhearted reviewers like Downing.24 And, indeed, no matter how silly the Wells books became, Wells fans there always were (“Whither away, Wells fans?” one is tempted to ask). Throughout the Golden Age Carolyn Wells, critically bulletproof, was one of the most successful of all Golden Age mystery writers, with sales of her Fleming Stone detective novels from 1909 to 1936 averaging nearly 13,000 copies per title. At a time when American mystery readers mostly borrowed their favored form of fiction from rental libraries and the better class of detective novel averaged a sale of merely 3000 copies, an average of 13,000 copies put a mystery writer near the top of the sales heap (Mary Roberts Rinehart was one of the very few mystery writers who sold more than 15,000–20,000 copies per title in the United States). By early 1937 sales of Fleming Stone novels had realized almost one million dollars, something on the order of sixteen million dollars today. Contemporary newspaper interviews with Wells typically took note of her beautiful luxury apartment filled with exquisite antiques. Among other things, Wells was a member of New York’s Colony Club, a tony social organization for the city’s elite women founded by Florence Jaffray Harriman in 1903, her friends included Thomas Edison, Theodore Roosevelt and Herbert Hoover and she put together a valuable collection of nearly five hundred Walt Whitman volumes, bequeathed upon her death to the Library of Congress.25 For Carolyn Wells, crime truly did pay. Most Golden Age mystery scribblers could only dream of enjoying her level of financial success. Surveying Carolyn Wells’ many years of mystery writing, one has to wonder about what led to the drastic decline in her crime fiction, from an accomplished, even relatively sophisticated, piece of work like Vicky Van to utter dreck like The Roll-Top Desk Mystery. Did she lose her creative spark or become complacent? Was she, with her love of nonsense literature, simply guying a gullible reading public? We may never know the answer to these questions, which arguably constitute Carolyn Wells’ greatest mystery.

NOTES 1. Douglas G. Greene, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (New York: Otto Penzler, 1995), 300. 2. Greene, Miracles, 16, 301–202, 309–310. 3. Ibid., 17, 310; John Dickson Carr, The Door to Doom and Other Detections, edited by Douglas G. Greene (1980; repr., New York: International Polygonics, 1991), 316–317. 4. Howard Haycraft: Murder for Pleasure: The Life and Times of the Detective Story (1941; repr., New York: Biblo and Tannen, 1974), 93.

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5. Bill Pronzini, Gun in Cheek: A Study of Alternative Crime Fiction (1982; repr., New York: Mysterious Press, 1987), 43–45; Jacques Barzun and Wendell Hertig Taylor, A Catalogue of Crime (1971; rev. ed., New York: Harper & Row, 1989), 541. 6. Steven Knight, Crime Fiction since 1800: Detection, Death, Diversity (2004; rev. ed., Houndmills, UK: Palgrave, 2010), 82–83. 7. Carolyn Wells, The Rest of My Life (New York and London: Lippincott, 1937), 30, 54, 78, 189. In this essay I also have drawn biographical information on Wells from Joan N. Burstyn, ed., Past and Promise: Lives of New Jersey Women (1990; repr., Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1997), 205–207. 8. “Hadwin Houghton,” Paint, Oil and Drug Review 68 (September 1919): 16; New York Times, 25 April 1894; Wells, Life, 223–224, 233. “Hotel Des Artistes—1 West 67th Street,” nyc BLOG Estate/Manhattan Real Estate, at http://nycblogestate.com/2007/10/hotel-desartistes–1-west–67th-street.html. Valentine & Company is a parent company of the Valspar Corporation, today one of the world’s largest makers of paints and varnishes. In her autobiography Wells devotes space to singing the praises of Bridget Mary O’Connell, “the most capable and responsible housekeeper in the world.” Wells, Life, 242. O’Connell was the principle legatee in Wells’ will. New York Times, 16 April 1942. 9. “W. F. Wells,” Electrical Review and Western Electrician 65 (10 October 1914): 697; Wells, Life, 36, 45, 48, 49. 10. Nancy Walker and Zita Dresser, eds., Redressing the Balance: American Women’s Literary Humor form Colonial Times to the 1980s (Oxford, MS: University Press of Mississippi, 1988), 133–138; Wells, Life, 111. The other literary field for which Wells is best-known is juvenile literature. Between 1901 and 1919 she published nearly two dozen books in two separate series detailing the doings of a couple of irrepressible girls named, respectively, Patty and Marjorie. The latter series, which Wells commenced with Marjorie’s Vacation in 1907, likely was inspired by Carolyn Wells’ niece, Margery Wells (1901–1995). These books are still read today. 11. Carolyn Wells, “A Ballade of Detection,” The Bookman (May 1902): 231. 12. Agatha Christie, An Autobiography (1977; repr., London HarperCollins, 2011), 211; Wells, Life, 50–51. That Affair Next Door was published in 1897. 13. “A Chain of Evidence,” Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine 80 (October 1907): 293–337. 14. In Crime Fiction Stephen Knight writes that in The Clue Stone “is able to show that an uncle … was able to enter the house through a very narrow tunnel and commit the crime” (p. 82). In fact, the murderer is not the uncle, who is dead when the novel opens, and the actual slayer entered the house through the basement (which was not locked after all), then made his way to the drawing room by crawling up the tiny ash-chute. 15. Carolyn Wells, The Technique of the Mystery Story (Springfield MA: The Home Correspondence School, 1913), 59–60, 62–63. 16. The additional Wells mystery titles from this period are two featuring gentleman amateur detective Alan Lane and three featuring the sleuthing duo of Pennington “Penny” Wise and his female assistant, Zizi. Between 1918 and 1923, Wells published a total of eight Penny Wise and Zizi mysteries, making this her second most important series. 17. The film version of Vicky Van was titled “The Woman Next Door.” Three other mystery films based on Wells novels were made in the 1910s: “The Mystery of West Sedgwick” (1913, based on the novel The Gold Bag); The White Alley (1916) and The Mark of Cain (1917). 18. Book Review Digest 14 (February 1919): 465; G. K. Chesterton, “The Ideal Detective Story,” The Illustrated London News, 24 October 1930, reprinted in G. K. Chesterton, Collected Works, Volume 35, The Illustrated London News 1929–1931 (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1991), 399. 19. G. K. Chesterton, “Principles of the Detective Story,” The Illustrated London News,

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19 August 1922, reprinted in G. K. Chesterton, Collected Works, Volume 32, The Illustrated London News 1920–1922 (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1989). 20. St. Joseph News-Press, 18 June 1939, 12B. An early manifestation of Carolyn Wells’ attitude on this matter can be found in her Technique of the Mystery Story, wherein she advises prospective mystery writers: “The facts of a murder are in themselves sufficiently unattractive to make it unnecessary to add to the distastefulness of the story by unpleasant surroundings. Let the people in your story be at least fairly well to do, of at least moderately good social position and of a decent education…. For one reader who enjoys tales of slum life there are a dozen who prefer ladies and gentlemen, if not lords and ladies.” Wells, Technique, 288. 21. The name Mayo Farnum suggests that Wells may have read Phoebe Atwood Taylor’s The Cape Cod Mystery (1931), wherein debuted Taylor’s celebrated amateur sleuth, the Yankee “character” Asey Mayo. She may also have been influenced as well by Ellery Queen’s use of knowledge of racial miscegenation as a murder motive in their highly-praised debut novel, The Roman Hat Mystery (1929). 22. Oklahoma City Daily Oklahoman, 17 July 1932, 41; Berkeley Daily Gazette, 25 July 1932, 6. 23. Saturday Review of Literature, 1 December 1928, 440; Robert L. Gale, A Dashiell Hammett Compendium (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2000), 26. 24. New York Times Book Review, 2 June 1935. On Todd Downing’s crime fiction reviews, see Curtis Evans, Clues and Corpses: The Detective Fiction and Mystery Criticism of Todd Downing (Greenville, OH: Coachwhip, 2013). 25. Daily Oklahoman, 17 January 1937; Marie F. Rodell, Mystery Fiction: Theory and Technique (New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce, 1943), 215; St. Joseph News Press, 18 July 1939, 12B; Charleston News and Courier, 24 March 1929, 7.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Novels by Carolyn Wells Note: Lippincott published all the Wells novels listed below. Anybody but Anne. 1914. The Beautiful Derelict. 1935. The Clue. 1909. A Chain of Evidence. 1912. The Clue of the Eyelash. 1933. The Curved Blades. 1916. The Diamond Pin. 1919. The Furthest Fury. 1924. Gilt-Edged Guilt. 1938. The Gold Bag. 1911. The Mark of Cain. 1917. The Maxwell Mystery. 1913. Raspberry Jam. 1920. The Roll-Top Desk Mystery. 1932. The Tannahill Tangle. 1928. The Umbrella Murder. 1931. Vicky Van. 1918. The White Alley. 1915

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Other Works by Carolyn Wells “A Ballade of Detection.” The Bookman (May 1902). Pp. 231. “A Chain of Evidence.” Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine 80 (October 1907). Pp. 293–337. The Rest of My Life. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1937. The Technique of the Mystery Story. Springfield, MA: The Home Correspondence School, 1913. Revised version published in 1929.

Works by Other Authors Barzun, Jacques, and Wendell Hertig Taylor. A Catalogue of Crime. 1971. Revised Edition. New York: Harper & Row, 1989. Carr, John Dickson. The Door to Doom and Other Detections. Edited by Douglas G. Greene 1980. Reprinted. New York: International Polygonics, 1991. Chesterton, G. K. “The Ideal Detective Story.” The Illustrated London News. 24 October 1930. Reprinted in G. K. Chesterton, Collected Works. Volume 35. The Illustrated London News 1929–1931. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1991. _____. “Principles of the Detective Story.” The Illustrated London News. 19 August 1922. Reprinted in G. K. Chesterton, Collected Works. Volume 32. The Illustrated London News 1920–1922. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1989. Evans, Curtis. Clues and Corpses: The Detective Fiction and Mystery Criticism of Todd Downing. Greenville, OH: Coachwhip, 2013. Fishinger, Sondra. “Carolyn Wells.” In Joan N. Burstyn, editor, Past and Promise: Lives of New Jersey Women. 1990. Reprinted. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1997. Pp. 205–207. Gale, Robert L. A Dashiell Hammett Compendium. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2000. Greene, Douglas G. John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. New York: Otto Penzler, 1995. Haycraft, Howard. Murder for Pleasure: The Life and Times of the Detective Story. 1941. Reprinted. New York: Biblo and Tannen, 1974. Knight, Stephen. Crime Fiction since 1800: Detection, Death, Diversity. 2004. Revised Edition. Houndmills: Palgrave, 2010. Pronzini, Bill. Gun in Cheek: A Study of Alternative Crime Fiction. 1982. Reprinted. New York: Mysterious Press, 1987. Rodell, Marie F. Mystery Fiction: Theory and Technique. New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce, 1943. Walker, Nancy and Zita Dresser. Editors. Redressing the Balance: American Women’s Literary Humor form Colonial Times to the 1980s. Oxford, MS: University Press of Mississippi, 1988.

Journals and Newspapers Berkeley Daily Gazette 1932 Book Review Digest 1919 Charleston News and Courier 1929 Electrical Review and Western Electrician 1914 New York Times, 1894, 1942 New York Times Book Review 1935 (Oklahoma City) Daily Oklahoman, 1932

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Paint, Oil and Drug Review 1919 Saturday Review of Literature 1928 St. Joseph News Press, 1939

Website “Hotel Des Artistes—1 West 67th Street,” nyc BLOG Estate/Manhattan Real Estate, at http://nycblogestate.com/2007/10/hotel-des-artistes–1-west–67th-street.html.

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The Reader Is Warned: Discovering John Dickson Carr and the Works of Douglas G. Greene MICHAEL DIRDA

Shortly after I read The Hound of the Baskervilles for the first time at around the age of ten or eleven (see my book On Conan Doyle for details), I began to explore my local branch library for other detective stories. Up to that point I had devoured the usual boys’ adventure series of mid-twentieth-century America, especially the exploits of The Hardy Boys, Tom Swift, Jr., Rick Brant (my favorite) and Ken Holt. Like any self-respecting Ohio kid in the late 1950s, I read for one reason: Excitement. What made The Hound of the Baskervilles exceptionally appealing, however, was something more—its atmosphere of the uncanny. Even in third or fourth grade I had always preferred stories that touched on the supernatural, regularly acquiring Scholastic paperbacks with titles like Mystery of the Piper’s Ghost and The Mystery of the Spanish Cave (by Geoffrey Household, no less, but featuring, if I remember correctly, a living sea serpent). Conan Doyle’s best Sherlock Holmes novel delivered precisely the kind of thrills I hungered for. At the end of the second chapter, as everyone should know, Dr. Mortimer describes the death of Sir Charles Baskerville and then hesitantly mentions footprints near the body. A man’s or a woman’s, asks the master-sleuth of Baker Street. To which Mortimer replies, in the most famous line of all detective fiction, “Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!” But was this spooky novel really a mystery? Or was it a tale of terror? Were the Baskervilles truly cursed and the Hound a spectral beast from Hell? As Conan Doyle somberly evoked brooding Dartmoor and the deadly Grimpen 81

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Mire, described strange nocturnal lights and the distant howling of some great beast, he left the reader unsure. Perhaps the hyper-logical Sherlock Holmes was out of his depth, might even be facing something beyond human ken? It was, of course, just this air of wonder and uncertainty that made the book so gripping. Once I finished the last page, I did what any eleven-year-old would do: I rode my bike to the library. I checked out The Complete Sherlock Holmes and in just a couple of weeks devoured that thick Doubleday tome, from its famous introductory essay by Christopher Morley to the final story, “Shoscombe Old Place.” Needless to say, a Gothicky tale like “The Speckled Band” appealed to me far more than “A Scandal in Bohemia,” with the somewhat lovey-dovey business with Irene Adler. Best of all, however, were those opening scenes of The Sign of Four and The Valley of Fear, each featuring what seemed to be an impossible crime (like most readers, I have never cared for Conan Doyle’s clumsy use of overlong flashbacks in the second halves of those novels). More than anything, though, I yearned for further glimpses of the mysterious Mycroft Holmes and the cobra-like king of the underworld, Professor James Moriarty, in large part because they were portrayed as almost more than human. But, alas, there are only fifty-six stories and four novels in the Canon. So I was soon looking around for another mystery author when I noticed on the shelves of our local branch library seven or eight books, many of them omnibus volumes, by someone named Agatha Christie. I soon read them all, and the more “impossible” the crime depicted, the better I liked it. And Then There Were None was a particular favorite. On the whole, however, Christie, for all her ingenuity, did not deliver any serious shivers. Then late in sixth grade I finally discovered two more authors who could deliver a thrill along the spine, albeit in very different ways. One Saturday afternoon at children’s catechism class I picked up that week’s Junior Catholic Messenger and noticed that it featured a story called “The Blue Cross.” No doubt, I presumed with pubescent cynicism, this was the saccharine account of some miracle in an obscure province of Italy or central Mexico. But then I began to read G. K. Chesterton’s slightly melodramatic prose. Flambeau, the colossus of crime, was in England! A long paragraph described some of his curious exploits, noting, for example, that “he once repainted all the numbers in a street in the dead of night merely to divert one traveler into a trap.” I distinctly remember pausing over a certain sentence, just as John Dickson Carr must have paused over it years before and remembered it when he came to write The Crooked Hinge: “There was one thing which Flambeau, with all his dexterity of disguise, could not cover, and that was his singular height.” Luckily, my branch library stocked The Father Brown Omnibus and I greedily gobbled down one story after another. Just their titles conveyed an ominous

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suggestiveness: “The Hammer of God,” “The Dagger with Wings,” “The Eye of Apollo,” “The Wrong Shape.” Nearly always the murders were bizarre or impossible, and Chesterton sometimes suggested that black magic was involved. More often than not, the actual solutions were almost as strangely poetic as the eerie set-ups. Still, as much as I was intoxicated by the stories, I felt a little uneasy about Father Brown. He was hard for a kid to identify with—so dumpy and ordinarylooking, and a priest to boot. In radical contrast, there was the dashing Denis Nayland Smith and his seemingly unstoppable adversary. You know whom I mean: The Yellow Peril incarnate. One afternoon I was idly perusing the paperback shelves at Hills Department Store when a title caught my eye: The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu. I wasn’t sure what “insidious” meant, but after I read the book’s back cover—which spoke of “a brow like Shakespeare’s and a face like Satan’s”—I was hunting in my pocket for enough change to take home this lurid Sax Rohmer “classic.” Through a dozen or more volumes Fu Manchu, the greatest criminal mastermind of them all, was periodically thwarted in his attempts at world domination by the intrepid Nayland Smith and his trusty sidekick Dr. Petrie. Even at twelve I could see they were modeled on Holmes and Watson. But the Devil Doctor himself seemed a diabolic mix of the fiendishly intelligent Moriarty and the immortally fiendish Dracula. When Fu Manchu eliminated his adversaries, it was never with a mere bullet but through such sinister means as “The Call of Siva” or “The Six Gates of Joyful Wisdom.” What’s more, this Architect of Evil employed murderous dacoits and Thuggees and Cold Men, as well as sheath-dressed Eurasian temptresses and all the mindless minions of the SiFan Brotherhood. Be still my beating heart! So it was that by the time I was a teenager I was reading every sort of adventure novel and gradually building up a small library of Jules Verne, Rider Haggard, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Arthur Conan Doyle and Robert A. Heinlein. Late one sunny afternoon my father came home from work with a grocery bag full of Rex Stout paperbacks. I found copies of The Maltese Falcon and Farewell, My Lovely in a thrift store. A French teacher lent me his copies of H.P. Lovecraft (The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, At the Mountains of Madness, Fungi from Yuggoth!). I happened upon Lord Dunsany’s Jorkens Remembers Africa— misshelved in the travel section of my high school library. From the homes of hapless relatives I scarfed up book club editions of Alfred Hitchcock anthologies and in them discovered Irwin S. Cobb’s “Fishhead” and Jack Finney’s “I’m Scared” and Daphne Du Maurier’s “The Birds.” I bought Wise and Fraser’s Great Tales of Terror and the Supernatural. I grew almost too afraid to watch The Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits.

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And then it all stopped. At seventeen I put away childish things and all that I then regarded as childish reading. I toddled off to nearby Oberlin College, where I majored in English, and then to graduate school to earn a Ph.D. in comparative literature, and eventually landed a job as an assistant editor at The Washington Post Book World. By my late twenties I was a serious young man of letters, writing about Flaubert and Thomas Pynchon, William Gass and William Gaddis, modernist poets and the intellectual life of late antiquity. In those days Book World subscribed to the Times Literary Supplement and it became my habit to take home an issue or two to enjoy on my thirty minute subway ride to Silver Spring. One October evening of 1981 I noticed that the new issue of the TLS was devoted to detective fiction and the lead article was by Kingsley Amis. Titled “The Art of the Impossible,” it was ostensibly a review of The Door to Doom and Other Detections, edited by Douglas G. Greene, but was in fact an encomium to the genius of John Dickson Carr. Amis presented a brief outline of Carr’s career, alerting me to his alternate identity as Carter Dickson and to his many books, none of which I had heard of before. He spoke of The Crooked Hinge, The Black Spectacles, The Judas Window…. As I read, I could feel the excitement mounting inside me as Amis described locked-room scenarios and seemingly impossible crimes: Words like “gripping” and “absorbing” should have been allowed to remain in the womb of language until the advent of Carr/Dickson. His reader feels more than the pressure of ordinary suspense or the desire to follow an exciting and puzzling story. There is an almost painful curiosity besides, a looking for deliverance from the incredible. The hero of The Burning Court comes across, in the most prosaic way possible, a photograph of a Frenchwoman who according to the caption was guillotined for murder in 1861. “He was looking at a photograph of his own wife.” End of Chapter One. There must be those who, on reaching that point for the first time, would be able to lay the book aside and go out to a Mahler concert, say, without turning a hair. Not I; I had a hard enough time just now getting my copy back on to its shelf after checking that reference.

Amis concluded his review this way: “The detective story at its best consists of the Sherlock Holmes stories, especially the first three volumes, the Father Brown stories, especially the first two volumes, half a dozen or more novels by Carr/Dickson (The Hollow Man, The Ten Teacups and The Reader Is Warned besides those already mentioned), and some individual volumes and scattered stories by other hands.” I devoured the rest of that issue of the TLS—I remember Eric Ambler recommending the thrillers of Ross Thomas, especially The Fools in Town Are on Our Side—but kept going back and rereading Amis’ article. That weekend I

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began prowling D.C.’s second-hand bookshops for anything I could find by John Dickson Carr or Carter Dickson. Over the next fourteen years I read perhaps a third of Carr’s seventy or so “locked-room” mysteries. Nearly every Christmas holiday I would retreat for an afternoon or evening, usually at my in-laws, and somehow simultaneously race through, and linger over, The Corpse in the Waxworks, Death-Watch, The Reader Is Warned, The Plague Court Murders or one of those even greater masterpieces mentioned by Amis. Always I would re-experience, especially in the opening chapters, that sense of wonder and uneasiness I had felt long ago when I first opened The Hound of the Baskervilles. Carr’s books irresistibly combined the uncanny, the mysterious and the melodramatic, often with a dollop of sly humor as well. This is how The Three Coffins, aka The Hollow Man, begins: To the murder of Professor Grimaud, and later the equally incredible crime in Cagliostro Street, many fantastic terms could be applied—with reason. Those of Dr. Fell’s friends who like impossible situations will not find in his casebooks any puzzle more baffling or more terrifying. Thus: two murders were committed, in such fashion that the murderer must not only have been invisible, but lighter than air. According to the evidence, this person killed his first victim and literally disappeared. Again according to the evidence, he killed his second victim in the middle of an empty street, with watchers at either end, yet not a soul saw him, and no footprints appeared in the snow.

Some of the Carr paperbacks I read during those successive Christmas holidays were prefaced by excellent essays from Douglas G. Greene. But Greene also introduced Darwin L. Teilhet’s The Talking Sparrow Murders, for instance, and co-edited, with Robert Adey, Death Locked In: An Anthology of Locked Room Stories. Being interested in children’s literature, I once picked up a reprint of L. Frank Baum’s science fictional The Master Key and there again was Douglas Greene, this time writing in tandem with his brother David. At some point I learned, perhaps through my friend and former Book World colleague Michele Slung, that Greene was finishing a biography of John Dickson Carr. In 1995 Otto Penzler Books published John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. My review, an all-out rave, was headlined “The Houdini of the Mystery” and began with a flourish: The woman’s body lies on the empty beach where she has been strangled; a single set of footprints—the victim’s own—marks the silk-smooth expanse of sand. A man is suddenly shot at point- blank range in the middle of a cul-de-sac; three eyewitnesses will swear that no one came near him—and the fresh fallen snow corroborates their testimony. Another man dives into a swimming pool and simply vanishes from the face of the earth.

Welcome to the eerie world of John Dickson Carr….

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A few years later, Robin Winks and Maureen Corrigan asked if I would like to contribute a longish essay to a Scribners’ reference volume called Mystery and Suspense Writers. I immediately asked if I might write about Carr. After opening with a précis of his life, largely drawn from Greene’s biography, I briefly discussed a half dozen of the Master’s books before focusing on my three favorites: The Three Coffins, The Burning Court and the true-crime classic The Murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey. At various points in the essay I also tried to sound more deeply what it was that made his books so magical. For instance, after surveying his early novels featuring the rather satanic detective Henri Bencolin, I speculated about the purpose of the slightly tongue-in-cheek Gothic atmosphere to these cases. Carr, it seemed to me simply liked such romantic touches. The real world could be a dishearteningly mundane place—especially for a kid from western Pennsylvania [or, I might add, a kid from Northern Ohio]. How much more fun to engage in heart-pounding adventures, with slant-eyed beauties, secret societies, and uncanny means of murder, or to imagine dangerous missions in exotic places: “Here are three passports and an automatic pistol. You will proceed at once to Cairo, in whatever disguise you think fit, but take care that you are not followed by a man whose cufflinks take the form of a small black cross. Arrived in Cairo, you will proceed to the Street of the Seven Cobras, to a house you will identify by….”

In fact, Carr’s novels do not go in for much actual John Buchan-style derringdo. Yet the exotic background atmosphere, the feel of the storytelling, the settings in museums and haunted houses and remote locales always convey a sense that there are “queer, terrifying holes” within our seemingly prosaic world. In his peak years, Carr could combine the witchy haze of the supernatural with fair-play detecting like no one else. That aura of the Arabian Nights helped to counter the Golden Age mystery’s tendency to dryness. Many “impossible crimes” involve precise timetables, elaborate stage machinery, improbable coincidences, room diagrams, the comparison of alibis and so forth. Such inventorying can dull a story’s edge, but after building up an atmosphere of black magic, the mundane accumulations of facts may signal a welcome relief—the promise that sanity may eventually be restored to a world gone mad. “Carr’s particular trappings of the uncanny,” I then wrote, “re-create a mood like that of a nightclub magic act. The reader agrees to surrender his doubts in order to enjoy the show that follows. We do not really think that the magician saws the lady in half, but it is fun to pretend we do. In that suspension of disbelief we prepare ourselves for the oohs and ahs of the final, unexpected trick that ends the show with a grand flourish.” Historians of the mystery tell us that some fans of Golden Age mysteries

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actually do try to figure out who done it and how. We all remember Ellery Queen’s “Challenge to the Reader.” But that sort of thing is too much work for me. Oh, I might suspect a particular character or wonder a little about all those mirrors or mechanical toys, but not enough to laboriously work out any conclusions. For me, “the pleasure of reading John Dickson Carr lies not in outguessing Sir Henry Merrivale or Gideon Fell, but in being amazed.” At the time I was researching that piece on Carr, now almost twenty years ago, I methodically acquired virtually all the books I didn’t already own, chiefly paperbacks, though I also picked up eight or nine shabby first editions. These were generally battered or “well loved,” as they used to say in the trade, and always without dust jackets. I was glad to get them. Today most of Carr’s more famous novels of the 1930s in fine condition will set back the collector several hundred dollars apiece. But it pleases me to look at the row of my shabby copies, though I wish I had managed to find hardcovers of The Corpse in the Waxworks, The Mad Hatter Mystery and The Judas Window. Maybe some day…. In the 1990s Doug Greene founded Crippen & Landru, a small press devoted to bringing out collections of short stories, many by Golden Age authors. Some of the C&L books were sent to me for review—I was glad to be able to plug Anthony Berkeley’s The Avenging Chance and Other Mysteries from Roger Sheringham’s Casebook, edited by Tony Medawar and Arthur Robinson, Vincent Cornier’s The Duel of Shadows, edited by Mike Ashley, and several other titles. But I also laid out cash money to buy Diagnosis Impossible: The Problems of Dr. Sam Hawthorne, by Edward D. Hoch—I still can’t resist “miracle problems.” Just recently, I have begun to do some research on Clayton Rawson—he grew up in Elyria, Ohio, just next door to my hometown of Lorain—and so I ordered a copy, from the Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, of the Dan Diavolo mysteries, which Rawson wrote under the pen name Stuart Towne. The editor and introducer was, not surprisingly, our friend Doug Greene. To me, Doug is not just a scholar, critic and editor: he is one of those key figures that emerge periodically in genre literature, an heir to Fred Dannay and Anthony Boucher. He has enriched the field immeasurably, and continues to do so. I think we have only met twice in person—once during the annual birthday weekend of the Baker Street Irregulars, when he was that year’s distinguished speaker, and more recently at Malice Domestic. Yet he has been wonderfully generous: When I mentioned online somewhere that I was interested in Frederick Irving Anderson, creator of The Infallible Godahl, Doug emailed me to say he had an extra copy of one of Anderson’s books and would I like it? Why, yes, I would. Because I lacked copies of Fell and Foul Play and

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Merrivale, March and Murder, two Carr anthologies that he edited, Doug simply sent them to me. I am rereading the Colonel March stories right now. This past September I took down my marked-up review copy of John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. Once I started reading it, I couldn’t stop. Fortunately, there was no compelling reason to do so, and I didn’t. It is a superb biography—and it reminded me that I have somehow never read He Wouldn’t Kill Patience. Happily, Christmas is coming.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Amis, Kingsley. “The Art of the Impossible: The Door to Doom, by John Dickson Carr.” The Times Literary Supplement, 6 June 1981, p. 8. Carr, John Dickson Carr. The Door to Doom and Other Detections. Edited with an introduction, notes, and bibliography by Douglas G. Greene. New York: Harper & Row, 1980. Dirda, Michael. “John Dickson Carr.” In Mystery and Suspense Writers: The Literature of Crime, Detection, and Espionage. Edited by Robin W. Winks and Maureen Corrigan. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1998. Two Volumes. Volume I. Pp. 113-129. _____. On Conan Doyle: Or, The Whole Art of Storytelling. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011. Greene, Douglas G. John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. New York: Otto Penzler, 1995.

Agatha Christie and the Impossible Crime JOHN CURRAN

“A conjuring trick. That describes it exactly.… And wherein does the essence of a conjuring trick lie?” “The quickness of the hand deceives the eye.”1

This telling exchange, which captures the essence of detective fiction, is from an early Agatha Christie short story, one which marked her first experiment with an “impossible crime.” But it is not, as you might expect, from a Poirot or Marple investigation; rather it is from the Harley Quin story, “At the Bells and Motley” (1925). In a writing career spanning half-a-century, Agatha Christie wrote the greatest body of detective fiction ever published; she created two of the most enduring investigators, Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple; and she sold more books that any writer since Shakespeare. Most of her impressive output was in the form of the classic detective story but she also experimented with the serial killer story (The A B C Murders), the historical mystery (Death Comes as the End ), the international thriller (The Man in the Brown Suit, Destination Unknown) and the crime novel (The Pale Horse, Endless Night). And although her name is not normally associated with the locked room or impossible crime, she also experimented on occasion with that demanding form. In fact, her output is bookended by two examples of murder in a locked room. The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920) and Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case (1975) feature violent deaths in locked bedrooms, both under the ill-fated roof of Styles Court. Captain Arthur Hastings, who narrates both novels, describes the discovery of a murdered body in Curtain, a scene reminiscent of a similar one during his first 89

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investigation with Hercule Poirot: “For the second time in my life, I saw a door broken open at Styles. Behind that door was what had been behind a locked door on the first occasion. Death by violence.”2 And both novels, published over fifty years apart, exemplify Christie’s approach to the locked room: she considered it a relatively minor element of the plot. Most of the examples from throughout her career present both problem and solution in an almost perfunctory manner. From the beginning of her career Christie included impossible elements—guarded areas and locked rooms, inexplicable disappearances of people or objects—in both short story and novel. These cases are tackled by her most famous creations, Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, but also by her less well-known characters, Harley Quin and Parker Pyne. Only Christie’s husband-and-wife team, Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, are not called upon to solve an impossible crime, although their nearcounterparts, Frankie and Bobby (Lady Frances Derwent and Bobby Jones) solve a shooting in a locked room in Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? (1934). When Edgar Allan Poe published “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” in 1841, he presented not just the first detective story but also the first locked room detective story. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye are found savagely killed in their Paris apartment with the doors and windows locked from the inside, making escape for the killer (seemingly) impossible. Chevalier C. August Dupin, Poe’s detective (who appears in only three short stories), clears the wrongly arrested suspect and, with his identification of a totally unexpected killer, Poe and Dupin also introduced the surprise ending. The “impossible crime” sub-genre of detective fiction has attracted writers ever since. One of the most resourceful devisers of impossible crimes was G. K. Chesterton in his Father Brown short stories. And many famous names of the Golden Age attempted— with varying degrees of success—this ploy: Anthony Berkeley, The Layton Court Mystery (1925); S. S. Van Dine, The Canary Murder Case (1927); Milward Kennedy, Half Mast Murder (1930); Freeman Wills Crofts, Sudden Death (1932); Margery Allingham, Flowers for the Judge (1936); Ellery Queen, The Door Between (1937); Ngaio Marsh, Death and the Dancing Footman (1942); Christianna Brand, Suddenly at his Residence (1947); Edmund Crispin, Swan Song (1947). Before embarking on her first detective novel Christie had not read particularly widely in the genre. In her posthumously published An Autobiography (1977) she mentions Sherlock Holmes, as well as Paul Beck, the creation of M. McDonnell Bodkin, and Arsene Lupin, although she acknowledges that the latter was not a detective. She makes brief reference to Anna Katharine Green’s The Leavenworth Case (1878) and specific mention of Gaston Leroux’s The Mystery of Yellow Room (1907; translated 1908) which she considered “a

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particularly baffling mystery, well worked out and planned.”3 This perceptive description is entirely justified and Leroux’s novel—which, a century later, remains an immensely readable and enjoyable story—is a landmark title in the history of the impossible crime. Its influence on Christie’s first novel is clear: a mysterious crime in a remote country estate, a locked bedroom, a brilliant “foreign” detective, and, as I showed in Agatha Christie’s Murder in the Making (2011), an unexpected denouement presented in the course of a murder trial. But while the locked room and impossible elements—there are further subsidiary impossibilities—are dominant features of Leroux’s novel, the locked door in Christie’s first novel is not the focus of the plot. The Mysterious Affair at Styles features not just one, but two, locked doors, behind which wealthy and newly-remarried Emily Inglethorp is found dying. Earlier that day she had announced her intention of changing her will, an event that more than one person in Styles Court that night had good reason to prevent. A Belgian war refugee, one Hercule Poirot, is billeted locally, and is asked by his friend, Arthur Hastings, to bring his not inconsiderable intelligence to bear on the problem. But Mrs. Inglethorp has been poisoned and this method of murder in a locked room does not always present the double mystery of “Who” and “How”; a slow-acting poison ingested earlier means that the victim may have been ‘murdered’ before entering the room or may have taken it after entering the room. While the mystery of the two locked doors in Styles is an element in the solution of Poirot’s first case, at no point is it considered as the locked room problem would be a decade later with the arrival of John Dickson Carr. In Robert Adey’s indispensable reference book Locked Room Murders and Other Impossible Crimes (1991) the entry for John Dickson Carr, and his alter ego Carter Dickson, runs to seventeen pages, while Christie’s covers a mere two. With his first novel, It Walks by Night (1930), Carr launched a career during which he became the indisputable master of the locked room detective story, displaying, in Julian Symons’s words, “staggering skill” in presenting and elucidating situations which seem to defy explanation.4 Throughout the 1930s and 1940s, in particular, and for a further quarter-century, he published book after book in which he teased and tantalized his readers in the course of explaining his (seeming) miracles. But while Christie and Carr were the two greatest detective novelists of the twentieth century, their techniques were very dissimilar; and their approach to the impossible crime was completely different. “The Market Basing Mystery” (1923) was Christie’s first short story to feature an impossible crime. When Walter Protheroe is found shot in a locked room in his dilapidated home, Leigh House, Poirot and Hastings, on holiday locally, investigate, at the request of Inspector Japp. This plot is a very early

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example of Christie’s resourcefulness with plotting; she takes a cliché of detective fiction—murder disguised to resemble suicide—and subverts it. Feeling, perhaps, that such a good plot device should not be “wasted” on a short story, she later considerably re-worked it in the novella ‘Murder in the Mews’ (1936). In doing so, she changed the setting, peopled it with completely different characters and elaborated the clueing, but she retained the essential, and very clever, central conceit. The original short story is slight—a mere eight pages—but it does contain a perfect illustration of Christie’s skill in presenting an important clue while disguising it so subtly that it seems to indicate the exact opposite. The night the victim died he was overheard arguing loudly with someone and the police—and the reader—assume this argument will lead to identification of both murderer and motive. In fact, Poirot astutely deduces that the fact that the heated argument could be overheard by an outsider proves that the window was open and that, therefore, the room was not sealed. The novella version, in turn, contains a prime example of Christie’s ability to distract the police—and the reader—by focussing attention on an artfully presented red herring. A seemingly innocuous dressing-case becomes the focus of attention of the police and, led a merry dance by the villain, Inspector Japp—and the reader—are distracted from the real clue, a deviously presented indication of left-handedness. “At the Bells and Motley” (1925) is an impossible crime solved by the unlikely detective duo of Mr Satterthwaite and Mr. Quin. Inspired by a set of Harlequin figures in Christie’s childhood home, Harley Quin is a one of the most unusual detectives in the entire literature; he appears magically wherever there is a problem, criminal or romantic, to be solved and he disappears, equally mysteriously, when all is resolved. His “partner-in-crime” is the elderly Mr. Satterthwaite, “a looker-on at life” and they appear together in fourteen short stories, all of which were published in the first decade of Christie’s career apart from their last adventure, “The Harlequin Tea-Set” (1973), which was also the last short story that she wrote. In “At the Bells and Motley” Captain Richard Harwell is seen by a gardener walking in the garden of his home, Ashley Grange, on the morning after his return from honeymoon; and he is never seen again. An elaborate plot is presented succinctly, with complete honesty in the matter of clues, and the story features the first appearance of one of Christie’s favorite ploys, the disguise of a character—usually the villain—as a servant. Death in the Clouds (1935), Sparkling Cyanide (1945) and After the Funeral (1953), inter alia, all feature variations on this theme; as do one of the other impossible crime stories under consideration below. In her first ‘impossible crime’ investigation, “The Idol House of Astarte” (1928), Miss Marple penetrates a clever plot in which a supernatural agency

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seems to hold the solution to the murder of Richard Haydon, stabbed while standing, with nobody near him, in a clearing in a wood. Miss Marple, never one to be distracted by a smokescreen, however artful, sees clearly through the same plot device that is at the heart of another landmark novel in the development of the locked room novel, Israel Zangwill’s The Big Bow Mystery. (1892). Although Carr frequently exploited the seeming supernatural throughout his career—The Burning Court (1937), The Reader Is Warned (1939) and He Who Whispers (1946) inter alia—Christie employed it rarely. The Sittaford Mystery (1931) and The Pale Horse (1961) are two examples of novels in which the trappings of the supernatural are used as a smokescreen to camouflage alltoo-mundane murder. Although her 1933 collection The Hound of Death includes stories of the supernatural, they are not detective fiction. The light-hearted thriller Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? (1934) is the only novel of Christie’s Golden Age, 1930–1950, which is not a pure “whodunit.” It is a light-hearted thriller, which, with minimal re-writing, could have been a Tommy and Tuppence novel. It is an entertaining and fast-moving mystery with a clever central device, including a locked room problem. Yet Christie gives the locked room element even less prominence than usual. The intriguing words of the title, uttered by the man found dying at the foot of the cliffs, lead Bobby and Frankie to Merroway Court, home of Henry Bassington-ffrench. When he is found shot in his locked study, the list of potential suspects is very small. The generous indulgence of the reader is expected in being asked to accept that the sound of an overhead plane would mask a gunshot and the solution includes a plot element featured, more elaborately, the following year in Carr’s The Three Coffins (in UK, The Hollow Man). Miss Marple tackles another impossible crime in “Miss Marple Tells a Story” (1935). Reminiscent of many of the stories in The Thirteen Problems (1932), the sleuth of St Mary Mead solves the mystery from the comfort of her armchair. The problem is brought to her by the lawyer Mr Petherick (also a character from the first half-dozen tales of the 1932 collection), whose client, Mr Rhodes, fears that he is facing arrest for the murder of his wife. Mrs. Rhodes was found murdered in their hotel room while her husband was actually present; he proclaims his innocence and swears that no-one, other than a chambermaid, entered or left the room during the crucial period. When the chambermaid is shown to be innocent, Miss Marple, with the ease of the Golden Age sleuth, solves, within a few minutes, a murder which has baffled the combined intelligence of the police and the legal profession. The solution is not dissimilar to that of Dickson’s The Bowstring Murders (1933). One of Christie’s most unusual impossible crime stories dates from mid– 1936. “The Regatta Mystery,” with Hercule Poirot, appeared in the US and

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the UK in May and June respectively of that year but when it was collected in The Regatta Mystery (1939) the detective had changed, for reasons unknown, to Parker Pyne. The story itself is a clever one involving the disappearance, despite a rigorous search, from the dining room of the Royal George hotel overlooking Dartmouth harbour, of a diamond, the Morning Star. A daring impersonation and a neat piece of conjuring explain the seeming impossibility. Poirot unambiguously solves a “Problem at Sea,” also from 1936, in which fellow cruisepassenger Mrs. Clapperton, the unpleasant wife of Colonel Clapperton, is found dead in her locked cabin. This slight shipboard mystery comes one year before Poirot’s more famous investigation when he solves a Death on the Nile. The plot device which explains the locked cabin scenario, while clever in itself, is not capable of sustaining a full-length novel but suffices perfectly for a twelvepage short story. Back on terra firma in “The Dream” (1937), arguably a better locked room situation, Poirot is summoned to a meeting in the home of Benedict Farley. In the course of their meeting Farley describes a dream that is troubling him, a dream in which he removes a gun from his desk drawer and shoots himself. A week later, Farley is shot dead under circumstances which seem to coincide with the suicide scenario foretold by his dream. This would seem to be confirmed by the presence, outside the room, of two witnesses, who swear that no-one entered. The solution, actually a well-disguised variation on that presented in Murder in Mesopotamia, published the previous year, works extremely well in the short story format and is fairly clued and presented. Another Poirot novella, “Dead Man’s Mirror” (1937), is also an expansion of an earlier short story, “The Second Gong” (1932). One of the few cases for which we have an exact date (September 24, 1936), the setting of the novella is classic Christie—Hamborough Close, the country house of Gervase Chevenix-Gore who, for reasons unspecified, summons Poirot. And as in The Murder on the Links (1923) and Dumb Witness (1937), Poirot never gets to meet his client; Chevenix-Gore is found dead in his locked study shortly after Poirot’s arrival. The theory of suicide leaves some features, including the puzzling sounding of the second dinner gong, unexplained. Although the reader is not in a position to deduce the identity of the killer, the novella features a ploy to re-appear two years later in Hercule Poirot’s Christmas when a character picks up a significant something from the floor in the vicinity of the murder scene, a something that proves an important element in the solution of the mystery. Again, the explanation of the locked room is disappointing, as it was when Anthony Berkeley used it a decade earlier in The Layton Court Mystery (1925). More intriguingly, unlike the earlier “Market Basing Mystery”/“Murder in the Mews” expansion, while the setting of “Dead Man’s Mirror” is substantially similar as the earlier version, the identity of the murderer is not.

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Undoubtedly Christie’s two cleverest impossible crimes, in terms of the prominence of the problem and the mechanics of the solution, were published during her prolific 1930s: Murder in Mesopotamia (1936) and Hercule Poirot’s Christmas (1938). The former novel has the then-unique background of an archaeological dig. In 1930 Christie married the archaeologist Max Mallowan and for the following thirty years she accompanied him on his archaeological trips, living in the desert and working alongside the team, cleaning and photographing the uncovered artifacts. So the background of Murder in Mesopotamia, day-to-day life on a dig, was written from personal experience and, in fact, compelling arguments have been proffered for identifying some of the book’s characters as actual persons known to Christie. When Louise, the unpopular and troubled wife of the leader of the expedition, Dr. Eric Leidner, is found dead from head injuries, Poirot is presented with a double problem: Whodunit and How. The victim is found in her bedroom, which was under constant observation until the moment her husband entered and found her murdered body. And because the dig itself is cut off from the rest of the world—as effectively as the blizzard or thunderstorm beloved of many Golden Age writers— one of the archaeological team has to be her killer. But how did this killer gain entrance to her bedroom? A perfectly simple and credible explanation, probably the best that Christie devised, is offered but its effect is cancelled by the revelation of her murderer’s identity. How no-one—agent, publisher, editor— brought to Christie’s attention the sheer unbelievability of the killer’s identity remains a mystery. When analyzed, the mechanics of the solution are identical to those in “The Dream.” Two years later Poirot investigated another locked room situation, this time in a more traditional setting, in Hercule Poirot’s Christmas (1938). When wealthy Simeon Lee invites all of his family to Gorston Hall, for what they fondly imagine to be a traditional family Christmas, he reckons without the revenge plan of his murderer. Simeon is found in his room with his throat cut and the door locked from the inside; the window, though slightly open, is nailed into position. To add to the gruesomeness of his throat-cutting, his dying screams were heard throughout the house. Although the revelation of the murderer’s identity is a well-clued surprise, the impossible element of the problem, clever in itself, is not foregrounded. Unlike a Carr novel, in which several possible solutions are suggested and discarded in the course of any investigation, the solution to Simeon Lee’s locked room is presented to the reader almost casually. Unlike much modern crime fiction where gruesome murder methods are, sadly, the norm, the blood-letting in Hercule Poirot’s Christmas is a crucial element of the plot. Miss Marple explains her final impossible crime in “Greenshaw’s Folly”

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(1956). This short novella features an elaborate plot in which the victim is killed with an arrow in a house in which the only two inhabitants are locked in their rooms. It is, in effect, a locked-room in reverse: the potential perpetrators, rather than the victim, are locked in. An element of the misdirection at the heart of this final Marple short is also found in G. K. Chesterton’s “The Arrow of Heaven” (1925), and, once more, it features a variation on the servant/employer plot device. Most Christie readers know the history of Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case (1975). Christie wrote it at the beginning of World War II, while working in a dispensary in University College Hospital, London, and placed it in a bank vault for safekeeping in case she was killed in the Blitz. Now an infirm resident in the guest-house that is the converted Styles Court, Poirot seeks to identify another killer sheltering under its roof. When one of the guests is found shot in his locked bedroom, it would seem that the little Belgian has failed…. Poirot dies at the end of the novel but only after solving the most spectacularly surprising case of his career, once more in the setting of Styles Court, the scene of his first investigation on British soil. The book was published in October 1975, three months before Christie’s own death, and Poirot merited a frontpage obituary in the New York Times: “Famed Belgian Detective Dies.” The only element of the solution not to induce gasps of surprise is, once again, the locked room aspect. Although never discussed as a pivotal plot point—it comes relatively late in the novel—the explanation of the locked bedroom door is the same as the one offered in Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? (where it was also disappointingly anti-climactic). Although her immortal The Murder of Roger Ackroyd appeared in 1926, the 1930s and 1940s were, undoubtedly, Christie’s Golden Age; year after year she produced books of dazzling originality and cunning and even had she stopped writing after World War II she would still be respected today as one of the all-time great detective novelists. Many titles from this era are now considered classics. Murder on the Orient Express (1934), The A B C Murders (1936), Death on the Nile (1937), and And Then There Were None (1939) are merely the more obvious examples; Lord Edgware Dies (1933), Three Act Tragedy (1935) and Peril at End House (1932) could just as easily be included. But despite the sporadic appearance of the impossible crime throughout her work, that aspect was never the dominant one. None of Christie’s impossible crime situations or solutions can approach Carr in ingenuity or resourcefulness. She twice employs the device of a duplicate key, twice the bolt in the French window, and three times each variations on the ploy of “disguised as a servant” and “first person to enter the room.” That said, a major component in Christie’s seemingly everlasting appeal is the simplicity of her plots; while

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the mystery may seem complicated it rarely is, and the explanation frequently turns on clever misdirection. Christie’s solutions were audaciously simple, and in many cases, simply audacious: everyone did it, the child did it, the policeman did it, the narrator did it. When one simple fact is grasped—a sprawled body is not necessarily a dead body, Corpse A is actually Corpse B and vice versa, mirrors reflect but also reverse—most of the solution clicks satisfyingly into place. In John Dickson Carr’s “impossible crime” novels the mystery is evenly divided between “Who” and “How,” and when—or, more likely, if—the reader can deduce the “How,” the “Who” usually follows automatically; in Christie the focus is unambiguously on “Who.” Not for Christie the baroque complications of The Arabian Nights Murder (1936) or Death-Watch (1935), the macabre oppressiveness of The Burning Court (1937) or He Who Whispers (1946), or even the rollicking absurdities of The Eight of Swords (1934) or The Cavalier’s Cup (1953). While no-one can argue with the staggering ingenuity of, for example, The Three Coffins, not one reader in a thousand will correctly deduce the solution, and without the explanatory diagram, it is doubtful if anyone, other than that one reader, will even understand it. Which is not to take away from Carr’s fiendish brilliance: he provided admirers of Golden Age detective fiction with books of breath-taking ingenuity, but it was a complex ingenuity. As his biographer, Doug Greene, observes: ‘‘Ingenuity’ is a word often used accurately to describe Carr’s books ... in handling a complex puzzle plot no other detective-story writer can consistently match John Dickson Carr.” Christie’s ingenuity, on the other hand, lay in the simplicity of her plots and it is that simplicity that accounts for her presence today on the shelves of bookshops and libraries worldwide. Carr was, arguably, too clever for his own good. Or as a fellow practitioner put it: “John Dickson Carr … is a master magician … each of his books is a brilliant, fantastic, quite impossible conjuring trick.”5 That practitioner was Agatha Christie—and she should know.

NOTES 1. Agatha Christie, The Mysterious Mr. Quin (London: Collins, 1930), 67–68 2. Agatha Christie, Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case (London: Collins Crime Club, 1975), 186 3. Agatha Christie, An Autobiography (London: Collins, 1977), 210–211 4. Symons, Julian Bloody Murder: From the Detective Novel to the Crime Story: A History (London: Faber, 1972), 120 5. Douglas G. Greene, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (New York: Otto Penzler, 1995), 110; Agatha Christie “Detective Writers in England” (1945), reprinted in CADS: Crime and Detective Stories 55 (December 2008), 4.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Agatha Christie Novels and Short Story Collections Unless otherwise indicated, all novels published in the same year both in London by the Collins Crime Club and in New York by Dodd Mead. Alternate American titles are given parenthetically. The ABC Murders. 1936. After the Funeral (Funerals are Fatal ). 1953. And Then There Were None. New York: Dodd Mead, 1940; as Ten Little Niggers London: Collins Crime Club, 1939. Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case (Curtain). 1975. Death Comes as the End. London: Collins Crime Club, 1945; New York: Dodd Mead, 1944. Death in the Clouds (Death in the Air). 1935. Death on the Nile. London: Collins Crime Club, 1937; New York: Dodd Mead, 1938. Destination Unknown (So Many Steps to Death). London: Collins Crime Club 1954; New York: Dodd Mead, 1955. Dumb Witness (Poirot Loses a Client). 1937. Endless Night. London: Collins Crime Club, 1967; New York: Dodd Mead, 1968. Hercule Poirot’s Christmas (Murder for Christmas). London: Collins Crime Club, 1938; New York: Dodd Mead, 1939. The Hound of Death. London: Odhams, 1933. Lord Edgware Dies (Thirteen at Dinner). 1933. The Man in the Brown Suit. London: Lane, 1924; New York: Dodd Mead, 1924. Murder in Mesopotamia. 1936. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. 1926. The Murder on the Links. London: Lane, 1923; New York: Dodd Mead, 1923. Murder on the Orient Express (Murder in the Calais Coach). 1934. The Mysterious Affair at Styles. London: Lane, 1921; New York: Lane, 1920. The Mysterious Mr. Quin. 1930. The Pale Horse London: Collins Crime Club, 1961; New York: Dodd Mead, 1962 Peril at End House. 1932. The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories. New York: Dodd Mead, 1939. The Sittaford Mystery (The Murder at Hazelmoor). 1931. Sparkling Cyanide (Remembered Death). 1945. The Thirteen Problems (The Tuesday Club Murders). London: Collins Crime Club, 1932; New York: Dodd Mead, 1933. Three Act Tragedy (Murder in Three Acts). London: Collins Crime Club, 1935; New York: Dodd Mead, 1934. Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? (The Boomerang Clue). London: Collins Crime Club, 1934; New York: Dodd Mead, 1935.

Individual Short Stories “At the Bells and Motley” (November 1925). In The Mysterious Mr Quin (1930). “Dead Man’s Mirror” (1937). In Murder in the Mews (1937). “The Dream’ (1937).” In The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories (1939) and The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding (1960).

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“Greenshaw’s Folly” (December 1956). In The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding (1960). “The Market Basing Mystery” (October 1923). In The Underdog and Other Stories (1951) and Poirot’s Early Cases (1974). “The Harlequin Tea-Set’ (1973).” In Problem at Pollensa Bay (1991) and The Harlequin Tea Set (1997). “The Idol House of Astarte” ( January 1928). In The Thirteen Problems (1932). “Miss Marple Tells a Story” (May 1935). In The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories (1939) and Miss Marple’s Final Cases and Two Other Stories (1979). “Murder in the Mews” (September 1936). In Murder in the Mews (1937). “Problem at Sea” ( January 1936). In The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories (1939) and Poirot’s Early Cases (1974). “The Regatta Mystery.” In The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories (1939) and Problem at Pollensa Bay (1991). “The Second Gong” ( June 1932). In Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories (1948) and Problem at Pollensa Bay (1991).

Article “Detective Writers in England” (1945). Original publication untraced. Reprinted in CADS: Crime and Detective Stories 55 (December 2008): 3–6.

Autobiography An Autobiography. London: Collins, 1977; New York: Dodd Mead, 1977.

Other Authors Adey, Robery. Locked Room Murders and Other Impossible Crimes. Minneapolis: Crossover Press, 1991. Allingham, Margery. Flowers for the Judge. London: Heinemann, 1936; New York: Doubleday, 1936. Berkeley, Anthony. The Layton Court Mystery. London: Jenkins, 1925; New York: Doubleday, 1929. Brand, Christianna. Suddenly at his Residence. London: Lane, 1947; New York: Dodd Mead, 1946. Carr, John Dickson. The Arabian Nights Murder. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1936; New York: Harper, 1936. _____. The Burning Court. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1937; New York: Harper, 1937. _____. Death-Watch. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1935; New York: Harper, 1935. _____. The Eight of Swords. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1934; New York: Harper, 1934. _____. He Who Whispers. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1946; New York: Harper, 1946. _____. The Hollow Man. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1935; as The Three Coffins New York: Harper, 1935. _____. It Walks by Night. London: Harper, 1930; New York: Harper, 1930. Chesterton, G. K. “The Arrow of Heaven” (1925). In The Incredulity of Father Brown. London: Cassell, 1926; New York: Dodd, Mead, 1926. Crispin, Edmund. Swan Song. London: Gollancz, 1947; as Dead and Dumb Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1947. Crofts, Freeman Wills. Sudden Death. London: Collins Crime Club, 1932; New York: Harper, 1932.

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Curran, John. Agatha Christie’s Murder in the Making. London: HarperCollins, 2011; New York: HarperCollins, 2011. Dickson, Carter. The Cavalier’s Cup. London: Heinemann 1954; New York: Morrow 1953. _____. The Reader Is Warned. London: Heinemann 1939; New York: Morrow 1939. Dickson, Carter (as Carr Dickson). The Bowstring Murders. London: Heinemann 1934; New York: Morrow 1933. Green, Anna Katharine. The Leavenworth Case. London: Routledge, 1884; New York: Putman, 1878. Greene, Douglas G. John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. New York: Otto Penzler, 1995. Kennedy, Milward. Half Mast Murder. London: Gollancz, 1930; New York: Doubleday, 1930. Leroux, Gaston. The Mystery of Yellow Room. Paris: 1907; London: Daily Mail, 1908. Marsh, Ngaio. Death and the Dancing Footman. London: Collins Crime Club, 1942; Boston: Little Brown, 1941. Poe, Edgar Allan. “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” Graham’s Magazine (April 1841). Queen, Ellery. The Door Between. London: Gollancz, 1937; New York: Stokes, 1937 Symons, Julian. Bloody Murder: From the Detective Novel to the Crime Story: A History. London: Faber, 1972. Van Dine, S. S. The Canary Murder Case. London: Benn, 1927; New York: Scribner, 1927. Zangwill, Israel. The Big Bow Mystery. London: Henry, 1892.

Anthony Berkeley’s Golden Age Gothic Follies MARTIN EDWARDS

Ellery Queen’s 101 Years’ Entertainment, which carries the explanatory subtitle The Great Detective Stories 1841- 1941, is a vast compendium of fifty stories chosen to represent the high points of the detective short story from Edgar Allan Poe’s time onwards. The deep and abiding impression made upon Doug Greene by this work is clear from the account he gave me of his introduction to mystery stories: “As a youngster I read The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, and graduated to Sherlock Holmes at around the age of twelve years when I found a copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles … at my grandfather’s house in Florida. I loved it, read the rest of the Holmes stories in an omnibus, then found 101 Years’ Entertainment at a library. I read it over and over, becoming introduced to many new writers—Carr, Christie, Sayers, the Coles, Bentley, Berkeley, Hammett, Knox, Chesterton, Freeman and others. I still recall my excitement about the stories, their potent allure of ingenuity. It was this book, and later Queen’s Quorum, that led me to think that the short story is the ideal form for fictional detection and to my collecting short story volumes and ultimately to [the creation of my publishing firm] Crippen & Landru.”1 A number of the stories in 101 Years’ Entertainment, including one by John Dickson Carr, the subject of Doug Greene’s classic biography, are by members of the Detection Club, an institution in which Greene has long taken a close interest. Famous members of the Club whose work is featured in 101 Years’ Entertainment include G. K. Chesterton, Dorothy L. Sayers and Agatha Christie, but among the most memorable stories are Ronald Knox’s “Solved by Inspection”; “The Tea Leaf,” by Edgar Jepson and Robert Eustace; and the story that is, 101

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arguably, the outstanding short form whodunit from the Golden Age of detective fiction: “The Avenging Chance,” by the man who founded the Detection Club, Anthony Berkeley. Anthony Berkeley (1893–1971), whose full name was Anthony Berkeley Cox, was an enigmatic man whose career as a published detective novelist lasted barely fifteen years, from 1925 to the start of the Second World War. It appealed to his sardonic sense of humor to cultivate an air of mystery about his life, as far as his readers were concerned, and when Malice Aforethought was published to widespread acclaim under the name of Francis Iles, a couple of years passed before Berkeley was identified as its author. Characteristically, he enjoyed keeping a record of the mistaken guesses about the book’s authorship that appeared in the Press. Berkeley’s principal detective was an amateur, the breezy, beer-swilling, popular novelist Roger Sheringham, who first appeared in The Layton Court Mystery in 1925. Sheringham shared several characteristics with his creator, not least his outspokenness, and like Berkeley he was “careful to treat his writing as a business and nothing else.” Berkeley was one of the great innovators of the Golden Age of detective fiction, yet he also had the priceless ability to spot and latch on to an emerging trend. E. C. Bentley had, in Trent’s Last Case, written a masterly exposure of a brilliant amateur sleuth’s unexpected fallibility, and Sheringham was the most consistently error-prone of detectives. As Doug Greene has noted, this approach meant that “Berkeley simultaneously undermined the form while confirming its role as challenge-to-the reader.”2 Berkeley’s knack of coming up with an ingenious mystery solution that proves mistaken was unparalleled, and afforded him endless opportunities to indulge in ironic reflection on the nature of detective work. With a less gifted writer, this technique would rapidly have become tedious, but Berkeley’s flair ensured that even when his inventive twists of conventional mystery-making felt anti-climactic, as in Top Storey Murder, the results were nevertheless as engaging as the best work of many of his contemporaries. “The Avenging Chance” provides a superb demonstration of Berkeley’s mastery of fictional detection. Before the First World War, the short story was the preferred form of the premier writers of detective fiction, Edgar Allan Poe, Arthur Conan Doyle, and G. K. Chesterton, as well as of many other notable practitioners, ranging from Arthur Morrison and Baroness Orczy to Ernest Bramah and R. Austin Freeman. Following the Armistice, a new cadre of writers emerged, many of them influenced by Bentley, Christie, Sayers and Freeman Wills Crofts were in the vanguard, closely followed by Berkeley, G. D. H. and Margaret Cole, Henry Wade and J. J. Connington. All of them wrote short stories, but their reputations were built—and endure—on the foundation of

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their novels. Christie favored, and ultimately perfected, the complex whodunit with a closed circle of suspects and the surprise solution, usually a variation on the theme of the “least likely culprit.” The broader canvas of a novel allowed scope for authors to shift suspicion from one person to another in a manner difficult to achieve in a short story. Yet in “The Avenging Chance,” Berkeley showed how it could be done in a short story with a restricted cast of characters. Calling in at his club, the Rainbow, in Piccadilly, Sir William Anstruther finds that he has been sent a box of chocolates as a publicity stunt. Since he does not like chocolates, he gives them to a fellow member, Graham Beresford, who has told him that he has promised to give a box of chocolates to his wife Jean because of a bet she won with him. Once at home, Beresford presents the box to Jean, and also samples the chocolates himself. Soon he is taken violently ill, and Jean, who ate more of the chocolates, dies. The cause of death is nitrobenzene poisoning, and when the manufacturers deny having sent out the box as a promotional exercise, Scotland Yard, in the person of Sheringham’s friend Chief Inspector Moresby, is baffled. It seems obvious that Anstruther was the intended victim—but who was the killer, and what was the motive? Berkeley makes excellent use of a particular technique of misdirection that Christie exploited successfully time and again, notably in novels such as Peril at End House and A Murder Is Announced. This exemplifies the similarity between the plotting methods employed by Berkeley and Christie, a similarity that has been consistently underestimated. Christie was an ardent admirer of Berkeley’s writing, describing his work in glowing terms: “Detection and crime at its wittiest—all his stories are amusing, intriguing, and he is a master of the final twist, the surprise denouement.”3 Another central feature of “The Avenging Chance” is the inspiration Berkeley drew from his studies of “true crime,” which exerted a profound influence on his fiction, from the second Sheringham novel, The Wychford Poisoning Case, to his interesting and underestimated but commercially unsuccessful swansong, As for the Woman, published under the Iles name and inspired by the Thompson-Bywaters case. The Wychford Poisoning Case, based on the celebrated Maybrick case in nineteenth-century Liverpool, is sub-titled An Essay in Criminology, and in a preface addressed to his friend, the novelist E.M. Delafield, he refers to their shared interest in real life criminal cases. In “The Avenging Chance,” Sheringham makes explicit reference to the crime that no doubt provided Berkeley with his starting point, the attempted murder of Sir William Horwood: “You remember that some lunatic sent poisoned chocolates not so long ago to the Commissioner of the Police himself. A good crime always gets imitated. One could bear in mind the possibility that this is a copy of the Horwood case.” In 1922, we find, a man called Tatam sent

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Horwood walnut whips laced with arsenic, which the (deeply unpopular) Commissioner unwisely consumed on the assumption that they were a birthday gift from his daughter. He was fortunate to survive. Berkeley seized the chance to demonstrate his fascination with crimes of the past, to express his own opinions on them in his customary forthright fashion and to show his considerable ingenuity in integrating these observations within the narrative. Sheringham refers to the case of Marie Lafarge, convicted of poisoning her husband with arsenic in 1840. This was the first widely documented case in which forensic toxicology, and specifically the Marsh test for detecting the presence of arsenic in the human body, played a significant part in a murder case. Sheringham is typically brisk: “Of course there was never really any doubt as to Marie Lafarge really being innocent, to any intelligent mind.” Sheringham makes passing reference to Mary Ansell, hanged in 1899 for poisoning her sister for financial gain, while Moresby suggests a parallel with “the Molineux case … in New York, where a poisoned phial of bromo-seltzer was sent to a Mr. Cornish at the Knickerbocker Club.” The clubland setting of that crime, committed at the end of the nineteenth century, inspired Berkeley’s creation of the Rainbow Club as the scene of Anstruther’s fateful conversation with Graham Beresford. In speculating about the motive for the murder, Sheringham mentions the case of Christina Edmunds, which he characterizes as a crime of “feminine jealousy.” Edmunds, known as “the Chocolate Cream Poisoner,” was found guilty of murder and attempted murder when tried in 1872, and was sentenced to death, although she was later reprieved because of her mental illness. Berkeley was not alone in his interest in the Edmunds case; her story later provided a key inspiration for John Dickson Carr’s The Problem of the Green Capsule (in UK The Black Spectacles). The final element of the story reflecting Berkeley’s approach to crime writing is his focus upon psychology. The clue that points Sheringham towards the truth involves a “psychological impossibility” concerning one of the characters that leads him to deduce what really happened. This foreshadows the emphasis on the psychological that became Berkeley’s trademark, as he strove to push the puzzle element in a detective story towards the infinite range of puzzles about human behavior. The result of this confection of appealing ingredients is a story that retains its appeal and entertainment value to this day. Berkeley was not content to rest on his laurels, however, and he adapted the story of “The Avenging Chance” into The Poisoned Chocolates Case. One of the wittiest and most ingenious of Golden Age mysteries, the novel has been described by Doug Greene as “almost the Gothic Folly of the Golden Age—using ‘Gothic Folly,’

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of course, in only the most positive way.”4 Although the Detection Club had not yet sprung into being, its conception must have been in Berkeley’s mind at the time he wrote the book, since the Crimes Circle of the novel resembles a microcosm of the Detection Club. Six members, Sheringham among them, put forward solutions to the mystery of the murder of Joan Bendix, a fresh incarnation of Joan Beresford. Berkeley specialized in conjuring up multiple solutions to his mysteries, a device geared to keeping his readers guessing. Sheringham’s answer to the mystery is the same as that propounded in “The Avenging Chance.” Berkeley’s masterstroke is to demonstrate the flaws in that version of the truth, and have an alternative, and correct, solution put forward by Ambrose Chitterwick, a meek bachelor with an inferiority complex, who— like the very different Sheringham—represented one facet of Berkeley’s complex personality.5 The result is a tour de force. When the book was reissued in 1979, Christianna Brand, a post-war member of the Detection Club who knew and admired Berkeley (even though she had mixed feelings, which she bluntly expressed, about his idiosyncratic personal behavior) came up with yet another solution to the mystery, a feat that Berkeley would surely have applauded. “The Avenging Chance” is not only Berkeley’s first Sheringham short story, but also one of the best short detective stories ever written. His other work in the short form has, by comparison, been neglected. The publication in 2004 of The Avenging Chance, a story collection edited by two knowledgeable Berkeley fans, Tony Medawar and Arthur Robinson, was therefore an admirable complement to a collection called The Roger Sheringham Stories. Introduced by Ayresome Johns (the book dealer George Locke) and published a decade earlier, that volume had been limited to an edition of ninety-five copies (Doug Greene was one of the named subscribers). The new book’s appearance was due to Doug Greene’s enterprise in creating Crippen & Landru and publishing a series of “Lost Classics,” of which The Avenging Chance is among the most dazzling. The book’s subtitle is and Other Mysteries from Roger Sheringham’s Casebook, and there was no space for the stories he wrote as Francis Iles, although one of the entries, “Unsound Mind,” does not feature Sheringham. With eight stories and a couple of appendices, as well as an informative introduction and Berkeley’s biographical note about Sheringham, this volume is packed with hidden gems illustrating Berkeley’s command of story structure as well as the cleverness of his ideas. That the stories were well hidden is, incidentally, evidenced by the fact that, in 101 Years’ Entertainment, Ellery Queen said that Berkeley had only written two Sheringham stories. “Perfect Alibi” is a brief tale with a twist that owes something to Chesterton and offers a highly condensed variation of a storyline Berkeley employed in

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his novel The Second Shot. More substantial is “The Mystery of Horne’s Copse,” which began life as a twelve-part serial in Home and Country magazine. This is one of the best examples of a familiar device in the genre: a story in which a corpse is discovered, only to vanish—in this case, more than once. Berkeley contrives repeated cliff-hanger endings for each installment of the serial with consummate skill. In “White Butterfly,” Moresby invites Sheringham to apply his understanding of psychology to a murder case in a seaside resort that has defied solution. In yet another reminder of his fallibility, Roger dreams up an incorrect solution before being put on the right track by a local policeman, and salvages self-respect by chancing upon a vital piece of evidence. Doug Greene recalls that Fredric Dannay (one-half of Ellery Queen) told him that Berkeley was dissatisfied with the story and wanted to forget it, probably because it was so unlikely Sheringham would have found the crucial clue.6 “The Wrong Jar,” an arsenic poisoning mystery, bears similarities to the novel Not to Be Taken, in which Sheringham does not appear. Sheringham again references a real life crime, the case of the nineteenth-century Swiss poisoner Marie Jeanneret. This time he reaches the right conclusion, and, in a manner reminiscent of Lord Peter Wimsey (whom Berkeley parodied in a chapter for the Detection Club round robin novel Ask a Policeman), allows the culprit the chance to commit suicide rather than face trial. “Double-Bluff ” pairs Sheringham again with his old friend Alec Grierson, who originally appeared as a memorable variation of the typical Dr. Watson figure in The Layton Court Mystery. The story starts with Sheringham pontificating about circumstantial evidence and pointing out the unreliability of witness identification evidence, as in the case of Adolf Beck, who suffered a miscarriage of justice as a result of mistaken identifications, and was ultimately released from prison and awarded compensation. “Mr Bearstowe Says….” is an example of Berkeley’s flair for the unexpected final twist, here reserved for the very last word of the story. Berkeley was a restless experimenter. Just as he liked to play with multiple solutions to the puzzles he created, so he relished ringing the changes on his story ideas. Unraveling the complications of his bibliography has occupied Berkeleyphiles for decades. Thus, for instance, “Double-Bluff ” and a story called “Direct Evidence” concern the same murder, but develop in contrasting ways, while “Mr. Bearstowe Says….” has antecedents in a story called “RazorEdge” and a play called “Red Anemones.”7 On the basis of a synopsis entitled Seaside Story, George Locke has hypothesized that, at some point in the early years of the Second World War, Berkeley had planned to turn the “RazorEdge” story-line into a Sheringham novel, but instead anonymously published

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a book-length version of the same story, minus Sheringham. It seems more likely, however, that the work fell victim to Berkeley’s loss of enthusiasm for writing novels. Both Berkeley collections omit a Sheringham story discovered in 2013 by Tony Medawar (it appeared the same year in the journal Give Me That OldTime Detection). First published in 1943, “The Bargee’s Holiday” is a cautionary wartime tale designed to convey the message that careless talk costs lives. The story’s obscurity lies in the fact that it originally appeared in The North Devon Journal-Herald. There is something sad about the literary fate of Anthony Berkeley, a pioneer of detective fiction who was lionized by such genre greats as Agatha Christie, John Dickson Carr and Ellery Queen, but who lost his literary gusto after a relatively brief if busy career of crime writing, leaving his most celebrated character to make his final bow in a provincial journal with a minute readership. In truth, Berkeley’s whole career as a detective novelist might be viewed as a form of Gothic folly. Yet there is much to admire in Berkeley’s novels, short stories and zealous efforts to advance the genre. In his short essay “Why Do I Write Detective Stories?” (included in The Avenging Chance) Berkeley wrote: “How long can the detective story expect to maintain its present popularity? Always, I think, provided that it moves with the times. That is, so long as those who write them will recognize that the conventions of yesterday will not suit the requirements of tomorrow.” Berkeley was wise enough to recognize just that. And his words remain as true today as when he wrote them.

NOTES 1. Douglas Greene to Martin Edwards, 13 June 2013. 2. Douglas Greene to Martin Edwards, 28 June 2013. 3. Agatha Christie, “Detective Writers in England” (1945), reprinted in CADS: Crime and Detective Stories 55 (December 2008), 3–6. 4. Douglas Greene to Martin Edwards, 28 June 2013. 5. Mr. Chitterwick also appears in Berkeley’s novels The Piccadilly Murder (1929) and Trial and Error (1937). 6. Douglas Greene to Martin Edwards, 4 July 2013. 7. All four of these tales appear in The Roger Sheringham Stories.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bentley, E. C. Trent’s Last Case. London: Nelson, 1913. Berkeley, Anthony. “The Avenging Chance.” Pearson’s Magazine (September1929). Reprinted

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in a slightly enlarged version in The Roger Sheringham Stories and The Avenging Chance (TAC). _____. The Avenging Chance. Edited by Tony Medawar and Arthur Robinson. Norfolk, VA: Crippen & Landru, 2004. _____. “The Bargee’s Holiday.” The North Devon Journal-Herald (1943). Reprinted in Give Me That Old-Time Detection (Spring 2013). _____. “Direct Evidence.” Anthony Berkeley. The Roger Sheringham Stories. Edited by George Locke. London: Thomas Carnacki, 1994. _____. “Double-Bluff.” Anthony Berkeley. The Roger Sheringham Stories. Edited by George Locke. London: Thomas Carnacki, 1994. Reprinted in TAC. _____. The Layton Court Mystery. London: Herbert Jenkins, 1925. _____. “Mr. Bearstowe Says….” The Saturday Book 3. Edited by Leonard Russell. London: Hutchinson, 1943. Reprinted in TAC. _____. “The Mystery of Horne’s Copse.” Serial in Twelve Parts. Home and Country ( January-December 1931). Reprinted in TAC. _____. Not to Be Taken. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1937. _____. “Perfect Alibi.” Radio Times (1 August 1930) (as “The Story of a Perfect Alibi”). Revised Edition. (London) Evening Standard (11 March 1953). Reprinted in TAC. _____. The Piccadilly Murder. London: Collins, 1929. _____. The Poisoned Chocolates Case. London: Collins, 1929. _____. “Razor-Edge.” Anthony Berkeley. The Roger Sheringham Stories. Edited by George Locke. London: Thomas Carnacki, 1994. _____. The Roger Sheringham Stories. Edited by George Locke. London: Thomas Carnacki, 1994. _____. Top Storey Murder. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1932. _____. Trial and Error. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1937. _____. “White Butterfly.” (London) Evening Standard (28 August 1936). Reprinted in TAC. _____. “Why Do I Write Detective Stories?” The Avenging Chance. Edited by Tony Medawar and Arthur Robinson. Norfolk, VA: Crippen & Landru, 2004. _____. “The Wrong Jar.” Raymond Postgate. Editor. Detective Stories of Today. London: Faber & Faber, 1940. Reprinted in TAC. _____. The Wychford Poisoning Case. London: Collins, 1926. Carr, John Dickson. The Problem of the Green Capsule. New York: Harper, 1939; as The Black Spectacles. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1939. Christie, Agatha. “Detective Writers in England” (1945). Reprinted in CADS: Crime and Detective Stories 55 (December 2008): 3–6. _____. A Murder Is Announced. London: Collins, 1950. _____. Peril at End House. London: Collins, 1932. Iles, Francis. Malice Aforethought. London: Gollancz, 1931. Queen, Ellery. 101 Years’ Entertainment: The Great Detective Stories, 1841–1941. Boston: Little, Brown, 1941.

The Left Hand of Margery Allingham B. A. PIKE

Like the common run of humanity, Margery Allingham had two hands, but, in her capacity as a professional writer, she distinguished clearly between them and gave each its separate significance. Late in her life, she wrote introductions to two omnibus collections of some of her novels, the first, The Mysterious Mr. Campion, published by Chatto & Windus in 1963, the other, Mr. Campion’s Lady, following from the same publisher two years later. In them, she explains the difference between her “left-hand ” and “right-hand ” work. The preface to The Mysterious Mr. Campion is called “Mystery Writer in the Box,” and it includes her famous definition of the form: “The Mystery remains box-shaped, at once a prison and a refuge. Its four walls are, roughly, a Killing, a Mystery, an Enquiry and a Conclusion with an Element of Satisfaction in it.” She goes on to distinguish between her “left, or ‘commercial,’ hand ” and her right hand, the one she “took so seriously and wrote ‘for fun’.” She also describes her left hand as “trained in the old school of ‘pop’ adventure, which decrees, simply, ‘a surprise every tenth page and a shock every twentieth’.” In the preface to Mr. Campion’ s Lady, she elaborates the distinction between her two types of work: “Right hand writing is the story one tells spontaneously at the party. Left hand writing is the story one is made to tell by somebody else. The difference is that in the one case there is only oneself and the audience. But in the other, a third mind has intervened and it usually belongs to (a) professional editor…. Nearly all my left hand writing could be signed: Allingham with help.” Margery Allingham was always a professional writer and never earned her living in any other way. Her father, Herbert Allingham, wrote continuously 109

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for comics and pulp magazines and her mother, Emmie, also produced stories and serials for that market. She began young, with “The Rescue of the Rain Clouds,” a fairy story, published in Mother and Home on April 14, 1917, when she was coming up for her thirteenth birthday. Before her escape into the mystery, she had already had a novel published: Blackerchief Dick, written up from information received during a series of séances held on Mersea Island in 1921. She was still only nineteen when it was published by Hodder & Stoughton in 1923. Thereafter, as she explains, her right hand was “not doing so well.” Her second novel, Green Corn, was completed but not published, and her third, The Lover, remains a substantial fragment. The left hand work, by contrast, “was reasonably successful ” and earned her “an almost adequate living.” Margery Allingham’s aunt, Maud Hughes, her mother’s sister, was a pioneer woman journalist, best remembered for the film magazine Picture Show, which she founded in 1919 and kept running for over thirty years. When she followed up this initial success with another film journal, Girl’s Cinema, she recruited her niece onto the strength. Margery was still in her teens when she started to write the film stories that gave her an income for more than a decade. This was, emphatically, left hand work, described as “merely a chore ” by Margery herself, and as “a tough, uncongenial discipline ” by her biographer Julia Jones, who also defines the procedure the work entailed: “Margery would attend a private showing, usually in Wardour Street, make notes of the film’s plot and main characters, then write it up at home into a five thousand word short story.” Two documents reveal more about this left-hand stage in Margery Allingham’s early career as a writer: her diary for 1934, published between 2005 and 2007 in The Bottle Street Gazette, the journal of the Margery Allingham Society, and the invaluable Chronology of her life compiled by Richard Martin, author of Ink in Her Blood (1988). As he asserts on the title page, the Chronology was assembled from “letters, diaries, and documents.” It gives the number of film stories written by Margery for the four years 1922 to 1925, increasing from fifteen in 1922 to twenty-nine in 1925 and amounting in all to eightyeight. An early entry in the record is “Through the Back Door,” from a Mary Pickford film. This was begun on January 23, 1922 and completed five days later. The diary reveals that, even with six Albert Campion novels under her belt, Margery Allingham was still producing film stories for her Aunt Maud in 1934. Ten are mentioned in the course of the year, including “Her Splendid Folly,” “Rafter Romance,” “Blonde Bombshell ” and “Fugitive Lovers.” The left hand work for Maud Hughes ramified in 1925, when she founded a third magazine called Joy. This was promoted as “the love and laughter weekly,” with young women working in shops and offices as its target audience. Margery was in the first issue, signing herself “Louise A.” (Louise was her sec-

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ond given name). She was represented by a jaunty verse entitled “Not Hardhearted—Wise!” that was based on the truism that there are plenty more fish in the sea: if you lose your lover, a replacement should not be difficult to find. The Chronology states that Margery wrote thirty-three pieces for Joy in 1925 and indicates, even, that she was ahead of the game, since she was writing a “Flapper’s Alphabet ” in January, a month before the first appearance of the magazine. Julia Jones enlarges the picture: “Every week Margery contributed ‘Claude’s Criticisms’—always witty and sometimes wise, powder puff jingles of advice to accompany cartoons. She also wrote ‘Little Scratches,’ brief tales of office in-fighting between a plain and a pretty girl, eternally competing for the attention of their male colleagues.” In later years, Margery liked to style herself the last of the professional writers, a claim given substance by her record at this time. Julia Jones acknowledges “her level of journalistic professionalism,” maintained so efficiently “week by week for the two years that the magazine appeared.” Two new Allingham works were published in 1930, but only one was attributed to her. Mystery Mile marks the beginning of her maturity as a writer and has always been popular, but The Darings of the Red Rose was published anonymously and had no life beyond its initial showing, in a women’s magazine called Weekly Welcome. It is an eight-part series, consisting of separate stories linked by a common theme and with the same protagonists. Despite their ephemeral nature, the Red Rose stories are of particular interest, as an accomplished achievement, ideally suited to its purpose, and as the earliest body of left-hand work to have survived into our own time. That it has done so is largely owing to Douglas Greene, who learned about it from Julia Jones’ biography and set about acquiring the text and securing the rights. The result was the second of the books published by Crippen & Landru, his publishing firm, then newly established—and with a name that hugely delighted the late Michael Gilbert. It came out in 1995, the year after John Dickson Carr’s Speak of the Devil launched Doug on his secondary career as an independent publisher. It is an exceptionally attractive book, blue, with silver lettering and an elegant Art Deco cover by Deborah Miller, and it does credit both to its author and its publisher. Since then, of course, Crippen & Landru has gone from strength to strength, a marvelous venture that leaves mystery readers and writers immeasurably in debt to its driving force. It is good to salute him as he reaches seventy: he well deserves every tribute that will be paid to him. The “darings ” of the Red Rose are precisely that: she dares with commitment and resource, taking enormous risks, no less than any adventurer in popular magazine fiction. Driven by bitter resentment and a passionate resolve to

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even scores, she undertakes eight acts of revenge, bent on hunting down the men who reduced to penury herself and the rest of her northern community. They are, of course, financiers, distrusted and feared, then as now. The Red Rose herself has gone from riches to rags and back again, so that she is now well-placed, socially, to organize the humiliation of each man in turn and to extort from him a lavish compensation. Systematically, she works her way through a complex program of revenge, prepared to commit any crime short of murder. The stories are bold and improbable but meticulously imagined. They have their own fantastic logic and their zest and ingenuity never waver. In her true identity as Betty Connolly the Red Rose leads a privileged life, moving in high society and engaged to the son of an earl. Tommy Kempis works with Scotland Yard, and it is part of the fun that he shares in the investigation of the Red Rose’s derring-do, trailing ineffectually in her wake and generally showing in a dim light. Betty knocks spots off him, outwitting him with her criminal activity and refusing to marry him until her secret work is done. Marie, her maid, is a valuable ally, able to mobilize her admirers when they will be useful. She, too, is capable and determined, and the young men dance to her tune. 1933 began with Sweet Danger, the last of the “plum-puddings ” as Margery Allingham called them, the four early novels which she characterized as “frankly picaresque.” Later came two left-hand works, a long story called “The Mystery Man of Soho ” and the first of the three thrillers published pseudonymously in the nineteen-thirties. The story appeared on April 1 in a tabloid magazine called The Thriller. It is an intricate piece of work, occupying most of the available space, and well worth the twopence it cost at the newsstands. The full text appears only here. For its later appearances it was trimmed, not least for its collected appearance in The Allingham Minibus (Chatto & Windus 1973). Here, the title is changed to “A Quarter of a Million,” and attempts have been made to bring it up to date, with a laundrette substituting for a Chinese laundry and a prison sentence for hanging. The narrative ends abruptly, with the closing column inches cut. Even in its pared-down form the story is busy and inventive, set, of course, in Soho and involving much underground activity. Interestingly, the policeman in charge and the principal villain are friends in everyday life. The assorted criminals include Thos. Knapp, the “gent on a bike ” from Mystery Mile who reappears as late as The Mind Readers, thirty years later. Here, he runs a suspect garage, causing problems for his confederates with his slovenly ways. As always when we meet or hear of him, Margery insists on his courage. Morally, it is his one redeeming feature. The first of the left-hand novels is Other Man’s Danger, already serialized

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in Answers before its publication in Collins’ Thriller series, published in tandem with the Crime Club. Answers was a twopenny weekly, out on Friday for savoring over the weekend. It had a loyal following, who enjoyed the kind of “‘pop’ adventure ” Margery refers to in “Mystery Writer in the Box.” The shocks and surprises abound in Other Man’s Danger, an astonishing performance, at once preposterous and compelling. Because her serious suitors keep dying, Jennifer Fern is dubbed by the popular press “The Tragic Heiress.” Two have already met their ends, and the story opens with an attempt to murder the third. When this fails, he is quickly dispatched by other means. The tone is edgy and increasingly frenetic and fantastic events crowd the narrative. Besides the threat to Jennifer and her men, the action encompasses punitive long-term blackmail, a mad doctor, an aborted lobotomy, an escaped convict, a return from the dead and serial impersonation by a “facial mimic ” who defies detection. Some hair-raising moments must have kept the Answer’s audience agog for the following Friday. The attempt on Jennifer’s brain is genuinely chilling, even if thriller convention decrees that it shall not happen. When the book was published by Doubleday, also in 1933, it was retitled The Man of Dangerous Secrets, the designation by which Robin Grey is known at Scotland Yard, where he is highly regarded as “one of the most valuable men in the complicated machinery which controls the underworld of Europe.” He becomes Jennifer’s fourth fiancé, initially as a convenient ploy, eventually with full emotional commitment. Although often in a fog of bewilderment, he does the standard job efficiently enough, with help when necessary and with the luck that brings him to Jennifer’s aid even as he himself is abducted. The second novel followed in 1935, having been serialized in Answers the year previously. Rogues’ Holiday has a roving apostrophe, betokening one villain in the Doubleday edition but multiples thereof in the Collins. The latter is surely correct: four major predators and assorted minor make a persuasive case. Two more, potentially, complicate the action further, both with redeeming features and something radical in common. Despite the opening in a St. James’ club, this is a seaside story set on the south coast and ending dramatically on the open sea. It is considerably less hectic than its predecessor, more graceful, lighter in tone, less extreme. The threat to the heroine is insistent and unvarying, and she undoubtedly suffers; but the surface is generally smooth and there are fewer melodramatics. Though it is not a whodunit, there is considerable complication and three separate investigators put their wits to work: inspector David Blest, who follows the trail from London and, predictably, falls for the heroine; ex–Sergeant Bloomer, a resourceful hotel detective with some dubious friends and his own methods

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of procedure; and the local inspector, Wynn, who seems obtuse and sets his sights on the wrong man. All three contribute to the resolution, not least the wrongheaded Wynn, in whom we have had such little faith. Two of the villains will stop at nothing: the sinister Saxon Marsh, whose attempt to murder a rival is witnessed by David Blest; and a smooth schemer calling himself Charles Webb, who arranges for the heroine’s abduction and sends her to what seems a certain death. His collaborator is a woman, next in line to the fortune the heroine should inherit. Marguerite Ferney is in the elegant tradition of glamorous Allingham women who dress well and have the means to give rein to their instincts. She may even be said to institute the tradition, since she precedes Mr. Campion’s sister Val and his cousin Meg. Marsh’s confederate is Sir Leo Thyn, whom we meet at the club in London. He, too, is devoid of scruple but he lacks the nerve that sustains his fellow. A female villain dominates the action of the third left-hand novel, The Shadow in the House, published by Doubleday and Collins in 1936, the latter in the Crime Club series for the first time. This may be regarded as a promotion from the second division, since the Thriller series generally carried less clout. Be that as it may, the novel represents Margery Allingham in cracking form, showing her paces with the utmost professionalism. It is a Gothic novel in the great tradition of such fictions, with all the trappings bar a ghost. Such a device would have diminished a deeply human narrative, which satisfies both as a thriller and a love story. Mary Coleridge is a desperate young woman, reduced by circumstances and easily talked into taking the place of an heiress, under pressure to visit an aunt in the country and unaware of her imminent inheritance. Marie-Elizabeth has her own courses to pursue and Mary welcomes the imposture as an escape from her current despair. She is quickly persuaded into marriage with the son of the house, a handsome young man, supposedly on his death-bed. The marriage purports to save his home from an odious heir, but will, in fact, give his mother continued control over the fortune due shortly to pass out of her hands. It is doubly ironic that both partners in the union are deceivers: Mary is not Marie-Elizabeth and Richard is not dying. The action is founded on deception and false appearances, with the ironic enhancement of the heroine’s own assumption of another’s role. When we meet Eva de Liane, Richard’s mother and aunt to Marie-Elizabeth, she looks “a charming person,” all lace and eau-de-cologne, with “bright laughing blue eyes, soft grey curls and a placid face which told of beauty long ago.” In fact, she is a cruel, sadistic schemer, without conscience, as she freely admits. She has reduced her husband to a cipher and her daughter-in-law to a grey ghost. Both her sons obey her bidding, the elder, Edmund, more committedly.

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A chip off the old block, his “distinguished look ” and “grave, clever face ” trick Mary into trusting him on their first encounter. Even the house seems to betray her. In an idyllic setting, Baron’s Tye is “gracious and lovely ” without and exquisite and expensive within. Though it seems at first like home to Mary, it begins to take on the cast and color of its reckless chatelaine as the trap closes on her, and she feels, increasingly, its “grim influence.” Eventually, it becomes her prison and might well have been her tomb. The narrative has other strands to its fabric, enlarging its scope and intensifying its interest. Mary has a second lover, Mrs. de Liane a vengeful servant. Both contribute to the resolution, though it is Richard who averts a final tragedy. His cynical detachment is replaced increasingly by concern for Mary and he is soon deeply in love. His move towards emotional maturity is recognizably akin to what overtakes Albert Campion in Dancers in Mourning, a year later. The earlier heroes are built to standard but Richard is allowed to develop. All three novels were attributed to Margery Allingham on first publication by Answers, and two had different titles: Dangerous Secrets became Other Man’s Danger and The Devil and Her Son, The Shadow in the House. It was not until they were published in book form that the male pseudonym “Maxwell March ” was created. The books were warmly received but by a different audience from that which supported the magazine. There is no record of anyone having made the connection between the Answers serials and the Collins books, and yet that connection was there to be made. It seems that each group read the novels in the form best suited to their pockets but never the twain met. Perhaps even more extraordinary than the March thrillers was the next achievement of Margery Allingham’s left hand. In 1936, the year of The Shadow in the House, The Strand Magazine published the first of fifteen Albert Campion stories, “The White Elephant.” The series continued into the war, but “A Hatter of Form ” was the last, in May 1940. A final story, “Evidence in Camera,” appeared when The Strand was revived after the war, but this does not feature Mr. Campion. Three other stories were written in the nineteen-thirties but did not appear in The Strand, for whatever reason. Two were collected in Mr. Campion: Criminologist, the first and only collection to appear from Doubleday, in 1937. “The Pro and the Con ” and “The Border-line Case ” are as good as anything that got into the magazine. Indeed, the latter was very popular and has been much reprinted. A third story, “The Black Tent,” must have been rejected, since it was re-cast as the Strand story “The Definite Article.” In her second preface Margery Allingham writes in some detail about her experience in working for Reeves Shaw, the individual in charge of The Strand during her time with it. He was “a most exacting employer,” “a terrifying old

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man who … could put a relentless finger upon every flaw and weakness in a tale.” From him she learned “almost as much ” as her pulp-writer father had taught her, “but, as it were, in a class slightly higher up in the school ”: “He put me off violence in fiction for life by objecting to a fight in which a thug used his feet … ‘Fighting with feet is the beginning of sadism,’ he roared … ‘and I won’t have it in my paper’.” It is owing to Reeves Shaw that “the Albert Campion of these tales is not quite the same as the Albert Campion of the books.” The stories show him “in a left-hand version.” There is not, in fact, so very much difference, as Margery herself acknowledges. Principally, we register the absence of Albert’s eccentric henchman, Magersfontein Lugg, who must have been deemed too outré for Strand readers. He is briefly present, in “Caesar’s Wife’s Elephant,” an earlier draft of “The White Elephant,” published in The Bottle Street Gazette for 2011. Otherwise, he is outlawed from the Strand series. Superintendent Stanislaus Oates is present and, indeed, becomes the regular police presence. Albert, however, does most of the work, on the spot, in the know, alive to every sign and portent. In the top-drawer ambience of these stories, his essential roles are those of man-about-town and squire of dames. There is usually a young woman to be extricated from a situation causing her anxiety, often with a double-barreled surname: Pendleton-Blake, Fysher-Sprigge, PeterhouseVaughn. As so often, the damsel in distress starts the ball rolling. The fashionable world is evoked with much of the élan that distinguishes The Fashion in Shrouds, published by Heinemann in 1938, when these tales were appearing. The accumulation of detail and the name-dropping are precisely the same, as are the author’s evident delight in her buoyant creation and her warm invitation to her readers to enjoy it with her. The social round gives these stories their savor and largely determines their content, serving as foreground rather than background. Albert is present at the Junior Greys when “The Old Man in the Window ” joins the company, shortly after the announcement of his death in the evening paper. He is returning from dinner with a wealthy godfather when “The Name on the Wrapper ” engages his interest. “The Hat Trick ” opens at the Braganza, continues at “the first night of Lorimer’s ‘Carry On’ at the Sovereign Theatre ” and takes effect at the Gillyflower, where he is dining with his Aunt Eva after the Dahlia Show. He is laying down port for an infant godson when the activities of “The Widow ” are drawn to his attention; and is buying Georgian silver at Florian’s when reminded of “The Question Mark.” The names accumulate irresistibly: the Maison Grecque, the Excelsior Gallery, the Old Sobriety Music Hall, The Whippersfield Hunt Ball. At the Café Bohème, Albert nods to young Lafcadio, steers clear of Mrs. Beamish

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and waves to Lily O’Dell. Not only Aunt Eva enlarges his family circle: we also meet Lady Charlotte Lawn, his great-aunt, and her regrettable son, Second-cousin Monmouth. Also present are two of his godparents: Colonel Laverock, who lives in Jacobean splendor, and the Countess of Costigan and Dorn, who “never entertained without a specific object in view.” Secret messages add to the fun: in “The Name on the Wrapper,” where Gina Gray is confounded when Albert restores to her the lost ring that tells him more than she herself knows; in “The White Elephant,” where a treacherous society manicurist takes to bellowing in public places; and in “The Meaning of the Act,” where the exotic dancer Charmian, who “looks like a papyrus,” has more on her mind than simply entertaining her public. We hear also of the private code known exclusively to Albert and Stanislaus Oates, recorded in “a small red manuscript book,” each page “ruled with double columns and filled with Mr. Campion’s own elegant handwriting.” The wit is constant, notably in the exchanges between Albert and Oates and in the titles of the stories, often oblique and double-edged. In “The Case is Altered ” suitcases are switched during a railway journey, and in “A Matter of Form ” a safe-breaker devises a scam dependent on official forms in buff envelopes. “The Hat Trick” refers both to the procedure enabling one to dine free at expensive restaurants and to the criminal deception underlying it; and “Safe as Houses ” deals with the fraudulent sale of a non-existent house. Even “The Widow ” keeps a surprise in reserve until the end. “The Meaning of the Act ” is particularly choice, and “The Name on the Wrapper ” runs it close. In narrative, the wit is precise and mischievous. Juliet Fysher-Sprigge is “the second prettiest girl in Mayfair,” and the widow of successive multi-millionaires is known as Cinderella. The “small rodent’s face” of a providential pickpocket is “alight with bonhomie and gin ”; and a rueful sigh escapes a con-man who shares his name with the nursery rhyme frog who would a-wooing go: “‘Heighho ,’ said Anthony Rowley.” We can never know how much Reeves Shaw contributed to this series. He was right to reject “The Black Tent ” because “The Definite Article ” is vastly better. He was probably right to exile Lugg. Whatever his contribution, it was clearly beneficial. These left-hand stories rank with the very best of Margery Allingham’s work. Two further stories complete the tally of pre-war left-hand work: “Jubilee for Two!” and “Who Killed Robin Cox?” The former is a pièce-d’occasion written for the Silver Jubilee of King George V in 1935. It appeared in Answers on May 11 of that year. A mature couple looks back over their own twentyfive years of married life, in a narrative that has nothing to distinguish it as the work of a significant writer. No doubt it served its purpose and for that

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may be accounted a success. It must, nonetheless, be Margery Allingham’s least characteristic story and is probably best forgotten. “Who Killed Robin Cox?” was written for a National Book Fair mounted by The Sunday Times in the autumn of 1938. One of the attractions was a mystery competition called “Sleuth’s Corner,” devised by Margery Allingham, who wrote the story, marshaled the clues and posed the questions to be answered by contestants. There are six suspects, including the dead man’s wife and housekeeper and a neighbor who is mentally unstable. Their statements are given, together with comments by Stanislaus Oates or Detective Inspector Richards, the man on the spot. Six witnesses also testify, each in turn supplementing what one of the suspects has said. The text was printed in a twelve-page booklet called The Dossier of the Crime, including a map of the terrain, and a “general note on the case ” by Oates. It was supported by a range of visual clues—an umbrella, a photograph, a letter torn to scraps and reconstituted and a small handwritten notebook recording household expenses. In one of these lies the essential clue. The solution of the crime and “Miss Margery Allingham’s Report ” were published in The Sunday Times for December 18. The winner was a Londoner called Maurice Carrie, who gained thirty-eight of the possible sixty points. The report reveals that “over fifty per-cent, found the end of the thread ” but most thereafter “went astray.” Those “who were still on the sound trail became few and far between, and seemed disposed to arrange themselves in two camps: the psychologists on the one hand and the hard-fact practitioners on the other, most of each of them unfortunately, only half right.” Full answers to the questions are provided. Once again, Margery Allingham demonstrated her professionalism, making a first-rate job of the commission and following through with an admirably balanced report. This is probably the least-known of all her works, left-hand or otherwise, and it has never been reprinted. The final group of left-hand works consists of four novellas, written and published in the ten years after the war. That they were aimed at a particular audience is established by the dedication of Deadly Duo (Doubleday 1949): “To all those Americans for whom these tales were written, this book is respectfully dedicated.” In Ink in Her Blood Richard Martin quotes a statement made by Margery Allingham in 1954, in a letter to a publisher: the novellas are “bread and butter tales I do so that I don’t have to worry too much if my Campion books are serialized or not.” As finished commercial offerings, for sale to the highest bidder, all four found space in lucrative glossy magazines. “Wanted: Someone Innocent ” and “The Patient at Peacocks Hall ” in The Saturday Evening Post; “Last Act ” in Good Housekeeping; and “Safer than Love ” in Woman’s Journal. They were collected in two volumes: Deadly Duo containing

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‘“Wanted: Someone Innocent ” and “Last Act ” and No Love Lost (Doubleday 1954) uniting the other two. “The Patient at Peacocks Hall ” was known as “Dark Invitation ” in its serial appearance and “Safer than Love ” as “Marriage by Design.” Deadly Duo had the variant English Title Take Two at Bedtime when published by World’s Work in 1950. “Wanted: Someone Innocent ” was first collected in an American paperback, a Pony Book, published by Stamford House in 1946. This includes three ghost stories as well as the novella which gives the book its title. There is a clear line from the March novels to the novellas, manifest principally in the damsel in distress motif common to all but “Last Act.” The Shadow in the House and “Wanted: Someone Innocent ” are demonstrably akin, each with its female villain, unscrupulous and exploitative, and with a vulnerable young woman propelled into a false situation that puts her life at risk. There is a strong family resemblance between Black Plumes and “Last Act,” less in the action than in the general tone. Each has its grande dame and its ambivalent, sparring lovers. “Wanted: Someone Innocent ” would have made a good film, but Paul Reynolds, Margery’s American agent, tried in vain to sell the rights. It has all the standard ingredients: a gullible heroine, a disabled hero, and a scheming villainess with a sinister lover. Like Mary in The Shadow in the House, Gillian Brayton is down on her luck and vulnerable to suggestion. She is virtually shanghaied by a forceful woman who recalls shared schooldays, though claiming a greater intimacy between them than there actually was. It is a close-knit and absorbing story, with much subtlety in the telling and some pleasing ambiguity in the resolution. Gillian is intended to take the blame for an unnatural death, but the plan goes awry. Though she is suspected of murder, it proves to be that of other than the chosen victim. In a tough spot, she keeps her head and earns our respect and affection. She wins over the servants, originally hostile from a calculated slander, and has cause to be grateful to a thoughtful and disciplined policeman. “Last Act ” is written in Margery Allingham’s grand manner, with a famous old actress as the mainstay of the action, of which she is both instigator and victim. Mathilde Zoffany, known as “Zoff,” “lives her life in italics ” and may be said to die in them, too. Her grandson, Denis Cotton, is suspect number one when she expires. His past record with the French Resistance and current success as a brilliant young surgeon count nothing in his favor. Zoff has professed to fear him and has actually accused him of having attempted to murder her. The case is investigated by Inspector Lee, a hands-on policeman who seizes the case and swings it round his head. He radiates “brute energy ” and his eyes

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gleam “with a knowingness that was extraordinarily offensive.” He is one of the story’s triumphs: no one does eccentrics like Margery Allingham. The resolution is appropriately theatrical, involving a lesser play by Victor Hugo, from which a particular speech proves decisive. A final explanation entails a realignment of certain ties of blood and there is a startling insight at the end. “The Patient at Peacocks Hall ” offers a variant of the damsel in distress theme in that the lovelorn doctor under threat puts herself in the hot seat. She is her own worst enemy, invariably giving in to the devious, self-serving schemer who plans a death and ensures her seeming complicity in it. Her entanglement occupies the first half of the story, her disentanglement the second half. Fortunately, she has sterling support from her former lover, who responds when the call comes, and from the “sheet anchor ” of a district nurse. Classical elements buttress the denouement: a deus ex machina, whose suddenly intelligent eyes remind us of Albert Campion and a neighboring Nemesis, dramatically transformed from a pestilential busybody into an avenging angel. Last and in some ways the best of the four is “Safer than Love,” set in “an insatiably inquisitive town ” where gossip holds sway. Elizabeth Lane has married on the rebound the headmaster of a local school. We never meet Victor Lucas but it is clear that he was detestable. He not only neglected his wife but used her as a cloak for his philandering. When he is found dead at his lovenest by the golf-course, Liz is an obvious suspect, as is Andy Durtham, the man she should have married, in the town as a locum doctor. The narrative is absorbing and amusing, and crowded with eccentric characters. The charlady Mrs. Veal is particularly good value, but the star turn is undoubtedly “Uncle ” Fred South, the local police superintendent. He reappears in The Beckoning Lady, where he is less in command, but here he is on his home ground, aware of all that goes on and familiar with the personal history of everyone involved. His constable has called him “a wonder ”: “You think he’s your father and mother rolled into one and then crash! He’s seen right through you and bitten your head off !” Now Liz experiences the phenomenon, as he builds an impressive case for collusion between her and Andy. The resolution is achieved by devious means that at once outrage them and get them off the hook. For all their commercial origins, the novellas, like the Strand stories, add luster to Margery Allingham’s reputation. Like her father, Herbert, she never short-changed her readers but gave all she had to every assignment. Left-hand or right-hand, she knew what she was doing.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Works by Margery Allingham Blackerchief Dick. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1923. “Caesar’s Wife’s Elephant.” The Bottle Street Gazette. Autumn 2011. “The Case Is Altered.” The Strand Magazine. December 1938. The Darings of the Red Rose. Norfolk, VA: Crippen & Landru, 1995. Originally published anonymously in 8-parts in Weekly Welcome (February 15-April 5, 1930). Deadly Duo. Garden City: Doubleday, 1949. “The Definite Article.” The Strand Magazine. October 1937. “Diary for 1934.” The Bottle Street Gazette. Autumn 2005-Spring 2007. “Evidence in Camera.” The Strand Magazine. June 1949. “The Hat Trick.” The Strand Magazine. October 1938. “Jubilee for Two.” Answers (11 May 1935). “A Matter of Form.” The Strand Magazine. May 1940. “The Meaning of the Act.” The Strand Magazine. September, 1939. Mr. Campion Criminologist. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1937. The Mysterious Mr. Campion. London: Chatto & Windus, 1963. “The Mystery Man of Soho.” The Thriller (1 April 1933). Abridged version as “A Quarter of a Million ” in The Allingham Minibus. London: Chatto & Windus, 1973. Mystery Mile. London: Jarrolds, 1930. Mr. Campion’s Lady. London: Chatto & Windusm, 1963. “The Name on the Wrapper.” The Strand Magazine. March 1938. No Love Lost. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1954. “The Old Man in the Window.” The Strand Magazine. October 1936. “The Question Mark.” The Strand Magazine. January 1938. “The Rescue of the Rain Clouds.” Mother and Home (14 April 1914). Sleuth’s Corner: Who Killed Robin Cox? London: Sunday Times, 1938. Sweet Danger. London: Heinemann, 1933. Wanted: Someone Innocent. New York: Pony Books, 1946. “The White Elephant.” The Strand Magazine. August 1936 “The Widow.” The Strand Magazine. April 1937.

Works by Maxwell Marsh (pseudonym of Margery Allingham) Other Man’s Danger. London: Collins, 1933. Rogues’ Holiday. London: Collins, 1935. The Shadow in the House. London: Collins, 1936.

Works by Other Authors Martin, Richard. Ink in Her Blood. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1988 Pike, B. A. Campion’s Career. Bowling Green, OH. Popular Press, 1987. Thorogood, Julia. Margery Allingham: A Biography. London: Heinemann, 1991. Enlarged edition as by Julia Jones, The Adventures of Margery Allingham. Pleshey, UK: Golden Duck, 2009.

“Intuition’s Reckless Compass”: Margery Allingham’s The China Governess and a Problem of Literary Biography JULIA JONES

“Do you know what you’re saying?” He was looking at her in a kind of horror. “Can you hear yourself ?” Tears came into her eyes. “Oh don’t,” she said. “Don’t bully. Just try to help.” The fact that she was strained to a point beyond reasoning and was proceeding by intuition’s reckless compass alone, came home to him.1 —The China Governess (1962)

The China Governess is one of Margery Allingham’s Albert Campion novels in which the self-deprecating upper-class sleuth shares the investigation with her tough London policeman, Charlie Luke. Their association had begun more than a decade previously with More Work for the Undertaker (1948), a novel which, like The China Governess, satirizes the effete and snobbish intellectuals who have failed to notice how the post-war world has changed. In More Work for the Undertaker these social ostriches are the literary Palinode family; in The China Governess they are the Kinnits, fine art connoisseurs and owners of the Keep at Angevin. However, while More Work for the Undertaker is one of Allingham’s most popular and successful novels, The China Governess is not usually included in readers’ lists of favorites. The novel is certainly complex. Allingham herself found it difficult to write. Four years elapsed between the 1958 publication of Hide My Eyes (US title Tether’s End ) and The China Governess, which was published first in the US in 1962 and in the UK in 1963. There are lapses of two or three years between 122

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all of Allingham’s post-war novels, but this is noticeably the longest. Allingham’s secretary, Gloria Greci, recalled that The China Governess required an unprecedented amount of crossing-out and re-drafting. Hide My Eyes had also been a hard novel to write but for different reasons. Then, Allingham was recovering from a mental breakdown and suffering the after-effects of an insensitive administration of ECT (Electro-Convulsive Therapy). Her confidence was at rock bottom and she needed constant reassurance from Gloria that Hide My Eyes made sense, that it was good. I rate Hide My Eyes as possibly Allingham’s greatest achievement; more extraordinary and profound than its celebrated predecessor The Tiger in the Smoke (1952). Mine may be a minority viewpoint but, whether or not one likes the novel, it is undoubtedly a story with a sense of urgency. Hide My Eyes centers on an appalling and dangerous villain who leaves a trail of carnage behind him and must be stopped. It is a novel of suspense rather than detection and, like The Tiger in the Smoke, demonstrates how far Allingham had developed her craft from the classic Golden Age whodunit. I cannot conceive of Christie, Sayers or Marsh writing dark, idiosyncratic, psychological thrillers like these. The China Governess, however, is a novel of detection—or that is what it seems to be. Domestically it was written in a closer-than-usual collaboration with her husband, Pip Youngman Carter, whose tastes in crime fiction were conventional. Their marriage had been going through an unusually difficult period from about 1951 and then, in 1957, he had been forced to resign from his prestigious job as editor of the Tatler. Throughout the 1950s their tax affairs had placed Allingham under enormous strain (which she had attempted to alleviate in The Beckoning Lady by fictionally murdering the tax inspector). In 1958, with Youngman Carter having departed from the Tatler, she was able to resolve their difficulties by forming the two of them into a Company, P&M Youngman Carter Ltd. The China Governess would be a major production for the new company. “Pip and I are both working on the synopsis of the new book and we haven’t done that for years,” Allingham wrote her American editor the next year.2 The China Governess functions adequately as a whodunit. Campion’s unmasking of the murderer is effortless and expert and, as a reader, I feel the frisson of surprise each time. The murderer has been in full view throughout and yet, when I wonder why I have failed to make the identification, I suspect that my reasons may be similar to those that deceived the fictional characters, the Kinnit family. The murderer “understood them so well. They are all alike. Cold, incurious, comfort-loving and deeply respectful towards money.”3 Ouch. It is undeniably clever to make the solution to the whodunit a means of emphasizing the complicity of the “cultured” reader with the moral failings of the

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“cultured” class. It is not necessarily comfortable. Allingham’s novels were marketed “for the Connoisseur of Detective Fiction,” for “those wise men who like their nonsense to be distinguished.”4 It is tempting, therefore, to couple The China Governess with More Work for the Undertaker as a work of social satire and then find it inferior or mistaken. Too many of us, with hindsight, might side with the Kinnits and their Little Society for the Preservation of the London Skyline and fail to respond to the utopian excitement of Councillor Cornish’s rebuilt council apartments: The design was some way after Corbusier but the block was built up on plinths and resembled an Atlantic liner swimming diagonally across the site. “What the devil have you got there?” [Luke] inquired. “A prehistoric ‘wot-osaurus’?” “It’s a remarkable building.”Munday was earnest. “In daylight it takes your breath away. It’s as sleek as a spaceship.”[…] Luke sniffed and surveyed the monster, scored with sun balconies and pitted with neat rows of windows, each one shrouded with pastel colors, blue, pink, lilac, biscuit and lime. A sudden grin spread over his dark cockney face. “Got the original families in there, Chief Inspector?” he inquired. Munday gave him a steady glance. “Not exactly, sir.”5

Allingham’s feeling for London, its moods and changes, is as sure as ever. Alternatively a critic might choose to group The China Governess with The Tiger in the Smoke and Hide My Eyes as one of Allingham’s characteristic sets of three—but then consider it as the third, unsatisfactory volume that persuaded her to push on and make some new departure.6 The crime story lacks any sense of urgency. If Allingham had typed in bold across the head of chapter one I DO NOT GIVE TUPPENCE ABOUT THE MURDERS IN THIS NOVEL she could scarcely have made herself clearer. Both killings have occurred before the narrative opens and the reader has no opportunity to feel involvement with the victims. One is a historic murder with which the author makes sociological and psychological points that are cerebral, never felt. The more recent murder is virtually unacknowledged. Nanny Broome attempts some mild speculation but Superintendent Luke refuses to listen. “‘Quiet,’ Luke’s big hand thumping on the desk silenced her. ‘You open your mouth once more my girl and it’s you and no one else who’ll be inside!’”7 That is all there is: Allingham trusts her readers to understand what has happened, why it has happened and who did it. She wastes no more words on clarification. There is an attempted murder. It is committed in chapter nineteen, cleared up in chapter twenty. The victim does not die, there is no showdown, no arrest and there may possibly never be a conviction. Allingham’s attempt to heighten its significance is distinctly half-hearted:

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The story struck the depressingly familiar note with which true stories ring in the tried ears of experienced policemen. No one queried it. It was the classic pattern of human weakness, mean and embarrassing and sad. The second note, the high alarum, not so familiar and always important since it indicates the paramount sin in Man’s private calendar, took most of them by surprise though they had been well prepared.8

The “high alarum” is the M-word, is Murder. Throughout Allingham’s career Murder had been one of the four walls of the Mystery Box in which she had packed her Campion novels. The essential elements of the detective novel were “a Killing, a Mystery, an Enquiry and a Conclusion with an Element of Satisfaction in it.” Murder was important because it raised the stakes. “It must be murder,” she wrote in 1949, “Because that’s the only crime you get hanged for.”9 Allingham seems to have needed the stimulus of murder for herself as a writer. Without it she was apt to become over-involved in other, more personal concerns, to lose her way even. This became obvious during the composition of the last of her pre-war novels, The Fashion in Shrouds (1938). She had begun the novel determined to write something more than a conventional whodunit. The beautifully balanced, unobtrusively autobiographical Dancers in Mourning (1937) had given her confidence that she could successfully draw upon the “adventures” of her personal life, giving underlying depth and meaning to her fiction. Yet she struggled with Shrouds. The killing of Sir Raymond Ramillies saved both the book and the author. “To the police a corpse is a corpse and murder is a hanging matter and the whole thing slid out of the shrouding mists of the fashionable world and the gossip of the bridge clubs and came under the glare of bullseyes and the indelicate curiosity of the Press.”10 From that moment Allingham’s writing gained pace and certainty and the remaining fourteen chapters were completed in less than two months. So why did she not do something similar in The China Governess if she was finding it hard to write? In the introduction to the omnibus The Mysterious Mr Campion (1963) which was published in the UK in the same year as The China Governess, she reiterates the idea that the murder is important because it means that the story matters. There is “something deeply healthy in the idea that to deprive a human being of his life is not only the most dreadful thing one can do to him but also that it matters to the rest of us.” Quite so—just as Superintendent Luke had said. Yet notes Allingham made for a 1958 talk, “Crime for Our Delight,” when she was in the planning stage for The China Governess, suggest that she might have had something more complex in mind: “The killing we harp on is not just ordinary killing … enormous amounts of our stories have this second meaning or main meaning: the way one keeps on murdering one aspect of a person to give birth to another. We kill one relationship and another takes its place.”11

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Allingham regularly offered implicit critiques of her novels by making alternative, counterbalancing choices in whatever she wrote next. In the second Allingham omnibus, Mr Campion’s Lady (1965), she explained that she had followed The Fashion in Shrouds, where murder had mattered both to the action and to the author, with Traitor’s Purse (1941), an Adult Adventure story in which “any killing is almost incidental and the mystery concerns the idea.” She followed The China Governess with another Adult Adventure, The Mind Readers (1965). Once again, as in Traitor’s Purse, “the mystery concerns the idea.” When I wrote Margery Allingham: A Biography (1991), I was so eager to express my appreciation of The Mind Readers, Allingham’s last completed novel, that I allowed myself to be naively dismissive of The China Governess. “Margery is writing in a style with which she appears bored and about characters and places who are no longer of prime interest to her,” I opined, grandly.12 I owe The China Governess an apology.13 I still think that, stylistically, it is an uneven book and I may concede that it is an ambitious book that does not necessarily quite gel. Nevertheless, I was far too quick to notice its negatives and I completely failed to consider that they might be the reverse indications of positives. Allingham’s side-lining of the murder mystery, for instance, is so pronounced that it cannot have been accidental—not in such an experienced, self-aware craftswoman. So just what is The China Governess about? Perhaps if I begin at the end? Councillor Cornish, the abrasive epitome of modern municipal government, the antithesis of the Kinnits and everything they stand for, is talking to Timothy, the young man he will never publicly acknowledge as his son. “We may not see much of each other,” the Councillor was saying as he and his companion began to move away towards the lower floor and his voice grew fainter and fainter. “You’re going to have your hands full with your commitments here, I can see that. But now that we have an opportunity there is just one thing that I wanted to say to you. It—er—it concerns my first wife. She was just an ordinary London girl you know. Very sweet, very brave, very gay, but when she smiled suddenly, when you caught her unawares, she was so beautiful….”14

I cannot now read Councillor Cornish’s last words without a lump in my throat and a prickle of tears. Allingham conveys the intensity of the emotional release that the Councillor feels when he discovers that he has a son to be proud of and a living witness to the love of his youth. It had been Tim’s fiancée, Julia, who first divined the relationship through her habit of loving observation and the “reckless compass” of her intuition. She notices that they rub their ears in the same way: “You and Tim do it all the time when you’re embarrassed. You’re doing it now.” And there is more: “You may not know it but you smile the same way and the big planes on the sides of your face are identical.”

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The Councillor has seen something different: “You say you watch him all the time?” he began at last. “Did you happen to be looking at him when he made that damn silly remark about the gasworks? I’d been taking the mickey out of him and he suddenly spiked me with a certain kind of flippancy, with a funny sort of grin on his mouth….” “I know. Like a cat laughing.” He saw to his relief that she had not thought the question in the least extraordinary. “He doesn’t do it often. It’s always when someone is being a bit pomp—or a bit grand, you know. That’s not like your family surely, is it?” He laughed briefly. “No,” he said. “It’s not like my family or me. Not at all.” Once again he looked out at the dismal road and there was water suddenly in his fierce eyes. “Not at all,” he repeated.15

Cornish has recognized Tim’s mother, the London girl he had loved and who died without ever telling him that they had a son. The mystery of The China Governess is a mystery of identity. The resolution is not the solving of the murders but the remaking of relationships—and its expression is quintessential Allingham: “Mr Campion was comforted. It was a picture of new beginnings he thought. Half a dozen startings, new chapters, new ties, new associations. They were all springing out of the story he had been following, like a spray of plumes in a renaissance pattern springs up from a complete and apparently final feather.” Tim Kinnit had lost something vital when he lost his identity: “I can’t float about unattached and meaningless. I’m a component part. I’m the continuation of an existing story, as is everyone else. I thought I knew my story but I don’t. I have been misinformed in a very thorough way.”16 If The China Governess had been a conventional fairy tale Tim and his parents would be reunited and all difficulties smoothed away. That’s the sort of archetypal narrative that Allingham’s father, Herbert Allingham, used to write—“telling how rich and poor babies were swapped in their perambulators … how long lost wills turned up in the nick of time.” The novel includes an extraordinary vignette when deb-of-the-year Julia is sucked into a newsagent’s shop in the midst of a crowd of factory women. They are noisily intent on the special offer attached to the latest edition of a magazine. “‘Oracle,’ it said. ‘Oracle. Oracle. Oracle.’” The Oracle was one of the tuppenny weeklies in which Herbert Allingham’s long-running wish-fulfillment stories had regularly been published. Somewhere in the hubbub Julia hears the name “Basil Kinnit”— as if voiced by an oracle. But “Basil Kinnit” is a red herring—the name means nothing—and a fairy-tale ending for Tim Kinnit must be rejected. Acknowledgment of Tim as Cornish’s son would strip another youngster, Barry, of the fragile stability which has been conferred on him by his birth papers: “He takes his papers very seriously…. They are the only aspect of Law and Order for which he seems to have any respect at all.” “He takes his identity seriously,” Tim said. “Naturally. It appears to be all he has.”17

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This is the real story of The China Governess. It is, yes, the Killing of an Aspect, “the way one keeps on murdering one aspect of a person to give birth to another. We kill one relationship and another takes its place. We lose one of ourselves and find another.” Tim’s belief in himself as a golden boy, a member of the privileged Kinnit clan has been murdered: “Everything I’ve ever taken for granted has come apart in my hand.”18 His quest to discover who he is supplies the other three walls of Allingham’s Box—“a Mystery, an Enquiry and a Conclusion with an Element of Satisfaction in it.” Allingham’s interest in the theme of identity was already evident in earlier works such as The Fashion in Shrouds and the mainstream novel The Dance of the Years (1943), which she described as her “who am I” novel. The Oaken Heart (1941) offers an autobiographical account of her experiences during the evacuation from London at the beginning of World War Two. Allingham had been a billetting officer in her home village of Tolleshunt D’Arcy and had witnessed at first hand the confusion and the bureaucratic complexity that provides an explanation for the muddled papers in The China Governess. Suddenly The China Governess makes sense and takes its proper place in the Allingham canon as a mature, emotional, somewhat unexpected book. There is, however, a problem. Allingham’s fiction in her Campion novels was closely related to the happenings in her own life. “As I had no life to give him but my own we became very close as time went by,” she said of relationship with her detective. From the mid–1930s Allingham’s novels had become more than entertainments. They also functioned as meditations on her private world. This was not a simplistic crossover. “Fiction is my art, my profession. For me it is a highly skilled business comparable with dispensing. Personal adventures are always distilled into the drugs to be used but I would no more dream of putting anything in whole or undigested than I’d think of throwing a whole belladonna root into the family soup.”19 But—for this biographer—the whole belladonna root in The China Governess is the existence of Tom Carter. Tom was Pip Youngman Carter’s unacknowledged son, conceived with novelist, broadcaster, lesbian icon Nancy Spain and born in August 1952. His physical resemblance to his father was as marked as fictional Tim Kinnit’s to Councillor Cornish. But was Tom simply unacknowledged by his father or was he completely unknown to him—and, by extension, to Allingham? When I wrote Allingham’s biography, I had no notion of Tom’s existence and I remain quite certain that my main informant, Joyce Allingham (Margery’s sister), was equally ignorant. The story was broken twenty years ago, when Natalie Wheen discovered Tom’s identity while researching a BBC programme about Nancy Spain. However, the broadcast (“Nancy Spain,” Radio Life, 9

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June 1993) focuses on Spain as mother rather than Youngman Carter as father. Wheen cannot quite remember now why she kept Pip’s name off the record, though she does recall encountering surprising levels of hostility during her research. Was there a threat of legal action? Biographer Rose Collis was also collecting information on Spain’s life and in 1997 a leaked article appeared in the Daily Telegraph in advance of the publication of Collis’ book A TrouserWearing Character: The Life and Times of Nancy Spain (1997). This was the moment Tom’s paternity became public knowledge—for those who cared. Joyce Allingham was shocked, upset, uncertain how to react. Jack Morpurgo, Pip’s friend and admirer and the literary executor for the Youngman Carter Estate, advised Joyce that she had no responsibilities towards Tom and need have nothing to do with him. Legally this was true, yet I remember feeling faintly surprised at the time. Tom had a reputation as someone odd and possibly difficult, but it was unlike Joyce to shy away from difficulty. Now, years later, when both Tom and Joyce are dead, I believe it was a pity that they did not meet. I think they would have liked one another. When in 2009 I published the new edition of my biography of Margery Allingham I decided not to change the text but to include this new information in an Afterword. The Adventures of Margery Allingham is a literary biography, concentrating primarily on the relationship of Allingham’s life to her work. I accepted (then) that neither Margery nor Pip had any idea of Tom’s existence and assumed (rather too easily perhaps?) that he could therefore have no real relevance to her story—except as a bitter codicil to Pip’s refusal to have children in their marriage. Pip and Margery were friends with Nancy Spain and her partner, Joan Werner Laurie, but this was a semi-professional relationship. They did not visit the couple at home so, while Allingham might possibly have been aware that there were two boys in the background—both of them assumed to be Joan’s sons—she would not have met them. Plenty of children did visit the Allingham / Carter house in Essex on the occasions of their big summer parties. Joan and Nancy came but the boys did not. Tom grew up believing that Joan Werner Laurie was his mother and that his father was her former husband Carlos Seyler, a cattle rancher in Argentina. It was only after both women were killed in a plane crash in April 1964 that he learned that his mother had in fact been Nancy. He discovered that “Margery Allingham’s husband” (sic) was his father when he was about to go to university. When Tim Kinnit cries out in The China Governess “I have been misinformed in a very thorough way,” Tom Carter could justifiably have echoed him. By the time he learned the truth both Pip and Margery were dead. Tom changed his surname from Seyler to Carter but took no further interest, then, in the man who had been his father.20 Friends of Nancy Spain are adamant

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that she kept her secret to herself. There remains no hard evidence that Tom Carter’s parentage has any direct relevance to Margery Allingham’s work. Except, perhaps, the work itself. It was with a sense of shock that I noticed how neatly the cameo portrait of Edna, mistress of Gerry, the Hide My Eyes villain, might resemble Nancy Spain. This is merely a matter of clothes and hair and “intuition’s reckless compass.” My guesses certainly wouldn’t impress Superintendent Luke. Nevertheless Allingham herself was a deeply intuitive writer and in life her instincts were hyper-sensitive where her husband was concerned. They had been close since their teenage years and it is not hard to conjecture that she could have noticed some frisson of awareness between him and Spain. Gerry Hawker in Hide My Eyes is her cruellest portrait of Pip and Polly Tassie her most disgusted presentation of herself—or, more accurately, the characters are aspects of herself and of him, personal adventures “distilled” into fiction. Hide My Eyes is a story of betrayal and complaisance and blind, unreasoning love. It is a complex, difficult novel but I believe it works whether or not the reader knows anything about Allingham’s domestic situation. Assessing the relationship of fact and fiction in The China Governess is harder. I did not “see” the centrality of Tim Kinnit’s identity story until after I had learned of Tom Carter’s existence but that, I believe, was my own failing as a reader. Tim’s story is there, whatever one does or does not know about Tom. I remain reluctant to accept that there is a direct connection. It seems so harsh. Surely if Pip knew Tom was his son, he would have come forward to take responsibility on that dreadful day in 1964 when both Nancy and Joan were killed? If Margery, who loved children, had known that her husband was the father of this orphaned boy, she would have taken Tom into her house, would she not? Or might she have concluded that he was emotionally safer where he was, continuing to believe whatever he had been brought up to believe in his life so far? Tom Carter became a dear friend of my partner and me. It is only now that he too is dead that I can allow myself to consider the unthinkable—that Allingham did know that her husband was a father and that he (and she) had made a conscious decision to ignore the relationship. There is a deeply unappealing moment in The China Governess when Councillor Cornish explains that one of the reasons why he has never asked Marion, his wife, to take any responsibility for the boy who claims (falsely) to be his son, is because the child suffers from a learning disability. “He’s abnormal, Superintendent. It was apparent when he was a child. That was why I felt I couldn’t ask Marion to take him into our home and why I left him with the nuns.”21 Tom suffered from mental illness all his life and was not, apparently, “normal” when he was a child. He might today have been diagnosed with some variety of high-functioning

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autism. Highly intelligent, obsessive, not always comfortable with other people—he lived “on Planet Tom” said his uncle, Dick Laurie, at his funeral.22 He was not left with nuns after Joan and Nancy died in 1964 but with the prepschool headmaster and his wife who fostered him. That was after The China Governess was completed and published and not long before Allingham herself was in the midst of mental breakdown, illness and premature death. I have no wish to damage the reputation of a writer (and a person) I admire. There is no reason to believe that Allingham (or Pip Youngman Carter) knew about Tom—nothing but “intuition’s reckless compass.” Fortunately I think she would have understood the problem and been interested. The relationship between life and fiction is profoundly complicated—and no one knew this better than Allingham, with her inclination towards clairvoyance, serendipity and pattern. “That old sissy Eustace Kinnit irritated me this morning,” complains Councillor Cornish. “He said something about a romantic tale told to the boy by a nurse. My God! No nurse made up a tale like the real one.” There are many novelists who will testify to their personal experience of writing something that they were sure they were inventing only to have it happen in that way much later. “All the characters in this book are fictitious and the events recorded here have not yet taken place,” as Allingham wrote in The Mind Readers. In the Preface to The Mysterious Mr Campion Allingham described herself as being “by nature an instinctive writer, whose intellect trots along behind, tidying and censuring and saying ‘Oh my!’”23 Oh my, indeed.

NOTES 1. Margery Allingham, The China Governess (London: Heinemann, 1963), 150. Doubleday published the novel in the US in 1962. 2. Julia Jones, The Adventures of Margery Allingham (Pleshey, Essex: Golden Duck, 2009), 320. 3. Allingham, Governess, 248. 4. Jones, Adventures, 288. 5. Allingham, Governess, 9. 6. Other such “sets” are The Crime at Black Dudley, Mystery Mile, Look to the Lady and Flowers for the Judge, Dancers in Mourning, The Fashion in Shrouds. 7. Allingham, Governess, 249. 8. Ibid. 9. Margery Allingham, The Mysterious Mr Campion (London: Chatto & Windus, 1963), 7; Jones, Adventures, 323. 10. Jones, Adventures, 201. 11. Allingham, Mysterious, 7; Jones, Adventures, 324. 12. Margery Allingham, Mr Campion’s Lady (London: Chatto & Windus, 1965), 13; Julia Thorogood, Margery Allingham: A Biography (London: Heinemann, 1991), 324. Page ref-

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erences of the main text of my 1991 biography are identical with my 2009 paperback edition (by Julia Jones), The Adventures of Margery Allingham. 13. For my initial attempt see “The China Governess: An Apology,” The Bottle Street Gazette: Journal of the Margery Allingham Society 15 (Spring 2010), 23. 14. Allingham, Governess, 254. 15. Ibid., 149. 16. Ibid., 253, 121. 17. Julia Jones, Fifty Years in the Fiction Factory: The Working Life of Herbert Allingham, 1867–1936 (Chelmsford, Essex: Golden Duck, 2012), 86; Allingham, Governess, 153, 239. 18. Allingham, Governess, 120. 19. Jones, Adventures, xxvi. 20. Later in his life Tom was especially interested in Youngman Carter’s contribution to the founding and editing of Soldier magazine. 21. Allingham, Governess, 165. 22. “Tom Carter,” Bottle Street Gazette 17 (Autumn 2012): 43. 23. Allingham, Governess, 160; Jones, Adventures, xviii.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Allingham, Margery. The China Governess. London: Chatto & Windus, 1963. New York: Doubleday, 1962. _____. The Dance of the Years. London: Michael Joseph, 1943. Boston: Little, Brown, 1943 (as The Galantrys). _____. Dancers in Mourning. London: Heinemann, 1937. New York: Doubleday, Doran, 1937. _____. The Fashion in Shrouds. London: Heinemann, 1938. New York: Doubleday, Doran, 1938. _____. Hide My Eyes. London: Chatto & Windus, 1958. New York: Doubleday, 1958 (as Tether’s End ). _____. The Mind Readers. London: Chatto & Windus, 1965. New York: Morrow, 1965. _____. Mr. Campion’s Lady. London: Chatto & Windus, 1965. _____. More Work for the Undertaker. London: Heinemann, 1948. New York: Doubleday, 1949. _____. The Mysterious Mr. Campion. London: Chatto & Windus, 1963. _____. The Oaken Heart. London: Michael Joseph, 1941. _____. The Tiger in the Smoke. London: Chatto & Windus, 1952. New York, Doubleday, 1952. _____. Traitor’s Purse. London: Heinemann, 1941. New York: Doubleday, Doran, 1941. Collis, Rose. A Trouser-Wearing Character: The Life and Times of Nancy Spain. London: Cassell, 1997. Jones, Julia. The Adventures of Margery Allingham. Pleshey, Essex: Golden Duck 2009. Revised edition of Margery Allingham: A Biography (by Julia ‘Thorogood). London: Heinemann, 1991. _____. “The China Governess: An Apology.” The Bottle Street Gazette: Journal of the Margery Allingham Society 15 (Spring 2010): 23. _____. Fifty Years in the Fiction Factory: The Working Life of Herbert Allingham, 1867–1936. Chelmsford, Essex: Golden Duck, 2012. _____. “Tom Carter.” The Bottle Street Gazette: Journal of the Margery Allingham Society 17 (Autumn 2012): 43.

And Carr Begat Crispin: A Meeting of Criminal Minds DAVID WHITTLE

It can be simply put: had John Dickson Carr not existed, there likely would have been no Edmund Crispin. In 1943, Bruce Montgomery (1921–1978), the man who took the pen name Edmund Crispin, was a final year undergraduate at Oxford University. He was, in his own words, “a bit of an intellectual snob in those days.”1 His contemporaries, who included the future writers Kingsley Amis and Philip Larkin, were initially rather intimidated by him, partly because he seemed socially sophisticated (he drank spirits in the bar of the Randolph Hotel, for instance, rather than beer in the pubs), and partly because he also seemed artistically sophisticated. They were aware that Crispin was a good pianist, organist and composer (the following year some of his music was published by Oxford University Press and he went on to a career in the 1950s and 1960s composing scores for prominent British films). A number of his own paintings hung in his rooms, and he had written an unpublished 160-page extended essay entitled Romanticism and the World Crisis, which cited authors such as Montherlant, Maurras, Benda, Keyserling and Wyndham Lewis. We can hardly be surprised if a work with The Apotheosis of Emotion and the Intellectual Alternative among its chapter titles struck terror into his fellow students. However, they soon discovered that Crispin was not all that he seemed. “Beneath this formidable exterior, Bruce had unsuspected depths of frivolity, and we were soon spending most of our time together swaying about with laughter on bar-stools,” Larkin wrote later. Amis agreed, noting that Crispin “was the gentlest of souls.” Another contemporary, Alan Ross, observed that 133

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“he was always wryly polite, sympathetic and generous in the communication of his own enthusiasms.” Crispin, in his turn, realized that meeting such people, “whose minds seemed to me much better than my own,” helped modify some of his more “dislikeable characteristics”: “In that sceptical generation, with its distaste for pretentiousness and humbug, I found many of my best friends, losing at least some of my own pretentiousness and humbug in the process.”2 Crispin lost even more of his pretentiousness when he discovered crime fiction: I was with one of those rare creatures, a genuinely bookish actor, in a pub in Oxford. We normally talked books. And we did so on this occasion. How the conversation got round to John Dickson Carr I can’t quite remember, but I do remember the tone of mingled reproof, reproach and amusement with which my friend said, “Oh, haven’t you read John Dickson Carr?” I was a bit of an intellectual snob in those days, and thought the detective story rather beneath my notice. However, you didn’t ignore advice about books from John Maxwell (my friend), and on our way back to my lodgings he called in at his, and he lent me a copy of The Crooked Hinge. I went to bed with it not expecting very much. But at two o’clock in the morning I was still sitting up with my eyes popping out of their sockets at the end of one of the sections—I think the third—with the doctor looking after the nerve-wracked maid saying, “You devil up there, what have you done?” And of course I finished the book that night. It was to be a seminal moment in my career and to alter it entirely, for although subsequently I read and enjoyed other detective-story writers, in particular Michael Innes and Gladys Mitchell, it was Carr who induced me to try my hand at one myself, thus creating Edmund Crispin.3

Crispin wrote his first crime story at breathtaking speed during ten days of the Easter Vacation of 1943, using, according to Larkin, “his J nib and silver pen-holder.” Clearly he did not let approaching final exams get in his way. The novel, The Case of the Gilded Fly, was accepted by the publishing firm of Gollancz almost immediately. Victor Gollancz himself read it—his daughter Diana was a great friend of Crispin at Oxford—and commented that “the plot is adequate, though not particularly brilliant. Its somewhat pedestrian character is, I think offset by the general ‘cleverness’ of the thing as a whole.”4 It was “the general ‘cleverness’ of the thing” that impressed most reviewers when The Case of the Gilded Fly was published in February 1944. The influence of Carr and The Crooked Hinge is apparent in a number of ways. Crispin’s detective, Gervase Fen, Professor of English Language and Literature in the University of Oxford, not only has the same initials as Carr’s detective Dr. Gideon Fell, but he is equally idiosyncratic. The murder itself is of the locked room variety much favored by Carr. A body is discovered, not in a locked room as such, but in a room into or out of which no one could possibly have come at the apparent time of the murder. The Crooked Hinge has more than

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a touch of the supernatural about it, what with the macabre intrusions of a life-size seventeenth-century automaton. Indeed, The New York Times called it “a masterpiece of eerie skill.” Crispin introduces a ghost story to flavor his novel, even if it has nothing whatsoever to do with the plot. He had long had a penchant for ghost stories, and when teaching at Shrewsbury School during the Second World War (he was unfit for active service, having been born with a deformity of the feet) he was known to read the stories of M. R. James to his pupils. Additionally, neither Carr nor Crispin evinces much interest in developing the love lives of their characters. In The Crooked Hinge Brian Page and Madeline Dane take little time to realize their mutual attraction; in Crispin’s novels generally, a man and a woman have only to look at each other, it seems, to decide to get married. Crispin’s novels become increasingly whimsical in many ways. He gets off to a good start in The Case of the Gilded Fly by invoking the name of Carr’s great detective when Fen has a moment of realization: “Lord, Lord, what a fool I’ve been! And yes—it fits—absolutely characteristic. Heaven grant Gideon Fell never becomes privy to my lunacy; I should never hear the end of it.” In emphasizing the artifice of the detective story, perhaps Crispin was influenced by Carr’s novel The Three Coffins (1935) (in UK The Hollow Man): “I will now lecture,” said Dr Fell, inexorably, “on the general mechanics and development of the situation which is known in detective fiction as the ‘hermetically sealed chamber.’ Harrumph. All those opposing can skip this chapter. Harrumph. To begin with, gentlemen! Having been improving my mind with sensational fiction for the last forty years, I can say—” “But, if you’re going to analyse impossible situations,” interrupted Pettis, “why discuss detective fiction?” “Because,” said the doctor, frankly, “we’re in a detective story, and we don’t fool the reader by pretending we’re not. Let’s not invent elaborate excuses to drag in a discussion of detective stories. Let’s candidly glory in the noblest pursuits possible to characters in a book.”

Among practitioners of classical mystery writing, Carr and Crispin were not alone in this regard. Even Dorothy L. Sayers, in her railway timetable detective novel, The Five Red Herrings (1931), follows a similar path: “See here Wimsey, you’re not going to turn round now and say that the crime was committed by Mrs. Green or the milkman, or somebody we’ve never heard of ? That would be in the very worst tradition of the lowest style of detective fiction.” Yet no one could ever confuse the work of Crispin and Carr. Whereas the latter is a master of plot, Crispin did not always worry overmuch about this aspect of a novel. Agatha Christie reminded him of this fact once. One of her houses was close to where Crispin lived in Devon. In notes for a talk, Crispin wrote about an occasion when he gave Christie a lift in his car: “Agatha said

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to me ‘Edmund, you don’t seem to have written anything for a long time.’ I said ‘No, Agatha, I haven’t.’ ‘Why not?’ I said, ‘Well, frankly, I can’t think of a plot.’ And Agatha, turning to me with a mischievous twinkle in her eye said ‘Oh, I shouldn’t have thought that would have worried you.’”5 As Crispin’s novels progress, their plots become increasingly the basis on which to the author hangs a succession of colorful characters and absurd situations. By the time of his last, long delayed, novel, The Glimpses of the Moon (1977), the plot has given way completely to the comic. And very amusing it is too, with a cast of half-witted rustics, a clergyman of doubtful sanity and other memorable characters who cavort around the Devon countryside causing mayhem. Yet this is not to say that some of Crispin’s plots do not convince. The general view seems to be that Crispin’s best novel is The Moving Toyshop (1946), but this author likes the symmetry of the solution in Swan Song (1947). It was not to everyone’s taste, however; The New Statesman mentioned that the methods of murder “are a wild contraption, reminding us of Mr Dickson Carr at his worst.”6 All this is in keeping with Crispin’s view that detective fiction should be an entertaining diversion. He frequently expounded his views, warning of the dangers of reading too much naturalistic writing, a surfeit of which might lead to people being “unhealthily obsessed with an eccentric human activity which the majority of people never encounter at first hand during the whole of their lengthy progress from the cradle to the grave.” Writing to a fellow crime writer, the late H. R. F. Keating, he noted: “I myself find that more and more of the stuff is gloomy, morbid, sadistic and politically alarmist—a far cry from the days when it was a relaxing entertainment. There are still a few honorable exceptions, of course, but as to much of it, I’d as soon relax with a scorpion or rattlesnake.” Fifteen years earlier, in 1960, he had sounded a similar note when explaining to the American crime fiction critic Anthony Boucher why film scores only partly accounted for his failure to produce another novel: “I’m also faintly discouraged because the ‘better’ reviewers over here all seem to be highly contemptuous of orthodox detective fiction nowadays. None the less, I’m convinced that there’s still a large public for that kind of thing, as opposed to the sub– Chandler thrillers, realistic stodge about police routine, or spineless pseudoprofound guesses at criminal psychology; so I shall push on regardless.”7 In later life, when illness of one sort or another had curtailed his writing career, Crispin became a respected critic of crime fiction. In the introduction to his anthology Best Detective Stories (1959), Crispin set out at some length his views on the genre. It is clear that he was temperamentally in tune with authors from the Golden Age of the detective story. Carr, the master of the puzzle, would surely have agreed with Crispin in his view that plot is the raison

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d’être of the detective story. Attempts to overshadow plot by greater characterization (something to which Crispin pleaded guilty himself ) or greater plausibility fail to achieve their object. In one of the most quoted passages from this essay, Crispin distils his views: “What it boils down to is this: that the fully evolved detective story is technically by far the trickiest form of fiction humanity has so far devised. For we have come to demand of it not only a mystery with a plausible solution, but over and above that a mystery with a surprise solution; and over and above that, a mystery with a surprise solution which by rights we ought not to have been surprised at all.”8 The links between the two authors did not finish with Carr giving the initial impetus to Crispin’s writing career. In fact, they were only just starting. In May 1947 Carr wrote to Crispin suggesting that he might enjoy membership of the Detection Club, an association of the leading writers of crime fiction that met regularly for dinners, usually at the Café Royal or Moulin d’Or in London: “You may remember that some time ago—years, wasn’t it?—I mentioned my intention of proposing you as a member of the Detection Club when it should come together again [after the Second World War]. Well, the club has come together again. Your name has been proposed and enthusiastically accepted. This is just an informal line to ask whether you would like to join.”9 Crispin needed little persuading. At this stage of his life he was keen to mix with the leading figures in literary and musical life, as the speed with which he had become acquainted with Carr shows. His membership nomination was seconded by Dorothy L. Sayers. He became an enthusiastic member of the club, keenly embracing its quirky traditions. Crispin reciprocated by introducing Carr to Kingsley Amis, whose first novel Lucky Jim Carr had enjoyed, at the International Musicians’ Club, a watering hole since referred to by Amis as “the most drunken institution in the world.” Realizing what sort of place the club was, the bibulous Carr announced: “This is where I fall off the wagon with a resounding crash.” Amis was not left behind: “I got too drunk too soon to remember very much about the encounter.”10 Crispin and three friends formed the Carr Club, as Crispin called it, or the Carr Society, as it was properly titled. Formed during a session in a public house near Oxford in December 1944, the club was inspired by Carr’s Appointment with Fear radio plays. It met irregularly and informally to tell detective stories for which solutions had to be proposed by the members. After Crispin joined the Detection Club, he and Carr became drinking partners, and he often stayed overnight at Carr’s house in Hampstead, London (his own home was in Devon, a long way from the capital). The members of the Carr Club were delighted when Crispin persuaded Carr to attend one the meetings. Years later, Carr’s widow recalled that her husband received “a mysterious letter

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(penned by Crispin) inviting him to face danger, and daring him to go by train to the meeting at the King’s Arms pub in the village of Ockley, Surrey. He was delighted to accept.” According to the English composer Geoffrey Bush, a Carr Club member, Carr was “exceedingly friendly, unpretentious, convivial— he seemed to enter fully into the spirit of the occasion, making an attentive listener to the contributions of others.”11 It was at a meeting of the Carr Club on Dartmoor that Crispin first outlined the plot of his novel Love Lies Bleeding (1948). Sadly, the lives of both Crispin and Carr were marred, and—in the case of the former certainly—ultimately ruined, by alcohol. Crispin started drinking to excess during the 1950s, a decade in which he was almost entirely occupied by his other main career as a composer of film scores (written, like all his music, under his real name of Bruce Montgomery). In Carr, Crispin found a kindred spirit and eager ally. Their drinking bouts assumed Herculean proportions: Those were the days, weren’t they?—when, e.g., I fell drunkenly asleep on Christianna Brand’s ample bosom in a taxi, and she had the greatest difficulty in shifting me; when you and Tony Berkeley and I indulged in maudlin confessions of our sexual preferences one late afternoon in the Mandrake Club; when I tried, after four bottles of champagne and two of brandy apiece to fight a duel with you in your Hampstead flat with (unbuttoned) foils; when your splendid little Holmes parody was mounted with the utmost grandeur, and a stunning cast, at the Detection Club; when I had to prevent you, at the IMA, from attacking single-handed six RAF men whom you conceived (I don’t know whether correctly) to have said something derogatory about you; and many, many other things, in other places, on other occasions.

Another time Crispin had to borrow money from Carr to sustain a drinking session. “A couple of years ago I went on a similar bust in Copenhagen,” Carr told Crispin, “and I had to cable my bank manager.”12 Crispin’s heavy drinking and ultimate alcoholism came about for a variety of reasons. He was a very talented man, to whom success came easily and early in a variety of fields. As we have seen, he read The Crooked Hinge and fancied he would write his own detective novel. This first effort in the genre was published when he was 23, and by the age of 32 he had produced a further seven successful novels and a volume of short stories. He had no formal training as a musician other than piano and organ lessons as a boy, but he did well with his early compositions. His first concert music was published when he was 23, and by the time he was 31 a further twenty-one pieces were in the catalogues of leading publishers, including major works that received prominent first performances. At the age of 30 he was introduced to the film world, and within ten years or so he had composed the scores for thirty-five feature films, as well as those for a number of shorter productions. In 1961 he managed the unusual,

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if not unique, achievement of combining literary and musical talents in writing the original story, screenplay and score for a film called Raising the Wind, a comedy set in a music college. It is fair to say that as a composer he was at his best as a miniaturist. Film work appealed to him because most scores, certainly at the time he was writing, were a succession of episodes. Crispin did not care for the hard world of work. He was what is known in England as “a gentleman and amateur.” He did things because he enjoyed them. He did not react well to pressure, and the film world gave him a lot of that, even if he appreciated its excellent financial rewards. In those days, writing music for films required an intense burst of composition over a short period to meet demanding deadlines. Crispin never found it easy to meet these deadlines, and his previously heavy social drinking turned into alcoholism. His punctuality became increasingly unreliable. The film world was an unforgiving place, and he was gently dropped by producers. Two other things added to his problems. One was that his early success was now being overshadowed by the emergence as major literary figures of his old friends Kingsley Amis (chiefly with the success of his first novel, Lucky Jim, in 1954) and Philip Larkin, and by his own dissatisfaction with the worth of the fields in which he worked. He mentions these in a letter he wrote to Larkin: “What with Kingsley becoming a literary figure, and now you, I feel like an aging hare overtaken by squads of implacable tortoises. There’s still time, I suppose, for me to switch to some pursuit more highly esteemed than either film music or detective fiction—but should I be any good at it if I did? And what would become of the big cheques I so much enjoy receiving?”13 He was certainly “an aging hare.” The facts demonstrate the extent of Crispin’s decline. After 1962, when he was 41, until his death in 1978, he wrote only two musical scores and one novel. What little other work he managed was limited to the compilation of anthologies of crime and science fiction stories—he was an acknowledged authority on the latter genre—and as a highly regarded critic of crime fiction, chiefly for The Sunday Times. With his alcoholism leaving him susceptible to other illnesses, Crispin became increasingly morose and unproductive. It was a sad end to a life which achieved much, but which at one stage had promised more. Carr died in 1977, the year before the man he had inspired, who had become a good friend. Writing after Carr’s death in the The Times, Crispin made clear his view: “For subtlety, ingenuity and atmosphere he [Carr] was one of the three or four best detective-story writers, since Poe, that the English language has known.”14 Devotees of entertaining crime fiction should be delighted that Crispin heeded his friend’s recommendation and read The Crooked Hinge in bed that night in Oxford in 1943.

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NOTES 1. Bruce Montgomery, “Edmund Crispin,” The Armchair Detective 12 (Spring 1979): 183. 2. Philip Larkin, Introduction to Jill (London: Faber & Faber, 1975), 18–19; Kingsley Amis, Memoirs (London: Hutchinson, 1991), 72; Alan Ross, Blindfold Games (London: Collins Harvill, 1986), 145; John Wakeman, World Authors, 1950–1970 (New York: Wilson, 1975), 344. 3. Montgomery, “Edmund Crispin,” 183. 4. Larkin, Introduction to Jill, 18; Report, Gollancz Archive, London. 5. Edmund Crispin, Notes for Talk, GB-Ob., MS. Eng., C. 3919, Bruce Montgomery Collection, Bodleian Library, Oxford. 6. New Statesman, 8 November 1947. 7. Edmund Crispin, Introduction to Best Detective Stories (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 10; Edmund Crispin to H. R. F. Keating, 16 May 1975, Montgomery Collection; Edmund Crispin to Anthony Boucher, 14 March 1960, Montgomery Collection. 8. Crispin, Introduction to Best Detective Stories, 14. 9. John Dickson Carr to Edmund Crispin, 3 May 1947, Montgomery Collection. 10. Amis, Memoirs, 74; Douglas Greene, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (New York: Otto Penzler, 1995), 370; Kingsley Amis to Philip Larkin, 10 March 1954, in Zachary Leader, ed., The Letters of Kingsley Amis (London: HarperCollins, 2000), 473. 11. Greene, Carr, 307. Geoffrey Bush was the son of detective novelist Christopher Bush. 12. Edmund Crispin to John Dickson Carr, undated, in possession of Douglas G. Greene; John Dickson Carr to Edmund Crispin, undated, Montgomery Collection. 13. Edmund Crispin to Philip Larkin, 19 June 1956, Montgomery Collection. 14. The Times, 12 March 1977.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Published Sources Amis, Kingsley. Memoirs. London: Hutchinson, 1991. Carr, John Dickson. The Crooked Hinge. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1938. _____. The Hollow Man (US edition, The Three Coffins). London: Hamish Hamilton, 1935. Crispin, Edmund. The Case of the Gilded Fly. London: Gollancz, 1944. _____. The Glimpses of the Moon. London: Gollancz, 1977. _____. Love Lies Bleeding. London: Gollancz, 1948. _____. The Moving Toyshop. London: Gollancz, 1946. _____. Swan Song. London: Gollancz, 1947. _____, ed. Best Detective Stories. London: Faber and Faber, 1959. Greene, Douglas. John Dickson Carr. The Man Who Explained Miracles. New York: Otto Penzler, 1995. Montgomery, Bruce. “Edmund Crispin.” The Armchair Detective 12 (Spring 1979). Pp. 183– 185. Larkin, Philip. Introduction to Jill. London: Faber and Faber, 1975.

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Leader, Zachary, ed. The Letters of Kingsley Amis. London: Harper Collins, 2000. Ross, Alan. Blindfold Games. London: Collins Harvill, 1986. Sayers, Dorothy L. The Five Red Herrings. London: Gollancz, 1931. Wakeman, John. World Authors, 1950–1970. New York: Wilson, 1975. Whittle, David. Bruce Montgomery/Edmund Crispin, A Life in Music and Books. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2007.

Unpublished Sources Montgomery Collection, Bodleian Library, Oxford Gollancz Archive, London

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SECTION THREE

Classic American Crime and Intellectuals

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Patrick Quentin/Q. Patrick/ Jonathan Stagge: A Phantasmagoria of Crime Writers MAURO B ONCOMPAGNI

In his introduction to International Polygonics, Ltd.’s reprint edition of Patrick Quentin’s crime novel Puzzle for Players (1938), Douglas G. Greene observed: “The story of Richard Webb and his various co-authors and pseudonyms makes almost as tangled a tale as the plots of Golden Age detective novels.”1 The Quentin-Patrick-Stagge mystery fiction phantasmagoria might be likened to the mythical Lernaean Hydra, although instead of the customary six heads possessed by that fearsome creature, here we are dealing with four: Richard Wilson Webb (1901–1966), Hugh Callingham Wheeler (1912–1987), Martha Mott Kelley (1906–1998) and Mary Louise White Aswell (1902– 1984). The crime novels by this group of authors, who wrote in different combinations at different times over a period that extended from 1931 to 1965, once were much praised and avidly read, yet today they have fallen into neglect, forgotten by all but connoisseurs of classic crime fiction. This is most regrettable, as in the Quentin-Patrick-Stagge corpus we find some of the finest crime novels in the history of the genre. As intriguing as the mysteries themselves, however, is, as Douglas Greene has noted, the complex conundrum of the identities of the four talented and accomplished men and women behind these pseudonyms. Patrick Quentin, Q. Patrick and Jonathan Stagge owe their paternity to Englishman Richard Wilson Webb. Born in Burnham-on-Sea, Somerset, on June 10, 1901, Rickie Webb, as he was known, was one of six children of Frederick C. Webb and Grace E. Lucas. After attaining his education at Winchester 145

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College, Cambridge University and Berlin, Webb became a correspondent of a British news agency in Paris. He moved to South Africa to teach Greek for a time but then returned to the City of Light. Finally in 1926 he migrated from France to the United States of America, designating himself a teacher. He gave his intended destination as Seattle, Washington, but rather than continuing out West, he settled in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where he became a researcher and executive in a chemical company. For this company he promoted the use of Benzedrine and invented a pocket inhalator to remove nasal mucus, which seems to have been quite lucrative. During this time the young English émigré shared his residence with another man, Robert E. Turner, who in the 1930 census initially had been denoted Webb’s “partner” (at some later point “partner” was crossed out and the word “lodger” substituted).2 A great detective fiction fan, Rickie Webb decided to try his hand at authoring a mystery novel. Work obligations presumably preventing him from doing all the writing himself, he brought in a collaborator, Martha Mott Kelley, the wife of Englishman Stephen Shipley Wilson, who likely was a cousin of Webb’s. “Patsy” Kelley, as she was known, was the daughter of Albert Bartram and Marianna Parrish Kelley. Descended on her mother’s side from the Quaker abolitionist and feminist Lucretia Mott (1793–1880), Patsy Kelley also was the niece of the prominent social reformer Florence Kelley (1859–1932). A recent Radcliffe graduate, Kelley had some writing experience before she entered into collaboration with Webb, having published book reviews in The Nation and at least one short story, “Adjustment,” in Scribner’s Magazine (Kelley’s short story appeared in the same issue as Ernest Hemingway’s “In Another Country”). Webb and Kelley chose “Q. Patrick”—the pseudonym for their two detective novels, Cottage Sinister (1931) and Murder at the Women’s City Club (1932, published in England as Death in the Dovecot)—by combining “Pat” and “Rick” to make “Patrick” and then adding the initial “Q.” because, they said, “it’s the most intriguing letter in the alphabet.”3 After the publication of these two well-received mysteries, which appeared in both the United States and England, Patsy Kelley left “Q. Patrick.” In 1933, Webb, drawing on his educational background in England, wrote a solo crime novel, Murder at Cambridge (of the previous two Q. Patrick detective novels, one, Cottage Sinister, also had been set in England). This novel also enjoyed critical and commercial success. However, Webb soon found another female partner in crime, Mary Louise White. Born in Germantown, Pennsylvania, of an old Quaker family, White graduated from Bryn Mawr, did graduate work at Harvard and Yale and, like Webb, spent time in Paris, “where she met Gertrude Stein and other literary American expatriates.” Together this new duo wrote two detective novels, S.S. Murder (1933) and The Grindle Night-

• Patrick Quentin/Q. Patrick/Jonathan Stagge (Boncompagni) • 147 mare (1935). White ended her writing relationship with Webb after her marriage in 1935 to Edward C. Aswell (1900–1958), an assistant editor at Harper & Brothers (he later became editor-in-chief ). Mary Louise Aswell, as she was now known, would go on to become the fiction editor at Harper’s Bazaar, where she fostered the careers of such literary luminaries as Eudora Welty, Truman Capote and Carson McCullers.4 Webb and his female collaborators likely had several sources of inspiration for their detective novels: the cunning clueing of Agatha Christie; the intellectual subtleties of S. S. Van Dine; and the confined settings of Rufus King and C. Daly King (unrelated), who, shortly before Q. Patrick’s S. S. Murder appeared, published several crime novels set on boats: Murder by Latitude (1931, RK), Murder on the Yacht (1932, RK) and Obelists at Sea (1932, CDK). Although overlooked by most modern critics, who tend to focus exclusively on Webb’s later work with Hugh Wheeler (along with Wheeler’s solo work), all five of the early Q. Patrick tales have interesting qualities and affinities with the later Webb-Wheeler books. First, the novels reveal a preference on the part of the writers for carefully delineated settings with peculiar traits: the British village, the women’s club, the university, the ocean liner. Second, reflecting Webb’s professional background in pharmaceuticals, the murder means in many of these novels is some form of poison. Third, the murder motive, even when it is related partially to money, quite often arises principally from the need for security—i.e., to hide a past crime that the culprit must cover up at all costs. Finally, sometimes it is not even clear who the real detective in the novel is. A character unexpectedly may turn out to be the real deus ex machina of the investigation and someone who seems in some way the official detective may be revealed as something other than what he claimed. Q. Patrick’s first five mystery stories are well written with excellent clueing and are still quite readable today. Arguably the last two novels—those written together by Webb and Aswell—are the best of the group. Far from being merely the “competent” but conventional work which the crime writer and critic Julian Symons thought it to be, The Grindle Nightmare in particular marks a turning point in Q. Patrick’s production by introducing an element of psychological horror unusual in detective stories from those years.5 Indeed, for its sophisticated delineation of sadism, Grindle can be compared with certain mid-century novels by Margaret Millar or John Franklin Bardin. In this work, we could say that the author borrowed some themes from Richard von KrafftEbing’s Psychopathia Sexualis and mixed them with Freudian psychoanalysis, emphasizing elements of mental and sexual perversion which still provoke a certain anxiety today. This approach would be taken up in later works by Webb, this time in company with Hugh Wheeler, though not so much in the

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novels as in certain short stories published in the 1940s and 1950s, in particular that incomparable jewel of a tale, “Portrait of a Murderer” (1942). Many of these stories were collected in the Edgar award-winning Patrick Quentin collection, The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow (1961). When, like Martha Mott Kelley before her, Mary Aswell abandoned Q. Patrick after a couple literary flings, Webb found in another man, Hugh Callingham Wheeler, his final—and by far most important—collaborator. In England Hugh Wheeler attended Clayesmore School, a public school in Dorset, and the University of London, receiving a B.A in English from the latter institution in 1933. Two years after graduating, Wheeler, declaring himself a writer, came to the United States, to see, he later wryly recalled, the “fascinating never-never land of Sinclair Lewis, Lizzie Borden, iced-water and Ruby Keeler.” The families of Webb and Wheeler apparently had known each other in England, so it was only natural that the two men should come together in the United States. Perceiving that the younger man possessed no small measure of literary talent, Webb asked him to step in to replace Aswell as his writing collaborator. Wheeler assented, although he later claimed that at this time his “literary tastes were far closer to Proust than to S. S. Van Dine” (happily, Webb liked Proust too). However, the first collaboration between the two men in my view was not, as is typically reported, Death Goes to School (1936) but rather the next Q. Patrick novel, Death for Dear Clara (1937). The US Copyright Office reports only Webb’s name as the author of Death Goes to School and, on the expiration of the copyright, it was renewed by Webb alone. Moreover, the book is dedicated by Q.P., to G.E.W. and F.C.W., obviously referring to Rickie’s parents, Grace E. and Frederick C. Webb.6 It seems quite likely that the strong affinity between Rickie Webb and Hugh Wheeler was not only a literary one. The two men had a deep and lasting friendship that probably was, for a number of years, a sexual bond as well. From 1935, when they took a cruise to Cuba, up to 1957, Webb and Wheeler traveled incessantly and almost always together to a myriad of locales: Argentina, Brazil, Mexico, Europe and above all Bermuda. Moreover, the pair lived together in the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts at least from 1939. “They first tried the Berkshires in 1939, renting Hickory Farm in Tyringham,” reports a 1949 article on the famous local authors published in the Berkshire Evening Eagle. “They liked it so well that after their Army hitches, they returned and bought their present place [Twin Hills Farm in Monterey] in 1945.” The 1940 US census lists two additional occupants of Webb’s Tyringham household that year: Hugh C. Wheeler, “friend,” and Mani S. Moore, a forty-seven year old white female housekeeper.7 To be sure, in 1943 Webb, while living with Wheeler, married Frances Win-

• Patrick Quentin/Q. Patrick/Jonathan Stagge (Boncompagni) • 149 war, yet the marriage was short-lived. Best known today as the author of numerous biographies on various prominent historical and literary figures, including Oscar Wilde, Walt Whitman, George Sand and Edgar Allan Poe, and as a translator into English of a series of classic Italian works, such as Boccaccio’s Decameron, Frances Winwar (1900–1985) in fact was a native Italian and her real name was Francesca Vinciguerra (“Winwar” is an Anglicization of her Italian surname).8 One can speculate than the union of Webb and Winwar was for him a marriage of convenience, providing cover for his likely homosexual relationship with Wheeler. Webb and Winwar divorced in 1948. However personal matters precisely stood between Rickie Webb and his friend Hugh Wheeler, their literary collaboration proved to be quite profitable and prolific. The two men had so many ideas for books that they could not limit themselves to one pseudonym. As Q. Patrick, Webb and Wheeler between 1937 and 1941 published three more novels, Death for Dear Clara (1937), Death and the Maiden (1939) and Return to the Scene (1941, published as Death in Bermuda in England), as well as a final tale in 1951, Danger Next Door. The second of these novels, Death and the Maiden, unquestionably is one of the mystery genre’s greatest classical detective novels. Also under the Q. Patrick pseudonym, Webb and Wheeler in 1938 produced two Crimefiles books, The File on Fenton and Farr and The File on Claudia Cragge. “The Crimefiles were a series of murder case dossiers comprised of all the purported documents and clues in the case (letters, reports, statements, photographs, actual physical exhibits, etc.),” explains Curtis Evans in his review of The File on Claudia Cragge on his The Passing Tramp blog. Evans calls The File on Claudia Cragge “fascinating and … gripping” while William Reynolds, in an article on the Crimefiles in Clues: A Journal of Detection, has pronounced that it “contains the best puzzle of any dossier.”9 While Q. Patrick continued to score successes with his mystery fiction, he faced competition from two men new to the game, “Patrick Quentin” and “Jonathan Stagge.” Webb’s and Wheeler’s Peter Duluth series, which appeared under the Patrick Quentin pseudonym, doubtlessly is, though sadly brief (only eight novels in the series ever appeared, between 1936 and 1952), one of the most intriguing detective series in the mystery genre’s history. The setting of the first novel, Puzzle for Fools (1936) is singular, as the story takes place in a private mental hospital. Peter Duluth is introduced to readers less as a detective than as a psychological case: a near-alcoholic theatre producer who has hospitalized himself, seeking the cessation of his nightmares. During his stay at the hospital, mysterious murders occur, obliging him to play amateur detective. In the course of the case Duluth also meets his future wife, Iris Pattison, who will later enjoy a successful acting career.10

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When the second and perhaps most ingenious novel of the series, Puzzle for Players, appeared in 1938, the two authors had not yet decided on the role they wanted Peter Duluth to perform: catalyst of crimes, or the main criminal investigator? In the first novel, Duluth helps the police find the solution, but it is the psychiatrist Doctor Lenz who spots the culprit. Doctor Lenz also appears in Players, where he reveals the astounding solution. Duluth, we learn, had not understood anything about the real intent of the mysterious murderer (who, in a masterful coup de théâtre, is revealed only on the last page of the book). When, after an interval of six years, Duluth reappears in Puzzle for Puppets, the investigative roles are clearer. Doctor Lenz disappears and from this novel onward Duluth serves as the real investigator. In contrast with the traditional sleuth, however, he is no impersonal investigator, looking on murder as an academic puzzle; rather, he is intimately, emotionally involved with the players in the puzzle and cares deeply about the outcome. Additionally, while the traditional sleuth is not blessed with any form of personal or sexual life worth reporting, Duluth has a life full of tribulations of this nature.11 Beyond his alcoholism in the first novel in the series, there is the possibility of losing his wife Iris to another man, the temptation to commit adultery, the onset of amnesia and his even being suspected of having committed murder. As we stated, the first novel signed Patrick Quentin is set in a psychiatric clinic. This setting reflects Webb’s interest in the world of medicine, but it is also the result of a deliberate thematic choice, as Ellery Queen (in the person of Frederic Dannay) revealed after a conversation with Webb and Wheeler: “The Q. Patrick team had an interesting theory as to why murder in a hospital has such continuing appeal: killing someone in a hospital, they believed, is psychologically attractive because the contrast between lifetaking and lifesaving is too dramatic for any mystery writer to resist; and the possible variations of plot are so great, especially with so much new scientific data to feed upon, that the basic theme need never grow stale.”12 One of the most successful novelettes by Q. Patrick, “Another Man’s Poison” (1940), is set in a hospital. Additionally, in the Jonathan Stagge series, discussed below, the central characters are a doctor and his young daughter. In a short article that appeared in 1973 in Il Giallo Mondadori, Wheeler spoke about the way in which he collaborated with Webb in those earlier years. First the older man provided the plot and Wheeler fleshed it out in writing, then the pair started to discuss the plot in detail together, while Wheeler continued writing. The two men continued this process until 1952, when declining health obliged Webb to withdraw from the collaboration, leaving his lucrative pseudonyms to his good friend.13 While Webb helmed the writing partnership, the fidelity of the two authors

• Patrick Quentin/Q. Patrick/Jonathan Stagge (Boncompagni) • 151 to the structure of the classic detective story, to the hard rules of the “whodunit,” never wavered. In an article that appeared in the magazine Chimera, the two authors stated: “[P]erhaps the most dreaded of the whodunit’s Commandments is the Commandment of the Surprise Ending…. [T]he more successful the author has been in making his people seem lifelike, the greater will be the reader’s indignant disappointment when the Surprise Ending brings it volte face.”14 Thus in spite of Webb’s and Wheeler’s fundamental innovation in the Patrick Quentin series of creating a character, Peter Duluth, who was far from the stereotypical infallible investigator so popular in the Golden Age, the two men—Webb, perhaps, above all—wanted to respect the fair-play convention and the idea of the legitimate final surprise (legitimate because sprung on the reader after all the evidence has been openly placed before him/her, as well as the fictional detective). This is what John Dickson Carr, the great Golden Age master of the locked room mystery, so memorably termed “the grandest game in the world.” In the best Patrick Quentin novels, Peter Duluth’s personal anguish is inexorably linked to complex investigations that surprise the reader with original and incisive solutions; and there is an atmosphere of obsession and nightmare that is worthy of the great film noir directors. Webb and Wheeler demonstrate that it was possible even during the rules-bound Golden Age of detective fiction to combine a suspenseful atmosphere with a complex plot in formal deductive mysteries that did not devolve into the dull rut of endless formal interrogations. How far ahead of their time these two men were, the modernity they evinced, can be seen by comparing the quicksilver narratives of their Peter Duluth novels with the aseptic verbosity one finds in the works of such Golden Age stalwarts as R. Austin Freeman and Freeman Wills Crofts, who were still writing in those years. 1936 not only marked the beginning of the collaboration between Webb and Wheeler, but also the birth of a third Webb pseudonym, Jonathan Stagge. Under this pen name the authors published the saga of Hugh Westlake, a country doctor frequently involved in bizarre cases through his friendship with Inspector Cobb. Westlake is a widower who lives with his daughter, Dawn, a rambunctious child aged ten years old in the first novel of the series, The Dogs Do Bark, (1936, in UK Murder Gone to Earth). Through the series of nine novels Dawn unwittingly helps her father unravel intricate mysteries with her naïve childish innocence, which pierces the armor of the even the cleverest of criminals. The Dr. Westlake novels have all the plot complexity and style of the best Patrick Quentin tales, often with more than a touch of the macabre and menacing supernatural atmosphere that one finds so frequently in the memorably

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outré mysteries of John Dickson Carr. For example, in The Stars Spell Death (1939, in UK Murder in the Stars), Dr. Westlake runs into a car with a body inside that is dressed in his clothes and seems to be his double. In Turn of the Table (1940, in UK Funeral for Five), a séance is staged in which a murder is predicted, recalling the actual séance murder in The File on Claudia Cragge. The novel also invokes the theme of vampirism, which would resurface in Carr’s classic eerie detective novel, He Who Whispers (1946). A sinister taxidriver with a disfigured face terrorizes a girl in The Yellow Taxi (1942). Bizarre serial murders of women take place in The Scarlet Circle (1943), a novel evocatively set, Curtis Evans notes, in Cape Talisman, “one of those crumbling (literally) H. P. Lovecraftian oceanside New England villages where seemingly everyone is sitting around waiting for Yog-Sothoth or some such creature to appear from another dimension.”15 Three more Stagge novels appeared after The Scarlet Circle: Death, My Darling Daughters (1945, in UK Death and the Dear Girls), Death’s Old Sweet Song (1946) and The Three Fears (1949). During the early 1950s the catalogue of Stagge’s English publisher, Michael Joseph, many times listed a forthcoming Stagge title, Oh! To Die in England, but sadly it was never published. Was this a novel that Webb, ill and soon to cease his partnership with Wheeler, was not able to finish plotting? A novel refused by the publisher and subsequently lost? Or something else? No one knows to this day. In 1952, as we have stated, Webb ended his collaboration with Wheeler. We do not know what kind of illness he had contracted (perhaps, going back to the years when he was an executive in the pharmaceutical company in Philadelphia, some malady arising from an excessive use of Benzedrine); but, however it came about, Webb chose to return to France and, as Maurice-Bernarde Endrèbe remembers, he remained there from the beginning of the fifties until his death in 1966, dividing his time between an estate outside Toulon in southern France and a Parisian flat located near the Luxembourg Gardens. Apparently Webb died in France, although at least through 1957 he made trips to the little town of Monterey, Massachusetts and to England at least once a year. After 1957 Webb probably never returned to the United States.16 Although Wheeler discarded the Q. Patrick and Jonathan Stagge pseudonyms after Webb’s departure, he kept Patrick Quentin, publishing seven detective novels of his own under that name between 1954 and 1965. In these last Patrick Quentin novels there is, in general, simplification in the narrative framework and the plot development, with both the main scenes and the number of characters reduced. The murders almost always take place within a restricted family unit, originating from the very nature of the relations within this unit (typical motives arise out of betrayal and adultery). Yet what is lost

• Patrick Quentin/Q. Patrick/Jonathan Stagge (Boncompagni) • 153 in plot complexity is gained in character depth. Wheeler keenly scrutinizes the unease of the couple, the misunderstandings within the family, the silences and grudges upon which relationships can founder. The suspense which follows from such depictions is, more than in the works of the Thirties and Forties, of a psychological kind that has not only to do with the solution of the mystery, but with the personalities of the characters as well, with their disintegration and reintegration. With much penetration the Patrick Quentin of these final novels portrays the tragedy of the innocent enmeshed in murder, the anguish of the persecuted individual obliged to play the investigator to escape from a deadly trap.17 The Man with Two Wives (1955) and Shadow of Guilt (1959) are the cream of the Patrick Quentin crop from the later years, but among these seven novels there is not a weak performance, with the possible exception of the last tale, Family Skeletons (1965), written by the author after he had launched on a new career as a playwright, screenwriter and librettist. With his two 1961 stage plays, Big Fish, Little Fish and Look, We’ve Come Through, Wheeler is credited in Out on the Stage: Lesbian and Gay Theater in the Twentieth Century (1999), with being the playwright at this time “who tried hardest to shift the atmosphere [regarding homosexuality] on Broadway.” He also wrote the script for the stage adaptation of Shirley Jackson’s acclaimed Gothic novel We Have Always Lived in a Castle (1962), described by Amnon Kabatchnik in Blood on the Stage 1975–2000: Milestone Plays of Crime, Mystery and Detection (2012) as “a moody drama tinged with subtle horrors.” As a group his film scripting credits— Something for Everyone (1970), Cabaret (1972; he is officially credited as a “research consultant” for the film, although many sources list him as a coscripter), Travels with My Aunt (1972), A Little Night Music (1978) and Nijinsky (1980)—are remarkable for their exploration of alternative sexualities. He achieved his greatest distinction, however, with the libretti of the musicals A Little Night Music (1973), Candide (1974) and Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (1979), for all of which he won Tony Awards.18 With such a gallery of accomplishments to his credit, perhaps Hugh Wheeler did not regret the departure of Patrick Quentin from his life. Hugh Wheeler died in 1987 at a hospital in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. He was buried at Corashire cemetery in Monterey, the Berkshires village where he and Richard Webb had resided together many years earlier. The name of Patrick Quentin ultimately fell into obscurity over much of the world, including the United States, although some of the Patrick Quentin books enjoyed a brief respite from oblivion when they were reprinted in the late 1980s and early 1990s by International Polygonics, with Douglas Greene serving as series consultant. In Scandinavia the name of the author is still well-known and in

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Italy the public has a certain familiarity with the works of Quentin/Patrick/ Stagge, the publisher Mondadori reprinting at least one of the novels annually. Most surprisingly, considering the fame that Hugh Wheeler enjoyed on Broadway and in the world of highbrow culture, no one in Europe or the United States apparently ever thought to interview him more than briefly about his crime fiction. Fortunately there is a rich archive of his papers kept at Boston University. By studying the remarkable correspondence kept in that archive, along with the records of the Patrick/Quentin/Stagge literary agent, Curtis Brown Ltd., held at Columbia University, an intrepid investigator may yet solve some of the mysteries connected to one of the most unusual and most estimable collaborations of the history in twentieth-century crime fiction.

NOTES 1. Douglas G. Greene, “The Perils of Peter Duluth,” Introduction to Patrick Quentin, Puzzle for Players (1938; repr., International Polygonics, 1989). The author would like to thank Curtis Evans for his assistance with obtaining background information on Martha Mott Kelley and Mary Louise Aswell. 2. Back flap of the dust jacket of Patrick Quentin, Puzzle for Fools (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1936); Records of the US Customs Service; Maurice Bernard Endrèbe, Preface to Patrick Quentin, Puzzles for Fools (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1990), i-v; 1930 United States Census, Pennsylvania, Philadelphia County. In 1967 Robert E. Turner would become one of the deceased Webb’s executors, along with Robert D. Taisey, an estate attorney from New York. Copyright Renewal Database, Stanford University, at http://collections.stanford.edu/ copyrightrenewals/bin/page?forward=home. 3. Ellery Queen, In the Queens’ Parlor, and Other Leaves from the Editors’ Notebook (1957; repr., New York, Biblo and Tannen, 1969), 64. On Martha Mott Kelley, see Kathryn Kish Sklar and Beverley Wilson Palmer, eds., The Selected Letters of Florence Kelley 1869–1931 (Urbana-Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2009), 146, 402, 414, 417, 495. 4. Ann Waldron, Eudora Welty: A Writer’s Life (New York: Anchor Books, 1998), 116. Mary Lousie Aswell later wrote a solo mystery suspense novel, Far to Go (1957). 5. Julian Symons, Bloody Murder: From the Detective Story to the Crime Novel (1972; rev. ed., London: Papermac, 1992), 142. 6. Greene, “Perils of Peter Duluth”; Berkshire Eagle 19 July 1958; Amnon Kabatchnik, Blood on the Stage 1975–2000: Milestone Plays of Crime, Mystery and Detection (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2012), 116–117; Copyright Renewal Database. Ruby Keeler was a popular actress, singer and dancer in American film musicals in the 1930s. 7. Berkshire Evening Eagle, 3 October 1949. United States Census, Massachusetts, Berkshire County, 1940. Tyringham had a population of 213 in 1940. 8. Barry Moreno, Ellis Island’s Famous immigrants (Charleston, SC: Arcadia, 2008), 30. 9. Curtis Evans, “The File on Claudia Cragge, by Q. Patrick (Crimefiles Number 4),” 20 September 2012, The Passing Tramp, at http://thepassingtramp.blogspot.com/2012/09/thefile-on-claudia-cragge–1938-by-q.html; William Reynolds, “Seven ‘Crimefiles’ of the 1930s,” Clues: A Journal of Detection (Fall-Winter 1980): 42–53.

• Patrick Quentin/Q. Patrick/Jonathan Stagge (Boncompagni) • 155 10. Puzzle for Fools launched Simon & Schuster’s prestigious “Inner Sanctum Mystery” series. 11. Symons, Bloody Murder, 138. 12. Queen, Queens’ Parlor, 131. 13. The article, which appeared in Number 1262, was titled “I lettori dei gialli sono intelligenti” and consists chiefly of an interview with Wheeler conducted by Gian Franco Orsi. 14. Chimera 5 (Summer 1947): 12–17. 15. Curtis Evans, “The Scarlet Circle (1943), by Jonathan Stagge,” 5 October 2012, The Passing Tramp, http://thepassingtramp.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-scarlet-circle–1943-byjonathan.html. 16. Records of the United States Customs Service; Endrèbe, Preface to Puzzles, i-v. 17. On this theme of the “man in the net” (“Uomini nelle rete”) see my articles “Uomini nella rete. I personaggi quentiniani,” Il Giallo Mondadori No. 182 (February 1984), 173–174 and “E’ morto Patrick Quentin,” in Il Giallo Mondadori No. 2040 (March 1988), 152–153. 18. Alan Sinfield, Out on the Stage: Lesbian and Gay Theatre in the Twentieth Century (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1999), 218–219; Kabatchnik, Blood on the Stage, 485; Thomas S. Hischak, Boy Loses Girl: Broadway’s Librettists (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2002), 173.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Books and Articles Boncompagni, Mauro. “E’ morto Patrick Quentin.” In Il Giallo Mondadori No. 2040 (March 1988): 152–153. _____. “Uomini nella rete. I personaggi quentiniani.” In Il Giallo Mondadori No. 1829 (February 1984): 173–174. Briney, R. E. “Patrick Quentin.” In Twentieth-Century Crime and Mystery Writers. 1980. 3rd Edition. Chicago and London: St. Jmes Press 1991. Pp. 892–894. Endrèbe, Maurice-Bernard. La Vieille Dame sans Merci. 1952. _____. Preface to Patrick Quentin, Puzzles (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1990), Evans, Curtis. “The File on Claudia Cragge, by Q. Patrick (Crimefiles Number 4).” 20 September 2012. The Passing Tramp. At http://thepassingtramp.blogspot.com/2012/09/thefile-on-claudia-cragge–1938-by-q.html. _____. “The Scarlet Circle (1943), by Jonathan Stagge.” 5 October 2012. The Passing Tramp.http://thepassingtramp.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-scarlet-circle– 1943-byjonathan.html. Greene, Douglas G. “Patrick Quentin.” In Critical Survey of Mystery and Detective Fiction. Volume Four. 1988. Revised Edition. Edited by Carl Rollyson. Pasadena: Salem Press, 2008. _____. “The Perils of Peter Duluth.” Introduction to Patrick Quentin, Puzzle for Players. 1938. Reprint. New York: International Polygonics, 1989. Hischak, Thomas S. Boy Loses Girl: Broadway’s Librettists. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2002. Kabatchnik, Amnon. Blood on the Stage 1975–2000: Milestone Plays of Crime, Mystery and Detection. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2012. Moreno, Barry. Ellis Island’s Famous Immigrants. Charleston, SC: Arcadia, 2008. Queen, Ellery. In the Queens’ Parlor, and Other Leaves from the Editors’ Notebook. 1957. Reprinted. New York: Biblo & Tannen, 1969.

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Reynolds, William. “Seven ‘Crimefiles’ of the 1930s.” Clues: A Journal of Detection (Fall-Winter 1980): 42–53. Sinfield, Alan. Out on the Stage: Lesbian and Gay Theatre in the Twentieth Century. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1999. Sklar, Kathryn Kish and Beverley Wilson Palmer. Editors. The Selected Letters of Florence Kelley 1869–1931. Urbana-Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2009. Symons, Julian. Bloody Murder: From the Detective Story to the Crime Novel. 1973. Revised Edition. London: Papermac, 1992. Waldron, Ann. Eudora Welty: A Writer’s Life. New York: Anchor Books, 1998.

Books by Q. Patrick/Patrick Quentin/Jonathan Stagge Q. Patrick (variously Richard Wilson Webb/Martha Mott Kelly/ Mary Louise Aswell/Hugh Callingham Wheeler) (twelve novels, including two Crimefiles) Cottage Sinister (1931) (Webb and Kelly) Murder at the Women’s City Club (1932) (Webb and Kelly) Murder at Cambridge (1933) (Webb) S. S. Murder (1933) (Webb and Aswell) The Grindle Nightmare (1935) (Webb and Aswell) Death Goes to School (1936) (Webb) Death for Dear Clara (1937) (Webb and Wheeler) (Inspector Trant) The File on Fenton and Farr (1938) (Crimefile) (Webb and Wheeler) The File on Claudia Cragge (1938) (Crimefile) (Webb and Wheeler) (Inspector Trant) Death and the Maiden (1939) (Webb and Wheeler) (Inspector Trant) Return to the Scene (1941) (Webb and Wheeler) Danger Next Door (1951) (Webb and Wheeler) The Girl on the Gallows (1954) (presumably Wheeler) (study of the Thompson-Bywaters murder case)

Patrick Quentin (Richard Wilson Webb and Hugh Callingham Wheeler, later Wheeler alone) (sixteen novels and one short story collection) Puzzle for Fools (1936) (Webb and Wheeler) (Peter Duluth) Puzzle for Players (1938) (Webb and Wheeler) (Peter Duluth) Puzzle for Puppets (1944) (Webb and Wheeler) (Peter Duluth) Puzzle for Wantons (1945) (Webb and Wheeler) (Peter Duluth) Puzzle for Fiends (1946) (Webb and Wheeler) (Peter Duluth) Puzzle for Pilgrims (1947) (Webb and Wheeler) (Peter Duluth) Run to Death (1948) (Webb and Wheeler) (Peter Duluth) The Follower (1950) (Webb and Wheeler) Black Widow (1952) (Webb and Wheeler) (Peter Duluth, Inspector Trant) My Son, the Murderer (1954) (Wheeler) (Inspector Trant, appearance by Peter Duluth) The Man with Two Wives (1955) (Wheeler) The Man in the Net (1956) (Wheeler) (Inspector Trant) Suspicious Circumstances (1957) (Wheeler) Shadow of Guilt (1959) (Wheeler) (Inspector Trant) The Green-Eyed Monster (1960) (Wheeler)

• Patrick Quentin/Q. Patrick/Jonathan Stagge (Boncompagni) • 157 The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow (1961) (collection of twelve short stories, including “Portrait of a Murderer”) (Wheeler) Family Skeletons (1965) (Wheeler) (Inspector Trant)

Jonathan Stagge (Richard Wilson Webb and Hugh Callingham Wheeler) (nine novels, all with series sleuth Dr. Hugh Westlake) The Dogs Do Bark (1936) Murder by Prescription (1938) The Stars Spell Death (1939) Turn of the Table (1940) The Yellow Taxi (1942) The Scarlet Circle (1943) Death, My Darling Daughters (1945) Death’s Old Sweet Song (1946) The Three Fears (1949)

Government Documents, Journals and Newspapers Berkshire Eagle 1958 Berkshire Evening Eagle 1949 Chimera 1947 United States Census 1930, 1940 United States Custom Service Records

Now You See It: Hake Talbot, Magic and Miracles STEVEN STEINBOCK

INTRODUCTION In detective fiction the Impossible Crime is that plot element which centers on an event that to astonished bystanders appears utterly against all laws of nature: an invisible strangler; murder by curse; a body that rots away within hours; demonic possession; a killer’s footprints that suddenly end to begin again a hundred feet away; a murder committed by a dead man; and, most celebrated of all, the locked-room murder, in which a slaying is committed in a sealed room from which the killer has inexplicably escaped. Many detective fiction aficionados consider the Impossible Crime the pinnacle of the mystery writer’s art. In 1981 crime writer Edward D. Hoch for his anthology All But Impossible convened a panel of eighteen experts, including Robert Adey, Jacques Barzun, Jon L. Breen, Frederic Dannay, Howard Haycraft, Bill Pronzini, Marvin Lachman, and Douglas G. Greene, to vote on the best impossible crime stories. Taking the number one spot on the list, surely to no one’s surprise, was John Dickson Carr’s The Three Coffins (in UK The Hollow Man), the novel containing the celebrated Locked-Room Lecture by Carr’s sleuth Dr. Gideon Fell. But the title voted as the all-time second best impossible crime novel was one that few people, other than the panelists themselves, had ever heard of: Rim of the Pit by Hake Talbot.1 Douglas Greene had first encountered Rim of the Pit nearly twenty years earlier, when Bantam published a paperback reprint of the novel. At the time, John Dickson Carr had an annual “Mystery-fancier Recommends” column in 158

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Harper’s Magazine, and in the July 1965 issue, Carr reviewed the Bantam reprint of Pit. After admitting that the “explanations seem a little thin,” Carr wrote: “That I of all people should complain of improbable solutions would be like Satan rebuking sin or St. Vitus objecting to the twist.”2 Carr concluded his review: “Don’t argue with it; read it.” Greene took Carr’s advice. When Hugh Abramson of International Polygonics, Ltd. (IPL) hired Douglas Greene in the 1980s to serve as series consultant for IPL’s Library of Crime Classics, Greene wrote the introduction to IPL’s 1985 reissue of Rim of the Pit. Over twenty years later, in 2008, he edited and wrote introductions for a compendium of Hake Talbot’s fiction, The Adventures of Rogan Kincaid, published by The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box. Who was this writer so greatly admired by Doug Greene and other detective fiction experts? “Hake Talbot” was the pseudonym used by drama teacher and amateur magician Henning Nelms (1900–1986) for his two detective novels and two short stories, all of which feature gambler Rogan Kincaid as sleuth. Though small, Talbot’s body of work stands high in the field of mystery fiction for the remarkable ingenuity of the author’s plots, his unique hero and his deft use of atmosphere to blur the line between rational and magical. In his introduction to the IPL edition of Rim of the Pit, Douglas Greene observes that detective and horror fiction have common ancestry in the eighteenth-century Gothic novel. As exemplified by its most famous practitioners, Horace Walpole and Ann Radcliffe, the Gothic novel is characterized, he notes, by “a welter of horrific elements—mysterious corpses, creaking doors, disembodied hands, and portraits which suddenly become corporeal.” When, like in Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto (1764), “the supernatural elements remain unexplained, the Gothic novel is the ancestor of the horror story and related genres.” However, other Gothic novels, like Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794), “conclude with natural explanations of the terrors, and these novels, when combined with other influences, eventually lead to the detective story.”3 This latter type of story—in which the ghosts, demons and vampires turn out to be hoaxes executed by human agents—forms an important subset of “impossible crime” literature. In a tale of horror or fantasy, an automobile might enter a tunnel and cross a portal into a different dimension, or a killer might actually be capable of flying, becoming invisible or passing through a solid wall. But in an impossible crime story, the automobile or the killer only appears to disappear. The method may be uncanny, but through ratiocination a detective can uncover a logical and natural explanation for the disappearance. Even within the Impossible Crime subgenre, it is rare for a story set in our

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natural (and rational) world to maintain a believable otherworldly atmosphere. John Dickson Carr occasionally achieved this, especially in his early novels featuring French sleuth Henri Bencolin, as did Edward Hoch with his “Simon Ark” stories. Additionally, there are two instances outside of print media, one on radio and the other on television. “I Love a Mystery” was an American radio serial created by Carlton E. Morse that ran from 1939 to 1944 and later from 1949 to 1952. It featured three adventurers, Jack, Doc, and Reggie, all of the A-1 Detective Agency, who investigate cases involving ghosts, werewolves, vampires, and things that cry in the night. Jack, Doc, and Reggie always find a human source behind the seemingly supernatural horrors. In 1969, seventeen years after going off the air for good, “I Love a Mystery” helped inspire Hanna-Barbera’s renowned cartoon series “Scooby-Doo, Where Are You!” This series introduced four teenagers and a Great Dane who traveled about in a psychedelic van called “The Mystery Machine” and week after week solved cases in which criminal schemes were cloaked (literally) behind fraudulent supernatural horrors. To be sure, “I Love a Mystery” and “Scooby-Doo, Where Are You!” lack the plotting finesse of John Dickson Carr, Ellery Queen, Edward Hoch and Hake Talbot. But they remain wonderful examples of Gothic-style horror with pseudo-supernatural elements that are ultimately revealed, through the application of reason, as crimes committed by all-too-human crooks. This type of story, where paranormal horrors are exposed by the detection of rational investigators, is the embodiment of the great magician Harry Houdini’s exposures in the 1920s of “spirit trickery.” Hake Talbot’s mystery fiction holds a high place in this tradition.

The Man in the Mask Henning Cunningham Nelms was born in Baltimore, Maryland in 1900, the son of John Henning Nelms, originally of Lexington, Kentucky. An attorney, the elder Nelms left his practice the year after his son’s birth to become, like Douglas Greene’s father, a minister in the Episcopal Church.4 At the age of fourteen Henning Nelms graduated from the prestigious St. Albans School in Washington, D. C. before enrolling at George Washington University in 1916. That year the GWU student newspaper, The Hatchet, intimated that the boy was something of a prodigy: “Henning Cunningham Nelms, the 15-year old son of the Reverend J. Henning Nelms and Mrs. Nelms is the youngest student who has ever matriculated at George Washington University. He graduated last year from St. Albans, being three years below the average age at that institution. He will take the scientific course for a master’s

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degree, after which he will study law. The ‘boy’ is six feet tall and weighs 170 pounds and is a member of the football squad.”5 Nelms received a BA from George Washington University in 1920 and then a Bachelor of Laws degree in 1922 from the University of Virginia (while a student at UVA he put his strapping physique to use in a 1921 centennial pageant play, portraying Gorman, a workman of great stature). Sometime around 1929 Nelms married Mary Kennedy, a graduate of Bryn Mawr College, and the couple moved to New Haven, Connecticut where Nelms studied theatre at Yale University under the noted playwriting professor George Pierce Baker. In 1931 he received a Master of Fine Arts from Yale. He later directed theatre at Pennsylvania State University and headed the Department of Speech and Drama at Middlebury College in Vermont.6 Nelms wrote several books about theater production, including Lighting the Amateur Stage (1931), Building an Amateur Audience (1936), A Primer on Stagecraft (1941) and Play Production (1950). He directed seventy-two stage plays and himself wrote several, including the burlesque melodrama Only an Orphan Girl (1944), which for years was a popular production on amateur, youth, and community stage. In later years he wrote and illustrated Scene Design: A Guide to the Stage (1970) and shared strategies for using sketches and diagrams to plan and problem solve in his book Thinking with a Pencil (1964).7 Additionally, Nelms was active in the Society of American Magicians (S. A. M.) and the International Brotherhood of Magicians (I. B. M.), two organizations that served both professionals and amateurs. While living in Washington, D. C. in the 1960s he was a member of Assembly 23 of S. A. M. and Ring 50 of the I. B. M., and regularly submitted chapter reports to the official magazines for both of these organizations.8 This experience no doubt served Nelms well when he wrote Magic and Showmanship: A Handbook for Conjurors (1969). As an amateur magician myself, I can attest to the wisdom and practical insights of Magic and Showmanship. Most books for magicians teach specific tricks, moves, sleights, and routines or give instructions for constructing stage illusions. Magic and Showmanship, however, is a textbook on the philosophy, psychology and techniques of the presentation of stage magic. In the book Nelms includes a handful of tricks, which he uses to demonstrate the various approaches a magician might take to the performance of them, and he suggests how these approaches might be adapted to the magician’s own style and taste to create the most effective presentation. Magic and Showmanship provides the thinking and theory behind the trick. With chapters on misdirection, patter, dramatic structure, body language and attitude, the book gives an entertainer the tools to transform “tricks” into “magic.” As we will

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see, the ideas that Helms presents in Magic and Showmanship have important application for the mystery writer. In magic, as in storytelling, there should be no shortcuts. Without a proper dramatic context that includes mood, setting, props and backstory, all the clever devices, plot twists and surprises of mystery fiction are merely gimmicks. Pulling a quarter from a child’s ear may be entertaining to the child, but it is just a trick. On its own, it has no power to enchant an audience, to take it into a mysterious and exciting world. As Nelms observes in Magic and Showmanship: “The magic of drama is infinitely more powerful than the magic of trickery. It is as available to the conjurer as it is to the actor. The only difference is that actors take it for granted, whereas few conjurers are even aware that it exists.”9 Most of Magic and Showmanship is an elaboration of this point, a manual on using all resources to create the magic of drama. As a storyteller, Nelms applied these same principles to his fiction.

Logic Up His Sleeve Talbot finished the manuscript of his first novel, The Affair of the HalfWitness, around 1940. It included extensive illustrations drawn by Nelms himself. Sadly, however, the manuscript was never published—Helms’ agent, according to Douglas Greene, complained that “Nelms had not given the reader any involvement with his characters”—and there are no known surviving copies.10 Undaunted, Nelms in the 1940s wrote the novels The Hangman’s Handyman (1942) and Rim of the Pit (1944), as well as two short stories, “The High House” and “The Other Side,” all of which engage readers with the characters while presenting them with tantalizing impossible crimes. Hake Talbot’s fiction is difficult to categorize. His work shows the diverse influences of adventure writers Robert Louis Stevenson and H. Rider Haggard; horror authors like Ann Radcliffe, Horace Walpole, Edgar Allan Poe, Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker; and the vast legion of pulp magazine fiction writers. It has all the trappings of terror, with creepy settings, occult lore, séances, curses, Indian spirits, demonic possession and killers who seem to fly through the air and walk through walls; yet this supernatural atmosphere is ultimately dispelled by the force of human reason, as embodied by Talbot’s sleuth hero, Rogan Kincaid, who defies the conventions of Golden Age detective fiction, as we shall see. Another outstanding characteristic of Talbot’s fiction is the sheer number of miracles he was able to pull from his hat. Not for him a mere one or two miracle problems; his books are packed with a myriad of miracles. As Bill Pronzini has written of Rim of the Pit: “Even Carr at his most inventive could

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not have crammed more baffling and uncanny elements into one novel, convinced the reader that at least some of them must be of supernatural origin, and then proceeded to explain each rationally and plausibly.”11 Hake Talbot was a great admirer of the Uncle Abner detective stories of Melville Davisson Post (1869–1930), which epitomize the triumph of observation and deduction over ignorance and injustice. Talbot’s affection for Post’s work was so deep that he dedicated Rim of the Pit to the older author’s memory. Post’s stories exhibit a metaphysical depth in which rationality is superimposed on theology without negating or eclipsing it. In this sense Post was America’s G. K. Chesterton. In his introduction to Rim of the Pit Doug Greene quotes Talbot’s remarks about Post: He was not content to make the reader wonder about “who.” He also raised the questions about “how,” “why,” and “what.” In his best stories, he even succeeded in raising doubts about “whether”; the situations were so fantastic that a rational, well-motivated explanation seems impossible. Nevertheless, Post always supplies it—sometimes even maintaining the suspense until what is literally the last word…. In my own writing, I have tried to emulate him…. I have tried to write stories in which the interest is not only in “who” but also in “why,” “how,” and “what.” I even hope that, occasionally, I may have led you to wonder about the “whether.”12

Along with Carr, Queen, Hoch, and Greene, I believe Hake Talbot succeeded splendidly. Indeed, I believe Talbot took his detection one step further. To be sure, Rogan Kincaid and other characters in Talbot’s stories are concerned with the questions of “who,” “why,” “what,” “how,” and “whether.” But much of the discussion among the characters deals with the question, “how do we know what we think we know?” The mental processes that the characters engage in are less deductive than they are epistemological. It is not enough for the characters to find the clues and put them together. They have to ask themselves how they know what they know and what this knowledge means. Two-thirds of the way through Rim of the Pit, the anthropologist Professor Ambler proclaims that rational formulations are insufficient to explain the bizarre murder and ghostly manifestations at Cabrioun Lodge: “An honest scientist spends his days fighting the will to believe, until at last he ceases to have any control over his own opinions. He follows logic as inevitably and as helplessly as water runs downhill. He can no longer believe a thing because it is pleasant, or because everyone else does. Neither can he refuse to believe anything because it contravenes the theories on which he has based his entire life. I’d like to deny this thing if I could, I’d like to say it’s a trick, but the evidence in favor of it seems inexorable.”

Kincaid wryly responds to Ambler that “Logic is a jealous mistress…. I’ve tried to be true to her myself and never had much luck at it.”13

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An Island Called the Kraken When we first meet Rogan Kincaid in The Hangman’s Handyman (1942), the gambler has just arrived at the mansion of Jackson B. Frant on the island called the Kraken. Kincaid was on his way to the mid–Atlantic island when his boat hit rough weather and he was thrown overboard. Although he was caught in a strange undertow—a miniature Gulf Stream that we later learn is called “The Hangman’s Handyman” because of its habit of carrying dead bodies to the nearby cove—Kincaid managed to make it ashore. Young Nancy Garvey wakens in her room on the Kraken with no memory of how she got there. The last thing she remembers is having dinner with the host and six other guests. Now the mansion appears to be void of life. She is relieved when Kincaid, the island’s eighth guest, arrives, sopping wet from his treacherous swim ashore. As the other guests reappear one by one (without fanfare or explanation as to their disappearance), Kincaid learns that their host, Jackson Frant, died mysteriously following an argument with his half-brother. While browsing arcane works in the mansion’s library, Kincaid picks up a volume of Edgar Allan Poe. The book falls open to the final page of Poe’s 1845 story “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar,” in which a man who died while under hypnosis is revived after seven months. Poe’s narrator details the gruesome results: “As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of “dead! dead!” absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once—within the space of a single minute, or even less, shrunk—crumbled—absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome— of detestable putrescence.”14 Poe’s grim story bears an uncanny resemblance to the facts in the case of Jackson Frant. Kincaid learns that the argument between Frant and his halfbrother concerned the power of superstition. The half-brother cursed Frant, who promptly collapsed. Two hours later, his body had so decomposed that it appeared he had been dead for months. Just as in Poe’s story, a man has rotted to a “detestable putrescence.” That night, Kincaid is attacked and choked in his locked bedroom by an unseen attacker that entered and exited the room despite locked doors and no other sources of ingress or egress. It appeared to all those on the island that a monster of some kind had passed through Kincaid’s bolted doors, leaving seawater in its trail. In the final chapters Rogan Kincaid unravels all the impossibilities and uncovers a criminal plot. A rational explanation lies behind each of these “impossible” occurrences, impossible as that may be to believe.

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Spirit Readings The second Hake Talbot novel, Rim of the Pit (1944), brings Rogan Kincaid to a remote hunting lodge near the Canadian border, where once again a series of impossible events suggests the hand of the supernatural. “I came up here to make a dead man change his mind.”15 This is the opening line of the book, the words of Luke Latham, a lumber magnate hoping to sort out vexatious legal matters concerning logging rights, water rights, milling patents and a power plant that have been disputed since the death of Grimaud Desanat fourteen years ago. On the anniversary of Desanant’s demise, nine people have gathered for a séance at his hunting lodge. Those in attendance include an anthropologist interested in the spirit world, a gaunt Czech magician named Svetozar Vok known for exposing fake mediums, various parties interested in Desanat’s land rights, two pretty young women and Rogan Kincaid. The “medium” in this case is Desanat’s widow, who has several staged tricks up her sleeves, but instead is left terror-stricken when her script is interrupted by the appearance of what seems to be her late husband’s spirit. Fantastic events build up, one after another. Desanat seems to have returned from the dead as a “windigo,” a demonic spirit of Algonquin mythology (recalling Algernon Blackwood’s famous 1910 supernatural tale “The Wendigo”). Other seemingly supernatural events involve demonic possession, silver bullets and aerial flight. The medium is found dead in a locked room, brained by a tomahawk. Footsteps in the snow leading away from the murder scene suddenly end, beginning again fifty feet away, with no possibility that the killer used trees, ropes or any other form of conveyance. The killer “seemed to have arrived from the same nowhere into which he had later disappeared.”16

Expert at the Card Table Among the ranks of sleuths from the Golden Age of detective fiction, Rogan Kincaid is something of an odd man out. To be sure, he is clever, yet his cleverness does not immediately reveal itself. Indeed, in both of the Hake Talbot novels he appears to be utterly baffled until just before the denouements. Kincaid is neither policeman nor private detective, nor is he an aristocratic amateur sleuth in the mold of Peter Wimsey and Philo Vance. He lacks the idiosyncratic traits of such investigators as Hercule Poirot, Professor Van Dusen, Dr. Gideon Fell, Reginald Fortune, Nero Wolfe and Baroness Orczy’s “Man in the Corner.” Kincaid bears some relation to pulp heroes like Sam Spade, Race Williams and Philip Marlowe. He is no foppish dilettante, but a tough guy and ladies’ man. Women are attracted by his sexual magnetism and in confrontations with

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men he can get physical if necessary. He is a gambler, adept at plotting, planning and bluffing (and with knowledge, at least, of the art of cheating). The cover art on the IPL edition of Rim of the Pit features a likeness of Rogan Kincaid holding an automatic with a scantily clad lovely grasping his side. With his leather coat, tan fedora and determined expression, he resembles film hero Indiana Jones. Why did Talbot make Kincaid a gambler? For one thing, this profession suggests romance and adventure, giving Kincaid an aura that makes him seem both exotic and roguish. More importantly, gambling and magic, insofar as Talbot presents it, are closely linked traditions, particularly when the gambling involves cheating. Most stage magic grew out of confidence games and flim-flam acts. Card tricks in particular owe nearly every sleight to card cheats. The most frequently referenced handbook for card sleights is Expert at the Card Table (1902), authored by a reformed card cheat under the name S.W. Erdnase. At one point in The Hangman’s Handyman, Kincaid explains to a suspect how his gambling skills serve him as a sleuth: “I’m a professional gambler. I’d starve to death at that if I weren’t a pretty good mind reader. There’s nothing mystic about mind reading. It’s largely a matter of watching for unnatural reactions and interpreting them.”17 These “psychic” skills are important for a gambler, who needs them to plot strategies and recognize bluffs and “tells.” They also are essential for a stage mentalist who entertains by performing Cold Readings and similar mind reading effects.

Glorious Deceptions Many authors of classical detective fiction shared Henning Nelms’ fascination with magic—both the sleight-of-hand variety and the lore associated with the occult. Yet among crime writers Nelms was second only to Clayton Rawson (1906–1971) for his knowledge of stage magic and legerdemain. Like Rawson, Nelms used tricks and strategies from the magician’s repertoire to misdirect and spellbind his readers. During a climactic scene toward the end of The Hangman’s Handyman, Kincaid exposes the killer by using a variation of a famous stage illusion. At the beginning of Magic and Showmanship Nelms describes in detail how in 1856 the French magician Jean Eugene RobertHoudin helped the French government discredit North African marabouts (Muslim holy men) though use of this same trick. Talbot’s interest in magic is reflected in two specific characters, one in each novel, who happen to be magicians—the one young and a neophyte, the other old and world-renowned. With these characters Talbot uses magician’s principles to advance his plots. In The Hangman’s Handyman the magician is a

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twentyish young man named Bobby Chatterton who enjoys performing tricks because it is the only way he knows to impress people. Likeable but awkward, Chatterton is derisively described by Kincaid as resembling “one of Wodehouse’s saps.”18 At one point he demonstrates a magical effect in which a solid glass tumbler is forced through a solid tabletop. The boy’s explanation of the trick is instrumental in helping Kincaid solve the novel’s locked-room puzzle. The magician in Rim of the Pit is Svetozar Vok, a refugee from Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia. Talbot describes him thusly: “His cadaverous face with its slightly drawn skin, yellow as old parchment, was topped by an upstanding brush of short gray hair. Great black brows swept in a continuous double curve over keen, wide-set eyes. The long nose, which seemed to have been crushed against the face by an embalmer’s wrappings, gave point to Sherry’s picture of him as a mummy—a mummy with a satanic twist provided by the sharp smudge of black whisker under the lower lip.”19 Though once renowned on the European stage, Vok now devotes his talents to exposing fraudulent spiritualists. It is a particularly clever touch on Hake Talbot’s part that he made the most fantastic character in Rim of the Pit—the cadaverous, black-garbed Svetozar Vok—the sole person who throughout the book insists that a rational explanation to the mystery can be found. The man who seems the most supernatural character in the novel ironically is the one who vehemently denies the possibility of supernatural explanations. After performing a card trick that reveals an ominous message, Vok explains how he recognizes phony séances by looking for actions that would not have been necessary were the medium actually trying to summon spirits: “We must ask ourselves what was done during the course of the trick that would not have been needed if the demonstration had been genuine…. [T]hat is the way a magician disguises his secrets. Something is done, and because the spectator cannot see any reason for it he thinks it is incidental. Not so. Of a trick every part is important. The fact that the onlooker cannot discern the reason usually means that if the reason were found, it would disclose the mystery.”20 The process Vok describes is precisely the reverse of what Henning Nelms suggests in Magic and Showmanship is necessary for an effective magician (and what Hake Talbot does as a mystery novelist): to make the impossible seem so real. Within fictions, both on stage and on the printed page, there is an inner logic that must be maintained in order for the audience to suspend disbelief. The magician or the fiction writer needs to find the inconsistencies, whether unnatural hand movements necessary to cover up a card sleight or unnatural character movements in a plot, and find a way to make them look natural. Nelms’ method of making an unnatural action seem natural is to put it in a context in which it has meaning. Every action must have a purpose, and that

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purpose must fit into the overall story, whether it is in a novel or on a stage. A cut and restored rope is merely a trick unless the magician performs it in the context of a story or explanation or demonstration. A succession of footprints in the snow that stop and begin again a hundred feet away is merely a puzzling curiosity unless the author places it in a world with a battery of bizarre impedimenta, such as a cadaverous magician, haunted séances, Indian spirits, and murder by tomahawk in a locked room. Theme, atmosphere, personalities, and treatment must all be consistent with the phenomenon (i.e., the miracle that the audience/reader is intended to see), whether that phenomenon be guessing a chosen card, restoring a cut rope or escaping from a locked room. “Conjuring imitates the impossible,” wrote Nelms in Magic and Showmanship, “but some impossibilities are plausible enough to make at least part of the audience accept them as true.”21 In his mystery fiction Hake Talbot created meanings in which miraculous events seem plausible.

Casting the Spell It is difficult to say whether it is plotting or atmosphere that most gives the Hake Talbot stories their unique character. I believe the two cannot be separated. As Nelms wrote in Magic and Showmanship, “Writers know that the over-all impression made by their work depends more on their ability to create an atmosphere of fantasy before they get to the magic than it does on the magic they describe.”22 Talbot’s description of Svetozar Vok is an example of how effectively he could set his stage. The devilish appearance of the magician, together with séances, Indian legends, murder by tomahawk and dozens of other “props,” combine to create an atmosphere in which unnatural occurrences will seem natural. Talbot uses occult writings, legends and supernatural lore in much the way a set designer uses stage props: not merely to create atmosphere, but an environment that induces readers to suspend disbelief. This subtle bit of hypnosis on the part of the author is explained by Nelms in Magic and Showmanship: “The lore of magic is scientifically false but psychologically sound. Superstitions and magical concepts have survived through the ages because they are the kind of ideas that people find easy to accept. Writers go on the theory that the royal road to conviction follows the natural beliefs (and prejudices) of the human race. They imitate ‘real’ magic because it is the sort of material readers are most apt to swallow.”23 Talbot practiced what he preached. His fictional world is one in which intelligent men and women talk about, and are confronted with, utterly fantastic

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phenomena. It is a world in which even the least credulous reader will begin to believe … until that reader is splashed in the face by the cold water of rational facts.

NOTES 1. Hoch, Edward D., ed., All But Impossible! (New York: Ticknor & Fields, 1981), ix-x. 2. John Dickson Carr, “Mystery-fancier Recommends…,” Harper’s Magazine ( July 1965):103. 3. Greene, Douglas G. Introduction to Hake Talbot, Rim of the Pit (1944; repr., New York: International Polygonics, 1985), i. 4. (Lexington) Kentucky Leader, 2 June 1889, 2, 21 April 1890, 5; Lexington Daily Transcript 2 June 1889, 1; (Lexington) Bluegrass Blade, 29 Dec. 29, 1901, 1, at http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn86069867/1901–12–29/ed–1/seq–1/. Links to the Kentucky newspapers are found at The Kentucky Room, Lexington Public Library, at http://kentuckyroom.org/browse/date/?f percent5B0 percent5D=field_subject_headings percent3A25395. 5. “Students: Youngest Students to Attend GW,” The George Washington University and Foggy Bottom Historical Encyclopedia, Special Collections Research Center, George Washington University Libraries, at http://encyclopedia.gwu.edu/index.php?title=Students:_ Youngest_Students_to_Attend_GW. 6. Ibid.; John Calvin Metcalf, The Centennial of the University of Virginia, 1819–1921 (New York: Putnam’s, 1922), 57–58, at http://archive.org/details/centennialofuniv00virgrich; Bryn Mawr Alumnae Bulletin 9 (1929), at http://archive.org/stream/brynmawralum naeb09bryn/brynmawralumnaeb09bryn_djvu.txt; Greene, “Introduction.” iv. 7. Greene, “Introduction,” iv. 8. “Henning Nelms,” Magicpedia, at http://www.geniimagazine.com/magicpedia/Henning_Nelms. 9. Henning Nelms, Magic and Showmanship: A Handbook for Conjurors (Minneola, NY: Dover, 1969), 3. 10. Greene, “Introduction,” v. 11. Bill Pronzini and Marcia Muller, eds.; 1001 Midnights: The Aficionado’s Guide to Mystery and Detective Fiction (New York: Arbor House, 1986), 769. 12. Greene, “Introduction,” v. 13. Talbot, Pit, 105–6. 14. Edgar Allan Poe, “The Case of M. Valdemar” (1845), quoted in Hake Talbot, The Hangman’s Handyman (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1942), 83. 15. Talbot, Pit, 1. 16. Ibid., 85. 17. Hake Talbot, The Hangman’s Handyman (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1942), 301. 18. Talbot, Handyman, 286. 19. Talbot, Rim, 19. 20. Ibid., 91. 21. Nelms, Showmanship, 76. 22. Ibid. 23. Ibid., 77.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Books and Article Carr, John Dickson. “Mystery-fancier Recommends….” In Harper’s Magazine ( July 1965):103. Greene, Douglas G. Introduction to Hake Talbot, Rim of the Pit. 1944. Reprinted. New York: International Polygonics, 1985. Hoch, Edward D. Editor. All But Impossible! New York: Ticknor & Fields, 1981. Metcalf, John Calvin. The Centennial of the University of Virginia, 1819–1921. New York: Putnam’s, 1922. Nelms, Henning. Magic and Showmanship: A Handbook for Conjurors. Minneola, NY: Dover, 1969. Pronzini, Bill, and Marcia Muller, eds. 1001 Midnights: The Aficionado's Guide to Mystery and Detective Fiction (New York: Arbor House, 1986). Talbot, Hake. The Hangman’s Handyman. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1942. _____. “The High House.” Mystery Book Magazine (Spring 1948). _____. “The Other Side” (1940s). First published in Robert Adey and Jack Adrian, editors, The Art of the Impossible. London: Xanadu, 1990. _____. Rim of the Pit. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1944.

Newspapers and Periodicals Bryn Mawr Alumnae Bulletin 9 (1929) (Lexington) Bluegrass Blade 1901 Lexington Daily Transcript 1889 (Lexington) Kentucky Leader 1889, 1890

Webpages “Henning Nelms.” Magicpedia, at http://www.geniimagazine.com/magicpedia/Henning_ Nelms. “Students: Youngest Students to Attend GW.” The George Washington University and Foggy Bottom Historical Encyclopedia. Special Collections Research Center. George Washington University Libraries. At http://encyclopedia.gwu.edu/index.php?title=Students:_ Youngest_Students_to_Attend_GW.

Murder in The Criterion: T. S. Eliot on Detective Fiction CURTIS EVANS

Chances are that if people know anything about that towering twentiethcentury literary figure, T. S. Eliot, as a critic of detective fiction, it is the fact that he praised Victorian writer Wilkie Collins’ famous mystery tale The Moonstone as “the first, the longest and the best of modern English detective novels.” This encomium was duly noted in, among other places, the popular mystery genre surveys of crime writers Julian Symons (Bloody Murder: From the Detective Story to the Crime Novel, 1972) and P. D. James (Talking About Detective Fiction, 2009), in part to buttress their claims that historically the most noteworthy tales of crime and mystery have been those that resemble what P. D. James terms “serious novels.” Yet T. S. Eliot had more to say about mystery fiction than the admiring words he afforded the works of Wilkie Collins. Although Eliot regarded The Moonstone as the pinnacle of English mystery fiction, in his book reviews in The Criterion, the literary journal that he founded in 1922, he also praised the work of contemporary crime writers from the “Golden Age” of the detective novel (roughly 1920 to 1940), particularly R. Austin Freeman, Freeman Wills Crofts, S. S. Van Dine, J. J. Connington, Lynn Brock and Agatha Christie. Like many a Golden Age mystery fan, the indisputably highbrow Eliot had a catholic taste in crime and enjoyed what today often are derided as “mere puzzles”—fairly clued detective fiction depending mostly on the mechanical cleverness of the plot to maintain interest. The Golden Age mystery reading public “believed that detective fiction had reached maturity” in the 1920s, Douglas G. Greene has noted. “No longer did crude sensationalism dominate the form; the emphasis was now on the intel171

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lectual challenge implicit in the fair-play principle.” Although P. D. James has asserted that during the Golden Age mystery fiction was a genre “commonly despised” by intellectuals until works by writers like Dorothy L. Sayers and Raymond Chandler gave mysteries “a valid claim to be taken seriously as literature,” in actuality puzzle-oriented detective novels in the Golden Age fascinated and delighted intelligent readers around the globe well before the appearance of consciously “literary” mysteries like Sayers’ Gaudy Night (1935) and Chandler’s The Big Sleep (1939), as the 1920s Criterion mystery genre criticism of T. S. Eliot reveals.1 In “Wilkie Collins and Dickens,” a 1927 essay that was central in the modern Wilkie Collins revival, T. S. Eliot made his original key critique of The Moonstone, lauding the tale as “the first and greatest of English detective novels.” Immediately after making this assertion, however, Eliot pointed out that he had deliberately used the adjective English as a qualifier. In the field of mystery fiction, noted Eliot significantly, there also were to be found the stories of the great American writer Edgar Allan Poe, with their “pure detective interest.” In Poe’s deft hands, the detective story became “something as specialized and intellectual as a chess problem.” Puzzle-oriented detective fiction of this sort relied for its appeal less on “the intangible human element” and more on “the beauty of the mathematical problem.”2 Though Eliot was drawn to the compelling human melodrama of The Moonstone, he also had an eye for the shapely logical puzzles to be found in much of 1920s mystery. As David E. Chinitz has noted in his book T. S. Eliot and the Cultural Divide, “evidence of Eliot’s devotion to detective fiction abounds.” In the pages of The Criterion, the prestigious literary journal that Eliot founded and edited, Eliot between 1927 and 1929 reviewed nearly three dozen mystery novels and short story collections, frequently taking the opportunity to discourse on the aesthetics of mystery fiction. Professor Chinitz argues that with his 1920s mystery review articles Eliot “may be said to have helped create the intellectual vogue for detective fiction.”3 While what might be termed detection fever had already begun raging among the highly educated in 1920, even before The Criterion was founded, it surely can be said of Eliot that he helped sustain the vogue for detective fiction in the twenties, by lending it, as a kind of highbrow pope, the considerable cachet of his intellectual blessing. No doubt having T. S. Eliot as mental surety helped make mysteries a safe choice for bookish twenties readers concerned about the intellectual respectability of their leisure reading. T. S. Eliot’s mystery criticism debuted in the January 1927 issue of The Criterion, with a review essay concerning nine mystery novels and short story collections—what Eliot called “a small, but I dare say representative, selection

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from the season’s product.” Eliot used the occasion of this initial review essay to offer five rules “of detective conduct” in mystery stories: 1. The story must not rely upon elaborate and incredible disguises…. Disguises must be only occasional and incidental. 2. The character and motives of the criminal should be normal. In the ideal detective story we should feel that we have a sporting chance to solve the mystery ourselves; if the criminal is highly abnormal an irrational element is introduced which offends us. 3. The story must not rely either upon occult phenomena or, which comes to the same thing, upon mysterious and preposterous discoveries made by lonely scientists. 4. Elaborate and bizarre machinery is an irrelevance…. Writers who delight in treasures hid in strange places, cyphers and codes, runes and rituals, should not be encouraged. 5. The detective should be highly intelligent, but not superhuman. We should be able to follow his inferences and almost, but not quite, make them with him.4

Like the later, much better known detective fiction rules promulgated by the mystery writers S. S. Van Dine (Willard Huntingdon Wright) and Ronald Knox, Eliot’s strictures emphasize the importance of maintaining “fair play” (“we should feel that we have a sporting chance of solving the mystery ourselves”). To do this, Eliot advocates a prohibition on outré devices: incredible disguises; insanity; occult phenomena and fantastic science; and elaborate and bizarre machinery, such as cyphers and codes, runes and rituals. Testing the nine mystery works in his review essay against these rules, Eliot concluded that of them R. Austin Freeman’s The D’Arblay Mystery was “the most perfect in form” (despite one violation).5 Besides R. Austin Freeman, the other authors T. S. Eliot mentioned in his review are J. S. Fletcher (The Massingham Butterfly, a short story collection), J. J. Connington (The Dangerfield Talisman), A. Fielding (The Footsteps That Stopped ); Allen Upward (The House of Sin), Traill Stevenson (The Diamond in the Hoof ), G. McLeod Winsor (The Mysterious Disappearances), C. FraserSimson (Footsteps in the Night) and Donald Dike (The Bishop’s Park Mystery). Eliot criticized Winsor’s novel, as per his rules, for its implausible science; and those by Fraser-Simson and Dike for their lack of detectives (“therefore they are technically of little interest”). However, he deemed Upward’s tale “firstrate,” though a few notches below The D’Arblay Mystery and Fielding’s The Footsteps That Stopped, the latter of which Eliot thought became implausible toward the end. Traill Stevenson’s The Diamond in the Hoof Eliot graded lower, though he placed it above Connington’s murderless The Dangerfield Talisman.6 Six months later, in June 1927, Eliot for a second review essay gathered seventeen additional books, fifteen works of fictional mystery and two concerning true crime. In this second essay, Eliot noted that he had “found it necessary

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to discriminate between books that are detective fiction proper and those which may better be termed mystery stories.” Eliot carefully explained what he saw as the difference between the two sorts of tales: “In the detective story nothing should happen: the crime has already been committed, and the rest of the tale consists of the collection, selection and combination of evidence. In a mystery tale the reader is led from fresh adventure to fresh adventure. In practice, of course, most detective stories contain a few events, but these are subordinate, and the interest lies in the investigation.” Here, Eliot is distinguishing the detective novel from what soon enough came to be most commonly known as the “thriller” story, which was most often associated with such hugely popular writers as Edgar Wallace, Sax Rohmer and “Sapper” (H. C. McNeile). Thrillers often made use of the sort of outlandish apparatus that Eliot had proscribed in his earlier rules for detective fiction.7 Of the eleven genuine detective novels and short story collections that Eliot included in his review essay, seven are by authors (one American, five Englishmen) who retain some currency today: S. S. Van Dine (The Benson Murder Case); Victor L. Whitechurch (The Crime at Diana’s Pool ); Ronald Knox (The Three Taps); Henry Wade (The Verdict of You All ); H. C. Bailey (Mr Fortune Please); and J. S. Fletcher (The Mortover Grange Mystery and The Green Rope). Eliot ranked these tales in the above order, praising the leader, S. S. Van Dine’s debut detective novel, The Benson Murder Case, in glowing terms: “The Benson Murder Case is extremely well built, the criminal is well concealed, and the author shows great ingenuity in his use of evidence.” Unlike some American critics then and since, Eliot expressed no irritation with Van Dine’s arrogant and affected amateur detective, Philo Vance, merely noting of him that he was something original in the detective line, “a highly-trained art connoisseur.”8 Of the two clerical authors, Canon Whitechurch and Father Knox, Eliot wrote that he preferred the Canon “because he is the more serious; Father Knox almost spoils his story at the beginning by an element of frivolous fantasy unsuitable to the subject. And his characters tend to be too humorous and amusing.” Lest anyone think that Eliot frowned on humor in a detective novel, he explained that such was not the case. “On the other hand,” he rather witheringly added of Knox’s characters, “if they are to be humorous they are not humorous enough; they are as witty as most people succeed in being in real life, but that is not witty enough for a book.”9 Although he did not mention Henry Wade in any detail, Eliot had some words to spare for H. C. Bailey and J. S. Fletcher. He deemed the Reggie Fortune stories in Bailey’s collection Mr. Fortune Please “all good,” yet he pronounced the shorter form of the mystery ultimately unsatisfying in all hands but those of Arthur Conan Doyle: “We require more space [than the short

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story] for intellectual exercise.” As for the awesomely prolific J. S. Fletcher, who in the United States had been heavily publicized as former president Woodrow Wilson’s favorite mystery writer, Eliot wrote: “Mr. Fletcher is a very competent workman; his stories are well thought out and you get your money’s worth; but they suffer from the absence of any very interesting character. One likes in a detective story to have the pleasure of following the working of one keen mind.”10 The additional genuine detective novels that Eliot reviewed were authored by Allen Upward (The Venetian Key), Agnes Miller (The Colfax Bookplate), W. B. M. Ferguson (The Clue in the Glass), and Arthur O. Cooke (The Mellbridge Mystery), while the thrillers were authored by Adam Gordon Macleod (The Cathra Mystery), Oliver Ainsworth (The Devil’s Tower), Harrington Strong (The Spider’s Den) and John Paul Seabrooke (Four Knocks on the Door) and the true crime accounts were authored by William Bolitho (Murder for Profit) and Veronica and Paul King (Problems of Modern American Crime). American Agnes Miller’s The Colfax Bookplate was, as Eliot noted, “very highly praised”; yet Eliot thought it “over praised.” As with two later S. S. Van Dine novels that he reviewed, Eliot found elements of Colfax overelaborate, detracting from credibility. Nevertheless, he thought the novel “very good.” Of the thrillers, he deemed The Cathra Mystery “capital” and The Devil’s Tower “very good.” Harrington Strong’s The Spider’s Den he found “almost hilariously a pure thriller.”11 Toward the end of the review essay, Eliot enunciated an important principle: detective novels needed to emphasize either the puzzle element or the human element, because trying to fully treat both at once posed too great a challenge. “Without dispraise of any individual writer we may be allowed to complain that modern detective fiction in general is weak in that it fails between two possible tasks,” Eliot explained. “It has neither the austerity, the pure intellectual pleasure of Poe’s Marie Roget, nor has it the fullness and abundance of life of Wilkie Collins. We often wish that the majority of our detective writers would concentrate on the detective interest, or take more trouble and space over the characters as human beings and the atmosphere in which they live.” This view would be echoed some twenty years later, interestingly, by the great hard-boiled mystery writer Raymond Chandler, in his unpublished but percipient “Twelve Notes on the Mystery Story,” wherein Chandler wrote: “The perfect detective story cannot be written. The type of mind which can evolve the perfect problem is not the type of mind that can produce the artistic job of writing.”12 T. S. Eliot’s last major detective fiction review essay in The Criterion, which appeared in April 1929, compared two of the mystery genre’s past masters,

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Arthur Conan Doyle, world famous creator of Sherlock Holmes, and Anna Katharine Green, American author of the pioneering and bestselling crime novel The Leavenworth Case (1878). Green’s Leavenworth Case had recently been reprinted in England and Eliot, who as a boy had read the novel (along with Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories) around the turn of the century, quickly reread it, only to be disappointed. Why, he wondered in the pages of The Criterion, did the Sherlock Holmes stories, “in spite of their obvious defects from our present high standards of detective fiction, reread so much better than The Leavenworth Case ?” Essentially, Eliot concluded, because in Leavenworth Anna Katharine Green had allowed sentimental melodrama to overwhelm the detective interest. In a mystery novel a writer like Wilkie Collins, possessing “a wider gift for drama and fiction,” could combine a puzzle with plenteous human interest. Unfortunately, Anna Katherine Green had not the literary gifts of a Wilkie Collins. “It is here that Mrs. Green failed,” noted Eliot. “She did not realize that unless one can create permanent human beings, one had better leave one’s figures as sketchy as possible. She had a great ability of the detective fiction order, but no firm control.” The Leavenworth Case, asserted Eliot, “is simply popping over with sentiment. And that sentimentality throws a spotlight upon every technical flaw of the plot.” Arthur Conan Doyle, on the other hand, had the “wisdom or instinct” to keep down “the sentimental interest.” Further, while he offered no great insights into the human heart, Conan Doyle’s undoubted “dramatic ability” enlivened his mystery narratives. An admiring Eliot concluded: “But I am not sure that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is not one of the great dramatic writers of his age.”13 T. S. Eliot’s remaining Criterion pieces on detective fiction are much shorter reviews of specific works that avoid broader pronouncements on the genre. Yet these too have considerable interest, for they reveal that Eliot had a halfdozen favorite detective fiction authors, whom he “recommended to the small, fastidious public which really discriminates between good and bad detective stories.” Eliot ranked these half-dozen writers in three tiers as follows: R. Austin Freeman and Freeman Wills Crofts; S. S. Van Dine; and Lynn Brock, Agatha Christie and J. J. Connington. The absence of Dorothy L. Sayers likely comes as a surprise, as does Eliot’s placing of Agatha Christie in the third tier of the top modern mystery writers. However, this should serve as a salient reminder that in the 1920s the day of the dominance of the crime queens (Christie, Sayers, Margery Allingham and Ngaio Marsh) had not yet dawned.14 As early as June 1927, Eliot speculated that “Mr. Freeman and Mr. Croft [sic]… seem to be our two most accomplished detective writers.” On two other occasions in The Criterion, Eliot bracketed Freeman and Crofts as the finest modern mystery novelists. However, there is evidence to suggest that, if pressed

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to choose between the two men, Eliot would have given the top laurel to R. Austin Freeman (1862–1943) over Freeman Wills Crofts (1879–1957). Austin Freeman, a contemporary of Arthur Conan Doyle who had created Sherlock Holmes’ greatest rival in the form of the brilliant medical jurist Dr. John Thorndyke, had produced his first detective novel as far back as 1907; yet, unlike Conan Doyle, he was an extremely prolific producer of mystery novels and short stories during the Golden Age. Besides singling out Freeman’s The D’Arblay Mystery in his January 1927 review article as the “most perfect in form” of the nine books reviewed, Eliot commented in his June 1927 review essay that he regretted having no Freeman novel on hand to assess, as the author “has more of the Wilkie Collins abundance than any contemporary writer of detective fiction.”15 In Freeman Wills Crofts, a railway engineer turned detective novelist who was a meticulous plotter—the acknowledged king of the “unbreakable alibi” story—but an indifferent literary stylist, Eliot glimpsed little of that “Wilkie Collins abundance.” In the critic’s view, however, Crofts did not stand in need of that abundance, for he had other gifts precious to a spinner of mystery tales. In contrasting Crofts with Anna Katharine Green, Eliot noted of the former writer: “Mr. Crofts, at his best, as in The Cask [his celebrated 1920 debut mystery novel], succeeds by his thorough devotion to the detective interest; his characters are just real enough to make the story work; had he tried to make them more human and humorous he might have ruined his story. The loveinterest, in The Cask, is a postulate; it does not have to be developed, and puts no strain upon the author.” Speculating on Crofts’s (and S. S. Van Dine’s) superiority over Anna Katharine Green as detective novelists, Eliot hypothesized that Green, in order to reach a wide, unsophisticated reading public, had filled her books with unappetizing clots of sentimental melodrama. “Possibly, for her time, the public was not educated up to The Cask or The Benson [Murder] Case,” Eliot writes loftily. He noted in this same 1929 article that Crofts had authored his favorite mystery tale of recent years, Inspector French and The Starvel Tragedy (1927).16 The two detective novelists most reviewed by T. S. Eliot in The Criterion were not R. Austin Freeman and Freeman Wills Crofts, however, but S. S. Van Dine (1888–1939) and J. J. Connington (1880–1947). S. S. Van Dine, the lone American among Eliot’s top-ranked mystery writers, had all three of his earliest detective novels—The Benson Murder Case (1926), The Canary Murder Case (1927) and The Greene Murder Case (1928)—reviewed by Eliot in The Criterion. As mentioned above, Eliot rated The Benson Murder Case quite highly. He was similarly admiring of The Canary Murder Case, singling out “the poker game scene near the end of the book” as “really brilliant.” Eliot’s main criticism was that “one small but vital point” in the tale turned on a mechanical con-

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trivance.17 He disliked such devices in detective novels, believing them fanciful and unrealistic. Of The Greene Murder Case, Eliot deemed it “a good detective novel,” though he had greater reservations with it than he had had with either Benson or Canary. The critic again complained of Greene, as he had of Canary, that a vital part of the murderer’s scheme depended on “a piece of ingenious and improbable mechanics.” Eliot thought that Van Dine’s root problem in this respect was “a tendency to over-elaboration which characterises American detective fiction” (he blamed this “over-elaboration” on the influence of Anna Katharine Green in American mystery). In Eliot’s view the “great weakness” of what he called “the over-elaborate school” of mystery fiction was that when “you build up a very complicated plot, you are likely to descend to a mechanical solution.” Additionally, Eliot complained that in Greene Van Dine “comes very near to surrendering to the pathological school of detective fiction,” with the tale’s mad culprit barely escaping “the American psychopathic ward.” Despite these concerns, however, Eliot maintained that “Mr. Van Dine remains … in the first rank of detective writers, a little lower than Mr. Freeman and Mr. Crofts.”18 J. J. Connington, the pseudonym of Scottish-born chemistry professor Alfred Walter Stewart, had three novels reviewed by T. S. Eliot in the pages of The Criterion: The Dangerfield Talisman (1926), Murder in the Maze (1927) and Tragedy at Ravensthorpe (1927). Although Eliot wrote that he could not “speak with any enthusiasm” of Connington’s murderless The Dangerfield Talisman, he was surprised and pleased to find the author’s Murder in the Maze “a really first-rate detective story.” Like mystery author John Dickson Carr would twenty years later in his essay on Golden Age detective fiction, “The Grandest Game in the World,” Eliot praised Connington’s inspired conception for the setting of the novel’s initial double slayings: “The very idea of murder in a box hedge labyrinth does the author great credit, and he makes full use of its possibilities.” But Eliot was most delighted of all with Connington’s adept clueing in Murder in the Maze. “What makes the book particularly excellent in its kind is that fact that we are provided early in the story with all of the clues which guide the detective. One ought to know who committed the crime after reading a very few chapters; but one does not.”19 Eliot concluded that with Murder in the Maze J. J. Connington had “made a place for himself in the front row of detective story writers.” However, later that year (1927) he deemed Connington’s newest novel, Tragedy at Ravensthorpe, “not quite up to Murder in the Maze.” Though Eliot thought Ravensthorpe “a very good tale,” its author in the critic’s view had made two key miscalculations in constructing the plot. First, Connington committed the

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error “of throwing every appearance of guilt upon a character whom every reader of detective fiction will know instinctively to be innocent.” Second, “in order to make this innocent but unpleasant character appear guilty,” Connington resorted to the “use of a rare, and in the circumstances preposterous, mental affliction.”20 As per his rules, Eliot continued to object to the presence of mania in rational detective fiction, yet he nevertheless continued to find Connington a formidable maker of mysteries. About his other most highly esteemed modern detective novelists, Lynn Brock (1877–1943) and Agatha Christie (1890–1976), Eliot had less to say. Eliot’s main comment on Brock, a mostly forgotten writer who in the 1920s made a splash in both the United States and Great Britain with his Colonel Gore mysteries, was that he shared S. S. Van Dine’s tendency to over-elaborate his tales. Eliot thought that “Mr. Van Dine’s hero is too clever, and Mr. Brock’s hero is too stupid; curiously enough, both authors have had, it seems, to overcomplicate their plots, the one in order to justify his detective’s cleverness, and the other to justify his detective’s stupidity.”21 Eliot seemed to find the two faults comparable, though one might speculate that in a mystery novel it is better to have an over-clever detective (Van Dine’s Philo Vance) rather than an over-stupid one (Brock’s Colonel Gore). Eliot mentioned Agatha Christie only in passing, in reference to another detective writer he was reviewing, whose book, due to a certain narrative sleight of hand, was “in a class with Mrs. Christie’s Roger Ackroyd.” He deemed it “a brilliant Maskelyne trick [the Maskelynes were a celebrated dynasty of family magicians].” Nevertheless, he warned the author (and by implication Christie as well), “you have succeeded, but don’t do it again.” Evidently Eliot, like many other detective fiction connoisseurs, had been delighted by Agatha Christie’s bravura solution in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926), yet he retained lingering reservations about the tale’s fidelity to the fair play principle.22 T. S. Eliot’s mystery criticism in The Criterion reveals the great writer as a representative twenties detective fiction fan, one still amused and mentally stimulated by the ingenuity of the puzzles that crime authors were energetically devising. Although he believed, as often has been pointed out by partisans of the consciously literary “crime novel,” that Wilkie Collins was the ne plus ultra in English mystery, he did not demand that all authors of detective fiction adhere to Collins’ human interest model. In addition to admiring Collins, Eliot also held in great esteem Edgar Allan Poe and his “mathematical,” or “chess-like,” puzzle stories, which emphasized logic rather than human emotions; and he thought it perfectly legitimate for mystery writers to follow Poe’s method more than that of Collins. Far from despising puzzle-oriented detective fiction, as P. D. James believes was the common view of between-the-wars

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intellectuals, T. S. Eliot admired it, read it devoutly and desired, like James, to talk about it. A shorter version of this essay appeared in CADS G2 (February 2012): 3–8, under the title “T.S. Eliot: Detective Fiction Critic.”

NOTES 1. Julian Symons, Bloody Murder: From the Detective Story to the Crime Novel (1972; rev. ed., New York and Tokyo: Mysterious Press, 1992); P. D. James, Talking About Detective Fiction (Oxford: Bodleian Library, 2009), 23, 75, 90; Douglas G. Greene, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (New York: Otto Penzler, 1995), 103. Eliot’s celebrated Moonstone quotation first appeared as the opening sentence in his introduction to the 1928 Oxford University Press World’s Classics edition of the novel. For citations of it in academic genre surveys, see Steven Knight’s Crime Fiction Since 1800: Detection, Death, Diversity (2004; rev. ed., Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010) and Charles J. Rzepka’s Detective Fiction (Cambridge, UK: Polity, 2005). 2. T. S. Eliot, “Wilkie Collins and Dickens,” in T. S. Eliot, Selected Essays 1917–1932 (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1932), 377. Maurizio Ascari cites Eliot’s essay in A Counter-History of Crime Fiction: Supernatural, Gothic, Sensational (Houndmills, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 166–167, while passing over Eliot’s Criterion essays on detective fiction. 3. David E. Chinitz, T. S. Eliot and the Cultural Divide (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 2003), 155. The Criterion was also known in the 1920s as The Monthly Criterion and The New Criterion. Founded in 1922, its first issue carried T. S. Eliot’s landmark of literary modernism, the poem The Waste Land. 4. T. S. Eliot, New Criterion 5 ( January 1927): 141–142. 5. Ibid. 6. Ibid. Allen Upward (1863–1926) was, according to Mark Valentine, “a Radical politician and lawyer, a writer of light romances and formula fiction, a gossip columnist, a gunrunner for the Greeks in their wars against the Turks, a colonial administrator in Nigeria, a commentator upon Confucius, a refuter of Nietzsche, an early mentor for Ezra Pound and his Imagist circle and ultimately a tragic and unfulfilled figure who committed suicide in part because he was not awarded the Nobel prize for literature for his philosophical works.” See Valentine’s “Allen Upward,” Supernatural Fiction Database, http://homepages.pavillion. co.uk/tartarus/u1.htm. Upward’s suicide cut short what Eliot saw as a promising mystery series (two novels were published in 1926, a third in 1927, after Upward’s death). On another of these authors, ( John) Traill Stevenson (1889–1968), see William F. Deeck, Review of Traill Stevenson, The Silver Arrow Murder, Mystery File, http://mysteryfile.com/blog/?p=1880. “A. Fielding” apparently was Dorothy Feilding, about whom practically nothing is known. See Steve Lewis, “Author A Fielding : Identify Unknown,” Mystery File, http://mystery file.com/blog/?p=64 and Steve Lewis, “The Latest News on A Fielding ,” Mystery File, http://mysteryfile.com/blog/?p=117. G. McLeod Winsor’s best-known novel was a 1919 alien invasion story, Station X, so it is not surprising that his later mystery, The Mysterious Disappearances, has science fiction elements as well. On Winsor’s fiction see the book review by John Norris of Vanishing Men (the American edition of The Mysterious Disappearances) at Pretty Sinister Books, http://prettysinister.blogspot.com/2013/03/ffb-vanishing-men-gmcleod-winsor.html. 7. T. S. Eliot, Monthly Criterion 5 ( June 1927): 360. In an April 1927 letter to the Amer-

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ican critic Gilbert Seldes, Eliot asserted that “in a pure detective story there are no adventures after the first chapter; the book is entirely concerned with the accumulation, selection and construction of evidence about something which has already happened.” He added: “I am perfectly willing to admit that the pure detective story is extremely rare; the most austere example of the type is of course The Case of Marie Roget (here Eliot if referring to Poe’s short story “The Mystery of Marie Roget,” originally published serially in 1842/43). Valerie Eliot and John Haffendden, eds., The Letters of T. S. Eliot, vol. 3, 1926–1927 (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 2012), 478. 8. T. S. Eliot, Monthly Criterion 5 ( June 1927): 361. 9. Ibid. 10. Ibid., 362. 11. “Harrington Strong” was a pseudonym of Johnston McCulley (1883–1958), a prolific American pulps writer best known for creating the fictional character Zorro. William Bolitho (Ryall) (1890–1930), author of the pioneering true crime study Murder for Profit, was a highly regarded journalist and essayist. 12. T. S. Eliot, Monthly Criterion 5 ( June 1927): 262; Raymond Chandler, “Twelve Notes on the Mystery Story,” Raymond Chandler: Later Novels and Other Writings (New York: Library of America, 1995), 1007. For more on Chandler’s “Twelve Notes,” see my Chandler essay in this volume. 13. T. S. Eliot, Criterion 8 (April 1929): 552, 553, 554, 555, 556. 14. T. S. Eliot, Monthly Criterion 6 (September 1927): 377. In this context, note how few books by women mystery writers in general that T. S. Eliot reviewed in The Criterion. Detective fiction during the Golden Age was not dominated by women writers (this is especially true of the 1920s). 15. T. S. Eliot, Monthly Criterion 5 ( June 1927): 360. In his admiration for Freeman Crofts and Austin Freeman, T. S. Eliot resembles Raymond Chandler and the great Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa. On Chandler, see my Chandler essay in this volume. On Pessoa, see Henrique Valle’s essay in this volume and Fernando Pessoa, “Historia Policial” (“Detective Story”), Historias De Um Raciocinador e o Encaio “Historia Policial” (Oporto: Assirio & Alvim, 2012). “Investigation must be either natural and patient, as in Mr. Wills Crofts’ novels, or superior and scientific, as in Dr. Austin Freeman’s,” wrote Pessoa in his “Detective Story” essay” (pp. 238). 16. T. S. Eliot, Criterion 8 (April 1929): 553, 556. For further criticism of Anna Katherine Green by T. S. Eliot, see notes 18 and 22. 17. T. S. Eliot, Monthly Criterion 6 (September 1927): 377. 18. T. S. Eliot, Criterion 8 (September 1928): 174, 175. “In her later stories,” Eliot complained of Anna Katharine Green, “she inclined to over-elaborate machinery. In one … people are killed by a leaden plummet which forms part of the ceiling decorations, and which is hauled up again into place by a wire; and there is an elaborate cryptogram hidden in some preposterous place, which explains how to use the plummet.” T. S. Eliot, Criterion 8 (April 1929): 556. This sort of improbable (one might use the term baroque) mechanical ingenuity reached its Golden Age zenith in the tales of the American master of the locked room mystery, John Dickson Carr. 19. T. S. Eliot, Criterion 8 ( July 1929): 90; John Dickson Carr, “The Grandest Game in the World” (1946) reprinted in Douglas G. Greene, ed., The Door to Doom and Other Detections (1980; rev. ed., New York: International Polygonics, 1991). 20. T. S. Eliot, Monthly Criterion (November 1927): 368. 21. T. S. Eliot, Criterion 8 (September 1928): 175. 22. T. S. Eliot, Criterion 8 ( July 1929): 760. In this article Eliot reviewed, besides the

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mystery novel he compared to The Murder of Roger Ackroyd: the Ronald Knox edited The Best Detective Stories of the Year: 1928 (which also included Knox’s own rules for detective fiction); a reprinted edition of Emile Gaboriau’s The Mystery of Orcival/Le Crime d’Orcival (1867) and H. Maynard Smith’s Inspector Frost’s Jigsaw. Eliot believed that, in contrast with Anna Katharine Green, Emile Gaboriau wore “extremely well.” Like Ronald Knox and Victor Whitechurch, H. Maynard Smith (1869–1949), Canon of Gloucester, was a clerical author of mild detective fiction, though one almost completely forgotten within even the mystery connoisseur community.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Ascari, Maurizo. A Counter-History of Crime Fiction: Supernatural, Gothic, Sensational. Houndmills, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007. Carr, John Dickson. “The Grandest Game in the World” (1946). Reprinted in first full edition in The Door to Doom and Other Detections. Edited by Douglas G. Greene. New York: International Polygonics, 1991. Chandler, Raymond. “Twelve Notes on the Mystery Story.” In Raymond Chandler: Later Novels and Other Writings. New York: Library of America, 1995. Chinitz, David E. T. S. Eliot and the Cultural Divide. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 2003. Criterion/Monthly Criterion/New Criterion. January 1927, June 1927, September 1927, November 1927, September 1928, April 1929, July 1929. Deeck, William F. Review of Traill Stevenson, The Silver Arrow Murder. Mystery File. At http://mysteryfile.com/blog/?p=1880 Eliot, T. S. “Wilkie Collins and Dickens. In T. S. Eliot, Selected Essays 1917–1932. New York: Harcourt Brace, 1932. Eliot, Valerie and John Haffendden. Editors. The Letters of T. S. Eliot. Vol. 3. 1926–1927. New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 2012. Greene, Douglas G. John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. New York: Otto Penzler, 1995. James, P. D. Talking About Detective Fiction. Oxford: Bodleian Library, 2009. Knight, Steven. Crime Fiction since 1800: Detection, Death, Diversity. 2004. Revised Edition. Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010. Lewis, Steve. “Author A. Fielding: Identify Unknown” and “The Latest News on A. Fielding.” Mystery File. At http://mysteryfile.com/blog/?p=64 and http://mysteryfile.com/blog/ ?p=117. Norris, John. Review of G. McLeod Winsor, Vanishing Men (American edition of The Mysterious Disappearances). Pretty Sinister Books. At http://prettysinister.blogspot.com/ 2013/03/ffb-vanishing-men-g-mcleod-winsor.html. Pessoa, Fernadno. “Historia Policial” (“Detective Story”). In Historias De Um Raciocinador e o encaio “Historia Policial.” Edited and translated by Ana Maria Freitas. Assirio & Alvim, 2012. Rzepka, Charles J. Detective Fiction. Cambridge, UK: Polity, 2005. Symons, Julian. Bloody Murder: From the Detective Story to the Crime Novel. 1972. Revised Edition. New York and Tokyo: Mysterious Press, 1992. Valentine, Mark. “Allen Upward.” Supernatural Fiction Database. At http://homepages.pavillion.co.uk/tartarus/u1.htm

An Intellectual and the Detective Story: The Problems of Fernando Pessoa HENRIQUE VALLE

INTRODUCTION A detective story, as conceived by Edgar Allan Poe, is a tale in which a mystery, usually of criminal nature, is solved through the intellectual activity of ratiocination. Ratiocinative detective fiction has exerted intense fascination upon intellectuals over the decades since Poe first penned his tales, especially during the genre’s Golden Age (c. 1920 to 1940). The English poet, playwright, critic and essayist T. S. Eliot (1888–1965) is a prominent example of one such intellectual. Certainly another is Eliot’s distinguished contemporary, the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa (1888–1935), an avid reader, writer and critic of detective fiction, which he memorably pronounced “one of the few intellectual entertainments remaining to what still remains of the intellectual in humankind.” A case can be made for Pessoa—a favorite of highbrow academia worldwide, counted by Harold Bloom among the rarefied twenty-six literary geniuses who have shaped the Western canon—as the single individual who has garnered the highest recognition as an intellectual while showing the deepest respect and aesthetic commitment toward detective fiction.1 No detective fiction by Pessoa was published in his lifetime. Indeed, all of his known detective stories—many of them written in English, since Pessoa, having been brought up in South Africa, was bilingual—were left incomplete. Even in their unfinished state, however, these problems of Pessoa offer a fascinating glimpse into the creative process of one of the foremost literary figures 183

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of the twentieth century and suggest that Pessoa could have achieved considerable distinction in the field. In the following pages I assess Pessoa’s remarkable corpus of detective fiction (“Spoilers” are signposted with warnings in bold typeface). For this purpose I adopt the tradition of scholarly criticism initiated with the codification of the rules and conventions of the detective fiction genre by readers like T. S. Eliot and practitioners such as Ronald Knox and S. S. Van Dine (Willard Huntington Wright) and followed in surveys like H. Douglas Thomson’s Masters of Mystery: A Study of the Detective Story (1931) and Howard Haycraft’s Murder for Pleasure: The Life and Times of the Detective Story (1941). I eschew the academic approach prevailing in studies of Pessoa’s work, which in my view misses the fact that Pessoa, like T. S. Eliot, enjoyed detective stories as “mere puzzles,” thereby leading to erroneous interpretations of his writing. “A detective story,” wrote Pessoa in his seminal analysis of the form (an essay appropriately titled “Detective Story”), “is not a vehicle for sentiment or passion; it is a cold, intellectual composition, the delight which it causes being intellectual merely.”2

“The Stolen Document” and “A Very Original Dinner”: Deep into the Darkness Peering Pessoa additionally defined the detective story as “a mystery story, the chief intent of which lies, not in the mystery itself, but in the investigation of it.” While not adhering to Pessoa’s definition, both “The Stolen Document and “A Very Original Dinner” are significantly connected to his detective canon.3 Although the two tales are quite different from one another, both show the influence of Poe. “The Stolen Document,” written in English in 1906, is not a tale of detection, but rather a meditation on another writer’s tale of detection. It purports to be a retelling of Poe’s famous C. Auguste Dupin detective story, “The Purloined Letter,” by a grandson of minister D—, whose intent is “to write down truthfully the story of this affair.” On the basis of this version was “the historic consideration that the Minister D— never fell, as would have happened had the amateur detective Dupin really frustrated his attempt, had the Prefect of Police indeed obtained the letter which the minister had stolen. D— really died sometime afterwards, before he had had time to carry into full effect the power which the letter gave him.” Presumably embarrassed with his failure, Dupin, it seems, had divulged a distorted version of the facts. The reason for the detective’s failure lay in the fact that, while his “marvelous reasoning” had been correct in principle, it had

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been misapplied, leading to an erroneous conclusion as to the whereabouts of the letter. Although the extant documents for this story do not go any further, other Pessoa manuscripts clearly identify his solution for the hiding place of the letter purloined by Minister D—, which I discuss in this and the next paragraph. In his essay “Detective Story” Pessoa states that “The Purloined Letter” “would have been perfect had Poe grasped the principle on which he founded it,” which is “nothing but that, to the generality, the least obvious thing is that which is rationally the most obvious.” In another manuscript, which may pertain either to the essay or to the short story, Pessoa wrote laconically: “Poe’s Mistake in the ‘Purloined Letter’: The letter ought to have been hidden in the wastepaper basket.” 4 The implication is that the wastepaper basket, and not the letter-stand of the Poe story, would be the least obvious hiding place for the stolen letter. Although according to some scholars Pessoa’s preferred solution “does not seem especially brilliant” and is “unsatisfactory,” my view is the opposite.5 Like Pessoa, I have always found Poe’s solution incongruous with its own brilliant premise. The most prominent feature of the stolen letter was not the fact that it was a letter but the fact that it was something of great importance both for its legitimate owner and for its thief. Therefore, the least likely place for it to be hidden would not be a letter-stand but the place where valuable objects would least likely be hidden—the wastepaper basket therefore seems an excellent candidate. The great Golden Age detective novelist John Dickson Carr evidently thought the same, since in his 1950 short story “The Gentleman From Paris” he has a hidden will being discovered “crumpled up … under the coal and wood in the fireplace grate,” by a detective who in the final lines is revealed to be none other than Edgar Allan Poe.6 “A Very Original Dinner,” written in English between 1903 and 1907, is the most well-known and studied work of fiction by Pessoa, due to the fact that it is the only significant short story he ever completed. Its plot is as follows. During a meeting of the Gastronomic Society of Berlin, its president, Wilhelm Prosit—a coarse and impulsive man with a penchant for playing pranks— engages in a heated debate with “five young men from the city of Frankfurt” over the supposed loss of originality in contemporary cuisine. Prosit invites all the members of the Society to “a very original dinner,” a “complete novelty,” “not in what it conveys or appears, but in what it means, in what it contains”; and he challenges them “to say, having finished it, in what it is original.” He promises that the five young men will be present “in body” at the dinner and that they will contribute “most materially” to its success. Expecting Prosit to play some monumental prank on the five young men, the members of the society attend his sumptuous banquet. From the seeming absence of the five young

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men and the fact that the dinner had been served in half-darkness by five black servants who had kept mostly in the shadows, Meyer, the narrator, deduces that Prosit somehow managed to induce the five young men to act as the servants, and that in this feat simultaneously resides both the originality and the prank. However, Meyer’s deduction is wrong. Once the dinner is over and the guests have acknowledged their defeat, Prosit proposes a toast in which he implicitly reveals the truth, which I discuss until the end of this section: “I drink,” said he, “to the memory of the five young gentleman of Frankfurt, who have been present in body at this dinner and have contributed to it most materially.” And haggard, savage, completely mad he pointed with an excited finger to the remnants of flesh in a dish he had caused to be left upon the table.

After an instant of stupefaction, the appalled Society members realize they have just feasted on the flesh of the five young men and furiously fall upon Prosit, hurling him from a window to his death. They then silently depart the building, “each man locked in the horror of himself.” While certainly not for the faint of heart (or stomach), this grisly tale is well-plotted and well-written. The ending is much more surprising than the summary above may suggest, and this would surely have been even more so to contemporary readers. The subject of cannibalism may have come to Pessoa through Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus or, less likely, through nineteenth century Portuguese writer Álvaro de Carvalhal’s aptly-titled short story “Os Canibais.”7 Intriguingly, its use by Pessoa in crime fiction preceded by more than half a century a famous Stanley Ellin short story. The relation of “A Very Original Dinner” to the Pessoa detective canon is the subject of debate. According to Maria de Lurdes Sampaio, it bears no traits of a detective story, revealing solely the influence of Poe’s “morbid and extraordinary stories.” On the other hand, Maria Leonor Machado de Sousa considers it “a first detective attempt, although not presented as such.” In this view “the deduction starts from clues, evidence, in the good detective tradition,” though the story “is about guessing, more even than solving, an enigma.”8 I agree with the latter view. As Machado de Sousa has pointed out, “A Very Original Dinner” shows similarities—as to structure, atmosphere, narrative technique, effect and even the names of characters—with Poe’s detection tale “Thou Art the Man.”9 Moreover, Pessoa’s story retains from Poe’s not only the horror elements, but also the presentation of a murder, a mystery and a solution to it. I would go even farther than Machado de Sousa in asserting the proximity of this tale to true detective fiction, since, as with typical detective stories, it actually includes clues (the traits of Prosit’s character and the hints of his mad-

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ness, the wording of his challenge, the absence of the five young men from the dinner), red herrings (the five black servants and the diners’ puzzlement over them) and deductions from the available data made by someone functioning as a de facto detective (the narrator). The fact that the detective figure fails to see the truth is incidental and, indeed, hardly unheard of in works universally accepted as detective fiction. The work of the Golden Age English mystery writer Anthony Berkeley comes to mind, but the closer parallel is perhaps with Thomas Burke’s short story “The Hands of Mr. Ottermole,” since in both cases the reader is provided with fair play clues that enable him or her to act as the detective before the solution is revealed. Nevertheless, it must be admitted that “A Very Original Dinner,” unlike “Thou Art the Man,” is structurally unrecognizable as a typical detective story, since the possibility of a crime is not even suggested until the mystery’s resolution. For this reason the place of this tale, like “The Stolen Document,” lies at the fringes of Pessoa’s detective fiction corpus.

Tales of a Reasoner: Following in the Footsteps of Two Landmark Authors The earliest of Pessoa’s detective writings date back to around 1905. All the stories from this period, written in English and featuring as detective former police sergeant William Byng, are grouped under the working title of Tales of a Reasoner. Pessoa presents Byng as a misfit and an alcoholic, yet endowed with a phenomenal intellectual capacity that enables him to work as a consulting detective. The influence of the Sherlock Holmes model is clear, but, like Poe’s detective C. Auguste Dupin, Byng acts more as an armchair sleuth and frequently proceeds by psychological analysis, since he believes that every crime betrays the personality of the criminal. Only three Sergeant Byng stories are extant. They are indebted to Poe and Conan Doyle not merely in terms of the detective, but in their subjects, settings, characters, narrative structures and plot devices. “The Case of the Science Master” is set in an English boarding school reminiscent of Conan Doyle’s short story “The Adventure of the Priory School.” In “The Case of the Quadratic Equation” and “The Case of Mr. Arnott,” Byng deduces a solution out of the facts brought to him by a client and in his apartment elicits from the guilty party a confession that supplies the missing facts, a scheme followed in Conan Doyle’s A Study in Scarlet, “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle,” “The Adventure of Black Peter” and several other Sherlock Holmes tales. As in several of Conan Doyle’s stories, the characters in all three tales are clerks, professors, sailors and their wives. The men are menaced or behave oddly, for

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reasons related to domestic and financial matters and involving acts of revenge for past offenses and the activities of minor criminal gangs. Additionally, in the relationship between Byng and the narrator and the descriptions of Byng’s forbidding house, this group of Pessoa tales evokes the universe of Poe’s Dupin. As these similarities suggest, the Sergeant Byng stories are largely apprentice works, although in some respects they are impressive ones. “The Case of the Science Master” concerns the murder of a teacher by a blow of a massive pestle. The plot is remarkable in that it centers on a minute determination of the whereabouts of several characters at several given times. The temporal complexity of Byng’s investigation, which recalls the intricately plotted Golden Age detective novels of the Anglo-Irish railway engineer turned writer Freeman Wills Crofts, is unusual in detective fiction from the first decade of the twentieth century, when the Sergeant Byng stories were written. There are also other interesting aspects concerning the story’s solution, which are revealed in the following sentences. The murder was accomplished by balancing the pestle on top of the door so that it would fall on the science master’s head once he opened it, providing the murderer with an alibi; though naïve, this murder method shows ingenuity and as far as I know had not yet been used in fiction. Additionally, Byng’s method of detection is one of the earliest examples of the use of psychology in detective fiction. The killer turns out to be the school’s dean, in an instance of Pessoa employing the least likely suspect technique. Unfortunately, even taking into account the story’s state of incompleteness, the facts are confusedly explained and Byng’s reasoning, in addition to being frequently obscure, is based on wild assumptions, such as that a courageous person will not kill with a small blow, while his “classification of human characters” involves considerations which already at the time must have been nonsensical. Had Pessoa completed this tale, it would most probably have been an unsatisfactory detective story. The other two Sergeant Byng stories are more interesting. “The Case of Mr. Arnott,” while obviously a variation on Conan Doyle’s “The Red-Headed League,” offers an interesting alternative solution, which I will discuss next. In this case the fraud is aimed at making Mr. Arnott unwittingly impersonate Sigismund Arnott, who has a scar under his left eye and is on the run from persecutors, and his apparently futile commission—to follow the courses of several steamers—is intended to warn the latter man of the arrival of his adversaries. The innocent Mr. Arnott starts receiving threatening letters, but Byng apparently manages to decipher the mystery before he suffers any harm. In a sense, Pessoa’s plot, while unoriginal, is superior to Conan Doyle’s, because the scam does not function solely as an extravagant blind to the main events in the story, but is fully integrated with them.

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In “The Case of the Quadratic Equation,” Sergeant Byng is consulted by the wife of a mathematics professor whom she believes was driven to suicide by a letter asking him to solve an elementary quadratic equation. Basing his reasoning almost exclusively on the psychology of the professor and an analysis of the letter, Byng deduces the identity of its sender and devises the means by which it prompted the suicide. Even though some of Byng’s deductions may seem far-fetched, they are not any more so than several famous ones by Dupin and Holmes, and their sheer scope would be enough to make them an impressive tour de force. Unfortunately, some steps are missing from Byng’s chain of reasoning, preventing a more definitive judgment of the merits of this story.

Quaresma, Decifrador: Into the Golden Age Around 1915 Pessoa started a second series of detective stories, which were written in Portuguese and featured as detective one Dr. Abílio Fernandes Quaresma; Pessoa grouped these tales under the title Quaresma, Decifrador. Dr. Quaresma shares some of Sergeant Byng’s traits, but he is a much betterrounded Great Detective figure. A discreet and unassuming doctor (with no patients), a hypochondriac, an alcoholic and a chain smoker of cheap cigars, he lives like a recluse in a rented room on the third floor at Rua dos Fanqueiros, in central Lisbon. Dr. Quaresma’s only interest in life is the decipherment of all kinds of charades, his preference being complex real-life criminal ones, which are brought to him by Chief Guedes of the Criminal Investigation Police. Dr. Quaresma is a reductio ad absurdum of the rationalistic detective: he has no interest in material clues and mistrusts facts (“there are no facts, only prejudices,” he once states), preferring to proceed deductively from the very few facts he admits as established. If the conclusions he reaches in the abstract are contradicted by apparent facts, he will proclaim that these are false (“against arguments there are no facts,” he states another time, inverting a Portuguese proverb). Like Sergeant Byng, he likes to apply psychology, which he does by inducing the criminal’s character from the crime, subsuming it to highly abstract types of human personalities and then seeking among the suspects the one who corresponds to that type. The thirteen extant Dr. Quaresma tales are much more interesting than the Tales of a Reasoner, not only because Dr. Quaresma is an improvement over Sergeant Byng as a detective personality, but also because the stories reveal a wider and more mature command of the mystery story’s technique. They are also significant in that they show Pessoa moving away from the pre–Golden Age Poe– Conan Doyle paradigm, and indeed beyond the Freeman Wills Crofts–R. Austin Freeman paradigm of the early Golden Age, in the direction of trends

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which would become dominant under the influence of elite English Detection Club writers, such as Dorothy L. Sayers and Anthony Berkeley, in the late 1920s and the 1930s.10 In an autobiographical fragment written in 1906, Pessoa referred to his favorite childhood readings by stating that he had a “craving … not for the probable, but for the incredible, not even for the impossible by degree, but for the impossible by nature.”11 In this light, it is hardly surprising that six of the Dr. Quaresma detective stories involve impossible situations of the sort most associated with Golden Age writers like John Dickson Carr and Ellery Queen. These are: the theft of a rare parchment from a locked safe placed inside a locked room (“O Pergaminho Roubado”); the escape of a killer from a house surrounded by several individuals (“A Morte de D. João”); the theft of an important letter from a locked room (“A Carta Mágica”); the disappearance of a man when climbing the staircase between two floors (“O Desaparecimento do Dr. Reis Gomes”); the theft of an amount of gold such as no human being could carry from a bank safe protected by three locks, each with individual keys and secret codes possessed/known only by one person (“O Caso do Triplo Fecho”); and murder in a locked room (“O Quarto Fechado”). The variety of these situations shows Pessoa’s fertility of invention. While some of them are classic, the ones in “O Pergaminho Roubado” and “O Caso do Triplo Fecho” are tours de force. Only the one in “A Carta Mágica” seems slight, especially in comparison with the other two more challenging impossible thefts. The degree of accomplishment of the solutions varies. Frustratingly, the available texts do not allow for a full clarification of the most perplexing tale, “O Caso do Triplo Fecho”; and although they might work effectively in completed stories, the solutions in “A Carta Mágica” and “O Desaparecimento do Dr. Reis Gomes” are trivial. However, the impossibilities in the remaining three tales have simple but imaginative solutions that evoke not only Carr but G. K. Chesterton. As far as I know, they had not been used in fiction before Pessoa employed them. In “A Morte de D. João,” five pedestrians hear a sound of breaking glass coming from a nearby house. They immediately approach the building, which has a shattered windowpane. On the sidewalk they see a telephone set, which they presume was hurled through the windowpane. Accompanied by a policeman who was on the spot, the group enters the front door of the house, from which no one could have had time to escape unseen. They find all the other possible entrances locked from the inside and, in one of the rooms, the dead homeowner, his skull crushed by a blow. The telephone cord is severed from the wall and the telephone itself is missing. From these facts they infer that the victim threw the telephone set at his attacker in a desperate attempt to

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defend himself, but missed the target, sending the telephone through the windowpane instead. The solution to this classic situation, which is disclosed in the remaining part of this paragraph, is satisfying. In fact, the owner of the house had been killed under the assumed conditions by the policeman, who then waited outside for the appearance of suitable witnesses and broke a glass pane he carried out with him, thus creating the illusion that the telephone had only just been hurled through the windowpane. Clues to the identity of the murderer are skilfully provided. The story ends with Dr. Quaresma taking a walk at dusk with the murderer and letting him escape after being convinced of the moral justification for his crime, a denouement reminiscent of Chesterton’s famous tale “The Invisible Man” (this is just one of several Chestertonianstyle flourishes that this story presents, in addition to the impossible situation itself ).12 The basic impossible situations in the other two tales may seem less complex, but their solutions, which are now revealed, are equally ingenious. In “O Caso do Quarto Fechado” the murderer simply left the room, locking it from the outside with a duplicate key. He then inserted a key blade (whose bow he had previously sawn off ) in the keyhole. After viewing the keyhole from the outside and seeing the key blade, onlookers assumed that the door was locked from the inside. Ostensibly in order to peer through the keyhole, the murderer then pushed the key blade into the room. Once the door was broken down and the room entered, he immediately palmed the fallen key blade without anyone noticing. To complete the illusion, the murderer left the real key on the floor in the place it would probably have fallen had it really been pushed from the keyhole. Dr. Quaresma himself points to the truth by alluding to “the third key,” a remark understood by nobody, since at the time it was uttered there seemed to be no evidence of the existence of even a second one. In “O Pergaminho Roubado” the solution is obfuscated by a gigantic piece of misdirection that begins in the story’s title (literally: “The Stolen Parchment”). The actual object of the theft was not the parchment but the safe itself, a valuable mediaeval piece, which was replaced by a copy and taken away locked, the thief not even knowing the parchment was inside it.13 Access to the locked cabinet in which the safe was kept was gained by means of a duplicate key, a somewhat underwhelming device; however, both the method used for the seemingly impossible task of duplicating the key and Dr. Quaresma’s process of discovering it are clever. The identity of the thief is fairly clued and well-disguised by the chief misdirection, since the person in question demonstrably had no interest in the vanished parchment.

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The three remaining Dr. Quaresma stories also contain elements of interest. In “O Roubo da Quinta das Vinhas” an audacious theft takes place in a manor house in the suburbs of Lisbon. It seems that thieves managed to break into the house and detonate a safe, taking with them the large number of Portuguese sovereign debt bonds—apparently as hot an item then as now—that the safe contained. The solution, which I now unveil, combines elements that one would expect from a novel by Freeman Wills Crofts or John Rhode and that likely anticipated a famous tricked played by Agatha Christie. In reality the theft was perpetrated by an occupant of the house, who managed to open the safe in silence and, through the employment of a mechanical device, set the explosion for a later time, enabling him to establish a seemingly unbreakable alibi. However, the most remarkable aspect of this story lies in the fact that the criminal is the narrator. Pessoa provides clues to the solution and enhances the fair-play aspect by having the narrator stating on the first page that “as I believe in truth that nobody could narrate this case better than I… I will do it with the precision of which I still am and forever will be capable, so engraved on my spirit are the incidents, and chiefly the outcome, of that apparent mystery,” a dubious affirmation whose real meaning becomes clear only later. Certain elements suggest this story may have been plotted as early as 1915 and written in or shortly after 1917, in which case it would have predated Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926), in which Christie famously employed the narrator as murderer device.14 “Crime” is in very embryonic form, as its provisional title suggests. Its basic premise is apparently simple. A young man is found drowned in circumstances strongly suggestive of suicide. The authorities are ready to file the case as such, but the statement of the dead man’s best friend raises serious psychological doubts about the possibility of suicide and casts suspicions of murder upon another man. The police start a murder investigation and manage to close the net around the main suspect. However, the solution, by means of an interesting plot twist, turns all the appearances upside down. Dr. Quaresma intervenes and demonstrates the death was after all a suicide, which the dead man’s best friend had tried to disguise as murder so that he could remove a love rival by means of framing him for the fictitious murder. As in many Agatha Christie stories, the solution results from an unexpected change of angle, the psychological grounds of which are credibly presented (in fact, Christie employed the specific plot device of a suicide disguised as murder in “The Market Basing Mystery,” originally published in the magazine The Sketch in 1923 and expanded as the novella “Murder in the Mews” in 1937). However, in the absence of the chief part of Dr. Quaresma’s reasoning, serious doubts remain as to whether Pessoa could have pulled this one off convincingly.

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The plot of “Os Cúmplices” is possibly the most sophisticated tour de force of all the Dr. Quaresma stories. The action takes place in a courtroom where Dr. Quaresma is attending a criminal trial concerning the shooting of a lawyer in his office. All the main characters are connected to this office: the victim worked there, as did the witnesses; the defendants were clients of the victim and are now represented by one of his colleagues; the private prosecutor was the best friend and a colleague of the victim. After listening to all the testimonies and the final statements of the lawyers, Dr. Quaresma concludes that the defendants are innocent and identifies the true murderer. The solution, which is now revealed, comes as a shock, deftly disguised as it is in the apparent objectivity of the court proceedings and the legal discourse: the murder was committed by the private prosecutor, because his wife was having an affair with the slain lawyer. The complicated circumstances of the crime are dexterously explicated. Sadly O Caso Vargas, the only novel in the Dr. Quaresma series, is severely flawed. The story is a simple one: Carlos Vargas is found shot in a lonely Lisbon alley after failing to show up for a meeting with a friend to whom he was to deliver some money; he was last seen by a naval engineer who handed him the secret plans of a new submarine. The police hesitate between treating the situation as an accident, suicide or murder until Dr. Quaresma steps in and demonstrates, using psychological analysis, not only that the man was murdered but also the identity of his murderer. Some of the faults of the incomplete draft—the scarcity of characters and mysterious events, the linearity of the plot, the absence of any attempts at misdirecting the reader—could have been overcome by further development. Yet the available plot synopsis and chapter outline show that the main problems are structural. The plot is thin, prosaic and predictable and, above all, insufficient to justify novel length; one could apply to it the criticism Pessoa made of R. Austin Freeman’s A Certain Dr. Thorndyke: it “could have been told in fifty pages.”15 Although there is an attempt at the construction of a Croftsian alibi, the solution, which is revealed in the following sentence, is also trite: the murderer was Vargas’ friend, who in a sudden flash discovered that he had always subconsciously wished for Vargas’ death. Another severe structural problem with this novel lies in the lengthy exposition of Dr. Quaresma’s solution, which occupies nine of seventeen projected chapters. This omnipresence of Dr. Quaresma in the second half of the novel, which becomes an interminable lecture on abstract theories about morbid psychology, is out of all proportion. Furthermore, even if, unlike the Sergeant Byng stories, the psychological considerations contained in this section are backed by knowledge of then current trends in psychology, one still fails to

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be persuaded that they would have brought about the detection of the criminal. Although the pioneering character of O Caso Vargas in its integration of serious psychological plot elements must be acknowledged, the attempts made to save it as a post-modernist revision of Golden Age detective story conventions are unconvincing: the truth may be that, had it been finished, O Caso Vargas would have been simply a mediocre detective novel.16

The Mouth of Hell: Precursor of the Postmodern Detective Story? In its mixture of fiction and reality (a reality which in itself is highly fictionalized), Pessoa’s final attempt at writing a detective novel, The Mouth of Hell, must stand as the most bizarre of his fictional texts. In 1930, the English occultist Aleister Crowley, with the assistance of Pessoa and his journalist friend Augusto Ferreira Gomes, staged his suicide off the cliff known as Boca do Inferno (Mouth of Hell), near Lisbon. Gomes, who purportedly found Crowley’s suicide note under a cigarette case, reported the “suicide” to the police and proceeded to publish a sensational newspaper report on the tragic affair. Pessoa, having volunteered to aid the police, identified the note’s handwriting and the cigarette case as Crowley’s. Simultaneously he started a campaign to create a sensational mystery around the disappearance. While omitting the significant fact that the suicide was a hoax, Pessoa managed to feed the mystery by telling nothing but the truth. As part of the hoax—and probably as a way of cashing in on it—Pessoa conceived The Mouth of Hell as having been written by a fictitious English private detective who had investigated the case (a fiction he maintained even to Gomes, thereby hoaxing his own accomplice). In letters Pessoa alluded repeatedly to this novel as being composed in the style of Freeman Wills Crofts.17 However, the novel consists of a detective report written after the fact and not of the fictional rendering of a real-time investigation; as such, it does not read at all like a Crofts novel. Nevertheless, one can understand Pessoa’s insistence on the comparison, since the detection is in fact of the meticulous kind typical of Crofts’ Inspector French. The novel’s actual fictional content is minimal, as it mostly integrates elements from reality, such as Crowley’s disappearance and the facts surrounding it, press reports and even the murder of a taxi driver, to which a sinister meaning is attached. The result is fascinating, even if the denouement, which follows, is slightly underwhelming. The detective concludes that Crowley indeed staged his suicide in order to escape persecution from an undetermined occult organization and that the taxi driver who transported him to his train was a collateral casualty

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in the process. It seems that Pessoa, willing to maintain and indeed fuel the hoax he had set up, had no other option than to have his detective be mystified by it, thereby limiting the possible scope of his results. It is difficult to evaluate The Mouth of Hell as detective fiction, since there is no standard against which to measure it. In fact, it is likely that Pessoa viewed it less as part of his detective opus than as an unclassifiable experiment based in the detective story form. This is the one instance in which Pessoa may indeed have adopted a self-reflexive, post-modernist take on the detective genre.

Conclusion: Pessoa as a Detective Story Writer in the Context of the Golden Age This analysis of Fernando Pessoa’s detective stories—with the exception of The Mouth of Hell, which by its own nature stands alone—reveals elements typical of the pre–Golden Age period (detectives, characters and situations close to the Poe–Conan Doyle paradigm), the early Golden Age (the focus on demonstration, the concern with alibis and mechanical devices), the later Golden Age (a greater plot complexity, a clearer narrative separation of problem and solution, a wider distribution of suspicion among a closed circle of characters, a sharper focus on fair play and an increasing interest in the concealment of the culprit’s identity) and even the post–Golden Age (the interest in abnormal psychology). The remarkable fact is that Pessoa, a national and resident of a peripheral country only minimally influenced by English-speaking culture, not only accompanied the stylistic evolution of the detective story in real time, but anticipated solutions and devices later used by other authors and at least one future significant trend of the genre, the focus on psychology, at a time when this evolution was uncertain. The variety of the stories’ subjects and situations; the imaginative scope revealed by some of the impossible crimes; the use of misdirection and the least likely suspect technique; the scrupulous respect for the detective story rules, above all for fair play—this all suggests that Pessoa might have become a detective writer of considerable resources. However, except for the already mentioned interest in psychology and perhaps for the originality of his radically rationalistic detectives, in no way can Pessoa’s detective stories be considered ground breaking like the works by Poe, Conan Doyle, Crofts, Christie, Berkeley, Carr or Queen; and although they are at least as literate as the works by Michael Innes, they are certainly not as literary as those by Chesterton, Sayers or Sayers’ sister crime queens Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh and Josephine Tey.

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In my view Pessoa’s detective stories, had they been completed, would have fitted comfortably and ranked honorably among the works of the best British and American authors of the period. This verdict may not be in accordance with Pessoa’s acknowledged status as a literary genius. Yet I believe that Pessoa, a lover of detective stories as “mere puzzles,” did not aim to “transcend the genre,” as the saying goes, and therefore would have been amply satisfied with it.

NOTES 1. Curtis Evans, Masters of the “Humdrum” Mystery: Cecil John Charles Street, Freeman Wills Crofts, Alfred Walter Stewart and the British Detective Novel, 1920–1961 ( Jefferson NC: McFarland, 2012), 20–29, 260–261; Curtis Evans, “Murder in the Criterion: T. S. Eliot on Detective Fiction,” in Curtis Evans, ed., The Mystery Genre Unlocked: Essays in Honor of Douglas G. Greene ( Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2014); Fernando Pessoa, Escritos Autobiográficos, Automáticos e de Reflexão Pessoal, edited by Richard Zenith (Lisbon: Assírio & Alvim, 2003), 150; Harold Bloom, The Western Canon: The Books and School of the Ages (New York and London: Harcourt Brace, 1994) 485–492. Pulitzer Prize-winning literary critic Michael Dirda noted Bloom’s “welcome inclusion [in The Western Canon] of the remarkable Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa.” Michael Dirda, Review of Harold Bloom’s The Western Canon, Washington Post Book World, 25 September 1994, reprinted in Michael Dirda, Bound to Please: An Extraordinary One-Volume Literary Education (New York and London: W. W. Norton, 2005), 279. 2. Fernando Pessoa, “Detective Story,” in Fernando Pessoa, Histórias de um Raciocinador e o Ensaio “História Policial,” edited by Ana Maria Freitas (Oporto: Assírio & Alvim, 2011), 250. 3. Pessoa, “Detective Story,” 238. 4. Pessoa, “Detective Story,” 243; Freitas, “ ‘The Stolen Document’: um conto de Fernando Pessoa,” at www.portalpessoa.org/uk_index.html, Freitas, 5. 5. Freitas, “Document,” 5; Sampaio, “The Disquiet of Archaeology: Fernando Pessoa’s Detective Writings,” Portuguese Studies, 24 (2008), 141. 6. On Carr’s story “The Gentleman from Paris,” see Douglas Greene’s biography of Carr, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (New York: Otto Penzler, 1995), 349. Greene notes that in the story “Carr almost lovingly describes the search for the will” and suggests that the author was influenced in his choice of a hiding place for the document by Anna Katharine Green’s landmark mystery The Leavenworth Case (1878), “a book that Carr knew well.” Pessoa also was familiar with The Leavenworth Case, though it seems he did not think much of Anna Katherine Green’s work, complaining in “Detective Story” that her novels “are always unpleasantly long, and the detective’s figure is not made prominent, on account of some silly love affairs and unimaginative embroilments.” Pessoa, “Detective Story,” 250. 7. As Machado de Sousa pertinently suggested in Fernando Pessoa e a Literatura de Ficção (Lisbon: Novaera, 1978), 125. 8. Sampaio, “A Ficção de Fernando Pessoa: Estudo de um Caso Original,” Revista da Faculdade de Letras do Porto 11 (1994), 247–269; de Sousa, Pessoa, 14, 123. 9. Machado de Sousa, Fernando Pessoa e a Literatura de Ficção, 127–132.

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10. See Evans, Masters, 32–37. I do not discuss three of the thirteen stories, where incompleteness renders almost unintelligible the basic plot structures. 11. Pessoa, Always Astonished: Selected Prose, edited and translated by Edwin Honig (San Francisco: City Light Books, 1988), 1. 12. Maria de Lurdes Sampaio, “Disquiet,” 148. 13. This skilful piece of misdirection, one of the qualities most valued by connoisseurs in Golden Age detective fiction, is lost on Freitas, who simplistically describes the plot of “O Pergaminho Roubado” as concerning “a theft of the wrong object” (“Document,” 5). 14. Ana Maria Freitas proposes this possible dating of the story but without making any connexion with the Christie novel. See page 21 of her introduction to Fernando Pessoa, Quaresma, Decifrador: As Novellas Policiárias (Lisbon: Assírio & Alvim, 2008). Christie also used a form of the narrator as murderer device in an earlier novel, The Man in the Brown Suit (1924). 15. Pessoa, “Detective Story,” 240. 16. Pessoa, Quaresma, 426; Sampaio, “Disquiet of Archaeology,” 150. 17. Fernando Pessoa, Encontro Magick, Seguido de A Boca do Inferno (Lisbon: Assírio & Alvim, 2010), 234–235; Steffen Dix, “Um encontro impossível e um suicídio possível: Fernando Pessoa e Aleister Crowley,” Jerónimo Pizarro, ed., Fernando Pessoa: O Guardador de Papéis (Lisbon: Texto, 2009), 61.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bloom, Harold. The Western Canon: The Books and School of the Ages. New York and London. Harcourt Brace & Company, 1994. Greene, Douglas G. John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. New York: Otto Penzler, 1995. Dirda, Michael. Bound to Please: An Extraordinary One-Volume Literary Education. New York and London: W. W. Norton, 2005. Dix, Steffen. “Um Encontro Impossível e um Suicídio Possível: Fernando Pessoa e Aleister Crowley.” Fernando Pessoa: O Guardador de Papéis. Edited by Jerónimo Pizarro. Lisbon: Texto, 2009. Pp. 39–81. Evans, Curtis. Masters of the “Humdrum” Mystery: Cecil John Charles Street, Freeman Wills Crofts, Alfred Walter Stewart and the British Detective Novel, 1920–1961. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012. _____. “Murder in The Criterion: T. S. Eliot on Detective Fiction.” In The Mystery Genre Unlocked: Essays in Honor of Douglas G. Greene (2014). Edited by Curtis Evans. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2014. Freitas, Ana Maria. “Pessoa, Escritor de Policiais.” In Fernando Pessoa: O Guardador de Papéis. Edited by Jerónimo Pizarro. Lisbon: Texto, 2009. Pp. 101–133. _____. “‘The Stolen Document’: Um Conto de Fernando Pessoa.” At www.portalpessoa.org/ uk_index.html>, 5. No longer accessible. Machado de Sousa, Maria Leonor. Fernando Pessoa e a Literatura de Ficção. Lisbon: Novaera, 1978. Includes “A Very Original Dinner.” Pessoa, Fernando. Always Astonished: Selected Prose. Edited, introduced and translated by Edwin Honig. San Francisco, CA: City Light Books, 1988. _____. Escritos Autobiográficos, Automáticos e de Reflexão Pessoal. Edited by Richard Zenith. Lisbon: Assírio & Alvim, 2003.

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_____. Histórias de um Raciocinador e o Ensaio “História Policial.” Edited and Introduced by Ana Maria Freitas. Oporto: Assírio & Alvim, 2011. Includes the Sergeant Byng stories and the essay “Detective Story.” _____. Quaresma, Decifrador: As Novellas Policiárias. Edited and Introduced by Ana Maria Freitas. Lisbon: Assírio & Alvim, 2008. Includes the Dr. Quaresma stories. Roza, Miguel. Editor. Encontro Magick, Seguido de A Boca do Inferno. 2001. Revised Edition. Lisbon: Assírio & Alvim, 2010. Sampaio, Maria de Lurdes. “A Ficção de Fernando Pessoa: Estudo de um Caso Original.” Revista da Faculdade de Letras do Porto 11 (1994): 247–269. _____. “The Disquiet of Archaeology: Fernando Pessoa’s Detective Writings.” Portuguese Studies 24 (2008): 128–167.

Fernando Pessoa’s Detective Stories In Fernando Pessoa e a Literatura de Ficção (1978) “A Very Original Dinner” (1903–1907) In Encontro Magick, Seguido de A Boca do Inferno (2010) The Mouth of Hell (1930) In Histórias de um Raciocinador e o Ensaio “História Policial” (2011) “Detective Story” (essay, started in 1905) “The Stolen Document” (circa 1906) “The Case of the Science Master” (circa 1906) “The Case of Mr. Arnott” (circa 1907) “The Case of the Quadratic Equation” (circa 1907) In Quaresma, Decifrador: As Novellas Policiárias (2008) “Crime” (undated) “O Caso do Banco de Viseu” (“The Case of the Bank of Viseu”) (undated) “Os Cúmplices” (The Accomplices”)(undated) “O Roubo na Rua dos Capelistas” (“The Theft at Haberdasher’s Street”) (undated) “O Caso da Janela Estreita” (“The Case of the Narrow Window”) (started circa 1915) “O Caso do Triplo Fecho” (“The Case of the Triple Lock”) (started circa 1915) “O Desaparecimento do Dr. Reis Gomes” (“The Disappearance of Dr. Reis Gomes”) (started circa 1915) “A Morte de D. João” (“The Death of Don Juan”) (started circa 1918) “O Caso do Quarto Fechado” (“The Locked Room”) (started circa 1918) “O Pergaminho Roubado” (“The Stolen Parchment”) (started circa 1918) “O Roubo da Quinta das Vinhas” (“The Theft at Vineyard Manor”) (started circa 1918) “A Carta Mágica” (“The Magic Letter”) (started circa 1923) O Caso Vargas (The Vargas Case) (started circa 1923)

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“The Amateur Detective Just Won’t Do”: Raymond Chandler and British Detective Fiction CURTIS EVANS

Reading Nicholas Blake’s classical English mystery The Beast Must Die (1938) for the first time in 1950, the great American hard-boiled detective novelist Raymond Chandler was moved to reflect, in a letter to librarian and future mystery critic James Sandoe, on his great disappointment with the novel. Initially, Chandler wrote, he had found Beast “damn good and extremely well written.” Unfortunately, “the entrance of the detective, Nigel Strangeways, an amateur with wife tagging along,” had for Chandler a “devastating effect” on the credibility of Blake’s crime tale. Chandler conceded that the “private eye” (the type of detective associated most prominently with his own work and that of his contemporary Dashiell Hammett) “admittedly is an exaggeration— a fantasy.” He asserted nevertheless that while the private eye at least was “an exaggeration of the possible,” the “amateur gentleman who outthinks Scotland Yard is just plain silly.” In fictional mystery, Chandler concluded peremptorily, “the amateur detective just won’t do.”1 Raymond Chandler’s best known expression of aesthetic aversion to British detective fiction is found in his deliberately polemical 1944 Atlantic Monthly essay, “The Simple Art of Murder,” in which Chandler, starting from the premise that “fiction in any form has always intended to be realistic,” corrosively contrasts the classical fair play puzzle mystery most associated with Great Britain (though in fact, as Chandler readily concedes, many mysteries of this sort were written by Americans as well) with what he sees as the much truerto-life hard-boiled detective novel. Chandler’s frequently scathing commentary 201

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on English detective novelists in “The Simple Art of Murder” has led most mystery genre critics and historians to conclude that the hard-boiled crime writer held classical English mystery entirely in contempt. “Chandler despised the English school of crime writing,” pronounces modern English crime queen P. D. James in her recent short genre survey, Talking about Detective Fiction (2009). Similar pearls of conventional wisdom often are placed before us by Chandler biographers and academic mystery genre scholars, who tend to overgeneralize Chandler’s hostility toward the puzzle-oriented English detective novel. In The Life of Raymond Chandler, for example, biographer Frank MacShane sweepingly refers to “Chandler’s dislike of deductive detective stories,” while in Hard-Boiled Sentimentality: The Secret History of American Crime Stories, the academic scholar Leonard Cassuto categorically declares that “Chandler rejects the puzzle-whodunit.” Such pearls may make an exquisitely matched strand, yet the conventional wisdom that produced them is far less persuasive when given greater scrutiny (in this connection perhaps we would do well to recall that Raymond Chandler once wrote a short story called “Pearls Are a Nuisance”). Only two years after the appearance in print of “The Simple Art of Murder” Chandler himself pacifically urged a correspondent, mystery genre historian Howard Haycraft, “You must not take a polemic piece of writing like my own article from the Atlantic too literally. I could have written a piece of propaganda in favor of the detective story just as easily. All polemic writing is over-stated.” While Chandler, like the American literary critic Edmund Wilson, admittedly disdained the most famous exponents of the classical English mystery, the crime queens Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham and Ngaio Marsh (and the men who wrote like them), he elsewhere expressed admiration for a pair of today less heralded classical English detective novelists, R. Austin Freeman and Freeman Wills Crofts. This essay explores Chandler’s varying views of classical English detective novelists and offers an explanation for this variance that is rooted in the hard-boiled writer’s pronounced feelings of class animus against the type of individual that, for him, the Golden Age British aristocratic sleuth represented.2 To be sure, one finds language in “The Simple Art of Murder” indicative of sweeping disdain on Chandler’s part for the essential fair play plot mechanics of the classical clue puzzle detective story, as when the author writes dismissively of “the same old futzing around with timetables and bits of charred paper” and “the coolie labor of breaking down unbreakable alibis.” Yet Chandler also expends much verbiage in “Simple Art” attacking fair play puzzle detective novels for their supposed frequent failure in the presentation of clues to adhere to the fair play standard, thus implying that, contrary to conventional wisdom, Chandler actually deemed the fair play standard something that was honorable

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and worthy of fealty. Chandler robustly disparages Agatha Christie, for example, on fair play grounds. “Only a halfwit could guess it,” he writes disgustedly of the solution the foremost crime queen provided for the slaying in her famous tale Murder on the Orient Express (1934).3 In analyzing “The Simple Art of Murder” mystery genre scholars tend to focus on Chandler’s criticism of artificiality within the mystery genre, yet in his essay Chandler in fact spends much of his time blasting the classical English detective novel on what clearly are class-related grounds. While he scourges A. A. Milne’s The Red House Mystery (1922), for example, for its illogic and lack of realism, Chandler notably reserves sharp stripes as well for Milne’s privileged and leisured amateur sleuth, “an insouciant gent named Antony Gillingham.” After sardonically describing Milne’s Gillingham as “a nice lad with a cheery eye, a cozy little flat in London, and that airy manner,” Chandler derisively adds of the man: “He is not making any money on the assignment, but is always available when the local gendarmerie loses its notebook. The English police seem to endure him with their customary stoicism; but I shudder to think of what the boys down at the Homicide Bureau in my city would do to him.”4 No doubt part of the reason that Chandler in “The Simple Art of Murder” objects to the aristocratic amateur detective is simply that such an essentially romantic character type is not, strictly speaking, realistic, particularly as he is depicted in most Golden Age mysteries. Chandler scornfully suggests in his essay that the bourgeois English mystery authors who so lovingly portrayed English lords and ladies in their books were in fact familiar only with “the conversational accent of Surbiton and Bognor Regis” and did not in fact know even the first thing about genuine English aristocrats—a memorably snarky taunt to which the classical Golden Age detective novelist John Dickson Carr objected most strenuously in his 1950 New York Times review of a Chandler collection of short pieces that included “The Simple Art of Murder.”5 Yet something is going on in Chandler’s famous essay besides the author’s expression of his great veneration for realism. Throughout his “Simple Art” essay, Chandler repeatedly sounds cutting class notes. When praising his hard-boiled predecessor Dashiell Hammett for bringing something fundamentally new and bracingly authentic to the detective fiction genre, Chandler tellingly complains of English mystery novelists larding their tales with “dukes and Venetian vases.” In a famous statement, Chandler declares that “Hammett took murder out of the Venetian vase and dropped it into the alley; it doesn’t have to stay there forever, but it was a good idea to begin by getting as far as possible from Emily Post’s idea of how a wellbred debutante gnaws a chicken wing.” Later he lauds Hammett (and by implication himself ) for giving “murder back to the kind of people that commit it

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for reasons, not just to provide a corpse; and with the means at hand, not with hand-wrought dueling pistols, curare and tropical fish.” Elsewhere Chandler sneers at English “detectives of exquisite and impossible gentility.”6 What specific exquisitely and impossibly genteel English detectives could Chandler have been writing about here? It could not have been Freeman Wills Crofts’ Inspector (later Superintendent) Joseph French and R. Austin Freeman’s medical jurist Dr. John Thorndyke, sober professionals both. In addition to A. A. Milne’s Antony Gillingham (who only ever appeared in one novel), those “detectives of exquisite and impossible gentility” to whom Chandler refers so scathingly in “Simple Art” must have been those fictive creations of Dorothy L. Sayers, Ngaio Marsh and Margery Allingham, three British crime queens who at this time (the early to mid–1940s) had risen—along with the fourth British crime queen, Agatha Christie—to preeminence in the field of classical British mystery. Chandler did not in fact despise the entire “English school of crime writing,” as P. D. James and others have claimed. He despised the genteel detective school of crime writing that since the 1940s has been most strongly associated with Sayers, Marsh and Allingham.7 In personal correspondence written after the publication of “Simple Art,” Chandler makes sufficiently clear his distaste for the posh detectives of the British crime queens (and their male attendants). Though he never actually mentions Margery Allingham’s Albert Campion (supposedly in line for the English throne, even), Chandler does reference Dorothy L. Sayers a number of times, as well as Ngaio Marsh and Nicholas Blake. The father of this genteel breed, Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey, obviously was quite loathed by Chandler. After sitting down in 1951 with Sayers’ today much esteemed crime novel, Gaudy Night (1935), Chandler could only report suffering pangs of literary nausea: “God, what sycophantic drivel. A whole clutch of lady dons at an Oxford college all in a flutter to know about Lord Peter Wimsey and to know about the plot of Harriet Vane’s latest mystery story. How silly can you get?” The previous year Chandler had also made clear that he objected to genteel detectives’ exceptionally accomplished wives, noting acerbically after reading Nicholas Blake’s The Beast Must Die that “this wife [of Blake’s series detective, Nigel Strangeways] is one of the world’s three greatest female explorers, which puts her in the same distinguished, and to me utterly silly, class as the artist wife of Ngaio Marsh’s Roderick Alleyn.”8 On another occasion in 1951, Chandler ruminated further on the question of why he so much disliked the Wimseyish sort of detective. “I don’t deny the mystery writer the privilege of making his detective any sort of a person he wants to make him—a poet, philosopher, student of ceramics or Egyptology, or a master of all the sciences like Dr. Thorndike [sic],” Chandler declared.

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“What I don’t seem to cotton to is the affectation of gentility which does not belong to the job and which is in effect a subconscious expression of snobbery.” Chandler speculated that, having attended an English public school himself, he “knew these birds inside out” and appreciated that “the only kind of Public School man who could make a real detective would be the Public School man in revolt, like George Orwell.”9 From where did Chandler derive this marked hostility to the Wimseys of the fictional detective world? As the above reference to his public school days suggests, Chandler’s earlier life experience likely influenced his later views on detective fiction. After her divorce from his American father, Chandler’s Anglo-Irish mother returned home with young Raymond, to live off the grudging bounty of wealthy relatives. Early in life Chandler learned to despise the snobbishness of the genteel British with whom he was thrown into association as a poor relation. A 1954 letter the author wrote to his English publisher Hamish Hamilton is quite revealing in this respect: My grandmother referred to one of the nicest families we knew as “very respectable people” because there were two sons, five golden haired but unmarriageable daughters and no servant. They were driven to the utter humiliation of answering their own door…. My grandmother was the widow of an Irish solicitor. Her son, very wealthy later on, was also a solicitor and had a housekeeper named Miss Groome who sneered at him behind his back because he wasn’t a barrister. The Church, the Navy, the Army, the Bar. There was nothing else. Outside Waterford in a big house with gardens and gardens lived a Miss Paul who occasionally, very occasionally, invited Miss Groome to tea on account of her father had been a canon. Miss Groome regarded this as the supreme accolade because Miss Paul was country. It didn’t seem to bother Miss Paul but it sure as hell made a wreck of Miss Groome…. My uncle was a man of rather evil temper on occasion. Sometimes when the dinner did not suit him he would order it removed and we would sit in stony silence for three quarters of an hour while the frantic Miss Groome browbeat the domestics below stairs and finally another meal was delivered to the master, probably much worse than the one he had refused; but I can still feel that silence. A strange and puzzling thing, the English snobbishness….

In another letter Chandler plaintively reflects of his English youth: “Nor was I at all a happy young man. I had very little money, although there was a great deal of it in my family.”10 “The Remarkable Hero,” an essay by Chandler published in a journal called The Academy in 1911 (when he was but 23 and residing in England), gives contemporary evidence that Chandler’s animus against the genteel detective extended back to his early days. In this essay, Chandler writes sarcastically of the past dominance in English fiction of well-birthed and bred heroes (including detectives): “The time is not distant beyond the memory of living men

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when the hero of a typical novel had to be, if not a person of title, at any rate a man of tolerable family. If, in the days of his affluence, he did not possess a valet, or if when leaving home under a cloud he could not bestow his last sovereign on a head gardener, he was not likely to have many admirers. The snobbishness of those days was not greater than the snobbishness of these, but it was far simpler and more straightforward. It demanded quite honestly, on behalf of the middle class reader, to mix with its social betters.”11 No doubt decades later, in the 1930s and 1940s, Chandler was appalled to find that this breed of hero, for which he had always felt contempt, had not in fact perished but to the contrary flourished, at least in the sort of British detective fiction that Sayers, Marsh and Allingham were producing. Chandler’s feelings of resentment toward what he saw as the snobbishness of the undeserving wealthy only intensified in his adult life, after he had moved back to the United States. An executive in the oil business, Chandler was fired for alcohol-induced absenteeism at the age of 44. Only then did he embark on the arduous course of attempting to make a living through crime writing. After years of publishing stories in pulp fiction magazines like Black Mask, Chandler in 1939 (at the age of 51) produced a landmark mystery novel, The Big Sleep. Yet even after the appearance of The Big Sleep and other genre classics like Farewell, My Lovely (1940) and The Long Goodbye (1953), Chandler’s deeply ingrained hostility and scorn for what he saw as moral nullities unjustly better off than he very much remained. His comments in a 1956 letter to the British crime writer Michael Gilbert about his neighbors in La Jolla, California (the US city with the highest home prices in 2008 and 2009) were contemptuous: “La Jolla is no place in which to live…. There is no one to talk to. All the wellto-do and almost well-to-do crowd accomplish in their lives is an overdecorated home—the house beautiful for gracious living.” Perhaps Chandler summed up his attitude most pithily in this statement from a 1945 letter: “P[hilip] Marlowe [Chandler’s private eye] and I do not despise the upper class because they take baths and have money; we despise them because they are phony.”12 Clearly the sophisticated and genteel milieus found in the detective novels of Sayers, Marsh and Allingham could not have been much better designed by deliberate intent to grate on Chandler’s class sensitive nerves. The hardboiled author felt much differently, however, about the plainer mystery fare offered by Freeman Wills Crofts and, especially, R. Austin Freeman. Even in “The Simple Art of Murder,” where he criticized what he saw as the overelaborate plotting of British detective novels, Chandler praised Freeman Wills Crofts, best known for his methodical tales of patient criminal investigation and determined alibi busting, as “the soundest builder of them all when he doesn’t get too fancy.” Moreover, in his correspondence Chandler admitted

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that he knew Crofts’ work (and Freeman’s) “very well.” Chandler conceded that he found Crofts’ writing style “dull”; yet he also noted that he in fact had enjoyed “some very pedestrian [mystery] stories, because they were unpretentious and because their mysteries were rooted in hard facts and not in false motivations cooked up for the purpose of mystifying a reader.” Chandler speculated that “the attraction of the pedestrian books is their documentary quality.” Any attempt to garnish a mystery story with “chichi and glamour turns my stomach immediately,” Chandler revealingly declared. “I don’t care for the week-end chichi either here or in England.”13 Of the work of R. Austin Freeman, a contemporary of Arthur Conan Doyle’s who published a long line of mystery novels and stories between 1907 and 1942 and was one of the great mystery genre pioneers of forensic detection, the frequently tart Chandler often wrote with surprising sweetness. Chandler deemed Austin Freeman, like Freeman Crofts, an honest and honorable mystery performer who did not falsify character and clues to unfairly mislead the reader. “They don’t tell lies or conceal material facts or, as Agatha Christie so often does, ring in violent reversals of character in order to justify an unexpected motivation,” asserted Chandler of these two English detective novelists.14 R. Austin Freeman is one of the mystery authors most consistently and highly praised by Chandler in his published correspondence. For example, in a letter to Frederic Dannay, one half of the duo that comprised the esteemed classical American mystery writer Ellery Queen, Chandler sought to correct the impression that “I don’t like puzzles” by offering the example of Freeman. “I like … Austin Freeman,” avowed Chandler emphatically. “I like him very much. There is probably not one of his books that I haven’t read twice…. I even like his Victorian love scenes.” On another occasion Chandler offered more tempered enthusiasm for Dr. Thorndyke’s creator, yet he concluded by asserting, “I have a very high regard for Freeman. His writing is stilted, but it is never dull in the sense that Crofts’ writing is dull. That is to say, it is never flat. It is merely old-fashioned.” Moreover, Chandler declared, Freeman’s “problems are always interesting in themselves, and the expositions at the end are masterpieces of lucid analysis.”15 Chandler is most lavish with Freeman encomia in a 1949 letter to Hamish Hamilton. In this remarkably effusive missive Chandler’s praise of the older author is unbounded, even including a categorical defense of Freeman’s writing style: “This man Austin Freeman is a wonderful performer. He has no equal in his genre [Chandler means the primarily ratiocinative mystery tale] and he is also a much better writer than you might think, if you were superficially inclined, because in spite of the immense leisure of his writing he accomplished an even suspense which is quite unexpected. The apparatus of his writing

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makes for dullness, but he is not dull. There is even a gaslight charm about his Victorian love affairs…. Freeman has so many distinctions as a technician that one is apt to forget that within his literary tradition he is a damn good writer…. His knowledge is vast and real.”16 Chandler lauds R. Austin Freeman in “Twelve Notes on the Mystery Story,” an interesting though frequently overlooked essay that Chandler drafted sometime in the late 1940s but never published in his lifetime. A non-polemical piece (in contrast with “The Simple Art of Murder”), “Twelve Notes” indicates that in his role as a practical mystery writer Chandler had more in common with the school of classical English detection than a reading of “The Simple Art of Murder” alone would suggest (the two pieces really should be read in conjunction with one another). Charles Rzepka, one of the few genre scholars to have acknowledged the existence of Chandler’s “Twelve Notes,” has acutely observed that they are couched in language that would not have been “out of place at a meeting of the Detection Club.”17 Despite his chest-beating in “Simple Art,” in his private correspondence Chandler often lamented the difficulty he had plotting his mysteries (this is particularly true of The Little Sister, 1949, which Chandler’s letters reveal was published after years of struggle on his part). In “Twelve Notes” Chandler concedes the importance of having some sort of formal fair play problem in a detective novel and offers R. Austin Freeman as a model in this regard. “Some of the best detective stories ever written,” the hard-boiled author avows, were penned by Austin Freeman. Moreover, Chandler offers Freeman, in contrast with Agatha Christie, as an example of a mystery author who lived up to Chandler’s Rule #2: “[The mystery story] must be technically sound as to the methods of murder and detection.” In Freeman’s The Red Thumb Mark (1907), the impressed Chandler approvingly notes, the author had produced “a story about a forged fingerprint ten years before police method realized such things could be done.” 18 In “Twelve Notes” Chandler equates Freeman with Chandler’s great hardboiled contemporary, Dashiell Hammett, postulating that the two men represented peak (though polar) achievements in the two key elements of mystery fiction: puzzle plotting and narrative style. “The perfect detective story cannot be written,” Chandler insists. “The type of mind which can evolve the perfect problem is not the type of mind that can produce the artistic job of writing. It would be nice to have Dashiell Hammett and Austin Freeman in the same book, but it just isn’t possible. Hammett couldn’t have the plodding patience and Freeman couldn’t have the verve for narrative. They don’t go together. Even a fair compromise such as Dorothy Sayers is less satisfying than the two types taken separately.”19

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Chandler himself, in an astonishing burst of literary creativity between 1940 and 1943, made impressive stabs at combining puzzle plotting with narrative style in the three novels he published after The Big Sleep and prior to writing “Twelve Notes”: Farewell, My Lovely, The High Window and The Lady in the Lake. Perhaps anxious to downplay their man’s status as a “mere” mystery writer, Chandler’s biographers have been far too accepting of the author’s protestations that he cared nothing for puzzle plotting in his own detective novels. To be sure, intricate yet simultaneously clarified plotting obviously did not come easily to Chandler. “I wish I had one of these facile plotting brains, like Erle Gardner [the awesomely prolific author of the immensely popular Perry Mason mysteries] or somebody,” a fretted Chandler wrote in 1944, the same year he had derided complex plotting as “coolie labor” in “The Simple Art of Murder.” “I have good ideas for about four books, but the labor of shaping them into plots appalls me.” Despite the fact that plotting complexly yet clearly was a tremendous creative struggle for Chandler, however, the author manfully engaged in that struggle and in several of his novels emerged triumphant. His own fierce plotting battles doubtless led him to better appreciate the “honest” toil of such traditionalist British authors as Freeman Wills Crofts and R. Austin Freeman.20 In contrast with “The Simple Art of Murder,” in “Twelve Notes on the Mystery Story” Raymond Chandler does not elevate the American hard-boiled tale as infinitely superior to the classic British clue puzzle story. To the contrary, Chandler modestly rejects the notion that absolute perfection in the mystery novel is possible and he generously allows that there is merit to be found in works produced by authors from both schools of mystery fiction. Yet although Chandler in truth believed that classical English detection had artistic worth, he most certainly rated some fictional English detectives much higher than he did others. As himself a “Public School man in revolt”—and one with an array of chips on his shoulder collected from his earliest years—Raymond Chandler vastly preferred the literary company of the stolid Dr. Thorndyke and Inspector French to that of the stylish band of insouciant gentlemen sleuths headed by Messrs.Wimsey, Campion and Alleyn.21

NOTES 1. Raymond Chandler to James Sandoe, 7 December 1950, in Frank MacShane, ed., Selected Letters of Raymond Chandler (New York: Columbia University Press, 1981), 246. “Nicholas Blake” was the pseudonym under which the British poet Cecil Day Lewis (1904– 1972) wrote his crime and detective novels. 2. Raymond Chandler, “The Simple Art of Murder,” reprinted in Raymond Chandler,

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Later Novels and Other Writings (New York: The Library of America, 1995), 977; P. D. James, Talking about Detective Fiction (Oxford: Bodleian Library, 2009), 80; Frank MacShane, The Life of Raymond Chandler (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1976), 62, 67; Leonard Cassuto, HardBoiled Sentimentality: The Secret History of American Crime Stories (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009), 85; Dorothy Gardiner and Kathrine Sorley Walker, eds., Raymond Chandler Speaking (1962; repr., Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1997), 52. Howard Haycraft was the author and editor of, respectively, the landmark mystery surveys Murder for Pleasure (1941) and The Art of the Mystery Story (1946). In an aside in his Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe: The Hard-Boiled Detective Transformed ( Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012), John Paul Athanasourelis notes that Chandler “defends the fiction of Freeman Wills Crofts and R. Austin Freeman” (p. 80), but he does not explore this insight. Similarly, in one line in The Life of Raymond Chandler Frank MacShane allows that Chandler “admired” Freeman Wills Crofts and R. Austin Freeman, yet he does not explain why Chandler did so. Tom Hiney, Chandler’s second major biographer, emphasizes Chandler’s distaste for formal deductive apparatus in detective novels, despite in an endnote making this concession: “By the end of his life [Chandler] was reading little else except mysteries … that he became addicted to the genre of which he so often spoke disdainfully, is not in doubt. He even started enjoying the formulaic English school of detection that he thought so lifeless.” Tom Hiney, Raymond Chandler: A Biography (New York: Grove Press, 1997), 292, endnote 8. In fact, Chandler’s correspondence suggests that the hard-boiled author’s “addiction” to novels of crime and mystery, which encompassed English tales of formal detection, took hold a considerable time before “the end of his life.” For more penetrating analyses of Chandler’s views of British detective fiction, see Jacques Barzun’s essay “The Aesthetics of the Criminous,” American Scholar 53 (Spring 1984): 239–241, William Marling’s short critical study Raymond Chandler (Boston: Twayne, 1986) and Charles Rzepka’s Detective Fiction (Cambridge, UK: Polity, 2005), 188–189. 3. Chandler, “Simple Art,” 979, 980, 984. In a letter written four years before “Simple Art” appeared, Chandler took a similar stance with another classic Christie, pronouncing as “bunk” claims that the crime queen’s 1939 mystery novel And Then There Were None was “an honest crime story.” Chandler thought the portrayal of the murderer’s character was psychologically unsound and thus unfairly deceptive. See Raymond Chandler to George Harmon Coxe, 27 June 1940, Letters, 16. Chandler had read the book on the recommendation of Coxe, a fellow hard-boiled crime writer. 4. Chandler, “Simple Art,” 983. 5. Ibid., 988; John Dickson Carr, “With Colt and Lugar,” New York Times Book Review, 24 September 1950, BR19. “There is nothing wrong with Surbiton or Bognor Regis, unless Mr. Chandler’s soul holds much snobbery,” countered the American Anglophile Carr, turning one of Chandler’s criticisms of the English school of classical detective fiction back upon Chandler. “Still, since I have been a member of the Detection Club [an association composed primarily of British detective novelists] for fifteen years, I would sooth and comfort him,” Carr added witheringly. “He is quite right. The club contains only one peer of the realm, one baronet, one O. B. E., and two lonely knights. There isn’t a duke in it.” Pronouncing that “anything is real if it seems real,” Carr asserted that the classical English detective novels seemed at least as real to him as the heavily stylized tough stuff that Chandler wrote. Wounded by Carr’s New York Times riposte, Chandler in private correspondence denounced Carr and Carr’s friend Anthony Boucher, the Times crime fiction reviewer, as “pip-squeaks.” See Raymond Chandler to Hamish Hamilton, 10 November 1950, Letters, 238. On the CarrChandler feud see Douglas G. Greene, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (New York: Otto Penzler, 1995), 108–109.

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6. Chandler, “Simple Art,” 987, 988–989. 7. Ngaio Marsh’s Roderick Alleyn is actually a professional detective, a policeman, but in all other ways he resembles his exquisite brethren, Sayers’ Peter Wimsy and Allingham’s Albert Campion. Some academic mystery genre scholars have suggested that Chandler’s dismissal of the literary worth of the crime queens in “The Simple Art of Murder” has a sexist component. In Twentieth-Century Crime Fiction (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), for example, Lee Horsley writes that with his “polemic” essay Chandler wanted “his readers to recognize the limitations of the ‘soft-boiled,’ feminized mysteries of the British tradition” (67). In Hard-Boiled: Working-Class Readers and Pulp Magazines (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2000), Erin A. Smith argues that hard-boiled writers like Chandler were “attempting to wrest control of a specific section of the literary marketplace for men and manly fiction from the women who had dominated the field” (39–40) and that their works were “matricidal texts, rebelling against the figure of the all-powerful Victorian mother god and the ‘feminization’ of American culture she had wrought” (185). Yet in 1948 Chandler commented very favorably on The Franchise Affair (1948), a mystery by Josephine Tey, who sometimes is classified as the fifth Golden Age British crime queen. “I thoroughly enjoyed it and I should like to know Miss Tey better,” Chandler wrote James Sandoe, who recommended the book to him. “And why is it that women do books like this so much better than men? Are they more patient and observant?” Raymond Chandler to James Sandoe, 17 October 1948, Speaking, 52–53. This observation from Chandler, in which he credits female mystery writers with great social perception than men, challenges the notion that his dislike of the crime queens was rooted primarily in sexism or gender bias. Significantly, Josephine Tey’s series detective, Alan Grant, was a policeman and a commoner. Demonstrating that twentiethcentury distaste for the crime queens was not necessarily a feeling strictly limited to the male sex, the novelist Sheila Kaye-Smith in the 1950s dismissively termed as “the glamour boys” the trio of Wimsey, Campion and Alleyn. Similarly, novelist Joanna Cannan, her daughter Josephine Pullein-Thompson recalled to me in a 2006 interview, “admired Dorothy Sayers’ writing, but couldn’t take Wimsey.” See Curtis Evans, Masters of the “Humdrum Mystery,” Cecil John Charles Street, Freeman Wills Crofts, Alfred Walter Stewart and the British Detective Novel, 1920–1961 ( Jefferson, NC, and London: McFarland, 2012), 25. 8. Raymond Chandler to James Sandoe, 7 December 1950, 25 September 1951, Letters, 246, 291. 9. Raymond Chandler to James Sandoe, 31 October 1951, Letters, 296. 10. Raymond Chandler to Hamish Hamilton, 11 December 1950, 15 July 1954, Letters, 250, 367–368. That Chandler’s feelings of class animus were not ideological (as in the case of his hard-boiled contemporary Dashiell Hammett, an avowed Communist), but personal can be seen from another letter to Hamish Hamilton, wherein he wrote: Of course I don’t like socialism…. I think a bunch of bureaucrats can abuse the power of money just as ruthlessly as a bunch of Wall Street bankers, and far less competently. Socialism so far has existed largely on the fat of the class it is trying to impoverish. What happens when the fat is all used up? What happens when economic prosperity depends on the profits of industries run by bureaucrats, and when those industries don’t show a profit but more likely a deficit? What happens when what Roosevelt called the “wukkahs” find out that they’re paying the kind of income taxes the rich used to pay? Raymond Chandler to Hamish Hamilton, 27 February 1951, Letters, 265–266. See also the 1949 letter where Chandler wrote: “How after the Katyn Forest and the Moscow Treason Trials, the Ukraine famine, the Arctic prison camps, the utterly abominable rape of Berlin by the Mongolian divisions, any decent man can become a Communist is almost beyond my understanding.” Raymond Chandler to James Sandoe, 20 September 1949, Letters, 193.

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11. Raymond Chandler, “The Remarkable Hero,” The Academy 81 (September 1911): 322, reprinted in Robert F. Moss, Raymond Chandler: A Literary Reference (New York: Carroll and Graf, 2002), 28. See also Jacques Barzun, “The Young Raymond Chandler,” preface to Matthew Bruccoli, ed., Chandler before Marlowe: Raymond Chandler’s Early Prose and Poetry, 1908–1912 (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1973). 12. Raymond Chandler to Michael Gilbert, 6 September 1956, Raymond Chandler to Dale Warren, 7 January 1945, Letters, 410, 42. 13. Raymond Chandler, “Simple Art,” 984; Raymond Chandler to James Keddie, 29 September 1950, Raymond Chandler to Frederic Dannay, 10 July 1951, Letters, 225, 284. On the detective fiction of Freeman Wills Crofts, see Evans, Masters of the “Humdrum” Mystery. 14. Raymond Chandler to James Keddie, 18 March 1948, Letters, 109. On R. Austin Freeman, see Norman Donaldson, In Search of Dr. Thorndyke: The Story of R. Austin Freeman’s Great Scientific Investigator and His Creator (1971; rev. ed., Shelburne, Ont.: The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 1998). 15. Raymond Chandler to Frederic Dannay, 10 July 1951, Raymond Chandler to James Keddie, 29 September 1950, Letters, 226, 284. Chandler’s list of condemned mystery writers is rather more extensive, including not just classical clue puzzlers, but also hard-boiled and noir writers like, respectively, Ross Macdonald and James M. Cain. 16. Raymond Chandler to Hamish Hamilton, 13 December 1949, in Gardiner and Walker, Speaking, 59–60. 17. Rzepka, Detective Fiction, 189. Raymond Chandler’s “Twelve Notes on the Mystery Story” originally appeared in Frank MacShane, ed., The Notebooks of Raymond Chandler and English Summer: A Gothic Romance (New York: Ecco Press, 1976). An alternate version of “Twelve Notes” exists and was published in Raymond Chandler Speaking as “Casual Notes on the Mystery Novel.” Although “Casual Notes” is the less polished and shaped of the two pieces it has interesting thoughts from Chandler not found in “Twelve Notes,” including, rather unexpectedly, an unequivocal defense of Agatha Christie’s controversial mystery tale, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926). 18. Raymond Chandler, “Twelve Notes on the Mystery Story,” Raymond Chandler: Later Novels and Other Writings, 1004, 1006. 19. Chandler, “Twelve Notes,” 1007. 20. Raymond Chandler to Charles Morton, 20 November 1944, Letters, 32. In their mammoth mystery genre encyclopedia, A Catalogue of Crime Puzzle purists Jacques Barzun and Wendell Hertig Taylor highly praised Chandler’s 1940–43 detective novels: “It is a model of complexity kept under control” (Farewell, My Lovely); “The Pasadena scene, the characterization, the tough-yet-literate style match the complex plot” (The High Window); “This superb tale moves through a maze of puzzles and disclosures to its perfect conclusion…. It is Chandler’s masterpiece and true detection” (The Lady in the Lake). Jacques Barzun and Wendell Hertig Taylor, A Catalogue of Crime (1971; rev. ed., New York: Harper & Row, 1989), 115–116. See also William Marling’s critical study Raymond Chandler, wherein the author remarks that The High Window and The Lady in the Lake reveal Chandler’s “increased attention to plot.” Marling observes that when Chandler wrote these two books in the early 1940s he had “read hundreds of mystery novels, English and American” and that “he often came closer to the ‘whodunit’ style of English mystery … than he cared to admit. (p. 104).” Additionally, see Charles Rzepka’s Detective Fiction, wherein Rzepka points out that “for a hard-boiled writer notoriously critical of Golden Age fussiness, Chandler’s [“Twelve Notes”] are sometimes hard to distinguish from the ‘rules’ [for writing detective fiction] of Willard Huntingdon Wright [S. S. Van Dine]” (189). Chandler even echoes the orthodox Wright in condemning “love interest” in detective fiction. “Love interest,” avows Chandler, sounding for all the world like

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an orthodox Golden Age puzzle master, “nearly always weakens a mystery story.” For statements from Chandler biographers erroneously discounting Chandler’s interest in plotting, see Hiney, Chandler, 81 (Chandler “considered [plots] superfluous to the new realistic spirit of detective fiction”) and MacShane, Chandler, 177 (Chandler “generally cared nothing for plots”). 21. It should be noted that in a 1949 letter Chandler mentions greatly enjoying the Inspector John Appleby mysteries of British author Michael Innes: “I think [Innes] is quite wonderful and am about to buy up all the books of his that are still in print.” Although Inspector Appleby eventually achieved a knighthood and is passing fond of literary quotation, Chandler did not find him annoying like Wimsey, Campion and Alleyn; and he lavishly praised Michael Innes’ “whole literate mind, full of sly humor and soft chuckles.” Raymond Chandler to James Sandoe, 14 May 1949, Speaking, 56. Of course no one could accuse Inspector Appleby, however erudite, of the crime of being chichi.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Athanasourelis, John Paul. Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe: The Hard-Boiled Detective Transformed. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012. Barzun, Jacques. “The Aesthetics of the Criminous.” American Scholar 53 (Spring 1984): 239–241. _____. “The Young Raymond Chandler.” Preface to Matthew Bruccoli, ed., Chandler before Marlowe: Raymond Chandler’s Early Prose and Poetry, 1908–1912. Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1973. Reprinted in Robert F. Moss. Editor. Raymond Chandler: A Literary Reference. New York: Carroll and Graf, 2002. _____, and Wendell Hertig Taylor. A Catalogue of Crime. 1971. Revised Edition. New York: Harper & Row, 1989. Carr, John Dickson. “With Colt and Lugar.” New York Times Book Review, 24 September 1950, BR19. Cassuto, Leonard. Hard-Boiled Sentimentality: The Secret History of American Crime Stories. New York: Columbia University Press, 2009. Chandler, Raymond. “Casual Notes on the Mystery Novel.” In Raymond Chandler Speaking. 1962. Reprinted. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1997. _____. Later Novels and Other Writings. New York: The Library of America, 1995. _____. “The Remarkable Hero.” The Academy 81 (September 1911): 322. Reprinted in Robert F. Moss. Editor. Raymond Chandler: A Literary Reference. New York: Carroll and Graf, 2002. _____. “The Simple Art of Murder.” Atlantic Monthly (December 1944). Revised versions later appeared in Howard Haycraft’s The Art of the Mystery Story (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1946) and Raymond Chandler’s The Simple Art of Murder (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1950). The version used in this essay is found in Raymond Chandler’s Later Novels and Other Writings. New York: The Library of America, 1995. _____. “Twelve Notes on the Mystery Story.” In Frank MacShane. Editor. The Notebooks of Raymond Chandler and English Summer: A Gothic Romance. New York: Ecco Press, 1976. Reprinted in Raymond Chandler. Later Novels and Other Writings. New York: Library of America, 1995. Donaldson, Norman. In Search of Dr. Thorndyke: The Story of R. Austin Freeman’s Great Scientific Investigator and His Creator. 1971. Revised Edition. Shelburne, Ont.: The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 1998.

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Evans, Curtis. Masters of the Humdrum Mystery: Cecil John Charles Street, Freeman Wills Crofts, Alfred Walter Stewart and the British Detective Novel, 1920–1961. Jefferson, NC, and London: McFarland, 2012. Gardiner, Dorothy and Kathrine Sorley Walker. Editors. Raymond Chandler Speaking. 1962. Reprint. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1997. Greene, Douglas G. John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. New York: Otto Penzler, 1995. Hiney, Tom. Raymond Chandler: A Biography. New York: Grove Press, 1997. Horsley, Lee. Twentieth-Century Crime Fiction. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2005. James, P. D. Talking about Detective Fiction. Oxford: Bodleian Library, 2009. MacShane, Frank. The Life of Raymond Chandler. New York: E. P. Dutton, 1976. _____. Editor. Selected Letters of Raymond Chandler. New York: Columbia University Press, 1981. Marling, William. Raymond Chandler. Boston: Twayne, 1986. Moss, Robert F. Raymond Chandler: A Literary Reference. New York: Carroll and Graf, 2002. Rzepka, Charles J. Detective Fiction. Cambridge, UK: Polity, 2005. Smith, Erin A. Hard-Boiled: Working-Class Readers and Pulp Magazines. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2000. Williams, Tom. A Mysterious Something in the Light: Raymond Chandler a Life. London: Aurum Press, 2012.

Dying Is Easy, Comedy Is Hard: Craig Rice, Mistress of Madcap Mystery JEFFREY MARKS

It has been nearly twenty-five years since I first met Doug Greene, though it does not seem that long. Kate Stine, then editor of The Armchair Detective (and current editor of Mystery Scene), suggested that I needed to connect with Doug. He was working on a biography, as was I, and he was interested in Golden Age mysteries, as was I. Certainly Doug’s name was known to me. He had written introductions for a series of paperback reprints of classic mystery novels by International Polygonics, Ltd (IPL). As part of this series IPL had published a number of Craig Rice titles, ones that had been difficult for me to find, outside of pricey first editions. When we met at a Malice Domestic convention, I soon found that Kate was right. Doug was writing a biography of mystery author John Dickson Carr, while I was writing a biography of mystery author Craig Rice. Doug was incredibly knowledgeable about the crime fiction genre and insightful into Carr and his place within the genre. He was able to pull up details from memory about other works and authors, where I often had to pull down books from library shelves to recall some forgotten fragment of information. To my secret envy, Doug was much farther along in writing his book than I was.1 The subjects of our biographies had much in common, both in their personal lives and in the types of mysteries that they wrote. Both Carr and Rice were “babies” in the great family of Golden Age mystery writers, Carr having been born in 1906 and Rice in 1908. Both authors were Americans by birth. Both had penchants for liaisons with members of the opposite sex ( John Dickson Carr was a womanizer, while over her life Craig Rice had five husbands and numerous affairs) and for slugs from the liquor bottle. 215

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Alcohol frequently flows in the mystery fiction of both Carr and Rice and with it comes much madcap humor. Yet while drinking and screwball situations are subsidiary aspects of Carr’s work overall (for prominent Golden Age examples see The Blind Barber and The Case of the Constant Suicides), in Rice’s mystery fiction they are major elements. Essentially Rice took the drinking and wisecracks associated with American hard-boiled mystery, particularly Dashiell Hammett’s The Thin Man and the detective novels of Jonathan Latimer, and stirred them with the zany screwball comedy found in the mysteries of Phoebe Atwood Taylor to create crime fiction cocktails uniquely her own.2 In the 1940s Craig Rice unquestionably was the great American purveyor of bibulous mystery mirth—although the comedy in her mysteries in truth concealed a great deal of tragedy in her personal life. Georgiana Craig was born in Chicago in 1908 to Mary Randolph and Bosco Craig. The family was not a traditional one. Mary had been raised by her grandmother and considered it reasonable to have her own daughter raised by a surrogate mother. Both Mary and her husband were artists who had met while students at the Chicago Art Institute. After their marriage they traveled across Europe, leaving Georgiana with Bosco’s family in Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin. His Aunt Nan and her husband Elton Rice became Georgiana’s foster parents until 1911, when Mary and Bosco came home, claiming their little daughter as they would so much baggage at the pier. After living with her for three years, the couple again left Georgiana with Nan and Elton Rice and headed back to Europe. Upon returning to the United States in 1918, Mary and Bosco separated and Mary, who had given birth to a son, decided she wanted her daughter too. Georgiana, however, made it clear that she wanted to stay with Nan and Elton and have nothing to do with her mother. The Rices formally adopted her the following year, making her name Georgiana Craig Rice. Georgiana grew up in Washington and California. After dropping out of State Teacher’s College (today San Diego State University), where she partied much more than studied, she moved to Chicago in 1926 to make her living as a journalist. It was at this time that she opted to omit “Georgiana” from her professional name, leaving “Craig Rice.” In Chicago she met and married Arthur John Follows, who was sixteen years her senior. The couple had their first child, Nancy, the following year, and their second child, Iris, the year after that. The marriage was short-lived, however. Rice began seeing Follows’ magazine editor friend, Albert Ferguson. Soon she had divorced Follows and moved in with Ferguson (there is no record that she and Ferguson ever married). Ironically following her own mother’s example, Rice left her two children from her first marriage with Nan and Elton. Together she and Ferguson had one child, David. Because of their relatively advanced ages and limited circumstances,

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Nan and Elton felt they could not take in another child, so David was left with a succession of foster families. Albert Ferguson died in 1939 and the next year Rice married Lawrence Lipton (1898–1975), a Jewish writer and Communist Party member who was, as I wrote in Who Was That Lady?, “[a]larmingly liberal for even the Rices.” Though she shocked her family with her latest romantic relationship, Rice’s marriage with Lipton would be the longest one in her life, lasting until 1946. Rice and Lipton recovered all three of her children from her previous relationships so that they could all live together as a family. The bulk of Rice’s creative output came during this time, when her domestic life for once was relatively settled and smooth-running.3 Beginning in 1939 with 8 Faces at 3, Rice in six years published sixteen mystery novels in four series. Her most famous characters are John J. Malone, a short, pugnacious, red-headed lawyer from Chicago, and his sidekicks, Jake and Helene Justus. The books are equal parts mystery and comedy. Bodies disappear and reappear, body parts are sent through the mail and amateur sleuth Malone unexpectedly ends up with more blondes than Rice had books. Often the titles are droll plays on words: My Kingdom for a Hearse, Home Sweet Homicide, Having Wonderful Crime, Trial by Fury, The Lucky Stiff. Rice’s mysteries offer readers a heady brew of slapstick, surrealism and booze. Slapstick, or broad physical comedy, is found throughout Rice’s fiction. Though frequently boozed to the gills, the characters race through the novels at a frantic pace, whether it is a stressed Jake Justus dashing desperately about in search of answers, Helen wildly maneuvering her automobile at dizzying speeds through the streets of Chicago or Malone being literally dragged through an investigation by an extremely enthusiastic bloodhound. Amazingly, in The Corpse Steps Out, the titular corpse is even more manic in its movement than the series characters. Madcap mayhem was sure to flow whenever Rice put her fingers to the typewriter. In addition to the ample slapstick, Rice’s works have a marked surreal aspect. In 8 Faces at 3 the victim is found in a roomful of clocks. Someone is knocking off a succession of postmen in The Fourth Postman. A hand model’s hands are delivered to the TV studio where she works in My Kingdom for a Hearse. In The Lucky Stiff, the “ghost” of an executed criminal haunts Chicago and the people associated with her murder. The Wrong Murder features a homicide at the busiest intersection in Chicago. The Right Murder has three characters named Gerald Tuesday. Rice’s befuddled series policeman is named Daniel von Flanagan (he added the “von” because he does not want to be seen as a stereotypical Irish cop). These bizarre elements are typical of Rice, who herself lived life by her own

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idiosyncratic rules and behaved in an off-the-wall manner most of the time. She poured her uproarious lifestyle into her books, adding elements that are quirky, kooky and fun. Abetting her technique was the manic pace at which Rice wrote. She typed furiously for days at a time until a novel was finished. Somehow she managed to take all her madcap, surrealistic elements and fit them into fairly-clued mystery plots. Alcohol played a huge role both in Rice’s life and her fiction. Time magazine noted in its 1946 cover story article on Rice that Home Sweet Homicide—a delightful domestic mystery involving a crime writer mother and her children that is unique in Rice’s oeuvre—was the author’s only book that did not contain any mention of alcohol. In the Malone and Justus mysteries, the main characters practically live at Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar. In or out of the bar, her characters imbibe every bit as much as their creator did. Typically the slapstick scenes are heavily lubricated with liquor. Like many prolific mystery authors of her era, Rice found that her fictional output was constrained by the rules of New York publishing. Only so many Malone novels could be published each year. As a result, Rice introduced a pair of itinerant workers, Bingo Riggs and Handsome Kusak, who hopefully travel the country in search of the big deal. When the pair is originally introduced, in The Sunday Pigeon Murders, they are working as photographers in New York City. In subsequent novels they appear in Iowa and California. While the pair frequently is short of dough, the situations in which they get themselves involved are rich in yuks. In The Thursday Turkey Murders, for example, they buy a turkey farm and get the entire agrarian experience, including the proverbial farmer’s daughter. Rice was so prolific that she soon needed additional pseudonyms for her books. She chose “Michael Venning,” the name of a wife-beater in an early Malone novel, for her Melville Fairr series. The three books she wrote under this pseudonym—The Man Who Slept all Day, Murder through the Looking Glass and Jethro Hammer—constitute a notable shift in Rice’s writing style. These novels essentially are like modern crime novels, being books that include crime, but with emphasis on the psychology of the people rather than the puzzle. All have merit, though they did not enjoy the popularity of the Malone mysteries. Under the pseudonym “Daphne Saunders,” the name of another one of her fictional characters, Rice tried her hand at a short-lived fourth series. In fact, only one novel ever appeared under this pseudonym, though Rice had promised her publisher a second one. Although the book is entitled To Catch a Thief, it was not the inspiration for the classic Alfred Hitchcock film starring Grace Kelly and Cary Grant. Rice’s To Catch a Thief falls in the adventuresuspense category, a first (and last) for Craig.

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Despite her prodigious work output, Rice always found time to enjoy the party life. Her riotous antics made her the belle of Chicago and Los Angeles, where she moved with her family in 1942 (they eventually settled in Santa Monica). In Chicago, Rice met Gypsy Rose Lee, the vaudevillian turned stripper, and the two became fast friends. Rice had published several successful mysteries by this time, and Gypsy Rose Lee decided to try one herself. Lee’s The G-String Murders was a great success and Lee soon followed this mystery with another, Mother Finds a Body. Despite clear evidence that Lee indeed was the author of the detective novels attributed to her, the rumor has long persisted in the mystery community that Rice wrote them. Letters between Lee and her editor at Simon and Schuster refer to Rice by name. Moreover, Rice worked on the screenplay for the 1943 film Lady of Burlesque, an adaptation of The G-String Murders. In her 1946 interview with Time magazine, Rice claimed she had worked as Lee’s publicist, which further fueled the fire of speculation.4 Unfortunately, Rice’s Time interview was riddled with tall tales. Time magazine had chosen Rice—whose books in paperback now sold in the hundreds of thousands and who in 1945 had earned from her writing over $46,000 (nearly $600,000 today)—over all other mystery writers for its cover story on crime fiction. Rice repaid Time’s decision with a typically eccentric combination of truth and tarradiddle. She listed “Craig” as both her first name and her last name. She insisted that she had been born in a horse-drawn carriage and that her father had been the Zamindar of Kagagooda. She claimed that through her descent from the Randolphs she was related to Thomas Jefferson and Winston Churchill. When Time writers called upon Mary Randolph, Rice’s embittered mother soon disabused them of their colorful illusions about her daughter’s past. Having gotten the facts at the eleventh hour, the writers had to scramble fast to correct their fancy-ridden article before it made it to press. 1946 also saw the premier of a major motion picture adapted from Rice’s novel Home Sweet Homicide. Yet, rather like her claims in her Time magazine interview, the author’s personal life was unraveling. Rice’s messy 1946 divorce from Larry Lipton sent her into a prolonged period of alcohol-soaked depression. After reaching the pinnacle of mystery writer stardom, Rice plummeted into the pits. The woman who had breezily churned out two, three and even four books a year managed only two novels over the next ten years (one of these a Malone/Justus mystery, The Fourth Postman). Rice married again in 1947, this time to a novice scriptwriter eleven years younger than herself; this marriage lasted less than a year. Shortly thereafter, Rice was committed against her will to a mental institution, on account of her

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chronic alcoholism. Characteristically, Rice found a new husband while she was an inmate of the hospital—and he proved her most unsuitable partner yet. The couple married in Mexico, but the honeymoon was soon over. The newlyweds fought brutal battles that left Rice with missing teeth and broken bones. Separating from her abusive spouse, she moved to New York, where she kept up the drinking and became a haggard habitué of Hell’s Kitchen. One day in 1952 Rice walked into the Scott Meredith Literary Agency, wanting to write short stories. They put her in a room at the agency and let her write all day, paying her at the end of each day, after she had completed her work. Rice also allowed her mystery writer friend Stuart Palmer (the two had worked together on scripting the Hollywood mystery film The Falcon’s Brother back in 1942) to use her character John J. Malone in a series of short stories where he appeared with Palmer’s series detective Hildegarde Withers. This pairing led to a series of six short stories that won Readers’ Awards from Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine; additionally, one of the tales was made into the 1950 film Mrs. O’Malley and Mr. Malone. The sales of these stories salvaged Rice’s sagging career. Working under the eye of a minder, Rice had to learn to write short stories all over again. Some of her earliest works ran less than a thousand words with no plot. In those first months Manhunt ran several short stories under Rice’s byline that actually had been written by other authors. One of her ghostwriters was Lawrence Block, who remembered a story that he had written as Rice when it appeared in a collection I put together for Crippen & Landru (more on this below). However, as Rice began to improve, she again took the writing reins into her hands. Even as she recovered, Rice suffered a fall, leaving her with serious injuries. Her family helped relocate her to a sanitarium so that the nerve problems stemming from the various bone fractures she had received over the years could be treated. With a full-time staff to monitor her food intake and alcohol abstinence, she regained her health and form and was able to complete two Malone mysteries, My Kingdom for a Hearse and Knocked for a Loop. Tragically, however, in 1957, the same year in which the latter novel appeared, she died from a fall down a flight of stairs. The mistress of madcap mystery was only forty-nine years old. Rice’s works lived on, amusing generations of readers who lost track of the woman behind the laughs. Writing as Ed McBain, Evan Hunter in 1959 completed her final, unfinished novel, a charming Bingo and Handsome mystery called The April Robin Murders. Short stories attributed to “Craig Rice” were published by Manhunt and other magazines until 1960. An apocryphal novel, But the Doctor Died, appeared in 1967, with characters barely resembling Malone and the Justuses. Fans began to think Craig Rice was a man and urban

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legends accumulated. By the time I started my research for Rice’s biography, the truth had long since been obscured, with some sources giving no clue even to the origin of her pen name. Following the 2001 publication of my biography of Craig Rice, Doug Greene asked me to edit a collection of the author’s short fiction for his wonderful Crippen & Landru press. With Murder, Mystery and Malone (2002), one of Crippen & Landru’s most popular titles over the last decade, I was able to introduce a new audience to one of the great mid-century American mystery writers. Craig Rice lived a life as alcohol-drenched and madcap as that of any of the series characters in her tales, yet, unlike her series characters, she did not enjoy a storybook ending. For Craig Rice, comedy concealed a hard life, to which death came all too easily. Yet her rich legacy of mirthful mystery fiction still brings delight to mystery fans today, and that is no small thing in this sometimes mournful world.

NOTES 1. Doug’s Carr biography, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles, appeared in 1995, while my Rice biography, Who Was That Lady? Craig Rice, Queen of Screwball Mystery, was published in 2001. 2. In his Crime Fiction Since 1800: Detection, Death, Diversity (Houndmills, UK, and New York: Palgrave, 2010), 97, Steven Knight compares Rice’s “light comedy tone” in her novels with “Hammett’s in The Thin Man.” 3. Jeffrey Marks, Who Was That Lady? Craig Rice: The Queen of Screwball Mystery (Lee’s Summit, MO: Delphi Books, 2001), 37. Lawrence Lipton later became an avatar of the Beat community of Venice (a neighborhood of Los Angeles) and the author of The Holy Barbarians (1959), a bestselling book that has been called a Beat Generation manifesto. See Simon Rycroft, “Global Undergrounds: The Cultural Politics of Sound and Light in Los Angeles, 1965–1972,” Andrew Leyshon, David Matless and George Revill, eds., The Place of Music (New York and London: The Guilford Press, 1998), 232–235. For a dismissive view of Lipton’s role in the Beat movement that portrays him as a cartoonish, posturing, opportunistic hack (including a slip of Lipton’s unintentionally hilarious appearance at a beat poet in the 1960 film The Hypnotic Eye) see Jim Linderman, “Kinky Beatnik Sex: Lawrence Lipton and the Beatnik Myth,” Paraphilia Magazine, at http://www.paraphiliamagazine.com/periodical/kinkybeatnik-sex-lawrence-lipton-and-the-beatnik-myth/. Beat poet Stuart Z. Perkoff is said to have contemptuously observed that a more apt tile for Lipton’s book would have Holy Horseshit. John Arthur Maynard, Venice West: The Beat Generation in Southern California (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1991), 111. During his acrimonious divorce from Rice in 1946 (see the main body of essay), Lipton claimed to have co-authored the Craig Rice detective novels. Although this assertion is firmly rejected in Who Was That Lady, Lipton’s associates and partisans have long accepted the author’s claim. In a 1953 letter, for example, Beat-era poet Kenneth Rexroth offhandedly referred to Lipton as “the principal author of the Craig Rice books.” Lee Bartlett, ed., Kenneth Rexroth and James Laughlin: Selected Letters (New York: Norton, 1991), 185. See also Rycroft’s essay in The Place of Music and Maynard,

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Venice West, 22–24, 32. Seemingly never one to miss an up-and-coming cultural trend, Lipton later hopped aboard the sexual liberalization movement with his 1965 book The Erotic Revolution, which called for a “New Morality” embracing infidelity, wife-swapping and orgies. See Jeffrey Escoffier, ed., Sexual Revolution (New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 2003), 20. 4. Noralee Frankel’s recent biography of Gypsy Rose Lee, Stripping Gypsy: The Life of Gypsy Rose Lee (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2009), makes a powerful case that Lee was indeed the sole author of the two mystery novels attributed to her (see pp. 92–93). However, with the help of her ghost, Cleve Cartmill, Rice did actually write Crime on My Hands, a 1944 mystery publically attributed to the suave English actor George Sanders.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bartlett, Lee. Editor. Kenneth Rexroth and James Laughlin: Selected Letters. New York: Norton, 1991. Frankel, Noralee. Stripping Gypsy: The Life of Gypsy Rose Lee. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2009. Greene, Douglas G. John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. New York: Otto Penzler, 1995. Knight, Steven. Crime Fiction since 1800: Detection, Death, Diversity. Houndmills, UK, and New York: Palgrave, 2010. Marks, Jeffrey. Who Was That Lady? Craig Rice: The Queen of Screwball Mystery. Lee’s Summit, MO: Delphi Books, 2001. Maynard, John Arthur. Venice West: The Beat Generation in Southern California. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1991. Rycroft, Simon. “Global Undergrounds: The Cultural Politics of Sound and Light in Los Angeles, 1965-1972.” In The Place of Music. New York and London: The Guilford Press, 1998. Edited by Andrew Leyshon, David Matless and George Revill.

The Craig Rice Mysteries John J. Malone Series 8 Faces at 3 (1939) The Corpse Steps Out (1940) The Wrong Murder (1940) The Right Murder (1941) Trial by Fury (1941) The Big Midget Murders (1942) Having Wonderful Crime (1943) The Lucky Stiff (1945) The Fourth Postman (1948) My Kingdom for a Hearse (1956) Knocked for a Loop (1957) But the Doctor Died (1967) (apocryphal) Bingo and Handsome Series The Sunday Pigeon Murders (1942) The Thursday Turkey Murders (1943) The April Robin Murders (1959; completed by Ed McBain)

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Other Novels Telefair (1942) The Man Who Slept All Day (1942) (as Michael Venning) Murder through the Looking Glass (1943) (as Michael Venning) To Catch a Thief (1943) (as Daphne Saunders) Home Sweet Homicide (1944) Jethro Hammer (1944) (as Michael Venning) Innocent Bystander (1949) Allegedly Ghosted Novels The G-String Murders (1941) (by Gypsy Rose Lee) Mother Finds a Body (1942) (by Gypsy Rose Lee) Crime on My Hands (1944) (by George Sanders; ghost-written by Craig Rice and Cleve Cartmill) Short Story Collections The Name Is Malone (1958) People vs. Withers and Malone (1963) (mostly by Stuart Palmer) Murder, Mystery and Malone (2002)

A Deluge of Drunken Detectives: A (Strictly Sober) Look at Four Fredric Brown Novels JACK SEABROOK

Four of mid-century crime writer Fredric Brown’s finest genre novels—The Screaming Mimi (1949), Night of the Jabberwock (1950), Madball (1953) and The Wench Is Dead (1955)—feature main characters who deserve the sobriquet of “drunken detectives.” Although not one of them is a professional investigator, be it cop or shamus, nor the sort of debonair amateur gentleman sleuth most often associated with the works of the American detective novelists S. S. Van Dine and Ellery Queen and the Golden Age British crime queens Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham and Ngaio Marsh, each man nevertheless succeeds in solving a baffling crime over the course of the story in which he appears, all the while consuming astoundingly large quantities of alcohol. In classic Fredric Brown fashion, all four of these books succeed in blending formal mystery problems with seedy settings and circumstances that are, like the fates of the sleuths, much more characteristic of noir and hard-boiled fiction than classical detection.1 And now, herewith, our remarkable gallery of drunken detectives: Bill Sweeney (The Screaming Mimi), a 43-year-old newspaper reporter who works for the Chicago Blade. We first meet him in Bughouse Square, sleeping off a major drunk with other winos. Inspired by an unforgettable glimpse of a beautiful blonde, Sweeney over the course of the novel investigates a series of slayings by a killer dubbed “the Ripper.” Doc Stoeger (Night of the Jabberwock), a 53 year-old newspaper editor who runs the Carmel City Clarion, a local paper in a fictitious small town somewhere south

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of Chicago. Like Sweeney he becomes enmeshed in a series of mysterious murders, which he attempts to solve. Doc Magus (Madball ), a 52 year-old living under an assumed name as he travels with a carnival and works as a mentalist. While he too encounters murder, the case he strives to crack involves missing loot from a bank robbery. Howard Perry (The Wench Is Dead ), a 28 year-old high school sociology teacher from Chicago who is spending a summer living on Skid Row in Los Angeles to see how the down-and-outs live. He endeavors to unravel a murder in order to save his own skin.

A big city reporter, the owner of a small-town newspaper, a carnival mentalist and a high school teacher slumming it for the summer—these are the drunken detectives who inhabit four of Fredric Brown’s best mysteries. Let us follow these four gentlemen on their colorful and chaotic course of crime solving, bar hopping and bottle tipping. The Screaming Mimi opens with the line, “you can never tell what a drunken Irishman will do.” However, the author somewhat qualifies this statement by noting that this particular drunken Irishman, Bill Sweeney, “was only fiveeighths Irish and … only three-quarters drunk.” Brown adds that in fact “Sweeney wasn’t an alcoholic; he could and did drink regularly and normally and only once in a while dive off the deep end into a protracted drunk.” This distinction between being a drunk and being an alcoholic is one that Brown makes repeatedly in these novels. Although Sweeney thinks that “the days of the drunken reporter are over,” his actions disprove his assertion. As Sweeney investigates the novel’s series of Ripper murders, he continues to drink at almost every opportunity, yet he begins to regain his focus: “This stage of recovery he knew well.” Soon, he notes that “the fog inside his head was lifting … and through the fog, he almost had a glimpse of something….” Drunkenness leads to confusion while sobriety leads to clarity, which is required to solve a puzzle. The path to clear thinking is not a straight one, though; Sweeney thinks “nostalgically of the sodden state of nonthinking in which he’d been only two days ago.” Later, when he interviews Doc Greene, the manager of Yolanda Lang, a Ripper attack survivor and the blonde with whom he is desperately smitten, Sweeney wishes that he “‘could snap out of this hangover and think straight.’” Sweeney drinks endlessly, yet the narrator remarks that “he was cold sober” and Sweeney tells a colleague that “‘I’m on the wagon.’” Venturing out of Chicago by train to go sleuthing in fictional Brampton, Wisconsin, Sweeney continues to have drinks with nearly everyone he meets, and eventually “found difficulty focusing his eyes,” but very soon “the cool night air felt good and began to sober him up.” At this point in the novel, Sweeney has uncovered all of the clues that he needs to solve the case, though unending

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alcohol consumption slows his thinking and delays his ability to reach a conclusion. As the novel ends, Sweeney has solved the murders, identified the killer and survived to tell the tale. He also has succeeded in his goal of spending the night with Yolanda Lang, though the experience is not quite what he had hoped. And what is his response? He heads back to Bughouse Square and asks a friend, “‘Do you think we can get drunk on three hundred bucks?’” Sweeney has been to Hell and back again, as Brown promised, but the trip has not made him a wiser man and he still drinks to cope with reality.2 In Night of the Jabberwock, Fredric Brown’s homage to the bizarre fiction of Lewis Carroll, Doc Stoeger is bored by the lack of exciting news to report in his newspaper, the Carmel City Clarion. He celebrates wrapping up the weekly edition with a shot of whiskey before heading across the street to Smiley’s Tavern for more. Soon Doc thinks that “I hadn’t had enough to drink to affect my mind at all” but as he walks home he admits to himself that “my mind … was in that delightful state of being crystal clear in the center and fuzzy around the edges, the state that every moderate drinker knows.” Note that Brown is careful to label his character a “moderate drinker,” continuing the aversion to the term “alcoholic” that was seen in The Screaming Mimi. Doc meets Yehudi Smith, a fan of Lewis Carroll, and realizes that his own “voice was getting a bit thick” as he piles on the drinks. Doc’s perspective on the benefits of alcohol is revealed when he thinks that another character, who is a teetotaler, might be better off if he “would only get drunk—good and stinking drunk—just once in his life, he might get an entirely different perspective on things.” Doc succeeds in getting the man to take a drink and muses that alcohol has “been a solace to the human race, one of the things that can make life tolerable,” putting into words the implied belief that he shares with Sweeney.3 Doc’s incredible ability to hold his liquor continues: “Every time I get to talking seriously it sobers me up,” he thinks, but soon admits that “they were hitting me now.” Yehudi Smith dies after drinking from a cup labeled “DRINK ME,” prompting Doc to actually get behind the wheel of his own car: “I didn’t drive fast, partly because I was a little drunk.” He reports Yehudi’s death to Sheriff Kates, who charges him with being drunk and disorderly. When two dead bodies are found in the trunk of his car, Doc thinks “I wanted a drink more badly than before.” Once again alcohol serves the protagonist as a way to cope with unpleasant reality. After Doc escapes from the police, the flummoxed sheriff tells his deputies that Doc is a homicidal maniac and that alcohol “‘softens the brain.’” Defending Doc, a deputy states that Doc “‘wasn’t an alcoholic,’” thus making the same distinction that was made with Sweeney in The Screaming Mimi. It seems that, for Fredric Brown, one could drink everywhere and all the time, even to the point of having blackouts, but being called an

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alcoholic was socially unacceptable. Doc hides from the law and thinks, on one page, that “even one drink would steady me enough to think straight” while on another, he tells the reader that he is “cold damn sober.” Although the drinks continue to flow, Doc thinks that “I had to think more clearly than I’d ever thought before.” He solves the case, confronts and subdues the killer and heads back to the newspaper office, where he prints the paper of his life. After avowing “‘I haven’t had a drink for almost six hours,’” he downs three glasses of hooch. As “the room began to waver a little,” Doc slurs his words and falls flat on his face. The novel comes to a close.4 In The Screaming Mimi, Sweeney begins and ends as a drunk in a public park. In Night of the Jabberwock, Doc Stoeger drinks like a fish and collapses after his wild night. In Madball, Doc Magus, a tippler of more dubious investigative motivation, comes to the worst end yet. Doc travels with a carnival, giving readings to the marks from his crystal ball, “not that he ever really saw anything there except once in a while when he was a little drunk.” Doc is another of Brown’s chronic drinkers: “Almost every night this season he’d gone to sleep either drunk or not too far from it.” As he ponders the murder of fellow carney Mack Irby, he thinks that “he might be on the verge of figuring out something and he wanted to get just a slight edge and hold it. His mind worked best that way,” or so he thinks. Doc begins his investigation and visits the offices of the Bloomfield Sun (presumably in Illinois), where some research among old newspapers reveals that the murdered man had robbed a bank and escaped with $42,000 in cash. Further investigation leads him to conclude that the money is hidden on the carnival grounds. “The thought hit him suddenly and it was so simple and logical that he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it hours ago. Even while he was sober.” Doc awakens the next day and thinks that “yesterday’s hangover was as nothing to this one.” He visits the hospital where Mack had been a patient and, during dinner with a nurse, uncovers a clue to the money’s whereabouts. Back at the carnival, he philosophizes that “Only small men drink, Sammy—but so many of us are small men. Small men drink because drinking makes them bigger for a while and frees them from the bitter knowledge of how small they are. For a while, no matter how short a while, they can stride like giants, reach for stars. It’s an illusion, yes, but who can say the dull world of sobriety is not also an illusion, and certainly a less happy one.”5 Doc thinks he has found the money, hidden in a rubber two-headed calf from the Mystery of Sex show. The importance of removing it without leaving a trace of tampering is evident: “Very carefully he hadn’t taken a drink all day today.” Doc is killed when the booby-trapped fake calf explodes as he reaches his hand inside for the money. His goal in investigating Mack’s murder is a selfish one, and he is punished for his avarice.6

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Finally, Howard Perry, the fourth drunken detective of the group, is hardly a detective at all, but he most assuredly is a drunk. A high school teacher from Chicago, Perry is spending the summer on Skid Row in Los Angeles as a wino, doing research for a future thesis. Like Sweeney and Doc Stoeger, he rationalizes that “of course I wasn’t a wino, not really, nor an alcoholic … I’d have no trouble snapping out of it.” He thinks that “those who were alcoholics posed another problem; were they what they were because drink had made them so, or did they need drink for surcease because of what they were?” This question is never answered in Perry’s case. As the story develops, he becomes more and more dependent on alcohol as an escape from his environment, but the reason for his failure to escape this milieu is never explained. A heroin addict named Mame is murdered and Perry worries that he will be a suspect if the police find out that he was one of the last people to see her alive. He realizes that “with only a couple of weeks before it would be time for me to start back home to Chicago, it was time I started tapering off on my drinking.” Later in the novel, he refers to himself as “‘a wino, and a bum’” and stops himself from disagreeing when his girlfriend Billie says that “‘alcoholics can’t help what they are.’” He considers telling his story to the police but he “couldn’t go to the police tonight, of course. Too drunk, or too nearly drunk.” His drinking soon begins to get out of control. He wakes up in a strange room with empty bottles and other winos. He tells fellow drunk Ike Batchelor that “‘I got to stay sober,’” yet he quickly relents and continues drinking. He wonders if the murder of a man the night before Mame was killed is related to her death. After confessing the truth about himself to Billie, he “felt almost sober, wished I were a little drunker so I could go to my room and sleep.” He is beginning to prefer the state of drunkenness to that of sobriety. After he learns that Ike has been killed in an accident, he turns to the bottle again, demonstrating that his response to tragedy is to blot it out with the oblivion that alcohol can bring.7 As the story nears its conclusion, Howard begins to believe that the police are looking for him and he accelerates his plans to end his inebriated summer and return home to Chicago. “I wanted to get on the train or bus sober,” he thinks, noting that “there’s always room at the bottom … Anybody can be a bum.” To the end, Perry insists that “‘I’m going on the wagon.’” He still struggles with the term “alcoholic,” thinking that his urge to drink is merely “habit.” If he breaks down and drinks, he thinks, “I would have to admit to myself that I was an alcoholic.” By chance he solves the murders, blurting out the killer’s identity as this individual stands before him holding a meat cleaver, and survives only by a happy—and to the killer fatal—accident. Despite thinking “I didn’t want to get drunk,” Perry copes with this close shave by downing yet more liquor. When, after Perry tells a bartender that he is leaving for Chicago,

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the barkeep’s retort reminds us of Sweeney and The Screaming Mimi: “‘Give my love to Bughouse Square.’” Realizing that he has solved two murders that baffled the police, Perry decides to remain in Los Angeles with Billie, knowing that he will become “a hopeless alcoholic” but unable to tear himself away from this sort of life.8 Detectives who drink alcohol—lots of it—are far from rare in crime fiction, but in these four detective novels Fredric Brown presents characters who are drunks first and detectives second. They are not tough guys who drink because it is part of the world of the private eye; they are ordinary men who drink to cope as they attempt to solve serious crimes. While they crack their cases, not one of them succeeds in conquering his urge to imbibe to excess. Their fates range from a collapse into an exhausted, drunken stupor (Night of the Jabberwock); to a return to the wino’s park bench (The Screaming Mimi); to the promise of oblivion (The Wench Is Dead ); to immediate oblivion (Madball ). But the results hardly could have been otherwise, for these soused souls do their detecting in the cockeyed world of Fredric Brown.

NOTES 1. [Curtis Evans:] On the fiction of Fredric Brown, one of the major figures in mid-century crime and science fiction, see Jack Seabrook, Martians and Misplaced Clues: The Life and Work of Fredric Brown (Bowling Green, OH: Popular Press, 1993). 2. Fredric Brown, The Screaming Mimi (New York: Dutton, 1949), 7, 35, 38, 57, 74, 78, 103, 165, 168, 205, 205, 247. 3. Fredric Brown. Night of the Jabberwock (1950; repr. in Four Novels, London: Zomba, 1983), 9, 16, 18, 34, 46, 61. 4. Brown, Jabberwock, 74, 75, 87, 89, 103, 110, 110, 111, 114, 123, 139–40, 140. 5. Fredric Brown, Madball (1953; repr., New York: Fawcett Gold Medal, 1961), 33, 46, 51, 83, 102. Is it a coincidence that Fredric Brown’s wife described him as “a slight little man of a hundred and eighteen pounds?” See Elizabeth Charlier Brown, “Oh, for the Life of an Author’s Wife,” in Fredric Brown, “Happy Ending (Missoula, MT: Dennis McMillan, 1990). For more on Fredric Brown’s own pronounced partiality to alcohol, see Seabrook, Martians and Misplaced Clues, 2–9. 6. Brown, Madball, 156. 7. Fredric Brown. The Wench Is Dead. (1955; repr., New York: Bantam, 1957), 1, 20, 47, 49, 49, 70, 91, 109. 8. Brown, Wench, 120, 122, 125, 129, 136, 142, 144, 150.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Brown, Elizabeth Charlier. “Oh, for the Life of an Author’s Wife.” In Fredric Brown, Happy Ending. Fredric Brown in the Detective Pulps, Vol. 16. Missoula, MT: Dennis McMillan, 1990.

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Brown, Fredric. Madball. New York: Dell, 1953. _____. Night of the Jabberwock. New York: Dutton, 1950. _____. The Screaming Mimi. New York: Dutton, 1949. _____. The Wench Is Dead. New York: Dutton, 1955. Seaford, Jack. Martians and Misplaced Clues: The Life and Work of Fredric Brown. Bowling Green, Oh: Popular Press, 1993.

“Stella Maris”: Poetry in Ross Macdonald’s The Galton Case TOM NOLAN

More heartening than almost anything is the good opinion of good poets…. —Ross Macdonald to Ash Green, October 20, 1969 We prose writers secretly write for the poets and secretly yearn to be noticed by you. —Ross Macdonald to Julian Symons, January 20, 1973

I

Poetry as a superior form of creative expression was valued by Ross Macdonald (real name, Kenneth Millar) all his life; it was in his blood. The day Ken Millar was born, in Northern California in 1915, his father, an itinerant Canadian newspaper-editor named John Macdonald Millar, celebrated the occasion by writing a poem in the Scots-dialect manner of Robert Burns (“Oor Kennie”), which was printed in the Los Gatos Mail. Ken Millar wrote his own first poetry, including a long Scottish historical ballad, as a young teen at boarding school in Winnipeg. In college, he memorized (and could recite) Keats, Shelley, Dante, and Yeats; acted in a Shakespeare play, and was best friends with Robert Arthur Douglas Ford, who years later won Canada’s Governor General’s Award for his verse. As a young husband and father in Ontario in the late 1930s, Millar sold some original poems, as well as stories and book reviews, to the weekly Toronto Saturday Night: his first professional writing. 231

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In graduate school, at the University of Michigan, Millar took a course from W. H. Auden, then the foremost young poet in the English language; and had graduate student friends—Robert Hayden, Chad Walsh—who were or became published poets. By then Millar had long since concluded poetry was not his métier—not as it was for a real poet, such as Ford—and, encouraged by Auden (a genuine appreciator of crime fiction), turned his talent to the writing of detective novels (as had Ken’s wife Margaret, another youthful versifier, a few years earlier); though Millar pushed on to earn a PhD with a dissertation on Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It was understandable, then, that in early 1958, when Millar—now known in the detective fiction field by the pseudonym Ross Macdonald—decided, for artistic, professional, and personal reasons, to write a mystery that would explore through fiction his own tangled biographical and psychological history, poetry would play a significant part.

II

Lew Archer, the Southern California private-investigator who narrated most of Ross Macdonald’s novels and stories, had from the first seemed to possess a poetic license to go along with his p.i. ticket. Striking imagery and subtle stylistic allusions to classical poets such as Dante were laced throughout Archer’s early hard-boiled chronicles. But poetic phrasing and sensibility moved even more to the fore in the book that would be called The Galton Case, a mystery novel in which poets were characters and poems yielded clues. Macdonald’s story has Lew Archer being hired by a wealthy southern California matriarch to investigate the disappearance (and probable death) decades earlier of her son John Galton, who had given up his life of privilege to lead a bohemian existence in Northern California. When last seen, Galton had been writing poetry in the Bay Area, not far from Millar’s birthplace of Los Gatos, under the pseudonym John Brown. As Archer searches up north for traces of Brown, he comes across a fellow calling himself John Brown, Jr.— and giving every indication of being the missing novice-poet’s son. John Brown, Jr. has begun his own impassioned research into his family origins. Novelist Millar—born in Los Gatos, raised in Canada; a resident of Santa Barbara, California, since 1946—twisted strands of his own experience into this fiction. Like an epic poem dense with meaning, his text became a sort of palimpsest, with levels of overt and hidden meanings, fictional and realistic touches all layered and lacquered over one another.

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“My mind had been haunted for years by an imaginary boy whom I recognized as the darker side of my own remembered boyhood,” Macdonald would write in a nonfiction piece. “By his sixteenth year he had lived in fifty houses and committed the sin of poverty in each of them. I couldn’t think of him without anger and guilt.” “This boy became the central figure of The Galton Case.” Millar’s conflicted feelings towards a poet-father whom he loved and who abandoned him; the golden state of California into which he had been born but then whisked from; the social and emotional “prison” of Canada where he had been raised; and his quest to return to the land of promise he “belonged” in: all made their way, in imaginative fashion, into John Brown, Jr.’s biography—or should that be John Galton, Jr.’s? The summer of 1958, when Ken Millar was wrestling with this complex manuscript, was an especially stimulating time in Santa Barbara, with several notable guest teachers visiting the university. One of these was the English poet and critic Donald Davie, living for the season in a rented house near Ken and Margaret Millar. The novelist had several talks with the poet this season, and he learned that Davie’s current work in progress—a translation, from the Polish, of poet Adam MicKiewcz’s Pan Tadeusz—bore striking similarities to his own new project. “What we realized,” Davie later said, “was that these two so dissimilarappearing pieces of work turned upon basically the same plot: the boy who has lost his father and in finding him finds his own and his national identity. … This thrilled both Ken and me very much.” This realization—and the two men’s shared labor, as it were—stimulated Millar further in his efforts, and validated the new Archer novel as a poetic quest. Davie was just the sort of contemporary poet Millar admired: “modern,” in the wake of Yeats, Eliot, Pound and Auden, yet adhering all the same to classical form and cultural tradition. But the poets getting the lions’ share of publicity in California this year were the Bay Area’s beatnik bards, a bunch Ken Millar was by no means a fan of. He discussed his aesthetic misgivings with his longtime friend Donald Pearce, a UC Santa Barbara professor he had gone to college and graduate school with, and who as a scholar had met and corresponded with such figures as Ezra Pound. “I can remember him standing in the doorway of my house,” Pearce said some forty years later, “and saying, ‘Well, you know the trouble with the entire poetry of the Beat movement is that the writers in it believe that it is more important to have experiences in life, than to write well about them.’ Which

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was absolutely true, for the most part, of their writing: It was second-rate literary text, on the whole, about excruciating personal … tragedy.” Millar (using his “Kenneth Millar” byline) this summer penned a scathing screed against the Bay Area beat-poets and prose-writers and their East Coast cronies, “Passengers on a Cable Car Named Despair,” for the San Francisco Chronicle Book Review. His objections to the Beats were as much moral as aesthetic; Millar abhorred their self-indulgent and even violent hedonism and half-baked existentialism: “the addled pretensions of poolroom mystics and nihilists posing as saviors. The self-enclosed contemporaneousness, without history or future, which [Norman] Mailer practices and his beat ones enact, is a special circle of hell reserved for stone-age savages, the mentally ill and retarded, and writers who have succumbed to intellectual and moral sloth.” Millar invented a Beat poet, Chad Bolling, for his novel in progress— though the verse-man in Macdonald’s book would be a much less reprehensible figure than those Millar deplored in the Chronicle. Chad Bolling’s first name is perhaps a touchstone for Millar’s Michigan poet-friend Chad Walsh, while his last name prompts thought of the Bollingen poetry prize, the 1949 awarding of which to the politically disgraced Ezra Pound had caused great controversy. Bolling is encountered by Lew Archer in a Northern California club, reciting his poems with the accompaniment of a jazz quartet. Donald Pearce was a witness to some of Millar-Macdonald’s research. “Ken and I went to the Lobero Theatre [in downtown Santa Barbara],” Pearce said, “and heard [Kenneth] Rexroth read.” Rexroth, who also later taught at UC Santa Barbara, had been included in Millar’s “Cable Car” roundup (though with praise for his scholarly work). “He didn’t have a combo with him,” Pearce said, “he had however a pretty good stereo outfit, and he played tapes.… I remember the clarinet particularly, like a vine, weaving through everything he was saying. And Rexroth would recite poems, in his chant-ing, and sing-ing, and moan-ing fashion, to this band, loping through it.” “And Rexroth was quite embarrassed by himself that evening; he said, selfdeprecatingly and somewhat humiliatedly, ‘You know, I don’t think this is the only way that poetry has to be read, or … heard … But I—I think it’s an interesting experiment, and that’s really all I’m doing : I’m just experimenting. There’s nothing wrong with experimenting’ … He was clearly apologizing for what he was doing.” Pearce concluded: “I believe that Bolling is a caricature— not exactly a parody, but a kind of grotesque—of Kenneth Rexroth. That’s who I think it is.”1 Indeed, Pearce’s description of Rexroth’s abashed onstage manner is not unlike that of the book’s conflicted bard: “Bolling stood with pursed lips and absorbed [the applause] like a little boy sucking soda pop through a straw.

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While the lower part of his face seemed to be enjoying itself, his eyes were puzzled. His mouth stretched in a clownish grin.” Another possible inspiration for Bolling is a second rhymester sharing Millar’s first name: Kenneth Patchen, very active in 1958 reading poems to live jazz, and a guest this year on Stars of Jazz, a late Monday-evening Los Angelesbased television program which jazz fan Ken Millar almost certainly would have watched. In his Stars of Jazz appearance, on January 13, 1958, Rexroth— his huge totemic head filling the screen in close-up—performed, in a sonorous, booming fashion, with Allyn Ferguson’s Chamber Jazz Sextet, a number titled “Do the Dead Know What Time It Is?”: a ballad of mortality, seduction and ennui. Bolling, with his quartet at the Listening Ear, is described by Archer reciting a similar ode: “‘Death Is Tabu,’” he said, and began to chant in a hoarse carrying voice that reminded me of a carnival spieler. He said that at the end of the night he sat in wino alley where the angels drink canned heat, and that he heard a beat. It seemed a girl came to the mouth of the alley and asked him what he was doing in death valley. “‘Death is the ultimate crutch,’ she said,” he said. She asked him to come home with her to bed.

Despite the fun Macdonald had with Bolling, however, he also saw him as a symbol of positive things. “This middle-aged San Francisco poet,” he would write in a later essay, “is at the same time an object of parody and my spokesman for the possibilities of California life.… [H]e recovers some of a young man’s high spirits … shows the kite-flying exuberance of a man beginning a lucky piece of work, and speaks unashamedly for the epic impulse….” Such was the author’s method: to make characters (as well as objects, actions, dialogue) serve double-duty by containing more than one potential meaning—just as words and phrases in a poem may contain overlapping nuances and allusions. It is a stimulating technique, even a brilliant one, especially in a novel having to do with questions of real and false identities, inherent traits and acquired knowledge, man’s lower and higher impulses, and the historical English scientist John Galton’s theories of nature versus nurture. Some examples of dualistic word-play in The Galton Case: Chisel, the blunt name of the little magazine Bolling put out in the 1930s, which published a John Brown poem, as a noun has the uncompromising clang of steel on stone and evokes such Pound-era publications as Blast; but as a verb it suggests a cheat’s activity—and the notion that “John Brown, Jr.” may be a crook. A witness Lew seeks from John Brown’s past in the Bay Area lives in Redwood City, on Sherwood Drive: a tip of the feathered hat to Robin Hood, an

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archer (sic) who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. John Brown, a rich young man, was robbed by poor ones. Is penniless John Brown, Jr., out to rob the Galton rich? Subtler wordplay offers subliminal clues. A character’s face, at first sickly-white then “tinged green by the reflected light from the foliage,” alerts the attentive reader to a corrupt chameleon, changing protective coloration to match a shifting moral scene. An early hint of the true identity of another figure, who turns out to be a vulturous criminal nicknamed “Shoulders,” comes when Archer sees “the condor shadow of his shoulders” on the wall. And then there are the many swift images that are poetic for their own sake: Our eyes met. Hers were dark ocean blue. Discontent flicked a fin in their depths…. He invited violence, as certain other people invite friendship. The lawn was the color of the ink they use to print the serial numbers on banknotes….

You might say all of The Galton Case is a sort of epic prose-poem—and by extension, Archer-Macdonald’s whole oeuvre a long saga on the French or Icelandic scale: full of insightful references to tribal knowledge new and old.

III

Kenneth Millar, the once-upon-a-time poet with no money to his name, had transformed himself—not unlike one of his own books’ chameleonic fictional characters—into Ross Macdonald, an internationally acclaimed hardboiled novelist who wrote with a poet’s touch. Proof of the pudding came without doubt in Lew Archer’s eighth adventure. “I thought my first really good book,” Millar-Macdonald would say, “was The Galton Case.” Galton contains a secret poetic connection between the two selves of Kenneth Millar and Ross Macdonald. The sixteen-line poem “Luna”—presented in Macdonald’s novel as the work of John Galton (known as John Brown)— was written, Macdonald later admitted, by Millar at age nineteen (“probably as good a poem as I ever wrote”). There’s an even more hidden and never-acknowledged lyric link among Millar, Macdonald, and Galton. Chad Bolling tells Lew Archer of having attempted a poem about John Brown’s beautiful young wife, all those years ago in Luna Bay: “[I]t didn’t come off,” Bolling judges of his “botched” ode; but he says: “In the poem … I called her Stella Maris, star of the sea.” This unpublished, supposedly fictitious poem came to echo eerily down the

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years to an astonished real-life audience of one: Ross Macdonald’s biographer. In 1990, thirty-one years after publication of The Galton Case, sixty-four years after Chad Bolling botched his poem to John Brown’s wife in Luna Bay, sixtyseven years after a teenaged Kenneth Millar, rich in potential but poor in prospect, worked for a summer on a farm near Kitchener, Ontario—the biographer stood outside a cabin in Wiarton, Ontario, on the banks of Georgian Bay, and took from the hands of a cheerful white-haired woman a small autograph-book with a faded leather cover, inside which Kenneth Millar, in the springtime of his youth, had written, in his then-characteristic clear and open hand, a poem to an early sweetheart: Stella Maris … star of the sea….2

NOTES BY CURTIS EVANS 1. For more on Kenneth Rexroth, see endnote 3 of Jeffrey Marks’ Craig Rice essay in this volume. 2. In Tom Nolan’s Ross Macdonald: A Biography (New York: Scribner, 1999), the author deems The Galton Case “the first of Macdonald’s mature works: a dozen or so books that belong with the best American mystery fiction” (p. 194).

BIBLIOGRAPHY Macdonald, Ross. The Galton Case. New York: Knopf, 1959. Nolan, Tom. Ross Macdonald: A Biography. New York: Scribner, 1999.

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SECTION FIVE

Murder in Miniature, Death on the Air, Murder in Pastiche

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Douglas G. Greene: Savior of the Short Form Mystery MARVIN L ACHMAN

Before 1967 there was no venue for mystery fans to write about their favorite genre. Happily in that year Allen J. Hubin, a research chemist who was also a keen mystery reader, started The Armchair Detective, the first general fan publication. Douglas G. Greene became one of the most prolific contributors to The Armchair Detective and the other fan journals that followed it. In these journals Greene has published more than sixty book reviews, all invariably thoughtful and insightful, as well as more than twenty articles, eight major checklists and over fifty letters. Although he has written on many mysteryrelated subjects, he has specialized in the detective short story and the work of John Dickson Carr. Since the death of Frederic Dannay in 1982, no one has done more for the mystery short story than Doug Greene, a truly remarkable genre anthologist, biographer, editor, scholar and publisher. Ellery Queen’s Queen’s Quorum: A History of the Detective-Crime Short Story as Revealed by the 100 Most Important Books Published in this Field since 1845, the first version of which was published in 1948, is a seminal work concerning the mystery short story. Frederic Dannay, the bibliographic half of the “Ellery Queen ” team and the foremost scholar and collector of mystery short stories of his time, prepared an annotated listing of one hundred outstanding volumes of mystery short stories published between 1845 and 1945, beginning with Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales. The books on the list quickly became collectible, with high prices asked by book dealers. Although two supplements to the list by Dannay updated Queen’s Quorum through 1967, now listing 125 authors, subsequent years were not covered. 241

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In “A Reader’s Supplement to Queen’s Quorum ” in The Armchair Detective 12 (Summer 1979), Greene took on the awesome task of adding to a work that had become almost a sacred text within the mystery genre. Acknowledging that Dannay’s list was “one man’s opinion,” as was his, Greene published a major checklist: his additions to Queen’s Quorum, consisting of thirty titles published between 1827 and 1967. Greene listed five criteria: 1. Books that achieved recognition after Queen’s Quorum was published. 2. Additional volumes by authors already in Queen’s Quorum. 3. Authors of important novels who had also published volumes of short fiction. 4. Collections of novelettes. 5. Titles that Dannay apparently inadvertently omitted.

In CADS: Crime and Detective Stories Greene in 1990 refined his list, which now included fifty-four titles. He limited himself to books with detection as an important ingredient. Greene listed sixty collections published since 1967, many of which would appear in Greene’s next venture into short story scholarship: his “Post-Queen’s Quorum” list appearing in CADS in November 1990, with 50 titles published between 1968 and 1989. In CADS for August 1993 he listed ten more titles, published from 1990 to 1992. Greene has not updated Queen’s Quorum since 1993. The next year he started Crippen & Landru, a publishing house devoted exclusively to mystery short story collections, which will be discussed later. Although Greene is too modest to list them, virtually all of the more than one hundred books he has published deserve inclusion on any updating of Queen’s Quorum. Greene had long been a fan of the works of John Dickson Carr, the master of mysteries with impossible crimes such as murder in a locked room, and he became the expert on the work and life of Carr. An early example of Greene’s writing for a fan journal was the article “Adolf Hitler and John Dickson Carr’s Least-Known Locked Room,” published in The Armchair Detective in 1981. Deadly Pleasures in 1994 printed his “John Dickson Carr: A Rational Universe.” For the Dictionary of Literary Biography’s 2005 volume American Mystery and Detective Writers Greene wrote the definitive essay on John Dickson Carr. What may have been forgotten in these days of television, the internet, You Tube and other electronic visual devices is that not only were mystery plays an important part of radio programming, but some of these plays, usually of short story length, were published. For example, eleven radio plays from the series The Adventures of Ellery Queen, which ran from June 1939 to May 1948, were printed in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. In 1979 Greene had written in The Armchair Detective of that frequent

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adjunct to the mystery short story, the short radio mystery play, in “John Dickson Carr on British Radio.” Greene researched and resurrected Carr’s forgotten radio plays, collecting many of them for the first time in books. In 1980 Greene combined two of his great loves when he edited and provided an introduction, notes, and bibliography for the Carr collection The Door to Doom and Other Detections. It contained five of the radio plays that Carr wrote for Suspense, the most prestigious American radio mystery program, beginning in June 1942. There were also five short stories of detection and crime, three stories of the supernatural, two Sherlock Holmes parodies and two essays. One essay, published in the 1991 revised edition of that book, was the first complete printing of Carr’s brilliant essay on detective fiction, “The Grandest Game in the World.” Using extensive research and reading dozens of scripts, Greene continued to edit and print Carr’s radio plays, almost all of which are of short story length. Carr lived in England when the Second World War started in 1939, and his first play for the British Broadcasting System (BBC) appeared that year. Of the more than fifty plays Carr composed for the BBC, Greene selected nine for publication in The Dead Sleep Lightly and Other Mysteries from Radio’s Golden Age (1983). Carr was not the only writer of Golden Age radio plays whom Greene published. In 1998 he published a chapbook of a 1944 radio broadcast, “The Adventure of the Scarecrow and the Snowman ” by Ellery Queen, which was distributed at the Malice Domestic convention to recognize Queen as the “Ghost of Honor,” part of a tradition at this gathering whereby dead writers are venerated. For the hundredth anniversary of the births of the cousins Frederic Dannay and Manfred B. Lee, Greene’s Crippen & Landru Press in 2005 published The Adventure of the Murdered Moths, a collection of fourteen Ellery Queen radio plays. The Dannay and Lee families had made almost 350 radio plays available. Queen scholars Jon L. Breen, Theodore B. Hertel, Jr., and Marvin Lachman each read more than one hundred scripts and made recommendations. The final selection was made and a preface written by Greene. Until Greene published 13 to the Gallows in 2008, little was known of Carr as a writer for the theatre. This is a collection of four plays, two of which were co-written with Val Gielgud, a British novelist, radio producer and the brother of famous actor John Gielgud. Some of these stage plays had their origins as radio plays. Along with that book Greene printed a chapbook of a 1942 BBC radio play, “Inspector Silence Takes the Underground.” Surprisingly, the method of public transportation is a New York City subway, not London’s trains. By 1987 Doug Greene had found a kindred spirit in Robert Adey, England’s

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leading expert on the locked room and other impossible mysteries. They combined to edit Death Locked In: An Anthology of Locked Room Stories. For this anthology from International Polygonics, Ltd. (IPL), they selected twentythree stories, for which they provided prefaces. Beginning in 1985 Greene had been writing introductions for a series of IPL reprints of classic detective novels, often books written by Carr under his own name or his pseudonym Carter Dickson, most of which involve impossible crimes. Although in the mystery world Ngaio Marsh is best known for her detective novels, Greene in 1989 gathered seven of her shorter works (five stories, a television script and a true crime article) in The Collected Short Fiction of Ngaio Marsh, for which he also provided an introduction that was a succinct but incisive critical commentary on Marsh’s work. In 1995 he contributed an essay, “Marsh’s Miniatures: An Examination of Ngaio Marsh’s Short Mystery Stories,” to the centenary essay collection Ngaio Marsh: The Woman and Her Work, edited by B. J. Rahn. Greene provided an interesting viewpoint, often positive, on Marsh’s short fiction, which had been overlooked by critics and deprecated by Marsh herself. Inevitably, given his interest in Carr, Greene for IPL in 1991 edited (along with providing an introduction and notes) a definitive collection in two volumes, The Collected Short Stories of John Dickson Carr. Volume One was Fell and Foul Play, and Volume Two, featuring the stories Carr wrote under his pseudonym Carter Dickson, was Merrivale, March and Murder. In 1993 Greene’s article “John Dickson Carr: Magician of the Locked Room ” was an important feature of the Anthony Award-winning collection of critical articles The Fine Art of Murder, The Mystery Reader’s Indispensable Companion. Greene’s masterpiece (a word I do not use lightly), his biography John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles, was published in 1995. It was nominated for the Edgar, Anthony, Agatha, and Macavity Awards in the literary criticism category (the fact that it did not win any of these awards is perhaps a greater crime than any about which Carr ever wrote). In a book of 453 pages of text, plus nearly one hundred pages of appendices, bibliography, notes and index, Greene covers every aspect of the life of one of the major twentiethcentury mystery writers. He discusses all of Carr’s novels, many of his short stories, his theatre and radio plays and provides a complete checklist of them. He is a thorough literary detective, presenting information he discovered regarding even Carr’s work as a young author in high school and college (Carr had been writing mysteries since he was a teen-ager; and Greene discovered the earliest example, “The Ruby of Rameses,” published in 1921 in Carr’s high school magazine in Uniontown, Pennsylvania). All through Miracles Greene clearly documents Carr’s masterful plotting and keen sense of narrative drive.

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Greene also corrects the tendency people have had to forget Carr’s significance as a reviewer and critic of mystery fiction. He shows how Carr subtly drew the distinction between thrillers and detective stories and discusses at length Carr’s masterpiece of criticism, the essay “The Grandest Game in the World.” He also covers Carr’s review column in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. One of the highlights of Greene’s book is the portion relating to Carr’s relationship with Adrian Conan Doyle, about whom he quotes this memorable line: “His real profession was being the son of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”1 Carr, a devoted Sherlockian, had planned to write a series of pastiches of the Great Detective. Adrian at first threatened to sue, as he often did when he perceived that people were using his father’s work without his benefiting. Eventually the two men collaborated on The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (1954), though the experience may have contributed to a period of binge drinking on Carr’s part, leaving Adrian to write most of the stories. Greene’s article about Carr’s experiences with Conan Doyle was published in ACD: The Journal of the Arthur Conan Doyle Society in 1999. In 1995 Greene wrote an important article for The Armchair Detective, “John Dickson Carr: Fairplay Foremost.” Though “fairplay ” has been a seldomused term in recent years, it once was the guiding precept in writing detective fiction. Authors were expected to plant clues in a way that permitted readers to deduce the solution of a mystery before the author presented it. Carr was one of the last authors to scrupulously adhere to that “rule,” and Greene applauds him for this in his article. Queen quotes Carr’s belief that “The detective novel at its best will contain three qualities, seldom found in the thriller. It will contain the quality of fair play in presenting the clues. It will contain the quality of sound plot construction. And it will contain the quality of ingenuity.”2 Those beliefs clearly mirror Greene’s view of detective fiction. Following a visit to the British Museum in the early 1980s, Greene traced the first collection of short stories about a female sleuth to The Lady Detective (1861) and gave his findings in an article in The Poisoned Pen, “Giving Flesh to a Ghost, or The Lady Detective.” In the late 1990s Greene continued his exploration of this aspect of mystery history with two notable publications. For Dover he edited the anthology Detection by Gaslight: The Great Victorian and Edwardian Detective Stories (1997), which included several stories with female investigators. In 1998 Greene with Jack Adrian edited and provided a foreword and afterword to The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box’s edition of L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace’s The Detections of Miss Cusack, thereby rescuing from unwarranted oblivion the detective Florence Cusack, whose fictional exploits were originally published around the turn of the twentieth century.

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Finally, in 2003 Greene published “The Only Women: The Female Sleuth in Fiction ” in The Baker Street Journal. All this serious scholarship has not deprived Doug Greene of his sense of humor. Beginning in The Poisoned Pen in 1982 he began an occasional column, “Department of Classic Lines,” collecting material he called “lines that must not be allowed to perish,” a list of inadvertently funny lines in mystery fiction that escaped correction by both the author and the editor. Greene has also shown his appreciation of mystery parodies. Paying tribute to the best parodist of crime fiction, Greene wrote “Jon L. Breen and the Tradition of Parody ” for The Poisoned Pen in 1983. While devoting more than half of his article to Breen, Greene also had room for discussion of Robert L. Fish’s The Incredible Schlock Homes (1966) and The Memoirs of Schlock Homes (1974); the send-up of Philo Vance in The John Riddell Murder Case (1930) by Corey Ford (“John Riddell”); and Alligator (1962), a parody of the James Bond books, published as by I*n Fl*m*ng, the pseudonym of Michael K. Frith and Christopher B. Cerf. With Tony Medawar, a leading British mystery genre scholar with an uncanny knack for finding previously “lost ” stories, Greene edited R. Austin Freeman’s The Dead Hand and Other Uncollected Stories in 1999. That same year, responding to the interest in Japan for classic detective fiction, Greene edited and provided prefaces for John Dickson Carr’s Grand Guignol, published in Japan in 1999. The book emphasizes the eerie aspects of Carr’s work. In the early 1990s the mystery short story was in dire condition. Magazines that published short crime fiction were rare. Seldom was a collection of a mystery writer’s short stories published. At mystery conventions some novelists declared they would not “waste ” a good plot idea on a short story. Readers boasted, “I never read a short story.” Doug Greene made his greatest contribution to the mystery genre when in 1994 he started Crippen & Landru Publishers to issue original collections of stories (all of the work, including typesetting and shipping, was done by Doug and his family). Crippen & Landru’s first book was John Dickson Carr’s Speak of the Devil, a BBC radio script of novel length and one of Carr’s best historical mysteries. In the twenty years since then, Greene has published over one hundred volumes. His Crippen & Landru launched a series of original books, at first collecting stories of mostly contemporary authors, such as Marcia Muller, Bill Pronzini, Edward D. Hoch, Margaret Maron and Peter Lovesey, that had never appeared previously in book form. Typically there is a limited hardcover, numbered (often signed) edition of 275 copies, as well as a trade paperback edition. In 2002 Greene initiated a “Lost Classics” series, in order to bring into print

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short stories that had never been collected (and in many cases were virtually unknown), by mostly deceased, and often forgotten, writers. To do this he had to get in touch with the heirs of these writers and collectors of short fiction, as well as search archives of pulp, digest-sized, and “slick ” magazines for stories by these writers. Volumes published in this series have included gems by Charles B. Child, Joseph Commings, Vincent Cornier, Rafael Sabatini, as well as better-known authors like Erle Stanley Gardner, Ellis Peters, Anthony Boucher, Craig Rice, Stuart Palmer, Anthony Berkeley and Margaret Millar. Despite health problems and a busy schedule teaching at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, Virginia, where he was a professor of history until his retirement in 2012, Doug Greene has continued to remain active in mystery scholarship and publishing. As befits his academic background, Greene in his writings on the mystery genre has given due consideration to broader matters of philosophy. In a 1994 Deadly Pleasures article, “John Dickson Carr and a Rational Universe,” he gives a perceptive explanation of what makes Carr a great detective fiction writer: “his unmatched ingenuity in plot construction, his sense of atmosphere, his love of the incongruous, his inclusion of ancient lore, his ability to create both terror and uproarious comedy….” However, Greene goes further, pursuing the question of whether creation is meaningful. He finds that Carr’s writing grew from his need to “believe that the universe is ordered, that things somehow make sense.” Inspector Bencolin reflects the author’s thinking when he says in Carr’s first novel, It Walks by Night (1930): “There must be sanity to the plot somewhere; if there is no meaning in any of these accidents, there is no meaning in all the world.”3 As both a mystery scholar and a publisher, Doug Greene has left the fortunate detective fiction reading public around the world a rich legacy of works over which for years to come they doubtlessly will delightedly pore and ponder.

NOTES 1. Douglas G. Greene, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (New York: Otto Penzler, 1995, 311. 2. Greene, Carr, 106–107. 3. “John Dickson Carr and a Rational Universe,” Deadly Pleasures 8 (Winter 1994): 3–5.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE For a list including the Douglas G. Greene works cited in this essay, see in this volume Appendix One, “Works on Mystery Fiction by Douglas G. Greene.”

Experimenters, Pioneers, Prodigies and Passers-By: Ten Detective Story Writers in Search of an Anthology JON L. BREEN

Even back when detective short stories provided a lucrative source of income for pulp and slick magazine writers, collections in book form were relatively rare and considered a dubious commercial proposition. Today short story writing has long since become a cottage industry, but detective series are more likely to be collected, thanks to the work of specialist publishers like Ramble House, the Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, Perfect Crime, Gryphon, Altus, Wildside and the widest ranging of all, Douglas G. Greene’s Crippen & Landru. Many worthy series have not been collected because they include too few stories to fill out a proper book. The authors of those considered here, most from Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, fall into four overlapping categories: experimenters, historical pioneers, teen prodigies, and what may be termed passers-by: those who moved on to bigger and (maybe) better things. They are Jerome and Harold Prince, Daniel Roselle, Breni James, Theodore Mathieson, James Yaffe, Leonard Thompson, Richard Curtis, John Jakes and Thomas Flanagan. All are herewith recommended to future anthologists.

I. Experimenters ( Jerome and Harold Prince) Jerome and Harold Prince’s impressive debut, “The Man in the Velvet Hat” (EQMM May 1944), introduced Inspector Magruder of the NYPD. In his introduction, editor Queen (Frederic Dannay) called it “a strange, strange 248

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story” that might remind readers of John Dos Passos, M.P. Shiel and even James Joyce.1 The heavily cinematic style, with dark mood and cross-cutting, is the prose equivalent of an early film noir. The story also recalls Suspense and other radio crime anthologies; one can imagine Orson Welles intoning the narration. The use of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” as a sort of theme song recalls some of the musical effects of Cornell Woolrich. Whatever their influences, the Princes’ first story was original in its application of stream-of-consciousness and other experimental literary techniques to a pure classical detective story. A twenty-six-year-old salesman who left his company’s Christmas party during a “practice blackout” was at first thought to have died in a fall from a window. But journalist John Reynolds reports receiving messages from an apparent serial killer who, believing himself God, claims credit for several deaths assumed to be accidental. Witnesses put a man in a velvet hat near the scene of each death. Magruder, introduced as a forty-year police veteran, publicly challenges the killer to announce where he will strike next. The response: “At nine o’clock precisely, on Wednesday night, January tenth, a man will die, poisoned in front of the Times Building.”2 Here is a sample of the authors’ narrative style: “And then it was night again, the Times Building a pale shadow across the street, sounds centrifuged at him, amoeba forms of clouds tasting and disgorging a full white moon, hints of rain slapping his cheeks, jazz from the dance hall overhead, a drunken clown shouting, ‘Nine o’clock and all’s well. Nine o’clock and all’s well.’ Come on along, come on along, Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”3 When the surprising solution is revealed, one may ask if the authors have played fair, if the third-person narrator has lied to the reader. He has not. The reader’s deception is self-imposed. Introducing “The Finger Man” ( January 1945), Dannay promises a tale “even more intellectually disturbing” than its predecessor, again “utiliz[ing] the theme of detection-and-horror.”4 A psychiatric patient named Hoffman fears he can cause the deaths of those he hates by thinking. Magruder now claims only thirty years on the force. The bizarre and chilling conclusion, if not quite as astonishing as the first Magruder case, is just as original. “The Watchers and the Watched” (August 1946), is much more orthodox in style but just as inventive in situation. When an annoying young man interested in psychiatry tries to convince a fellow train passenger, the famous industrialist Haggerson, that he is going mad, Haggerson asks to have him removed—and the young man inexplicably disappears. Other incidents suggest Haggerson is being driven insane. Why, how, and by whom? Magruder, who has now dropped another ten years off his police experience, emerges as more

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of a super-sleuth, who relishes the idea of coming to grips with his own Moriarty. The story may be the farthest-fetched of the three to date, but it’s still a fine one, with a great shock ending. Introducing the team’s next story, Dannay takes credit (or blame) for the third story’s change in approach. The first two had been “so dark and brooding in mood that we once referred to the authors as the Princes of Darkness…. [W]e were afraid that those who like their homicides à la ham-and-eggs would not find the criminous caviar prepared by the Princes entirely to their taste. So it was at your Editors’ suggestion that the authors broke away from experimental phrasing and word-color probing, from typographic tricks and moving-picture moods.”5 “Can You Solve This Crime?” (September 1950) is a television game show on which a police guest, John B. Magruder with a newly acquired first name, is matched against three civilian contestants, one of whom narrates the story, in offering solutions to a true crime case recreated live by a group of actors. For the first time, Magruder is physically described: “a powerful neck that thrust the points of his collar out like the tail of an airplane—an old brown suit that never had been pressed—lips laid on each other like bricks—eyes watchful and wary—cross-cropped back hair like spikes on a high wall.”6 Though it is the least impressive of the four, Magruder’s last case is notable for the evocation of early 1950s TV and a logical and unusual plot. Between the third and fourth Magruders, the team submitted a non-series tale, called variously “Nightmare” and “Let the Reader Beware,” that was probably rejected for EQMM and published as “Ambush” in Rex Stout’s Mystery Monthly No. 9 (1947).7 It shares with the Magruder stories narrative experimentation (interior monologue in this case), subject matter (a serial killer) and a well-managed trick ending. Jerome Prince was a professor at the Brooklyn School of Law who would serve as Dean between 1953 and 1981. He died in 1988 at age 81. Less is known of his brother Harold, who as of the brothers’ letter to Dannay in December 1942, was a chemist working for the Federal Government. That letter also revealed a working method similar to the Queen collaborators: Jerome did the Dannay role (plotting), Harold the Manfred Lee role (writing). According to a later letter, in 1949 they were working with the producer of the children’s program “Howdy Doody” to market a Magruder TV series, a project that apparently never came to fruition.8 To my knowledge, neither brother produced any more published fiction.

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II. Historical Pioneers (Daniel Roselle, Breni James, Theodore Mathieson) Detective stories set in historical periods go back at least as far as Melville Davisson Post’s Uncle Abner. The pioneer at novel length, John Dickson Carr, was at it as early as 1934 with Devil Kinsmere, published under the pseudonym Roger Fairbairn and revised as by Carr thirty years later as Most Secret. The idea of turning a historical personage into a series detective dates to the 1940s with Lillian de la Torre’s long-running EQMM accounts of Dr. Samuel Johnson and his biographer James Boswell, collected in four books between 1946 and 1987. Daniel Roselle, identified only as “a new writer” and possibly an undisclosed pseudonym, featured the eighth-century emperor Charles the Great in two EQMM stories, “Charlemagne and the Whisperer” (November 1946) and “Charlemagne and the Secret Plans” (April 1947). Their brevity was well advised; Dannay’s introduction to the first story pointed out that the “flowery medieval language” would be hard to sustain at greater than short short story length.9 After a wealthy nobleman announces to his heirs they will inherit only if they serve the church as missionaries, he is promptly murdered. Though one broad clue makes the murderer fairly obvious, the theological background and Charlemagne’s decision on the killer’s fate illuminate the attitudes of the time. Even better as an intricately clued whodunit is the second tale, in which Charlemagne’s plans for war against the Danes are written in “newly devised minuscule letters, whose curved and rounded words are readable only by [his] three sages and [his] two military chieftains….”10 Brèni James turned to ancient Greece in “Socrates Solves a Murder” (October 1954) and “Socrates Solves Another Murder” (February 1955) (introducing the first story, Dannay notes that the historical detective “seems always to be a famous man, never a famous woman”—how times have changed a half century later!).11 The first murder is a colorful one: by a swimming pool, a young man is beheaded by a statue of Eros. The fairly clued puzzle, presumably consistent with ancient Greek culture and religion, produces an Athenian version of the least-suspected-person murderer. In the second case, a naked youth is found bludgeoned to death before a mural whose central figure he resembles. Did the painter torture his model to get the right expression of pain? Two rival artists are the main suspects, and the puzzle is more likely solvable for a present-day reader. Introducing a later non-series story, Dannay reports that “Brèni James has written enough tales of Socrates-as-a-sleuth to make up a book of short stories….”12 If so, they apparently were not good enough for EQMM, and to my

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knowledge they never appeared elsewhere. Later Brèni James published two police procedurals set in San Francisco, Night of the Kill (Simon & Schuster, 1961) and The Shake-Up (Simon & Schuster, 1964). Theodore Mathieson attributed detective abilities to more different historical figures than any other writer. Ten of his stories, about characters ranging chronologically from Alexander the Great to Florence Nightingale, were gathered in The Great Detectives (Simon & Schuster, 1960). But two other series were never collected in book form. The six cases of fictional gambler Jim Troy, who worked the riverboats between Sacramento and San Francisco in the late nineteenth century, appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine. Whether the series was created to open a new market or was rejected for EQMM is not clear. The best of these colorful, carefully crafted and fairly clued stories are the first, “Murder on the ‘Delta Queen’” ( June 1959), and “The Bonanza Maze” (December 1959). Four entries of a promising EQMM series provided ingenious plots as well as insights into the lives and personalities of several twentieth-century figures. In “The F. Scott Fitzgerald Murder Case” (November 1972), a New Orleans reporter writing in 1935 recalls a 1920s murder on a private beach in the South of France belonging to the Fitzgeralds’ friends Gerald and Sara Murphy. Fitzgerald does not act as a detective, but the story presents an interesting puzzle of the Queenian sort that could be solved by an attentive reader. A bit more like a sleuth is another alcoholic subject in “John Barrymore and the Poisoned Chocolates” ( January 1973), set in 1928 and told in the first person by a law student serving as the actor’s business manager. Which of three suspects sent Barrymore the poisoned chocolates a few years earlier? In “Thomas Wolfe and the Tombstone Mystery” (March 1973), a literature professor writing in 1941, three years after Wolfe died, recalls how he accompanied the writer on a proposed two-week tour of the National Parks. Wolfe has received death threats via unfinished tombstones, possibly attributable to the hatred felt toward him by some of the people he made use of in his fiction. This one has another surprise ending and a slight paranormal element. Only in “W. Somerset Maugham and the Riviera Robbers” ( June 1973) is the title character a flat-out supersleuth. Though reprising a familiar narrative gimmick from one of the earlier stories, it is the best of the group purely as formal detection. The female narrator is a substitute secretary for Maugham, who normally employed men. The time is 1939, and fear of Hitler has reduced the usually star-studded guest list at Maugham’s villa.

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III. Prodigies ( James Yaffe, Leonard Thompson) EQMM has published at least three teenage writers who had in common precocious talent and a love for classical detective fiction. The most recent, Josh Pachter, who first appeared in December 1968, is still active in the field as a short-story writer, anthologist and translator. The earlier pair both debuted in the 1940s and admired the locked room problems of John Dickson Carr. In “The Department of Impossible Crimes” ( July 1943), fifteen-year-old James Yaffe introduced Paul Dawn of the NYPD, who apart from the titular problems, devotes his working hours to crossword puzzles. His first case, in which the victim is apparently stabbed to death while alone in an elevator, has a standard solution many readers will spot, but it is nicely written and constructed. “Mr. Kiroshibu’s Ashes” (March 1944), whose title character is murdered in a locked train compartment, is just as agreeably told, but the editor spotted a structural error and rather than demand a revision challenged readers to spot it. “Cul de Sac” (March 1945), about a Nazi spy who disposes of an incriminating document while cornered in a dead end alley, has a much more serious error but unfortunately one that author and editor were not made aware of until after publication. On Dannay’s challenge to Yaffe to make a comeback with his best story yet, the young man produced “The Problem of the Emperor’s Mushrooms” (September 1945), in which Dawn is challenged by a history professor to explain how Claudius could have been poisoned by a dish of mushrooms that did no harm to his food-taster. Though that was his last Paul Dawn story, it was followed into print by one written earlier. “The Comic Opera Murders” (February 1946), in which a serial killer who signs himself the Lord High Executioner and patterns his crimes after events in Gilbert and Sullivan, is exceedingly clever and deserves to share top honors in the series. Yaffe was at least as influenced by Ellery Queen, particularly in style and central character, as by Carr. Similarly, Leonard Thompson, the talented sixteen-year-old author of “Squeeze Play” ( January 1946) and “Close Shave” (May 1946), combined Carr’s problems with Erle Stanley Gardner’s milieu. Supposedly washed-up alcoholic lawyer William S. Gray represents clients who have been accused because it seems nobody else could have committed the murders in question. The courtroom scenes and locked-room solutions are entertaining, if unlikely. As with Yaffe, Dannay took the opportunity of sharing with his readers his lessons for the young writer, quoting at length from his editorial advice to Thompson in a long note at the end of “Close Shave.” Yaffe went on to a long and distinguished literary career as novelist and playwright, within and outside the mystery genre. A later series, in which the

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character known only as Mom serves as armchair detective to help her policeman son, was collected in My Mother the Detective (Crippen & Landru, 1997). A pamphlet edition of Yaffe’s Paul Dawn story “The Problem of the Emperor’s Mushrooms” was included in the title’s hardcover edition. Thompson seems to have dropped from sight.

IV. Passers-By (Richard Curtis, John Jakes, Thomas Flanagan) Finally, we look at three series writers who became very well-known, albeit for other things: one of the most prominent contemporary literary agents and two best-selling historical novelists. Richard Curtis created a memorable character in London turf accountant (i.e. bookmaker) Godfrey “Odds” Bodkins, who appeared in six stories in EQMM, all told in engaging first person. The British background and language are generally sound, but Curtis sometimes trips over the turf lingo. English bettors would not refer to the third race on a card, but rather the time that it is run, e.g., the 3:30 at Ascot, and races there are run on a racecourse, not a track. For most of the stories, these missteps are no serious problem, since the bets concern matters other than horse racing. In “Odds Bodkins and the £100 Wager” (November 1967), it is the claim that five men will escape from a named prison in a twenty-four-hour period. In “Odds Bodkins and the Duke’s Divorce” (March 1968), it is whether the titular divorce of a friend and client of Odds, will actually take place. In Odds’ first outing as a genuine detective, “Odds Bodkins and the Featherstone Affair” (September 1968), it is whether Featherstone will be convicted of murder in the “accidental” shooting of his wife during a pheasant hunt. “Odds Bodkins and the Locked Room Caper” ( January 1969) concerns the sealing off of the betting parlor to prevent “pastposting,” i.e. placing a bet on a race that has already been run. How was his suspect beating the system? This is the multi-double-cross tale in which the inaccurate British turf lingo undermines an otherwise inventive plot. In “Odds Bodkins and the Dutch Master” (September 1969), one of the best in the series, Odds establishes his rogue status, insisting he was “running a perfectly legitimate, licensed operation, paying scrupulous attention to each law that I couldn’t circumvent with impunity.”13 Curtis went on to write four novels about sports agent Dave Bolt, beating Harlan Coben’s Myron Bolitar into the field, in the mid–1970s. He has also written several books, satirical and otherwise, about literary agency and the book trade.

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John Jakes was a prolific contributor to the fiction digests in various genres when he cracked EQMM with a unique comic notion: Woodrow Ennis, reporter for a Varietyish showbiz newspaper returns to his hometown of Weevers, Indiana, where his Uncle Pinkerton is a hardware dealer called upon by the police to assist on local mysteries. The small-town crimes—at a drive-in movie, a county fair, and a local talent show—are minor ones, and Woodrow’s application of Variety lingo to a “stix” setting is the key to the stories’ appeal. Best may be the middle tale of three, “Unc Probes Pickle Plot” (September 1965), in which somebody sabotaged the potentially prize-winning pickles of a pushy newcomer. Jakes, whose first love is historical fiction, would later write the enormously successful North and South trilogy. Thomas Flanagan (1923– 2002) won the prize for best first story in EQMM ’s annual contest with the locked-room tale “The Fine Italian Hand” (May 1949) and later a $2,000 first prize for “The Cold Winds of Adesta” (April 1952), first of four stories about Major Tennente, soldier and policeman in an unnamed Mediterranean republic headed by a military dictator known as the General. A good man serving a corrupt regime, Tennente must keep duty and humanity in a delicate balance. His suspect is an itinerant wine merchant who is certainly running illicit guns, though frequent searches turn up nothing. When his superior asks if this makes sense, Tennente responds, “No, but it does not have to make sense, because it happens. You are like the mathematician who confronts the runner at the end of the race and proves to him that he could not have run as fast as he did.”14 Though a cleverly plotted and well-written story, it does not hold up as well as one might hope. Unhelpful is an overly strong whiff of Hemingway, especially in the dialogue. In “The Point of Honor” (December 1952), a survivor of a Nazi concentration camp has been murdered, and an apparent SS colonel is the suspect in custody. But the suspect claims not to be the SS man, though he carries his papers. This is a much stronger story than the first tale, a pure detective puzzle that some readers will undoubtedly figure out—and not mind figuring out. In “The Lion’s Mane” (March 1953), an American doctor accused of espionage has apparently been executed by Tennente on orders of his superior, Colonel Morel, the Lion of the title. Morel had been elevated to replace Tennente as Chief of the State Police by virtue of being on the right side (i.e., the General’s) in the revolution. Much of the story takes place in a court hearing run from the sidelines by an emissary for the General before a terrified judge. Very cleverly constructed, this was the best of the series to date. “The Customs of the Country” ( July 1956) is another smuggling howdunit. Intelligence reports say contraband is being brought into the country via the one foreign train that is allowed to enter, but Captain Budran of the Depart-

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ment of Passport and Customs, an honest officer confident of his thorough searching techniques, never finds enough contraband to justify the scope of the warnings. Major Tennente, at the behest of the captain’s superior officer, comes to assist. This is a terrific story, rich in themes of honor, duty, and the ambiguity of the soldier’s life, a suitable climax to a regrettably short series that grew in power with each entry. Though Flanagan, a university professor, left the mystery field, his The Year of the French (1979), first in a trilogy of novels about Irish history, was a bestseller and is considered by many a modern classic. Through all the years of pulp, slick and digest detective short stories, how many more truncated series are worthy of attention? How about James Holding’s Hal Johnson, Library Fuzz (four stories in EQMM ), Margaret Manners’s Squeakie Meadows (three stories in EQMM ), Edward D. Hoch’s Father David Noone (five stories in three different periodicals spanning forty-one years), Richard Sale’s Owl-Eye Venner (five stories in 1930s pulps), Richard Deming’s Clancy Ross (three stories in Manhunt), or even Robert Leslie Bellem’s Dr. Zarkov, Surgeon of Souls (five stories in 1930s issues of Spicy Mystery Stories)? There are sure to be some forgotten gems by writers unknown to us. Some may even be of as high a grade as the tales of the Prince brothers and Thomas Flanagan.

NOTES 1. Editor’s Introduction to Jerome and Harold Prince, “The Man in the Velvet Hat,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (May 1944): 99. 2. Prince, “Velvet Hat,” 111. 3. Ibid., 110. 4. Editor’s Introduction to Jerome and Harold Prince, “The Finger Man,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, ( January 1945): 77. 5. Editor’s Introduction to Jerome and Harold Prince, “Can You Solve This Crime?,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (September 1950): 31. 6. Prince, “Crime,” 33. 7. Jerome and Harold Prince to Frederic Dannay, December 22, 1946, Fredric Dannay Archive [FDA], Butler Library, Columbia University. My thanks to Jennifer B. Lee, Curator of Performing Arts at the Butler Library, for assistance in locating information in the Archive about Jerome and Harold Prince. 8. Jerome and Harold Prince to Frederic Dannay, December 13, 1942, October 17, 1949, FDA. 9. Editor’s Introduction to Daniel Roselle, “Charlemagne and the Whisperer,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (November 1946): 87. 10. Daniel Roselle, “Charlemagne and the Secret Plans,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (April 1947):70. 11. Editor’s Introduction to Bréni James, “Socrates Solves a Murder,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (October 1954): 74.

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12. Editor’s Introduction to Bréni James (as Brèni Pevehouse), “So Refreshing!,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (May 1957): 56. 13. Richard Curtis, “Odds Bodkins and the Dutch Master,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, (September 1969): 59. 14. Thomas Flanagan, “The Cold Winds of Adesta,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (April 1952):11.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Stories Discussed Curtis, Richard. “Odds Bodkins and the £100 Wager.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (November 1967): 62–66. _____. “Odds Bodkins and the Duke’s Divorce.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (March 1968): 113–121. _____. “Odds Bodkins and the Featherstone Affair.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (September 1968):118–125. _____. “Odds Bodkins and the Locked Room Caper.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine ( January 1969): 67–74. _____. “Odds Bodkins and the Dutch Master.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (September 1969): 58–64. _____. “Odds Bodkins and the Computer Derby.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (December 1969) 113–121. Flanagan, Thomas. “The Cold Winds of Adesta.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (April 1952): 5–18. _____. “The Point of Honor.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (December 1952):129–141. _____. “The Lion’s Mane.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (March 1953): 3–15. _____. “The Customs of the Country.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine ( July 1956): 16–31. Jakes, John. “Unc Solves Flix Flap.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine ( June 1965): 90–98. _____. “Unc Probes Pickle Plot.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (September 1965): 17–27. _____. “Unc Foils Show Foe.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine ( January 1966): 33–46. James, Brèni. “Socrates Solves a Murder.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (October 1954):74–80. _____. “Socrates Solves Another Murder.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (February 1955): 65–71. (as Brèni Pevehouse) “So Refreshing!” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (May 1957): 56–66. Mathieson, Theodore. “Murder on the Delta Queen.” Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine ( June 1959): 27–46. _____. “The Frightened Lady.” Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine (August 1959): 40–59. _____. “Fury in the Fog.” Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine (November 1959): 84–104. _____. “The Bonanza Maze.” Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine (December 1959): 26–47. _____. “The Trojan Horseshoe.” Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine (March 1960): 44–64. _____. “The Third Face.” Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine (August 1960): 76–93. _____. “The F. Scott Fitzgerald Murder Case.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (November 1972): 85–97. _____. “John Barrymore and the Poisoned Chocolates.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine ( January 1973): 71–82.

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_____. “Thomas Wolfe and the Tombstone Mystery.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (March 1973): 101–112. _____. “W. Somerset Maugham and the Riviera Robbers.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine ( June 1973): 58–70. Prince, Jerome and Harold. “The Man in the Velvet Hat.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (May 1944): 99–115. _____. “The Finger Man.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine ( January 1945): 77–91. _____. “The Watchers and the Watched.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (August 1946): 97–115. _____. “Ambush.” Rex Stout’s Mystery Monthly #9 (1947): 95–106. _____. “Can You Solve This Crime?” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (September 1950): 31–52. Roselle, Daniel. “Charlemagne and the Whisperer.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (November 1946): 87–91. _____. “Charlemagne and the Secret Plans.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (April 1947): 68–73. Thompson, Leonard. “Squeeze Play.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine ( January 1946): 112– 128. _____. “Close Shave.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine ( June 1946) 82–98. Yaffe, James. “Department of Impossible Crimes.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine ( July 1943): 49–62. _____. “Mr. Kiroshibu’s Ashes.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (March 1944): 57–71. _____. “The Seventh Drink.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (September 1944): 83–96. _____. “Cul de Sac.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (March 1945): 61–70. _____. “The Problem of the Emperor’s Mushrooms.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (September 1945): 89–97. _____. “The Comic Opera Murders.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (February 1946): 54– 65.

Knife Chords: The Radio Mysteries of John Dickson Carr SERGIO ANGELINI

INTRODUCTION I was barely in my teens when I first heard of John Dickson Carr. One summer while staying with my grandparents at their place in Horsham, West Sussex, I chanced across the first edition of Julian Symons’ Bloody Murder: From the Detective Story to the Crime Novel (1972) in their local library—and nothing has ever been quite the same again. About Carr’s style and approach he wrote: “the deception is built up, sustained with teasing hints that can be interpreted in half a dozen different ways, and at last revealed with staggering skill.”1 I was new to the mystery genre then, with just a few Christie, Fleming and Chandler titles under my belt—but I knew I had to find a Carr! Doing so took me about a year, but this delayed meeting is one I still remember with great clarity: it was in August 1983, when Mondadori reprinted The Reader Is Warned in Italy. I was enthralled by the author’s dexterous mastery of atmosphere, plot and humor and the sheer cleverness of the story, published under the “Carter Dickson” pseudonym; and I became desperate to find more of his work. Luckily for me, and for so many others, I had Douglas G. Greene working on my side. That summer I headed off to the UK again and scoured the stacks of the local public library, though this time it was the one near friends in Maidenhead, Berkshire, a place with a curious distinction in that it is located opposite the Town Hall, already familiar to me and thousands of others as a location for several films in the Carry On series of British movie farces as well as the rival Doctor series starring Dirk Bogarde. I was already a movie buff but it was in this unlikely environment that I discovered Carr’s radio plays for the first 259

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time. In the 1980s Greene, with the likes of Robert S. Adey, Jack Adrian and Tony Medawar, helped bring a new generation of readers to Carr’s work through various collections, reprints and critical studies. The first and perhaps most significant of these particular works remains the book I found on the stacks in Maidenhead, The Door to Doom, Greene’s 1980 anthology gathering classic short fiction and virtually unknown pieces Carr wrote for The Haverfordian, his school magazine. The book’s detailed bibliography provided an enticing glimpse into the author’s varied output— most unexpected of which was the sheer volume of radio plays that he wrote in the 1940s. I wore out the library’s copy of The Door to Doom, until one day I was able to buy my own copy, along with Greene’s The Dead Sleep Lightly (1983), a second anthology devoted solely to the cream of Carr’s audio mysteries. This became a huge discovery for me, perhaps because audio was an area not even remotely covered by Symons and the other histories of the genre that I had managed to lay my hands on so far. As I managed to first read and eventually even hear Carr’s plays I became truly hooked on his work as a dramatist, with its highly colored language, thick atmosphere and ingenious plots that packed a huge amount of incident into their half-hour running time. Of them S. T. Joshi has said, “[T]hey are some of the most vivid and thrilling works in his entire oeuvre.”2 As a child of the TV age, I had initially been disappointed that so few of Carr’s stories had been transposed to the screen, given that his use of Gothic imagery and fascination with recreating on the page the kind of visual illusions more normally geared towards presentation on the stage seemed so suitable for visual adaptation. But quickly I came to realize that radio was an even better medium for Carr, who was able to exert much more control over the finished product and manipulate his listeners as well as his characters by augmenting his already highly precise storytelling skills through aural atmosphere and dramatic effects to make audiences “see” only what he wanted through carefully selected sounds and subtle modulation of the actors’ delivery. Carr’s work for radio included a lot of propaganda scripts but it is the mysteries for which he is best-known. The bulk of these were written for three series: Suspense for CBS in the United States, Appointment with Fear for the BBC and the short-lived Cabin B-13, again for CBS.

SUSPENSE (CBS, 1942–1962) “This is the Man in Black, here again to introduce Columbia’s program, Suspense…. If you’ve been with us on these Tuesday nights, you will know that Suspense is compounded of mystery and suspicion and dangerous adventure. In this series are tales cal-

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culated to intrigue you, to stir your nerves, to offer you a precarious situation and then withhold the solution till the last possible moment.”

In the 1930s Carr worked at a prodigious rate that only increased after the start of the Second World War, when he also worked as a staff writer at the BBC as part of the propaganda effort. He had already established himself as a successful dramatist there with a trio of popular Dr. Gideon Fell mysteries, the three-part serial “Who Killed Matthew Corbin?” (December 27, 1939 to January 14, 1940), “The Black Minute” (February 13, 1940), and “The Devil in the Summer-House” (October 15, 1940), all of which were collected in Greene’s anthology Fell and Foul Play. Yet Carr’s career in the medium really took off when he returned to the US after his native country’s entry into the war and was asked to contribute to Suspense, then a new series on CBS. Indeed, one could argue that Carr was crucial to the initial success of Suspense, the longest running of all American radio anthology series, and that it is high time that the true extent of his contribution was finally recognized. Fortunately, most of his work from this period survives intact (and can be downloaded from the Internet Archive at http://archive.org/details/SUSPENSE). The title of the show came from a pilot broadcast in July 1940 on the experimental series Forecast, which followed the then popular practice of bringing movie stories to radio. In this case Alfred Hitchcock produced a version of The Lodger, the Marie Belloc Lowndes novel about Jack the Ripper that the director had made into a successful silent film in 1926. The success of this broadcast—with its ambiguous ending cannily encouraging audiences to write in for more—led, after some delay, to the debut of the new anthology on June 19, 1942, with an adaptation by Harold Beford of Carr’s classic novel of mystery and the supernatural, The Burning Court.3 After this tentative initial outing, the show was re-launched on October 27, 1942 with Carr’s “The Lord of the Witch Doctors,” a new version of a script he had actually written for the BBC in 1941 that for unknown reasons had been broadcast as by “Robert Southwell.” Carr immediately put his stamp on the Suspense series with this historical thriller involving magic and mystery by introducing the show’s classic narrator “The Man in Black,” usually performed, with just the right hint of ghoulish relish, by Joseph Kearns—though Kearns did not in fact start referring to himself as such until a later Carr play, “The Pit and the Pendulum” ( January 12, 1943), an eerie adaptation of Poe’s suspense classic that matched the atmosphere of the original with a brand new plot and was so popular that it would be produced again and again over the years, both in the US and the UK. Carr molded the show into its best-known form by writing nine out of the first ten episodes and nearly half of all the scripts that followed in the next four months, when as a “sustained” program

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(i.e., with no sponsor) it had to survive on its quality alone. These radio plays are among the apex of what Carr would produce in the medium, a peak that Greene would later refer to as “probably the best mystery dramas ever created for radio” and “the finest products of the radio mystery.” It was at CBS that Carr’s affinity for outlandish touches and melodramatic excess, underlined by dramatic musical stings—known as “knife chords”—were really able to flourish, in contrast with the more restrained approach used at the BBC. The show opened with Bernard Herrmann’s instantly recognizable signature theme music, which remains, as the composer’s biographer has commented, “one of radio’s best remembered [themes], with its eerie harp ostinato, purring flute harmonics and graveyard bell tolling the arrival of the ‘The Man in Black.’”4 In total Carr wrote nearly two-dozen plays for the show up until June 1943 before he was sent back to the UK to write propaganda for the BBC. Structurally they often follow a similar pattern in which we launch “in media res” with nerves near breaking point already and then pause to explain the origins of the current predicament, often via a narrated flashback, before returning to the present and the springing of a surprise solution. This is seen at its best perhaps in “Will You Make a Bet with Death?” (November 10, 1942), in which the protagonist ducks into a house of horrors at Coney Island and tells a young woman he has just met why he has been living under the threat of death for the last twelve months; and in “The Bride Vanishes” (December 1, 1942), where a honeymooning couple see their holiday in Capri shattered by the wife’s resemblance to a woman who made an impossible disappearance years before—which is then duly replicated. In the CBS version of “The Devil in the Summer-House,” for which Carr removed Dr. Fell, we begin in the present, then flashback twenty years, then snap back to discover that the repercussions of an old murder plot have yet to truly abate. Not all the stories are whodunits and some of those with a more overtly propagandist plot are noticeably less successful. For instance, “Menace in Wax” (November 17, 1942) begins well at Madame Tussaud’s before shifting to a rather pedestrian runaround in the country to stop a bombing raid; and “Death Flies Blind” (May 4, 1943), doesn’t do much with its intriguing central premise of passengers on a flight from which the pilot disappears (it turns out, highly implausibly, that the flight crew parachuted out in midflight without anybody noticing). But even the less successful episodes have much to offer, not least when Carr was able to make the most of the star actors imported from Hollywood. Peter Lorre, for instance, starred in three of Carr’s scripts, all cannily exploiting his sinister persona to misdirect audiences. In “Till Death Do Us Part” (December 15, 1942) he is a cuckolded husband apparently intent on killing himself— but what is that odd sound coming from the cupboard? In “The Devil’s Saint”

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( January 19, 1943) he plays a sinister Hungarian who holds the secret of a room that seems to kill its occupants but where nothing is what it seems and innocence has truly been lost. In “Moment of Darkness” (April 20, 1943) he is a fraudulent spirit medium in a play with a typically atmospheric climax in which a murder takes place at a séance held in a pitch-black locked room where all the suspects have alibis as they are holding hands at the time. All are superbly atmospheric and highly ingenious. Just as good is “Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble” (April 6, 1943), a Shakespearean mystery set during a performance of Macbeth in which a magician (played by Oscar-winning actor Paul Lukas) solves a mystery that has a supremely nasty murder method that the author had used before and a setting that looks forward to Gideon Fell’s penultimate novel, Panic in Box C. These plays offer historical mysteries, psychological thrillers, whodunits and impossible crimes, all told with great recourse to atmospheric sound and music, star actors from Hollywood and much ingenuity. Seventy years may have passed but they remain supremely entertaining. Before his work on Suspense, Carr created one of his most ambitious works for radio, “Speak of the Devil” (February 10–March 31, 1941), a historical mystery serial in eight weekly installments. In it Carr had created a mysterious character referred to as “The Man in Black,” predating its use on Suspense by eighteen months. In the serial, episode six to be exact, the part was played by Valentine Dyall, and the actor and the role would become crucial ingredients in Carr’s next major radio series.

APPOINTMENT WITH FEAR (BBC 1943–49, 1955) “This is your storyteller, the Man in Black, here again to bring you another placid evening in our fireside series, Appointment with Fear.”

Having been sent back to the UK to work for the BBC as part of the war effort, Carr immediately suggested that Suspense be adapted for UK listeners desperately in need of escapist fare during the conflict. The result was the hugely successful Appointment with Fear, which reused the basic format of the US series as well as Herrmann’s eerie theme music and for which Carr not only would adapt many of his earlier scripts but also contribute over two dozen new ones as well as adaptations of stories by the likes of Ambrose Bierce, G. K. Chesterton and Robert Louis Stevenson. It made a massive impact in the UK and turned Dyall into a huge star, his sepulchral tones perfectly matching the “Man in Black” persona. Indeed, in 1949 the show was renamed The Man in Black, the title also used for a movie spinoff made by Hammer Films and released in 1950. In 1945 there was even a stage version that used a recording

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of Dyall in character to introduce three short plays, two of which were by Carr (and collected in 13 to the Gallows, published by Greene’s Crippen & Landru imprint in 2008).5 Unfortunately only four recordings from the series are extant, all three of Carr’s being versions of Suspense scripts. “The Pit and the Pendulum” (September 18, 1943) is a slightly less histrionic but equally fine version production while “The Speaking Clock” (April 13, 1944) is a slightly revised version of “Mr. Markham Antique Dealer” (May 11, 1943), a tale recounted by the murder victim that turns out not to have a supernatural explanation, and is perhaps even more sinister than the US version that starred Paul Lukas. The highlight of the trio, however, is “The Clock Strikes Eight” (May 18, 1944), a rewrite of “The Hangman Won’t Wait” (February 9, 1943), which is particularly valuable as the Suspense version does not survive on audio. This Gideon Fell mystery, with its amnesia plot and unusual setting in the condemned cell of a women’s prison, is one of his finest, re-using a clue from “Who Killed Matthew Corbin?” that later also made its way into a 1976 Columbo episode, “Fade in to Murder.” Happily, original scripts for the series have been printed, including some of the fine entries Carr wrote for the revival of the show in 1955. In the interim Carr had moved back to the US and created a new show, one for which he would be the sole author.

CABIN B-13 (1948–49) “My name is Fabian, ship’s surgeon of the luxury liner, the Maurevania. Tonight as we lay alongside the docks of the great port of Southampton the ship is ghostly, deserted, our passengers on this world cruise have gone to London and as I sit here in my cabin, B-13, I am reminded how the tides and storms of a thousand voyages have wrought nothing more strange, more sinister, than man’s desire for adventure in the strange ports and lands we touch….”

Carr’s place as one of the greats of the Golden Age mystery is secure. Renowned as the master of the locked room mystery, he is arguably more associated with this subgenre in general than with any specific one of his books or individual novels; yet with his radio plays, it is easy to pinpoint the one for which he is best regarded: “Cabin B-13,” first performed on Suspense on March 13, 1943. A clever variant on the Paris Exposition vanishing lady story, it was performed many times on radio and has also been adapted once for the cinema (Dangerous Crossing, 1953), and at least three times for television (the Suspense TV show on March 29, 1949; Climax! on June 26, 1958; and the 1992 TVmovie, Treacherous Crossing). When Carr returned to live in the US he quickly got CBS to agree to his proposal that he expand the play into its own spin-off

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series, with ship’s physician Dr Fabian acting as narrator and occasional detective as the SS Maurevania docked in a new destination every week. The show was once again directed by John Dietz, Carr’s collaborator on Suspense, with Arnold Moss starring as Fabian. The memorable theme tune, introduced inevitably perhaps by the sound of a ship’s horn, was by Merle Kendrick. Cabin B-13 was long shrouded in a different kind of mystery, due to its sheer lack of availability. Chris Steinbrunner and Otto Penzler summed up its short run by concluding that, “far too intelligent to win wide popular response, it was among radio’s very best mystery series,” but there was more to it than that. Another sponsor-free experiment in prime time, its comparatively short run seems to have been due to several factors, including competition from already well-established radio dramas. It is also clear that the run had to be abbreviated when the weight of Carr’s workload as sole author proved too much for him. According to Tony Medawar and James Keirans, the first fifteen episodes were essentially all original scripts but after that the pressure of work meant that Carr, much to his employer’s displeasure, had to start reworking previously used material.6 Cabin B-13 remains the most unavailable of Carr’s radio series. We have a recording of the debut episode, “A Razor in Fleet Street,” starring Basil Rathbone, which Carr later published in print, and two of the final entries, which are light rewrites of two of Carr’s best Suspense episodes, “The Bride Vanishes” (December 12, 1948) and “The Devil’s Saint,” retitled “The Sleep of Death” (December 26, 1948). The entire run of scripts was unearthed by Medawar and Keirans and has now been published, albeit in French translation only (Cabine B-13, Atalante, 2008), as part of a four-volume edition, translated by Danièle Grivel, that runs to 2,200 pages and brings together almost all Carr’s radio scripts, including his propaganda work. One can only hope that it will not be long before these scripts appear in English too. Greene included versions of two of the original scripts, albeit as adapted for the 1955 revival of Appointment With Fear, in The Dead Sleep Lightly and both are highly satisfying excursions into the macabre, with a dash of humor. In the meantime, the collections edited and/or published by Douglas G. Greene remain a fine testament to the power, ingenuity and continuing appeal of the radio mysteries written by John Dickson Carr.

NOTES FOR THE CURIOUS ON PRINT SOURCES The bibliography details where scripts of many of Carr’s radio plays may be found in print, especially important in the cases where recordings of the original radio productions are no longer available. The most important of these

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remain Douglas Greene’s anthologies The Door to Doom and The Dead Sleep Lightly, which include fifteen of the author’s best and were felicitously chosen so as to have no overlap between them. In addition, Greene’s Fell and Foul Play includes the three-part serial “Who Killed Matthew Corbin?” and the Dr. Fell version of “The Devil in the Summer-House” heard on the BBC; and the companion anthology, Merrivale, March and Murder, includes “Lair of the Devil Fish,” one of the too few original scripts from Appointment with Fear in print. Carr’s serial Speak of the Devil was published by Crippen & Landru. Jack Adrian and Robert Adey’s anthology The Art of the Impossible includes the version of “A Razor in Fleet Street” that Carr prepared for magazine publication.

NOTES 1. Julian Symons, Bloody Murder: From the Detective Story to the Crime Novel (1972; 3rd ed., London: Pan, 1994), 135. 2. S.T Joshi, John Dickson Carr: A Critical Study (Bowling Green, OH: Popular Press1990), 80. 3. Martin Grams, Jr., Suspense: Twenty Years of Thrills and Chills (Kearney, NE: Morris, 1998). 4. Douglas G. Greene, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (New York: Otto Penzler, 1995), 250; Steven C. Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Centre: The Life and Music of Bernard Herrmann (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1991), 95. Herrmann’s then wife, Lucille Fletcher, scripted the hugely popular “Sorry, Wrong Number,” a tale of mounting hysteria that Agnes Moorhead performed a total of seven times over the course of the show’s run and that also was adapted into a 1948 motion picture, likewise scripted by Fletcher, starring Barbara Stanwyck). 5. Carr’s character has been resuscitated several times by BBC radio since, first for Fear on Four with Edward de Souza between 1988 and 1993; later Mark Gatiss took over the role in 2009 for The Man in Black, a continuing series on BBC Radio 7 (later rebranded at BBC Radio 4 Extra). 6. Chris Steinbrunner and Otto Penzler, eds., Encyclopedia of Mystery and Detection (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1976), 64; “Cabin B-13,” The Digital Deli Too, at http://www.digitaldeliftp.com/DigitalDeliToo/dd2jb-Cabin-B-13.html.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Adrian, Jack and Robert Adey, eds. The Art of the Impossible. London: Xanadu, 1990. Carr, John Dickson. Cabine B-13 (Cabin B-13). Edited by Roland Lacourbe. Translated by Danièle Grivel. Nantes: Atalante, 2008. _____. The Door to Doom and Other Detections. Edited by Douglas G. Greene. New York: Harper & Row, 1980. _____. The Dead Sleep Lightly and Other Mysteries from Radio’s Golden Age. Edited by Douglas G. Greene. New York: Doubleday, 1983.

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_____. En parlant du diable (Speak of the Devil). Edited by Roland Lacourbe. Translated by Danièle Grivel. Nantes: Atalante, 2009. _____. Fell and Foul Play. Edited by Douglas G. Greene. New York: International Polygonics, 1991. _____. Merrivale, March and Murder. Edited by Douglas G. Greene. New York: International Polygonics, 1991. _____. Rendez-vous avec la peur (Appointment with Fear). Edited by Roland Lacourbe. Translated by Danièle Grivel. Nantes: Atalante, 2006. _____. Speak of the Devil. Edited by Tony Medawar. Norfolk, VA: Crippen & Landru, 1994. _____. Suspense. Edited by Roland Lacourbe. Translated by Danièle Grivel. Nantes: Atalante, 2007. _____, and Val Gielgud. 13 to the Gallows. Edited by Tony Medawar. Norfolk, VA: Crippen & Landru, 2008. Grams Jr., Martin. Suspense: Twenty Years of Thrills and Chills. Kearney, NE: Morris, 1998. Greene, Douglas G. John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. New York: Otto Penzler, 1995. Joshi, S.T. John Dickson Carr: A Critical Study. Bowling Green, OH: Popular Press, 1990. Medawar, Tony and James Keirans. “Suspense on the High Seas.” The Armchair Detective 24 (1991): 422–437. Smith, Steven C. A Heart at Fire’s Centre: The Life and Music of Bernard Herrmann. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1991. Steinbrunner, Chris and Otto Penzler. Editors. Encyclopedia of Mystery and Detection. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1976. Symons, Julian. Bloody Murder: From the Detective Story to the Crime Novel. 1972. Third Edition. London: Pan, 1994.

Adventures in Radioland: Ellery Queen On (And Off ) the Air JOSEPH G OODRICH

As someone who has been reading Ellery Queen (EQ) mysteries since the Ford administration, it’s gratifying to note the recent revival of interest in the work of Frederic Dannay (1905–1982) and Manfred B. Lee (1905–1971), the two cousins from Brooklyn who created the fictional detective/author Ellery Queen. Renewed attention to EQ has manifested itself in a number of ways. In the fall of 2010, the 1975–1976 NBC television series starring Jim Hutton as a tall and boyish Ellery was released on DVD. In the winter of 2013 Francis M. Nevins, the Magellan of Queen studies, published an expanded version of his groundbreaking study Royal Bloodline: Ellery Queen, Author and Detective. Many of the EQ titles are back in circulation, in both electronic and paper form, thanks to the Mysterious Press/Open Road Integrated Media, and to James Pritchard’s Langtail Press. Biographer Jeffrey Marks is at work on a tome about Dannay and Lee. My own efforts include editing and annotating Blood Relations: The Selected Letters of Ellery Queen, 1947–1950, which details the writing of three of the greatest Queen novels, and was published in the winter of 2012; and writing a stage version of the EQ novel Calamity Town, which had its premiere in September 2013 in Claremont, New Hampshire, the reallife model for the novel’s fictional Wrightsville.1 These are palmy times for the Queen fan. But such was not always the case. Ellery Queen, character and author, largely disappeared from popular culture after the cancellation of the 1975–1976 television series. The books went out of print and, with the exception of a small number of Queen enthusiasts, Dan268

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nay, Lee and EQ were mostly forgotten. Many reasons have been offered for this, ranging from changing tastes in popular literature to the decline of Western civilization. Critic Jon L. Breen, who has written insightfully about Queen’s eclipse, finds its roots in a simplistically bifurcated vision of the mystery novel’s development that divides the genre into upper-class English female classicists and working-class American hardboiled males. This view leaves male classicists such as Queen out in the cold.2 Whatever the reasons, the sad result was that Ellery Queen—once a synonym for “detective”—languished in obscurity. One of those who remembered EQ was Douglas Greene, the founder of Crippen & Landru. In 1999 Greene published the invaluable The Tragedy of Errors And Others. Marking the seventieth anniversary of The Roman Hat Mystery, EQ’s debut, Tragedy contains a half-dozen uncollected Queen stories; almost two-dozen recollections of Dannay and Lee by friends, family members and colleagues; and, most tantalizingly, Dannay’s last outline for a Queen novel, The Tragedy of Errors. Dannay provided the intricately crafted plots that Lee turned into fullfledged EQ novels. The division of labor between plotting and writing played to their respective strengths but was more honored in the breach than in the observance, making it a continual source of friction between the two. Dannay felt that Lee treated his story constructions with a cavalier indifference. Lee felt hard pressed to enliven what he considered to be outlandish and unbelievable characters and premises. They clashed frequently and disagreed about almost everything. That the novels and short stories and radio plays got written despite the Sturm und Drang of their creation is a testament to the determination of both Dannay and Lee; proof in its way of the strength of their bond; and a kind of triumph. Their personal and working relationship may have been, as Lee described it, “a marriage made in hell.”3 But this “marriage” endured for over forty years and produced some of the finest works of twentieth-century detective fiction. Dannay’s outlines were highly detailed affairs, running into tens of thousands of words. Tragedy is no exception, and provides the reader with an intriguing glimpse into Dannay’s contribution to the collaboration. Lee died before he could transform the outline into a novel. The personal reminiscences contained in Tragedy expand our understanding of the two cousins and their lives on and off the page. Dannay, Lee and Queen are viewed from a number of angles—as writers, as parents, as public figures (or, in Lee’s case, as someone who passionately hated public appearances). Of particular interest are essays by family members. Douglas and Richard Dannay write with clarity and affection of their father’s love of poetry and book col-

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lecting. Rand B. Lee poignantly examines his troubled relationship with a father who died too soon. Greene brought out another volume of Queen material in 2005 to mark the hundredth birthdays of Dannay and Lee—and of EQ, who was also “born” in 1905. The Adventures of the Murdered Moths and Other Radio Mysteries gathers fourteen scripts from the Adventures of Ellery Queen radio show, which aired from 1939 to 1948. Moths does a great service by making the scripts available. Out of the dozens of shows produced and aired over the course of its run, only a handful of broadcasts have survived. Thanks to Moths, we can now imagine over a dozen more. The Frederic Dannay Papers at Columbia University contain a fair amount of correspondence concerning the radio show. It comes as no surprise that, like everything else involving their brainchild, Ellery Queen’s portrayal on radio was a subject of dissension. Should he be a social critic solving crimes of injustice and intolerance (Lee’s view), or should he leave the do-gooding to others and stick to pure detecting (Dannay’s)? The cancellation of the radio show in 1948 effectively ended the debate, but while it lasted it burned hot and bright. Lee was not a man for half-measures; nor, in his quieter, more subdued manner, was Dannay. The Adventures of Ellery Queen was, for a good portion of its existence, primarily Lee’s bailiwick. Faced with the death of his first wife and the pressures of editing Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Dannay stepped aside from the task of providing Lee with plots for the show; critic and mystery writer Anthony Boucher and journeyman radio writer Tom Everitt took his place. Lee moved to California in 1947 to supervise the show. He not only wrote the scripts but also served as a quasi-producer, dealing with radio sponsors, advertising agencies and recalcitrant actors and directors. Despite his best efforts, the show was cancelled. In a long letter dated June 28, 1948, Lee aired his grievances to William Morris agent Alexander (“Sandy”) Stronach. Lee’s blunt, impassioned letter offers an insider’s look at the radio business as it reached its terminal stage. Quoted in full, it is published here for the first time. Dear Sandy: Dannay writes me that he had a long talk with you the other day about the Queen radio situation and he gave me in some detail the substance of that conversation. Recriminations are pointless and I am not going to indulge in them, but you and William Morris have the job of selling Queen for radio and that’s very much to the point. It seems to me you can’t do the job properly unless we are all clear and agreed on the facts. After carefully reading Dannay’s report on the “facts” as trans-

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mitted to him by you, I am far from satisfied that we are all clear on them and certainly we are not in agreement. As I understand it, you “finally got the story out of ABC” as to why they dropped Queen: They had been pressed for some time economically, decided to drop some shows, conducted “a sort of survey, or inquiry” on mystery shows to determine which they should retain and which they should drop, their survey revealed that the only popular mystery shows have two characteristics in common—a central character and a quality or qualities in that character which make “listeners feel that they are participating in the adventures of a real person, one they know and like and want to hear about, watch,” etc.—and that, measured by this test, the Queen show “failed” on the second count: that is, ABC concluded that Ellery was not “a real living person with human qualities in the sense that other central detective characters on radio are”; and that, as a consequence, they dropped Queen. If the above paragraph represents in essence what ABC told you, Sandy, as their reason for dropping Queen, it is extremely important for me to go on record with you—and the Morris organization—as characterizing it as pure, unadulterated horse shit. It may well have been their reason—they may even believe it, although I submit that the facts of record cast the strongest doubt even on that—but it isn’t the truth about Queen and I don’t see how you can try to sell Queen if you believe this about Queen. And that, not ABC, is what chiefly concerns me. First, as to ABC’s veracity: ABC put us on sustaining last November, at considerable budgetary cost to them. In a talk I had with [radio executive] Bud Barry out here before we set the deal, at which Murray was present, Barry revealed that the main pressure for ABC’s putting Queen on the network came from the ABC sales organization in New York: he said, and I quote, “they consider Queen the most saleable mystery property in radio today.” Queen was hardly a new show last fall; we had been on the air more than eight years at that time; a radio sales department could hardly have based their opinion on Queen’s saleability upon hearsay or a misconception—it could only have been from a thorough knowledge of the Queen show and the Queen character and the Queen record on the air. (This last, I might add, consistently under and in spite of uniformly adverse conditions.) We were on for ABC a total of 27 weeks. During 21 of those 27 weeks I had at least half a dozen reports from [William Morris radio agent Phil] Weltman regarding ABC’s “satisfaction” with the show, two expressions directly to me from [ABC Radio’s West Coast head of production] J. Donald Wilson to the same effect, and some 6 weeks before they dropped us, another personal talk with Bud Barry in which he said, and again I quote (Weltman was present): “We are thoroughly satisfied with the show; the only beef we have is against ourselves, because we haven’t been able to sell it.” And—mark this well, please—in this same talk, with Weltman present, Barry said to me, “In fact, if you are willing, we would like to continue with the Queen show at least through this summer. We still feel it is a valuable property and that, if we can ride out the current anti-mystery show cycle, we can sell it.” I repeat: this conversation took place 6 weeks before they dropped us. I submit that in the face of all this enthusiasm for the Queen show, consistent and without a sour note, it is strongly open to doubt that, suddenly, in the last few weeks, a “survey” revealed to ABC what none of them had ever known before: that

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Queen was not a character in the same way as other radio detectives and therefore he wasn’t, after all, saleable. Who conducted this survey? When? How? Who was “surveyed?” Who said Queen had insufficient human qualities? And why were “human qualities” suddenly so important when for some nine years previously an apparent “lack” of them had not kept Queen off the air? My present records go back only to October, 1942; but between October 10, 1942 and September 21, 1947—a total of 5 years—we were off the air exactly 14 weeks! I doubt if many mystery shows can match that record. Then we were off the air for 2 months to make the switchover from New York to Hollywood and were on 27 weeks for ABC. And even in that 5-year period 6 of the 14 weeks were a layoff enforced when Anacin switched from CBS to NBC and the switchover couldn’t be effectuated sooner. And I want to point out, further, what I think it is most important for all of us to remember: that every single broadcast in those all-but-solid 5 years was a commercially sponsored show. Add to this fact that in those 5 years we had only 2 sponsors, and I think the score adds up to a damned successful Queen show, human qualities or no human qualities. And I want to point out further that before October 1942, with the sole exception of our first sustaining series for CBS as a 1-hour show, we were also uniformly sponsored. And I want to point out further that we would have continued being sponsored after September 21, 1947—by Anacin, who wanted us to continue this past winter and spring, in the Sunday 6:30 spot on NBC—if not for the refusal of Niles Trammell to allow our sponsor to keep a mystery show in that spot during the regular broadcasting season. So, as I say, survey or no survey, ABC believing it or not believing it, the question of Ellery’s having “human qualities” or not is irrelevant, absurd, and a dangerous red herring. My personal opinion, Sandy, based on the above facts, is that—contrary to your belief—you have still not got out of ABC the real reason for their having dropped the Queen show. I think they’ve handed you a line of double-talk. I think, in view of the facts, their integrity and veracity are widely open to question. As confirmation: They notified us of their decision not to renew and in the same notification they assured us that their decision was in no way dictated by dissatisfaction with the show. I have a copy of their official notice to us of cancellation. I quote the pertinent paragraph: “This cancellation is due to a complete rearrangement of our evening schedule, and while this formal notice of cancellation is necessary because of the four weeks’ notice required, we are going to make every effort to find another time for the program before the final broadcast in which case we would reinstate the series if you are willing. The program has been a successful series and this cancellation has nothing to do with the merit of the program and we continue to have faith in the property. It is entirely a question of time availability. We certainly hope we can work the problem out within the next few weeks. (Italics mine.) By May 5, the date of the cancellation notice, just 3 weeks before the last broadcast, ABC was still having “faith in the property” and “the merit of the program,” still thought it had been “a successful series”—to such an extent, in fact, that they would “reinstate the series” if we were “willing!” Did their survey post-date May 5?

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And, no matter what the findings of that survey, how could they have possibly changed the facts which dictated their statement—on May 5—that the series had been successful? Success is not a matter of opinion but of facts. Either on May 5 they were lying in that letter, in which case they’re liars and nothing they say can be believed, or they were telling the truth as of May 5, in which case their survey story is—as I said—a lot of equine foecal matter. Whichever way you smell it, it stinks. I don’t know, as I say, their real reason for dropping us; but whatever it was, it had nothing to do with any “survey.” And it certainly had nothing to do with Ellery’s “lack of human qualities.” As a matter of fact, even this latter charge is not true. It is true that Ellery is not an eccentric; but for at least the last 3 1/2 years, on an increasing scale, he has been a human being, recognizable as such, with extremely likeable qualities, and moreover he has engaged in cases which for the most part told stories of human interest about people you could care for. And his relationship with Nikki has been one of alternating conflict and attraction. This is not open to contradiction. The scripts and the recordings exist to back up my statement. I am astounded that anyone at all familiar with the week-in, week-out adventures of Ellery for the last several years could seriously entertain for a moment credence in the ridiculous charge that during that considerable period Ellery has not been a human being in radio. But apparently at Morris some credence is given to this. And since Morris has to sell Queen for radio at present, it is highly important, as I said before, for your office to be set straight. Certainly Weltman out here is in a position to do so: he can at least testify to the quality of both Ellery as a human being and the show as an entertainment feature for the past ABC series. But, as I say, the shows speak for themselves. Apparently they spoke pretty convincingly to ABC up to May 5. I am told by Dannay that your personal explanation for Queen’s radio success for years—in spite of, presumably, Ellery’s lack of human qualities—is that we brought a unique format to radio mysteries; and for Queen’s present radio “failure” your opinion is that by now the format has simply worn out. This is not merely an oversimplification in my opinion; it just isn’t true. By “unique format” I presume you mean the challenge-to-the-listener device. If the format has worn out, why has CBS recently put a mystery show on the air called Find That Clue which uses a variation—may I say a swipe?—of the identical device? I have only recently heard of another program using another variation of the same theme. If anything, the trend seems to be to the device, not away from it. Have you, for your side, any evidence that our format is worn out? For myself, I have no objection whatever to scrapping a format that is passé; but I’d have to be convinced by facts that it’s so before I’d agree. I am certainly not going to let the format take the rap—or Ellery’s “character,” or any other integral factor of the show itself—when there are a dozen other possible explanations for the present standstill in the Queen operation. The first impulse of people in and around radio, when things don’t go right, is to blame the show. It’s too easy. What are these “other possible explanations?” Certain things seem to be true. According to Bud Barry, the mystery show in radio has for some time been “in the doldrums,” to use his phrase. As of the date of our last talk, which was in March, Barry said ABC had been unable to sell a single mystery commercially except Gang

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Busters, and even that one, he said, was sold only by the most extraordinary concessions and pressures on ABC’s part. He blamed the organized groups which have been propagandizing against mystery shows, and especially [NBC Radio President] Niles Trammell and NBC. He said the whole atmosphere scared sponsors off mysteries, or tended to. He did say he thought it was a “temporary condition,” and that was when he said ABC would like to keep Queen on at least through the summer—“to ride it out” if we were willing. Secondly—as for the Queen show itself—the record shows that, considering the length of time we have been on the air, we have not got out of that long tenure what we should have got out of it. A favorable record in radio is made, as everyone in the business knows only too well, by factors other than the show itself. One is network. Another is time. Another is position in relation to other shows. The record will show that in all of Queen’s tenure on the air since our first half-hour show, commercially, for Gulf Oil, many years ago, we have not once had (a) a really good network coverage; or (b) a choice broadcast time; or (c) a favorable position in relation to other successful shows on the same network on the same night. The sole exceptions to this have come during certain summer series, when we had good broadcast spots—the only trouble being that we had them only during the summer, when ratings go down to zero. As soon as the regular broadcast season began, we would be yanked to go elsewhere. Queen’s record has been made in the face of, and despite, this terrible handicap. The greatest number of network stations we have ever had during any commercially sponsored period was under 60. We have never had a really choice broadcast time for a show like ours. As I have explained times innumerable to everyone concerned, including the Morris office, the various advertising agencies involved, etc., our show has always called for concentration on the part of the audience, consequently it demands a time late enough in the evening not to be threatened by the normal hazards of early-evening listening, such as dinner, putting-the-kids-to-bed, etc. We have never had a favorable position, by which I mean being preceded by or followed by a high-rating show on the same network. On the contrary, we have been used to build up a spot for others to benefit by. This we have managed to do with monotonous regularity. (In this connection, I would like to point out that even during the late ABC series of 27 weeks, twice we built up a spot which ABC took away from us promptly for the sale of another property. ABC had us in three different time-spots in 27 weeks. How can you build up a rating when you can’t get set long enough to have any chance of doing so? Even so, we managed to build them up sufficiently for ABC to sell them elsewhere.) If you are looking for a reason for Queen’s present deplorable condition on radio, don’t you think the above makes a little sense? I do. And where would you say the responsibility lies for the above facts? I would say in the hands of those entrusted with the job of selling the show. In fact, I do say so. Sincerely, Manfred B. Lee 4560 Carpenter Avenue North Hollywood, Calif.4

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Lee never shied away from speaking his mind. I believe that both Dannay and Lee would speak quite freely—and favorably—about Douglas Greene and Crippen & Landru. Greene shares Dannay’s avid interest in the mystery short story and Lee’s devotion to good writing. Greene has preserved work from such neglected figures as Queen, John Dickson Carr, Christianna Brand, Anthony Berkeley and Margaret Millar. He offers us some of the best contemporary short mystery fiction from writers such as S. J. Rozan, William Link, Clark Howard, Bill Pronzini and Marcia Muller. Hats (or deerstalkers, if you prefer) off to Douglas Greene! All of us—not just Queen fans—are in his debt.

NOTES 1. Ellery Queen Mysteries, Studio One / NBC Universal, 2010; Francis M. Nevins, Ellery Queen: The Art of Detection (Perfect Crime Books, 2013); Joseph Goodrich, Blood Relations: The Selected letters of Ellery Queen, 1947-1950 (Perfect Crime Books, 2012). 2. Jon L. Breen, “The Ellery Queen Mystery,” The Weekly Standard 11 (11 October 2005), reprinted in Jon L. Breen, A Shot Rang Out: Selected Mystery Criticism (Surinam Turtle Press, 2008), 105–110. 3. Goodrich, Blood Relations, 134. 4. Manfred B. Lee to Frederic Dannay, 28 June 1948, Frederic Dannay Papers, Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University Library. Excerpts from the Ellery Queen Letters (letters exchanged between Frederic Dannay and Manfred B. Lee) have been reprinted with the permission of their copyright holders, the Frederic Dannay Literary Property Trust and the Manfred B. Lee Family Literary Property Trust, c/o their literary agent, Joshua Bilmes, JABberwocky Literary Agency.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Breen, Jon L. “The Ellery Queen Mystery.” The Weekly Standard 11 (11 October 2005): 4143. Reprinted in Jon L. Breen, A Shot Rang Out: Selected Mystery Criticism. Surinam Turtle Press, 2008. Pp. 105-110. Goodrich, Joseph. Blood Relations: The Selected Letters of Ellery Queen, 1947-1950. Perfect Crime Books, 2012. Manfred B. Lee to Frederic Dannay, 28 June 1948. Frederic Dannay Papers. Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University. Nevins, Francis M. Ellery Queen: The Art of Detection. Perfect Crime Books, 2013.

Parody, Pastiche and Presentism in Mystery Fiction: Sherlock Holmes, Lord Peter Wimsey and the Immortal Jane HELEN SZAMUELY

The years 2010 and 2011 were notable ones for mystery fiction pastiche. In 2010 Jill Paton Walsh published The Attenbury Emeralds, the third of her four Lord Peter Wimsey novels, and 2011 saw the appearance of two books that created literary sensations within the crime fiction world: Anthony Horowitz’s The House of Silk, a Sherlock Holmes novel, and P. D. James’s Death Comes to Pemberley, a continuation, as a crime novel, of Jane Austen’s muchloved Pride and Prejudice. Of this trio of modern crime writers, Jill Paton Walsh is the most successful at producing pastiche relatively unmarred by presentism. Detective fiction parody is a comparatively straightforward affair. As long as there is some memorable feature to the detective that can be exaggerated, there is potential for parody. Leo Bruce’s classic mystery novel Case for Three Detectives (1936) mirthfully parodies, as the title indicates, no less than three renowned Golden Age sleuths: Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot, G. K. Chesterton’s Father Brown and Dorothy L. Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey. Yet among M. Poirot, Father Brown and Lord Peter, only the latter character to date has figured in pastiche novels.1 Of these two literary forms, parody and pastiche, arguably it is pastiche that offers the more daunting prospect. While the literary parodist exaggeratedly portrays the work of another author in order to make the author’s characters look ridiculous, the writer of pastiche attempts strictly to accomplish what is proverbially the sincerest form of flattery, imitation. In Michael Innes’ detective novel The Long Farewell 276

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(1958), Innes’s sleuth Sir John Appleby has an interesting discussion with Lewis Packford, a maverick Shakespearian scholar loosely based on A. L. Rowse, about the subjects of forgery and pastiche. When their conversation turns to the Venus de Milo, Appleby puckishly suggests that the famous statue “may have been commissioned by some first-century gentleman who thought modern art terribly vulgar.” Nothing of the kind, retorts Packford: “[S]he’s far too good to be a piece of historical pastiche done to order with an eye on a rich man’s cheque-book. It’s a case of an artist’s passionate identification with the vision of another age.” With similar conviction Packford insists that there is genuine artistry in the pseudo-medieval poetry of Thomas Chatterton (1752– 1770). “He lived in a medieval dream-world of his own contriving, and the poems and so forth came out of it,” Packford declares. “Make-believe was a condition of the functioning of his genius—and it was a very real genius.”2 There no doubt can be true creative genius in pastiche; yet literary critic S. T. Joshi has pointed out, in his study of the detective fiction of John Dickson Carr, that there also is a pitfall to the form, namely its stifling of originality: The trouble with serious pastiche—as opposed to parody, something Carr did brilliantly in two hilarious Sherlockian send-ups, the stage plays The Adventure of the Conk-Singleton Papers and The Adventure of the Paradol Chamber—is that any sort of creativeness or originality is by definition ruled out. Pastiches must be rigidly faithful to their original in spirit, tone, and mannerisms, and to a genuinely creative artist like Carr such constraints become highly limiting.3

While Thomas Chatterton immersed himself and his great talent in the works of a specific period, writers of Holmesian or Wimseyan pastiche must immerse themselves in the works of a specific writer. To be sure, this can be done successfully; yet what one often gets is artificiality and a studied carefulness about the continuation, as if the present-day author were afraid of breaking a fragile mechanism. For example, of the pastiche stories written by John Dickson Carr and Adrian Doyle, a son of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and collected in The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (1954), those plotted and written by the younger Doyle suffer from this creative timorousness. On the other hand, Carr’s stories, though rich in Holmesiana, are truly his own works, rather than pale pastiches of Sir Arthur’s.4 Carr’s Sherlock Holmes tales also avoid another blight of pastiche writing: presentism, which is the anachronistic imposition of present-day ideas upon depictions or interpretations of the past. Perhaps the primary example of presentism in Britain is the so-called Whig interpretation of history, popular until the mid-twentieth century; yet secondary examples can be found throughout the vast literature of pastiche detective fiction, as well as in the many continuations of literary works from the nineteenth century.

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Roughly speaking, mystery pastiche can be of three kinds: (1) stories purporting to be additional material to an existing canon that are contemporaneous with it; (2) continuations; (3) mock studies, biographies and analyses of fictional detectives. Sherlock Holmes has figured largely in all three varieties, all the way back to the years of his and Dr. Watson’s original appearances in print. Stories written in imitation of the real ones were published in many parts of the world, even in Russia. Few of them resembled the originals in any way except for the names and the bizarre or ridiculously simple deductions that Holmes produced like rabbits out of a hat. Sir Arthur made the odd halfhearted attempt to stop them and as a result of his intervention Maurice Leblanc’s stories about Holmes and Arsène Lupin became stories about Herlock Sholmes or Holmlock Shears. Adrian Doyle tried much more vigorously to prevent the publication of pastiche stories but as we have seen succumbed to the virus himself and with John Dickson Carr produced his own collection of Holmes tales. Today pastiches of Sherlock Holmes abound. In his 2011 study of Arthur Conan Doyle and his writing, literary critic Michael Dirda noted that there were then “well over” seven thousand Holmes pastiches. These include tales, such as those by crime writer June Thomson, that are based on cryptic references that Dr. Watson makes in various adventures with Holmes, as well as those where center stage is taken by other canonical characters, be they Inspector Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson or, most happily, in the series of novels by Carole Nelson Douglas, Irene Adler.5 It is beyond the scope of this essay to consider the various biographies of the great detective or to analyze the discussions about myriad aspects of his and Dr. Watson’s lives. What happened during the Great Hiatus? How many marriages did Dr. Watson have? When did Sherlock Holmes die? Was Arthur Conan Doyle Dr. Watson’s agent, collaborator or nom de plume ? The list of questions seems endless. Most of the time the pastiches, in whatever form they may come, are the province primarily of the detective’s devoted fans, who tirelessly debate their merits among themselves; yet every now and then a book appears that creates a stir in the broader literary world. Such was the case with Anthony Horowitz’s The House of Silk, which various reviewers have described as the first new Sherlock Holmes novel and a worthy successor to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s work. One can only marvel at the ease with which some reviewers can be taken in: neither of those much repeated statements is true. Within the purview of this essay, Horowitz’s book in fact is far more remarkable as an example of presentism than pastiche. Unlike many other pastiches of the Holmes stories, Horowitz’s extremely long novel disregards chronology to the point where it becomes impossible to

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determine whether Dr. Watson is writing this account of two interlocking 1890 cases twenty-five years later, in 1915, or fifty years later, in 1940. To be sure, the references to his children and grandchildren as well as his apparent decrepitude would indicate 1940, by which year he would have been in his late eighties. On the other hand, he says in an uncharacteristic and self-pitying way: “I think of Holmes, often, waiting for me on the other side of that great shadow which must come to us all, and I long to join him. I am alone. My old wound plagues me to the end and as a terrible and senseless war rages on the Continent, I find I no longer understand the world in which I live.”6 Not only is the above quotation a clear reference to the First World War, during which one assumes Dr. Watson, last seen as a hale and hearty man in his early sixties on his way to rejoin his outfit, must have seen some kind of service, it strikes a resoundingly false note for a man who is unlikely to have been consumed with such gloom about either conflict. As Horowitz starts so he carries on, producing a pastiche that is permeated with presentism. The convoluted double plot is far too bloated for its own good (though it does boast a piece of misdirection worthy of Agatha Christie). It does not take the reader long to realize that the plot revolves around a male brothel where boys from the street are lured into prostitution. This allows Mr. Horowitz to display a perception and moral sense purportedly superior to the characters and, by inference, the original author. Dr. Watson finds himself shocked beyond measure by the information that such things as male brothels exist and that boys can be so maltreated in the advanced Victorian age in which he lives. The notion that a man who was trained at Bart’s hospital (on the edge of the City) and who served in the Indian army and maintained a practice in Paddington knows nothing of such goings-on is ridiculous. Holmes, not to be outdone, berates himself for exploiting Wiggins and the other Baker Street Irregulars instead of—what, precisely? We never really find out what it is he ought to be doing instead of employing them and paying them good wages. Yet Mr. Horowitz uses this plot element to illustrate how inferior Victorian England was to the England of our own day. Even the Whig historians did not go quite so far in their condescending attitude to the past. One cannot help wondering what Dorothy L. Sayers would have made of The House of Silk, as well as the continuations of her own Lord Peter Wimsey saga by Jill Paton Walsh. Sayers herself was a pastiche writer who participated with characteristic gusto in debates about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Among other things, she wrote carefully-reasoned essays about Holmes’ university years and the dates of several of his adventures, speculated that Watson’s middle name was “Hamish” and proved beyond doubt that Dr. Watson was married only twice.7

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Sayers’s own creations, Lord Peter Wimsey and his supporting cast of players, were engulfed in the third variety of pastiche writing: the creation of biographies, histories and many discussions. In marked contrast with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Sayers herself started this trend and participated in it as long as she lived, though she ceased writing detective stories during the Second World War. It was Sayers who added an introduction to Murder Must Advertise and thereafter to all novels and their reprinted editions, supposedly written by Wimsey’s maternal uncle Paul Delagardie, which gave an account of Peter’s youth, family relations, education, first love, war service and subsequent career. According to Charles Wilfred Scott-Giles, Fitzalan Pursuivant of Arms Extraordinary and the author of various books on heraldry, he and Sayers discussed various Wimseys in history between 1936 and 1940; and many years later he produced a fascinating study of the family. Numerous others joined in the game. As Sayers colorfully observed, “The course of English history is disturbed by the antics of dead-and-gone Wimseys, who leap from its waters like so many salmon in the mating season.”8 Wimseys wandered in and out of historic events and literary conversations but there were no pastiche stories written about Lord Peter until author Jill Paton Walsh was requested by the literary trustees of the Sayers’ estate to complete Thrones, Dominations, a detective novel Sayers abandoned. The novel, as completed by Paton Walsh, was published in 1998. Four years later Paton Walsh published a second Peter Wimsey mystery, A Presumption of Death, in which she details the lives of Lord and Lady Peter Wimsey and many other characters, including people we first met in Sayers’ Busman’s Honeymoon (1937), during the Battle of Britain. The novel’s starting point is a series of letters, supposedly from members of the Wimsey-Delagardie family and their various connections, that Sayers had published in The Spectator between November 1939 and January 1940. While the main theme of the novel is the ways in which the various people learn to cope with social and economic stresses brought about by the war, there is also a good mystery plot, involving murder, wartime sexual mores, espionage and disinformation. 2010 saw the belated appearance of the third of Paton Walsh’s Wimseys, The Attenbury Emeralds, which brings the characters into the early 1950s. The book is entirely Paton Walsh’s, though it cleverly references both the original novels and less well-known short stories. The characters now seem to be Jill Paton Walsh’s as much as they are Dorothy L. Sayers’s—and this is, in my view, a slightly disturbing development. Should authors of pastiche take over the characters and make them their own in that sort of a cavalier fashion? However many Sherlock Holmes pastiches there are, the original characters remain Arthur Conan Doyle’s.

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In a way Paton Walsh has had an easier time than many writers who have continued other people’s fiction series, in that Wimsey and the additional characters age in real time and develop over the course of the novels and short stories. Thus they could more easily be picked up and placed in a time nearer our own. Yet there are problems with Paton Walsh’s writing style, which is not as luminous as that of Sayers, as well as with the language in general, which is neither appropriate to the original characters nor to the time in which the action takes place. The slang and colloquialism of The Attenbury Emeralds belongs to the early twenty-first rather than the mid-twentieth century. Young Bredon Wimsey would not call Bunter “Mervyn”—quite apart from the social aspect, in the early 1950s fifteen year-olds simply did not call adults by their first name. The idea of a well brought-up adolescent like Bredon exploding with the oath “Christ!” in front of his parents on learning that he will now be Viscount Saint-George is unthinkable (And would he really not have known what he would be called when his father inherited the dukedom? These things matter at Eton). It is equally unthinkable that the Wimseys, even after war and the rise to power of the Labour Party, would forget the difference between “who” and “whom” and use the word “okay” quite as often as they do.9 In this respect Jill Paton Walsh can be said to slip from pure pastiche into presentism. Unlike Anthony Horowitz, however, she does not assume a condescending attitude toward the characters and their creator, though she obviously finds it difficult or perhaps unnecessary—times are changing in the novels, after all— to reproduce the snobbishness of the originals. One of the most exciting literary events of the last few years in the crime fiction world was the appearance of P. D. James’ newest novel, Death Comes to Pemberley, a continuation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, supposedly as a detective story. There is a certain curious aspect to Jane Austen and her readership. Though she is rightly considered one of the great English writers and has been the subject of many academic and learned studies, her novels, aided by inadequate film adaptations, have also been treated like romantic fiction, with both readers and writers dreaming of what happened to the characters after Miss Austen’s endings, which gave very few hints of such details. As Emma Tennant, author of An Unequal Marriage: Or Pride and Prejudice Twenty Years Later (1991) and Pemberley: Or Pride and Prejudice Continued (1993) pointed out, Jane Austen herself saw her characters as real people. In a letter to her sister Cassandra in 1813 she described going to an art exhibition where she saw a portrait of Mrs. Bingley but could not find one of Mrs. Darcy who, she thought, would have been painted in yellow. Pemberley ends with Mr. Darcy commissioning the two portraits.10 The many continuations of Pride and Prejudice, including the ones by Emma

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Tennant, fall into the category of romance, with Austen’s final comments about all the various characters lovingly and lingeringly elaborated. If there are any mysteries to be solved they concern past amours, illegitimate children or plotting by the incorrigible Miss Bingley. None of this is good enough for the crime queen P. D. James, who discards all that is supposed to happen to the characters according to Jane Austen and creates her own world in which Mr. Wickham becomes a national hero after some (admittedly dubious) fighting in Ireland, yet is not allowed to visit the Bingleys, while neither he nor Lydia are ever allowed into Pemberley. Since these details trigger the plot, they are important. So too is the fact that James’ characters and their behavior are inconsistent with the originals as depicted by Austen. Just as Death Comes to Pemberley is not true Jane Austen, it is not a true detective story. Again, one cannot help wondering how it is that reviewers could be taken in so easily. There is no detection. There is a crime, a great deal of distress, the wrong person is arrested, tried and found guilty and then, just as this person is sentenced, a letter is brought from the real murderer, who had dictated it from the deathbed. Death Comes to Pemberly is, in other words, a pastiche of a nineteenth-century sensation novel. Indeed, there is a sly reference to this by the trial judge, who displays some understandable anger when the letter is read out in court at the last minute, just as he is about to sentence the wrongly accused Wickham: “Can you explain, sir, why you brought this important document to court at the last moment of the trial when sentence was about to be pronounced? Such an unnecessarily dramatic arrival is an insult to me and to the court and I demand an explanation.” A somewhat sheepish explanation follows, to which the judge responds (“pettishly”): “There are too many of these trials where vital evidence has been delayed.”11 The novel starts as a pastiche but swiftly becomes something else, something much more like an example of presentism. While the original tale was written from Elizabeth Bennett’s point of view ( Jane Austen’s novels tend to have a single point of view, that of the heroine, though they are never in the first person), James employs several points of view—Elizabeth’s, Jane’s, that of one of the servants, even a collective Meryton point of view—before settling for a very modern one: that of the male protagonist, Mr. Darcy. This upsets the balance of the story and disregards Austen’s view of the world, just as her understanding of what her characters might be like is disregarded. P. D. James is said to have written the novel because of her great love for Jane Austen’s work, yet she seems to consider her own understanding of the characters superior to that of their creator. This attitude takes Death Comes to Pemberley out of the realm of pastiche into that of an independent new creation. James’s Mr. Darcy is a much more

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rounded figure than the one portrayed by Austen, who preferred to write about her heroines rather than her heroes, but he also suffers from the sort of psychological obsessions that we are used to in more modern novels, specifically those by Baroness James. Wickham, Jane Austen’s charming villain, is turned into a tormented obsessive whose hatred for Darcy leads to all sorts of problems, including the seduction of a young servant girl and, eventually, murder. If that is not how Jane Austen perceived him or Mr. Darcy apparently Jane Austen’s ideas are inadequate! One can argue that presentism is what rescues pastiche from creative torpor and from becoming pure parody. But pastiche, as Michael Innes’s character says, is a valid and potentially fascinating form of literary art. A creative artist like John Dickson Carr or Jill Paton Walsh can overcome the stifling aspects of pastiche without resorting to imposing a blatantly anachronistic, presentist sheen upon it. Others, such as Anthony Horowitz and P. D. James, have foundered, whether because their own individual talent entices them further away from the original or because they find the original simply too irksome to integrate into their own work.

NOTES 1. However, Charles Osborne transformed Christie’s 1930 Poirot play, Black Coffee, into a novel in 1998 and at this essay’s writing it has been announced that crime novelist Sophie Hannah has been commissioned by the Christie literary estate to write an entirely new Poirot novel. See Matt Brown, “Hercule Poirot Gets New Lease of Life, 38 Years After Being Killed Off,” The Guardian, 3 September 2013, at http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/sep/04/ hercule-poirot-agatha-christie-sophie-hannah. Peter Wimsey also has been memorably parodied by Anthony Berkeley (in a chapter of the Detection Club novel Ask a Policeman, 1933) and E. C. Bentley (in “Greedy Night,” a 1938 story). For more recent examples of mystery parodies, see Jon L. Breen, Hair of the Sleuthhound: Parodies of Mystery Fiction (Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press, 1982). 2. Michael Innes, The Long Farewell (1958; repr., London: Penguin, 1971), 18–19. 3. S. T. Joshi, John Dickson Carr: A Critical Study (Bowling Green, OH: Popular Press, 1990), 79. 4. Six of the Exploits tales were plotted by Carr, six by Doyle. In his biography of John Dickson Carr, Douglas Greene observes that “the stories plotted by Carr are extremely imaginative…. Some of Car’s phrases, however, do not remind the reader of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle…. The six stories by Adrian Doyle are closer to the original Holmes stories in their language. Less happily, they are also closer in plot; each of the tales has borrowed its main story line from one of the Holmes adventures written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.” Douglas G. Greene, John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles (New York: Otto Penzler, 1995), 362. 5. Michael Dirda, On Conan Doyle: Or, The Whole Art of Storytelling (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2011), 120. June Thomson has produced six collections of Holmes pastiche stories and a dual biography of Holmes and Watson. Carole Nelson Doug-

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las’s Irene Adler series started with Good Night, Mr. Holmes (1990), which retells A Scandal in Bohemia from Irene Adler’s point of view and at far greater length. Douglas shows an admirable knowledge of the Holmesian canon and a nicely judged ability to weave aspects of it into her stories. It is not exactly presentism that one finds in Douglas’ books but a modern literary games playing combined with layers of new understanding. 6. Anthony Horowitz: The House of Silk (London: Orion, 2011), 5 7. There are four such essays in Sayers’ collection Unpopular Opinions (London: Gollancz, 1946), followed by her erudite lecture on Aristotle as the prophet of detective fiction. One also has to wonder what Sayers would have made of William S. Baring-Gould’s assertion that there was an American wife before Mary Morstan. 8. Dorothy L. Sayers, “Gaudy Night,” in D. K. Roberts, ed., Titles to Fame (London: Nelson, 1937), 22. Also see C. W. Scott-Giles, The Wimsey Family: A Fragmentary History Compiled from Correspondence with Dorothy L. Sayers (London: Gollancz, 1977). 9. It also must be said that in The Attenbury Emeralds Paton Walsh’s plot, in contrast with Sayers’ marvelously symmetrical constructions, meanders for several decades with numerous murders occurring along the way, seemingly for no rational reason. 10. In Pemberley Revisited (2005) the two novels were published in the “right” order. 11. P. D. James, Death Comes to Pemberley (London: Faber & Faber, 2011), 255

BIBLIOGRAPHY Baring-Gould, William S. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. London: Rupert Hart-Davis, 1962. Bentley, E. C. “Greedy Night.” In Parody Party. London: Hutchinson, 1936. Reprinted in Dorothy L. Sayers. Lord Peter: A Collection of the Lord Peter Wimsey Stories. New York: Harper & Row, 1972. Berkeley, Anthony. “Lord Peter’s Privy Council.” The Detection Club. Ask a Policeman. 1933. Reprint. London: HarperCollins, 2012. Breen, Jon L. Hair of the Sleuthhound: Parodies of Mystery Fiction. Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press, 1982. Bruce, Leo. Case for Three Detectives. 1936. Reprint. Chicago: Academy Chicago, 2005. Clarke, Stephan P. The Lord Peter Wimsey Companion. 1985. Reprint. Hurstpierpoint, UK: The Dorothy L. Sayers Society, 2002. Dirda, Michael. On Conan Doyle: Or, The Whole Art of Storytelling. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2011. Douglas, Carole Nelson. Good Night, Mr. Holmes. New York: Forge, 1990. Doyle, Adrian Conan, and John Dickson Carr. The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes. London: John Murray, 1954. Greene, Douglas G. John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. New York: Otto Penzler, 1995. Horowitz, Anthony. The House of Silk. London: Orion House, 2011. Innes, Michael. The Long Farewell. 1958. Reprint. London: Penguin, 1971. James, P. D. Death Comes to Pemberley. London: Faber & Faber, 2011. Joshi, S. T. John Dickson Carr: A Critical Study. Bowling Green, OH: Popular Press, 1990. Palmer, Bernard Blue. Blood on the Trail: Lord Peter Wimsey and His Circle. Eugenia, Ont., The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 2005. Paton Walsh, Jill. The Attenbury Emeralds. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 2010. _____. A Presumption of Death. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 2002.

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_____. Thrones, Dominations. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1998. Sayers, Dorothy L. “Gaudy Night.” Titles to Fame. Edited by D. K. Roberts. London: T. Nelson, 1934. _____. Unpopular Opinions. London: Victor Gollancz, 1946. Scott-Giles. C. W. The Wimsey Family: A Fragmentary History Compiled with Correspondence from Dorothy L. Sayers. London: Gollancz, 1977. Starrett, Vincent. The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes. 1933. Revised Edition. London: Allen & Unwin, 1961. Tennant, Emma. Pemberley Revisited. London: Maia Press, 2005.

“Parlez-Vous Français?” The Riddles of René Reouven PATRICK OHL

René Reouven is one of the finest crime writers to emerge in the latter half of the twentieth century. Packed with clever plots, literary and historical allusions and humor, his books are a delight to read. Yet Reouven is an author whose work has been what French blogger Xavier Lechard calls “lost in translation,” having never made it into the English-language market.1 The blame for this unhappy situation partly rests with the French mystery scene. Noir is the favored form of crime fiction among French-language critics, who loudly trumpet the achievements of authors like Georges Simenon and Jean-Patrick Manchette, while muting their praise for those who have written in different styles. To be sure, René Reouven is not the only French-language crime writer to fall victim to this state of affairs: many fine authors, such as Stanislas-André Steeman, Martin Méroy, Maurice-Bernard Endrèbe and Gaston Boca, have been left untranslated. Reouven’s case is a particularly perplexing one, however, because he has exhibited a dazzling mastery across a range of fiction genres. Throughout his career Reouven has steadfastly refused to limit his bountiful imagination. He has produced crime novels of all sorts—inverted detective novels, police procedurals, locked-room mysteries, Sherlock Holmes pastiches—but he has also written in additional fields, including science fiction, fantasy, the Western, non-fiction and even mainstream fiction. Not until 1965 did Reouven make his debut on the mystery scene, with Octave II (Second Octave), which was published by Denoël, under its famous Crime Club imprint. This imprint, which in time would be rebranded as Sueurs Froides (“Cold Sweats”), was also home to the prolific writers crime genre Pierre 286

• “Parlez-Vous Français?” The Riddles of René Reouven (Ohl) • 287 Boileau and Thomas Narcejac, who, under their collaborative pseudonym Boileau-Narcejac, are best-remembered for the novels Celle qui n’était plus, adapted by Henri-Georges Clouzot as Les Diaboliques, and D’entre les morts, adapted by Alfred Hitchcock as Vertigo. Rene Reouven has remained faithful to Denoël, which lauds the clever plotting at which he excels. Reouven’s early mysteries often contain elements of social satire. A good example is the 1969 novel Mort au jury (Death to the Jury). The plot begins with the release of convicted serial killer Michel Delupas. A medical student turned murderer, he was nicknamed “Le chirurgien” (“The Surgeon”) by the French press and was known for dispatching his victims with a scalpel. Delupas is a deranged psychopath who is convinced that his murders were part of a mission and that society has wronged him by interrupting his quest. So he begins to track down members of the jury that convicted him, slaying them one by one…. Meanwhile, in the countryside we meet Madame Muss-Leduran, a walking, talking, artificial plot device, deliberately left as a caricature. She is the first to notice that some of the people who served on a jury with her have been appearing lately in the newspapers, on account of their having been murdered under mysterious circumstances. That is as far as her knowledge extends; however, her companion and her doctor soon deduce that Delupas is on a murder spree, and that his pattern shows that Madame Muss-Leduran is next on the list. Because the old lady has a weak heart, they try to keep news of the killings away from her, all the while looking out for the approach of The Surgeon. The novel is both an excellent thriller and a well-plotted mystery. It contains Reouven’s trademark ingenuity and several scenes of suspense, one of the best of which comes after Delupas first shows up on Madame Muss-Leduran’s doorstep. Startled, the companion accidentally smashes the vials containing the lady’s medicine. When, moments later, the old lady drops to the floor from a potentially fatal heart attack, the companion and the doctor must make a high-speed, late-night drive to a nearby town with a pharmacy in a bid to save her life. With the appearance of Tobie or Not Tobie (Tobiah or not Tobiah) in 1980, Reouven’s writing career entered an important new phase. The publication of this brilliant crime novel marked the start of Reouven’s “alternative histories.” Denoël recently collected these works in two volumes as “Crimes Apocryphes” (Apocryphal Crimes). Tobie or Not Tobie is inspired by the Biblical Book of Tobit. The original book tells a complex story, but the bare outline is this: a righteous Jew named Tobit, who is blind, has a son named Tobiah, whom he sends to the far-off land of Media to reclaim a debt. Tobiah is accompanied by his dog and no less

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than the archangel Raphael, who is travelling under the guise of a kinsman named Azariah. Upon arrival in Media, Raphael tells Tobiah of Sarah, a beautiful woman who has lost seven husbands before any of the marriages could be consummated. Each man was murdered by Asmodeus, the demon of lust. Tobiah weds Sarah and with the help of Raphael drives away the demon Asmodeus. Eventually Tobit’s blindness is cured and Raphael reveals his true identity, returning to heaven. In Tobie or Not Tobie, René Reouven rewrites the Book of Tobit as a humorous historical detective story. But perhaps “historical” is the wrong word. The rewrite is presented to the readers as a translation of an ancient scroll, written by a narrator who was apparently once thrown in a lions’ den. Through footnotes supposedly written by the translator, Reouven interacts with his readers and provides comic relief. The dry academic translator is bamboozled by the many deliberate anachronisms and his confusion—as well as his failure to spot their anachronistic nature—provides some of the book’s biggest laughs. The most impressive achievement, however, is the inclusion of an impossible crime. In the book of Tobit, Sarah’s husbands met their deaths at the hands of the demon Asmodeus. In order to keep this aspect of the original text, Reouven uses a technique that the American author John Dickson Carr practiced with gusto. Despite the book’s humorous elements, Reouven steadily develops a sense of menace. The source of this menace is not quite known, but the reader gets the feeling that it is supernatural in nature. Reouven then introduces a crime—the deaths of Sarah’s husbands—and reveals that, according to the laws of nature, the crimes could not have taken place. He suggests that the supernatural (i.e., the demon Asmodeus) may have been responsible, keeping the reader in a state of anxiety until the twist ending is revealed. This mixture of ingenious plotting, skillful atmosphere and a fine sense of wit and humor has served Reouven well throughout his career. His Souvenezvous de Monte-Cristo (Remember Monte Cristo), published in 1996, is another fine example of the author’s “apocryphal crimes.” The story revolves around César Brunel, a man with one goal in life: to get rich as quickly as possible. Happily for César, he has a wealthy uncle named Charles Loupian. César realizes that, due to his uncle’s name, he has a splendid opportunity to murder him without being suspected of the crime. The murder plot harks back to the inspiration behind Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo. In 1807, a man named François Picaud became engaged to a pretty and wealthy girl named Marguerite Figoroux. His friends were envious and one of them, one Loupian, persuaded the rest (Chaubard, Solari, and Allut) to denounce Picaud as an English spy. Picaud was arrested and went to prison for several years, where he befriended a priest named Farina. After his release in 1814, nothing is known about Picaud

• “Parlez-Vous Français?” The Riddles of René Reouven (Ohl) • 289 until his return to Paris a year later. He reappeared in society as a fabulously rich man and began to take vengeance on his enemies. Dumas translated this real-life drama into The Count of Monte Cristo. With the same story César plans to construct a fool-proof murder plot. First, he goes to several bookstores and purchases multiple copies of two books: Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo and Charles Exbrayat’s Vous souvenezvous de Paco? (Do You Remember Paco?). He then cuts up the titles and pastes the result onto a sheet of paper, spelling out the message “Souvenez-vous de Monte-Cristo” (“Remember Monte Cristo”). After he makes several copies, he murders a repulsive man named Chaubard, leaving one of the notes behind. He plans to pose as a serial killer, committing a few more similar murders before dispatching his uncle Loupian. Souvenez-vous de Monte-Cristo is a tour de force of inverted crime fiction. Communicating with the reader via a series of first-person monologues, César is easily the most intelligent person in the entire story and surely one of the most sinister murderers in detective fiction. Morally bankrupt and utterly unscrupulous, he manipulates his uncle’s faithful servant Marcel in a way that leaves the poor man ironically thankful over what an honest, good fellow César is. César also learns something interesting about himself: he enjoys the thrill that killing gives him. Not so much the killing part, but rather the excitement of being in a cat-and-mouse game with the police (he hopes that the police officer assigned to the case is like the English type of detective in mysteries). In short, César is an outstanding villain and that makes the story, told from his viewpoint, all the more interesting. César’s murder plot is ingenious, yet risky: the police must make the connection between the modern-day murders and those that took place over a century ago. And yet all goes even better than expected. One of the final scenes plays out like a mad, topsy-turvy episode of Columbo. César comes to the police station and hears an apparently water-tight case outlined by the police commissioner. By this point the reader knows most of what happened, which is more than either César or the commissioner know. The reader eagerly follows along, waiting to see whether César will trip himself up in front of the commissioner—and even though the police are entirely wrong, confusing details are cleared up for the reader and everything ends up fitting neatly into place. Reouven’s love of literature—especially detective fiction in this case— enriches Souvenez-vous de Monte-Cristo. César delivers several monologues about the detective authors he enjoys, such as Stanislas-André Steeman and Agatha Christie. In his murder scheme Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo plays a major role, of course, as well as Charles Exbrayat’s Vous Souvenezvous de Paco? (Do You Remember Paco?), which won the Prix du Roman

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d’Aventures in 1958. Exbrayat was a highly prolific and popular writer in his time, but his popularity, like that of Steeman, has waned. Besides his “apocryphal crimes,” Reouven’s Sherlock Holmes pastiches are among his most notable works. The first of these, Élémentaire, mon cher Holmes (Elementary, My Dear Holmes), was published in 1982 under the pseudonym “Albert Davidson.” Reouven derived this moniker from his second name (Albert) and his father’s first name (David), because his publisher believed that a Sherlockian pastiche ostensibly written by an English author would enjoy stronger sales. Élémentaire, mon cher Holmes won the prestigious Prix Mystère de la critique in 1983—and for good reason, as the novel is one of the finest Sherlockian pastiches ever written. The story begins with a prologue in which Robert Louis Stevenson wakes up from a nightmare. In the days that follow Stevenson feverishly writes the first draft of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. His wife Fanny is not pleased, for she is disturbed by the evil character of Mr. Hyde and the zest with which Stevenson writes about him. After a while, Stevenson calls Fanny to his room and shows her a pile of ashes; he has destroyed the manuscript. But what if the manuscript was never destroyed, asks Reouven. What if it actually fell into the wrong hands? And what if Fanny was right—what if the book was a work of such concentrated evil that it turned anyone who read it into a murderer? The novel is divided into three parts, as the reader follows the manuscript from owner to owner. Part I deals with a notorious poisoner. I will not divulge the murderer’s name, but this individual did exist and made quite a splash in newspaper headlines. The killer is captured at the end of Part I and tells the story of how he came to own the manuscript. That story occupies Part II, in which another set of crimes is investigated. The guilty party is once again captured and tells his story to the killer from Part I. That story is told in Part III, wherein we meet the manuscript’s most famous owner, someone better known by his nickname: Jack the Ripper. Reouven’s contribution to the “Sherlock Holmes vs. Jack the Ripper” lore sets a fine standard indeed. To the Ripper murders it offers an ingenious solution, one which takes many of the case’s most bizarre elements into account, including those Ripper victims whose authenticity is disputed and the baffling graffiti reading “The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing.” Admittedly the solution is one that could only work in fiction. Yet this actually works to Reouven’s advantage, because he allows the fiction to stand on its own rather than risk straining credibility by urging it as real-life solution to the Ripper case.

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The most fascinating aspect of Élémentaire, mon cher Holmes is that Sherlock Holmes himself is absent. He remains a fictional character in The Strand Magazine and does not interact with the historical figures involved. Nor does Sir Arthur Conan Doyle investigate the Ripper case (though he does appear at the end). Yet without Sherlock Holmes the story would have been impossible. When the Ripper case is solved, it is a jaw-dropping moment that relies on Sherlockian literature to provide some of its clues, to the point where a reader unfamiliar with the canon will be at a serious disadvantage when it comes to solving the mystery. Moreover, Sherlock Holmes the character is vital to the novel’s proceedings. He inspires regular, every-day citizens to do good and to help hunt down the Ripper, just as the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde manuscript drives people to find the evil within them and give into it. Readers who share Reouven’s passion for literature will find in his novels subtle allusions and references that make his work a delight. For instance, 1988s Le Détective volé (The Stolen Detective) is a post-modern detective story and literary game. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are sent back in time by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a feat accomplished via H. G. Wells’ time machine. Their mission is to discover whether Edgar Allan Poe ripped his C. Auguste Dupin detective stories from the headlines, and, if so, who was the real-life Dupin? Then there is the 1987 short story collection Le Bestiaire de Sherlock Holmes (Sherlock Holmes’ Bestiary). This book contains a brilliant overarching storyline, in which Sherlock Holmes does battle with a mysterious arch-nemesis whose name begins with the letter M. I dare not reveal the identity of this nemesis—no, it is not Moriarty—but he should be known to persons versed in English literature. 1989’s Les Passe-temps de Sherlock Holmes (The Pastimes of Sherlock Holmes) is another excellent example of Reouven’s literary playfulness. It contains three stories, each of which is dedicated to and inspired by a particular author. The first story, dedicated to the British crime writer Josephine Tey in homage to Tey’s celebrated history-themed 1951 detective novel, The Daughter of Time (about Richard III and the notorious murder of the princes in the Tower of London), has Holmes investigating the question of the authorship of Shakespeare’s plays. The second story, dedicated to the mystery writer John Dickson Carr, tells of the death of Cardinal Tosca inside a locked room. While investigating the murder, Holmes meets and collaborates with Israel Zangwill, author of The Big Bow Mystery (1895). In the final story, which is dedicated to Thomas de Quincey, author of On Murder Considered as one of the Fine Arts (1827), Holmes clears up the mysterious death of the French poet Gérard de Nerval. Also important in Reouven’s work is his sense of history. Apart from his

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“apocryphal crimes,” where the influence of history is self-evident, we see this aspect of Reouven’s work in the stories in Le Bestiaire de Sherlock Holmes. The first of the tales takes place during World War I, about two years after the events in “His Last Bow.” Holmes and Watson are in the thick of things, tangling with spies making use of a black cormorant. The tale ends with a notorious real-life tragedy that finally makes sense of Dr. Watson’s cryptic allusion in “The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger” to “the politician, the lighthouse, and the trained cormorant.” The final story in the collection deals with the infamous Chicago serial killer H. H. Holmes and his horrific “Murder Castle,” wherein he trapped and tortured his many victims before disposing of them.2 Although René Reouven has enjoyed great success in the French language, he has yet with his work to make the leap into English. Despite his winning awards like the 1971 Grand Prix de literature policière for L’Assassin maladroit (The Awkward Murderer) or the 1984 Grand Prix de la science-fiction française for Un Fils de Prométhée (A Son of Prometheus), he remains unknown in the English-language world. It is a baffling situation. Reouven is an intelligent writer aiming at an intelligent audience. His love for literature and history is endearing and his enthusiasm infectious. Yet it is also a double-edged sword, because Reouven’s complex, allusion-filled writing style makes it all the more difficult to effectively translate his work. Perhaps one day an enterprising and talented translator will crack the code and produce an English translation of, say, Élémentaire, mon cher Holmes that approaches the brilliance of the original, French-language version. Until then, Reouven will remain an author most undeservedly lost in translation.

NOTES 1. Xavier Lechard, “Lost in Translation: René Reouven,” 27 September 2009, At the Villa Rose: Random Thoughts of Xavier Lechard, at http://atthevillarose.blogspot.com/2009/09/ lost-in-translation-rene-reouven.html. 2. In a more recent Reouven work, a young adult novel from 2011 entitled Un trésor dans l’ombre (A Treasure in the Shadow), the plot revolves around a young girl in modern-day France and her well-travelled ancestor, who may or may not have received a mysterious treasure from Robert Louis Stevenson.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Baudou, Jacques. “Au travers du prisme.” Bifrost 40 (October 2005): 152–170. Conan Doyle, Arthur. “The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger” (1927). In Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Novels and Stories. Volume II. Toronto: Bantam, 1986. Lechard, Xavier. “Lost in Translation: Rene Reouven.” 27 September 2009. At the Villa Rose:

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Random Thoughts of Xavier Lechard. At http://atthevillarose.blogspot.com/2009/09/lostin-translation-rene-reouven.html. Soupart, Michel, Vincent Bourgeois and Philippe Fooz. Chambres Closes, Crimes Impossibles. Dinant: Bourdeaux-Capelle, 1997. Tulard, Jean. Dictionnaire du roman policier. Paris: Fayard, 2005.

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SECTION SIX

A Final Toast: Clubland

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The Secret Life of Eric the Skull: Dorothy L. Sayers and the Detection Club PETER LOVESEY

PREFACE: REVELATION AT THE RITZ In November 2006, on one of his visits to London, Doug Greene spoke at the annual dinner of the Detection Club in the Ritz hotel. The club had been founded by Anthony Berkeley Cox, with G. K. Chesterton as its first president and Dorothy L. Sayers as its mainstay. Members joined—and still do—by invitation. Among the many eccentricities of this club was a lack of any agreement about which year it was founded. Some said 1928, others 1930. A former president, Julian Symons, argued for 1932 and once offered a magnum of champagne to anyone who could prove otherwise. Who finally settled the question? Doug Greene, of course. The correct date, he pointed out in his speech, was 1930. Cox wrote to Chesterton on December 27, 1929, proposing such a club and asking him to be its first president and a list of “members to date” was drawn up the following week. That speech of Doug’s was not only definitive. It was hugely entertaining and came as a revelation—that he knew more about the club’s history than any of the members. In his research for his John Dickson Carr biography (Carr joined the Detection Club in 1936), Doug had unearthed numerous stories about the early days and the Ritz fairly rocked as he entertained us with some of these. During this visit, Doug stayed with H. R. F. Keating, the Detection Club president from 1985 to 2001, and it was a happy coincidence that Crippen & Landru honored Harry’s eightieth birthday with The Verdict of Us All, a collection of short stories by members of the club. The climax of the speech was the presentation of the first copy. 297

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Some five years later, I received a daunting invitation to give the annual Dorothy L. Sayers Society lecture. At my wits’ end for a topic, I thought of Doug and his unequalled knowledge of the Detection Club. Thanks largely to his advice on sources, I put together the following piece that in this slightly updated version appears in print for the first time. With my thanks to Doug as my publisher, mentor and friend, it becomes my contribution to this festschrift. —Peter Lovesey, April 12, 2013 This may strike you as an odd beginning: Eric the Skull is a survivor. Nothing else from the founding of the Detection Club in 1930 has made it into the twenty-first century. The enormous scarlet-lined black cloak tailored to G. K. Chesterton’s physique is lost and had to be replaced; the black candles are burnt to nothing; the order of initiation has been rewritten several times over; even the original minute book disappeared in the 1940s. And of course the playful bunch of writers who thought it all up, principally Anthony Berkeley Cox, Dorothy L. Sayers and Monsignor Ronald Knox, have long since written their final chapters. Eric is the last link with those blithe spirits. I was tempted to ask our current president, Simon Brett, if I could borrow Eric for this event, and then I thought the responsibility would be too much. What if I were stopped by the police on the way and asked to explain how a real human skull with red light bulbs for eyes came to be on the passenger seat? What if Eric was confiscated? What if he was dropped? He is over a hundred years old. Even more alarming, what if he spoke to me? Considering the eminence of the Detection Club among literary societies, it strikes me as surprising that so little is written about it. After being invited here and offering to speak on this topic I naturally looked at the main biographies of Miss Sayers. I found little more than a page or so describing the club in general terms. The collected letters have a few references to functions and writing projects, but not many. That is a pity, because the club featured strongly in her life long after she finished writing detective stories. She was hugely enthusiastic, a regular at all the meetings and a great champion of the club’s traditions. And there is no shortage of entertaining stories about what she got up to. There is even less about the club in biographies of Chesterton and Knox. One of the reasons may be that so much of the original source material is lost. Let us be frank: the club itself is confused over its origins. For years it was thought to have been founded in 1932, when the first constitution was drawn up. This date still appears on the notepaper. But doubts were raised when the

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late Julian Symons quoted 1932 in the introduction to a Detection Club book called Verdict of Thirteen. The date was challenged. Confident that he was right, Julian wrote to the Sunday Times offering a magnum of champagne if anyone could produce proof of an earlier origin. Would you believe it?—some anorak found a letter to The Times Literary Supplement from members of the club dated 1930. Even now, there are whispers that 1929 is a possibility. Perhaps it would be helpful if Eric could speak. What is undisputed is that in 1928 Anthony Berkeley Cox, known to us now as Anthony Berkeley or Francis Iles, suggested to a number of other eminent writers of detective stories that they should dine together regularly in London restaurants. Up to twenty attended. Prominent among them was Dorothy L. Sayers, the author of three detective stories, who, at thirty-five, was the same age as Berkeley. At about the same time, there was a flurry of interest in formulating rules for the detective story. It seems to have started in America, as so many things do. In 1923 a magazine editor and art expert called Willard Huntington Wright suffered a breakdown. His convalescence took two years and—of all things—his way back from the brink was to read over two thousand detective stories and works of criminology. Out of all this scholarship emerged a crime writer with the impressive pen name S. S. Van Dine and a list of twenty rules for writing detective stories. He published them in 1928. They were more in the negative vein than the positive. No love interest, no servants as the culprit, no professional criminals, no accidents or suicides, pseudo-science, spiritualism, secret societies. Even long descriptions were banned. To be fair, Van Dine applied the rules to his own writing. His detective was called Philo Vance, an Oxford graduate said to be a young social aristocrat, the American counterpart of Lord Peter Wimsey. And to be unfair, the books were dreadfully solemn and burdened with footnotes and Vance is not fit to shine Lord Peter’s shoes. Famously, the poet Ogden Nash wrote: “Philo Vance/ Needs a kick in the pance.” Van Dine’s twenty rules may well have been discussed at those London dinner parties. One of the diners was a Catholic priest, Father Ronald Knox, who after three detective stories wrote his own set of rules. Like so many of the young people (when I say “young” I mean in their thirties) who founded the Detection Club, Knox was an extraordinary individual. Evelyn Waugh called him “the cleverest boy who ever passed through Eton.” While still at Oxford, he delivered a satirical piece on various inconsistencies in the Sherlock Holmes stories and sent a copy to their author. When Conan Doyle eventually wrote back to say how amused he was, he added, “I am amazed that anyone should spend such pains on such material.” It is widely held that Knox was the first

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of that slightly crazed army of Sherlockians who treat Holmes as a real human being. Knox later reflected, “The sad irony is that my one permanent achievement was setting the groundwork for all the Sherlockians that followed.” After Oxford he worked in military intelligence before becoming an Anglican chaplain. In 1917 he converted to Catholicism, was ordained and became the Catholic Chaplain to the University, ultimately attaining the ecclesiastical title of Monsignor. Yet Knox was never pious. When he was granted an audience with the Pope he talked to him for a full half-hour about the Loch Ness Monster. Tongue firmly in cheek, he called his ten rules A Detective Story Decalogue and they appeared in 1929. They were to form the basis of the Detection Club Initiation Ceremony so they are worth repeating here: 1. The criminal must be someone mentioned in the early part of the story, but must not be anyone whose thoughts the reader has been allowed to follow. 2. All supernatural or preternatural agencies are ruled out as a matter of course. 3. Not more than one secret room or passage is allowable. 4. No hitherto undiscovered poisons may be used, nor any appliance which will need a long scientific explanation at the end. 5. No Chinaman must figure in the story. 6. No accident must ever help the detective, nor must he ever have an unaccountable intuition which proves to be right. 7. The detective must not himself commit the crime. 8. The detective must not light on any clues which are not instantly produced for the inspection of the reader. 9. The stupid friend of the detective, the Watson, must not conceal any thoughts which pass through his mind; his intelligence must be slightly, but very slightly, below that of the average reader. 10. Twin brothers, and doubles generally, must not appear unless we have been duly prepared for them.

I wish there was time to give you Knox’s commentary on each of the commandments. He cites exceptions to most of them and he admits that the ban on Chinamen is baffling. “Why this should be,” he writes, “I do not know, unless we can find a reason for it in our western habit of assuming that the Celestial is over-equipped in the matter of brains, and under-equipped in the matter of morals. I can only offer it as a fact of observation that if you are turning over the pages of a book and come across some mention of ‘the slitlike eyes of Chin-Loo’ you had best put it down at once; it is bad.” To return to our diners, the idea of a more formal club must have been sprouting in the mind of Anthony Berkeley, because as early as 1929 he published The Poisoned Chocolates Case, one of the classics of the period, about a group of writers in a club called the Crimes Circle. The book is often said to

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be poking fun at the Detection Club, but this cannot be so if we accept that the club was founded in 1930. The evidence for 1930 is strong, and was put to the club itself in a memorable after-dinner speech five years ago by Douglas Greene, the biographer of John Dickson Carr. Greene informed us that the Anthony Berkeley papers reveal that he wrote to G. K. Chesterton on December 27, 1929, proposing the formation of the club and inviting Chesterton to be honorary president. However—and there’s always a “however” where the Detection Club is concerned—a letter from Berkeley to Dorothy L. Sayers was auctioned at Sotheby’s in 2008, and it discussed the proposal to invite Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to be honorary president. It was dated 17 January, 1930, three weeks after Chesterton was offered the job. What are we to make of that? The full contents of the auctioned letter are not known, but it is of interest that Conan Doyle might have been the first choice. In fact he was far too ill in 1930 to have accepted the honour. He died in July. It’s intriguing to wonder what Conan Doyle, with his strong belief in spiritualism, would have thought about a secret ritual using a real human skull. No question, however, that the club was up and running early in 1930, and was a hive of industry. From the beginning the members had the firm intention of using their talent and experience to raise funds and acquire their own club premises. Dorothy L. Sayers was one of the prime movers when a roundrobin radio serial called Behind the Screen was broadcast on the BBC National Programme, beginning in June. The six writers read out their own contributions; episode two must have been an ordeal for the shy Agatha Christie. Each fifteen-minute episode was printed in The Listener the same week. Another radio series called The Scoop was ready by the end of the year and went out in January, 1931. Also in 1931 appeared the club’s The Floating Admiral, a round robin novel written by fourteen members, among them Chesterton, Sayers, Christie, Knox and Berkeley. Eighty years on, a new edition has just been published. By now you’re starting to wonder about Eric the Skull and the secret initiation ceremony. Dare I divulge what really takes place? After all, Miss Sayers herself declared, in her preface to The Floating Admiral, “…wild horses would not drag from me any revelation of the solemn ritual….” Even now, in 2011, some members of the club are terrified of saying too much and being drummed out, or worse. But in reality, dear old absent-minded G. K. Chesterton, the club’s first president (who once sent a telegram to his wife: “Am in Market Harborough stop where ought I to be?”), gave the whole thing away in an article in The Strand Magazine as early as 1933. “As the one who has more than once had the honour of imposing the oaths of admission

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on new members of the Society,” Chesterton wrote, “I take a pride in setting out these conditions of membership in their actual form; thereby setting a good example to the Mafia, the Ku Klux Klan, the Freemasons, the Illuminati, the Rosicrucians, the Red-Badgers, the Blue Buffaloes, the Green Gorillas, the League of the Left-handed Haberdashers, the Association of Agnostic Albinos, and all the other secret societies.” The Oath followed: The Ruler shall say to the Candidate: Is it your firm desire to become a Member of the Detection Club? The Candidate shall answer in a loud voice: That is my desire. Do you promise that your detectives shall well and truly detect the crimes presented to them, using those wits which it may please you to bestow upon them and not placing reliance on, nor making use of Divine Revelation, Feminine Intuition, Mumbo-Jumbo, Jiggery-Pokery, Coincidence or the Act of God? I do. Do you solemnly swear never to conceal a vital clue from the reader? I do. Do you promise to observe a seemly moderation in the use of Gangs, Conspiracies, Death-Rays, Ghosts, Hypnotism, Trap-Doors, Chinamen, SuperCriminals and Lunatics; and utterly and forever to forswear Mysterious Poisons unknown to Science? I do. Will you honour the King’s English? I will. Is there anything you hold sacred? Then the Candidate, having named a Thing which he holds of peculiar sanctity, the Ruler shall ask: Do you swear by (Here the Ruler shall name the Thing) to observe faithfully all these promises which you have made so long as you are a Member of the Club? But if the Candidate is not able to name a Thing which he holds sacred, then the Ruler shall propose the Oath in this manner following: Do you as you hope to increase your Sales, swear to observe faithfully all these promises which you have made, so long as you are a Member of the Club? Then the Candidate shall solemnly swear: All this I solemnly do swear. And I do furthermore promise and undertake to be loyal to the Club, neither purloining nor disclosing any plot or secret communicated to me before publication by any Member, whether under the influence of drink or otherwise. If there is any Member present who objects to the Proposal let him or her so declare. If there be no objector, then shall the Ruler say to the Members: Do you then acclaim A N Other as a Member of our Club?

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Then the Company’s Crier, or the Member appointed thereto by the Secretary, shall lead the Company in such cries of approval as are within his compass or capacity. When the cries cease, whether from lack of breath or any other cause, the Ruler shall make this declaration: A N Other, you are duly elected a Member of the Detection Club, and if you fail to keep your promises may other writers anticipate your plots, may your publishers do you down in your contracts, may total strangers sue you for libel, may your pages swarm with misprints and may your sales continually diminish. Amen.

There it is, then. The original initiation ceremony. You heard it from the first president. If there had ever been any intention by the founding members to keep the oath secret, they did not bargain for Chesterton. On February 10, 1935, he and Berkeley introduced a radio broadcast on WABC in America that included a recording of the 1934 ceremony, when Margery Allingham was admitted. It has long been speculated that Dorothy L. Sayers had a considerable hand in the drafting of the ceremony. This can now be confirmed thanks to the discovery of a letter in the Chesterton papers at the British Library. It is from Anthony Berkeley to Chesterton, inviting him to attend the next dinner, and is dated May 1, 1931: “…a new member, Miss Helen Simpson, is to be initiated that evening in due form as laid down in a most ceremonious ritual drawn up by Miss Dorothy Sayers, whereby most solemn pledges are required touching the art and honour of detective fiction, which I think may be amusing.” Undoubtedly, Father Knox’s Ten Commandments had a significant influence on the content of the ceremony—did you notice the Chinamen?—but as James Brabazon remarks in his biography of Sayers, a document exists “in Dorothy’s writing with crossings-out and alterations that suggest she drafted the ceremonies. The style is certainly hers.” But what of Eric, you are thinking. Where does he come into it? All will be revealed. Just for a moment let’s consider the more serious intention behind the ceremony. The Chinamen are the clue. The nineteen-twenties are often said to be the start of the Golden Age of the detective story. Christie and Sayers in particular transformed popular fiction. But in 1928, they were just beginning. Christie had published seven novels, Sayers three. The field was dominated by the sensational thrillers of Edgar Wallace, Sax Rohmer and “Sapper,” the creator of Bulldog Drummond. Blood and thunder; thud and blunder. They were huge sellers. Rohmer wrote endlessly about the so-called yellow peril and the Chinese villain, Dr. Fu-Manchu. Death-rays, hypnotism, trap-doors, supercriminals, mumbo-jumbo and jiggery-pokery were the stock-in-trade of these writers. Chesterton commented in his Strand magazine article:

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I do not fancy that the club would have fitted in very well with a colossal cosmopolitan publicity, like that of Mr. Edgar Wallace. I say so, not so much because he was a best-seller, as because he was a mass-producer. We have all enjoyed his ingenious plots, but there was inevitably something in his style of plotting that recalls our shyness in the presence of the Omnipresent Chinaman or the League of the Scarlet Scorpion. He was a huge furnace and factory of fiction; imposing by its scale, but not suited to this particular purpose. It would be like going with one’s family and friends on a motor tour and finding oneself escorted by all the cars out of the factories of Mr. Ford.

I dare say there was some envy of the thriller writers on the part of the detective story writers, but there was also a wish to stake out their own territory. Thrills and suspense there were, for sure, but in a form that would appeal to the more discerning reader with a liking for puzzles and fair play. The original members really were the crème de la crème of detective story writing. Only Conan Doyle’s name is missing, for the reason I have explained. Apart from those already mentioned they included E. C. Bentley, Freeman Wills Crofts, R. Austin Freeman, A. E. W. Mason, A. A. Milne, Arthur Morrison, Baroness Orczy, John Rhode and Hugh Walpole. Others were soon added: Anthony Gilbert, Gladys Mitchell, Margery Allingham, John Dickson Carr and Nicholas Blake. Several of these supplied wicked insights into the real goings-on at the club. From Gladys Mitchell I discovered what you have been patiently waiting to hear—the shocking truth about Eric. In an essay entitled “The Golden Age,” she revealed that (these are her words) the skull was stolen from one of the London teaching hospitals by Helen Simpson’s husband. We know from the letter I quoted earlier that Helen Simpson, an Australian writer living in London, joined in 1931 and Eric must have been—let us phrase it more delicately— acquired for the club at some time between then and 1934 (the earliest reference to a skull so far discovered), when Margery Allingham was initiated by Chesterton. In the notes to the aforementioned radio broadcast to America, John Rhode is named as the skullbearer. Helen Simpson’s light-fingered husband, incidentally, was a young Australian doctor called Denis Browne who became one of the most eminent physicians in the world, Sir Denis Browne, KCVO, known as the Father of Paediatric Surgery. It is comforting to know that Eric was stolen by a great man, but it doesn’t altogether absolve us of the crime. In 1936, Eric was elevated to even higher honours when the second President, E. C. Bentley, the author of Trent’s Last Case, was enthroned in a ceremony worthy of Cecil B. DeMille, devised by Dorothy L. Sayers. The Order of Solemn Installation for a President of the Detection Club ran to twenty-nine pages, written in Miss Sayers’ own hand in black ink with

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underlining in red ink and diagrams showing the various orderings of the assembly and ceremonies and a list of the required props (torches, rope, pistol, sword and skull). Ngaio Marsh attended as a guest and in her autobiography described the excitement. There were “Wardens of the Naked Blade, the Hollow Skull and the Lethal Phial, with Dorothy L. Sayers as President brandishing and firing off a pistol.” I think the term “president” was used in the sense that DLS presided over the ceremony. It was a good thing on that unforgettable evening that one of the members was Sir Norman Kendal, the assistant commissioner at Scotland Yard. Gladys Mitchell put it this way: Panic stations, please. It was discovered, after everybody had gathered in the hotel for the Annual Dinner, that a vital bit of the regalia had been left in the club rooms … which bit, I do not remember, but we had to ring up a taxi and four of us got into it, including a very reluctant Sir Norman Kendal, and we pressed him into service for a very good reason.… Frantic questioning of members resulted in the dreadful discovery that nobody—positively nobody—had brought along his or her key to the rooms. This meant that we had to break in and this meant that Sir Norman’s presence at the scene of the crime was essential in case any inquisitive copper came along at the wrong time and asked the unanswerable question: “What’s all this, then?”

Once Eric was in the club, so to speak, he was provided with a black cushion and a pair of eyes that were actually red torch-bulbs, battery-powered, rigged up by a writer who was a bit of a handyman, John Rhode. In another account of the 1937 induction, Ngaio Marsh recalled, “…last of all, John Rhode with a grinning skull on a cushion…. He (E. C. Bentley) took the oath & then close to my ear & without the slightest hint of warning, in a private drawing room at Grosvenor House at about 11p. m. on a summer evening Miss Dorothy Sayers loosed off her six-shooter. The others uttering primitive cries, waved their instruments, blunt, sharp and venomous, & John Rhode, by means of some hidden device, caused his skull to be lit up from within. And to my undying shame my agent laughed like a hyena.” In real life Rhode was Major John Street, MC, OBE. When he joined the club as one of the originals, he had seven crime novels to his credit. When he died, thirty-four years later, his output had risen to 144, and he also wrote thirteen works of non-fiction. John Dickson Carr put his friend Rhode into a series of short stories for the Strand magazine as Colonel March, “a large amiable man (weight seventeen stone) with a speckled face, an interested blue eye, and a very short pipe projecting from under a cropped moustache, which might be sandy or grey.” Rhode was second only to Chesterton in size, among the men in the Detection Club. It would be ungallant to say who were the largest ladies.1

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With the proceeds from the various publications and broadcast material, the club acquired its own rooms where regalia could be safely stored. So Eric’s home became 31, Gerrard Street, described by Gladys Mitchell as “a couple of sleazy rooms … just off Leicester Square, and if there was no guest speaker we sat about on members’ discarded and disreputable furniture, chatted and drank beer, which was provided out of the club funds.” It does not sound like an evening at the Athenaeum, and Gerrard Street wasn’t exactly London clubland. Father Knox described it as “a sort of garret … and on the night after we all received our keys, the premises were burglariously entered; why, or by whom, is still a mystery, but it was a good joke that it should happen to the Detection Club.” Gladys Mitchell recalled that “after one of the ordinary dinners, we women had to assert over the Gerrard Street ladies who had attached themselves to the coat-sleeves of our highly respectable men colleagues.” It was always purely a social club, meeting once a month in the earliest days and bimonthly later. Gladys Mitchell noted, “Conversation was, so far as I remember, remarkably free from ‘shop.’ Nobody mentioned royalties, the misdemeanours or downright niggardliness of publishers, the dastardly behavior of printers in the matters of punctuation, spelling and of leaving out a whole line in the middle of a paragraph, and this, I think, was because very few of us depended solely on our detective stories to earn us a living. Conversation, therefore, was on general subjects, but was always dominated by the strident tones of Miss Sayers, then really beginning to come into her own, not only as a good writer of detective stories, but, what was better, as a good writer of English.” There is no doubt that Dorothy was the dominant figure, held in awe by many of the others, who referred to her as Miss Sayers. Josephine Bell, who knew DLS from her schooldays at Godolphin School, Salisbury, recalled being a guest, invited by Freeman Wills Crofts to the 1938 annual dinner: “She was no longer slim, but her hair was still black and straight and cut in a severe page-boy bob with a fringe. She wore a floor-length red velvet gown and long dangling gold ear-rings. Reluctant to recognize me when I addressed her as Dorothy and mentioned the Godolphin, she just said coldly, ‘Oh yes, Miss Bell?’ She had not forgotten me.”2 Margery Allingham, who is often linked with Sayers and Christie as one of the great Golden Age writers, told John Dickson Carr’s wife Clarice that Miss Sayers “absolutely frightened her to death.” Allingham’s biographer, Julia Jones, recalled that the self-conscious Margery attended one or two of the Detection Club’s functions in the 1930s and “scuttled home to Essex feeling inadequate.” Yet most of the members who knew “Miss Sayers” recalled occasions when she charmed or ambushed them with her informality. John Dickson Carr and

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John Rhode were alone in the club room one evening when (these are the words of Carr) “Dorothy Sayers, after making some inroads on a bottle of scotch, arose like one addressing a Sunday School and recited the limerick about the young girl from Madras.” E. C. Bentley was president for thirteen years, but by all accounts Dorothy was the power behind the throne. In 1939 she formed a War Emergency Committee and there exists a circular she sent to members that the next club lunch would be held at Pinoli’s restaurant on 14 February, 1940, “thanks to Hitler’s delay in bombing London.” However, when the Blitz began, she wrote to the secretary, Anthony Gilbert, suggesting that the minute books and some framed prints belonging to the club should be moved to a place of safety. No one has seen them since. I think Eric must have seen out the war in Gerrard Street. When the club met in 1945 for the first time in five years, it seemed doubtful whether it would continue. Even in the pre-war period, the attendance at dinners had been about fourteen. Several of the regulars had died: Helen Simpson, Austin Freeman, Hugh Walpole—and those who had survived were getting on in years. John Dickson Carr, who was secretary, wrote: “The brethren shocked me by looking so much greyer and more worn, though it’s only to be expected. The fire seems to have gone out even of DLS, who is now devoting herself entirely to translating Dante.” Carr’s biographer, Douglas Greene, remarked, “Dante, in Carr’s estimation, was not nearly as important as a good detective novel.” Fortunately, the fire hadn’t gone out. DLS persuaded the Church Commissioners to provide new club rooms at a more respectable address in Kingly Street, off Regent Street. Eric was dusted off in 1946 for the initiation of four new members. Christianna Brand, the author of Green for Danger, a lively lady and a wonderful gossip, was one of the four and recalled one of her first Detection Club dinners: I was by far the youngest member and fancied myself … as something of a glamour girl, considerably got up for the occasion. Was I then permitted a prominent part?— no, indeed. Might I even carry a candle, remaining speechless?—not even that. “Miss Brand can stand outside the door,” Miss Sayers would command in her ringing tones, “and turn off the lights at the proper time. The waiters never get it right. They are all potty.” I never got it right, either. “Miss Brand is potty,” she would say when all was disastrously over. Well, okay, but not for this had I got a new dress, year after year, and put blue on my eyelids. Miss Sayers herself had no blue on her eyelids, which anyway were masked by old-fashioned rimless pince-nez secured by a gold chain looping behind one ear; nor had she a new dress, but relied upon her non-dating black georgette beneath a Chinese tunic heavily embroidered in coloured silks and threads of gold. I remember that on my own initiation evening, a

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game was played in which one member fell dead and we were all invited to deduce the murderer. Miss Sayers, a great one for the boards, had elected herself to play the murderee, and finally cast herself down with a splendid thud on the restaurant carpet. This happened to be of a rather wavy blue pattern and I was consumed with muffled giggles at the sight of a huge Chinese lacquered whale threshing about in the shallows in its death throes. … in Kingly Street we had the use of a room (and loo) in a clergy house. Miss Sayers was immensely High Church and very much in with the Cloth. I well remember going down the stairs on my way out and remarking that it was odd to see perambulators in the hall of a house devoted to the priesthood. “It is plain to see,” said the booming voice from behind me, “that Miss Brand has been brought up a Roman Catholic.” She was, in fact, a witty lady … and if one can’t help laughing at her a bit, it is always affectionately. She was always very nice to me. When everyone else was gone, we would sit on either side of the gas fire in that rather dingy little room, she with her stout knees apart and a considerable display of dark blue bloomer, and talk for hours about life and things. She would tell me about life at home, which consisted of my poor husband, my fool of a woman (that was her secretary), and the gardener, “a pig.” There was a popular misconception that she was “butch” but no, no, no, that’s not true—though many a time I have picked up a masculine hat and cried out, “One of the men has left this!” only to be met by the boom, “That is my hat.” But she had long been married and in her young days appears to have been well in advance of her times, distinctly on the permissive side and strictly with the gentlemen.

One evening there was a medical emergency. Unusually, the ceremony was held in the Kingly Street club room and as the two new members left they stepped over the body of an elderly gentleman lying with his head in a pool of blood just outside the door. Let Christianna Brand take up the tale: More jolly japes of the Detection Club, they thought, having been so recently subjected to the skull, the weapons, the oath and the president’s red robe; and wondered vaguely what response they were supposed to make now. Closer inspection, doubtless filled with merry laughter, revealed that there was in fact a genuine head wound from which the gore was only too freely pouring. The man is not dead or the wound would have stopped flowing would be the immediate reaction of any crime writer worthy of the name; the second being to touch nothing at the scene of the murder; and the third to look about for the blunt instrument. The two new members contented themselves with putting their heads back through the door and asking … whether there was a doctor in the room. Undeceived at last, all looked towards my dear husband, a surgeon, who duly got reluctantly to his feet, inwardly cursing my self-dramatising writing acquaintances…. We discovered the patient to be dear old Mr. Punshon, E. R. Punshon, who tottering up the stone stair upon his private business, had fallen all the way down again and severely lacerated his scalp.3 My husband, groaning, dealt with all the gore, which remained in a slowly congealing pool on the clergy house floor, not an edifying sight for the occupants of the perambulators when they awakened in the morning. However, Miss Sayers had, predictably, just the right guest for such an event, a small, brisk lady, delighted to

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cope…. “Well, I think we can manage that all right. Can you find me a tablespoon?” The club room was unaccountably lacking in tablespoons. I went out and diffidently offered a large fork. “A fork? Oh well….” She bent again and studied the pool of gore. “I think we can manage,” she said again cheerfully. “It’s splendidly clotted.” I returned once more to the club room and closed the door; and I can only report that when it opened again, not a sign remained of any blood, anywhere. “I thought,” said my husband, as we took our departure before even worse could befall, “that in your oath, you foreswore vampires.” “She was only a guest,” I said apologetically.

Inevitably there came the time when Dorothy succeeded to the presidency, in 1949. This was a suitably grand occasion, not far short of a coronation. Imagine the terror that must have struck into the hearts of the hapless organisers. Everything was rehearsed several times over. Mercifully, the ceremony seems to have gone without a hitch. But as president, Dorothy took her role with high seriousness that some of the others found either intimidating or slightly ludicrous. Michael Gilbert, who became a member that same year, wrote: The only portion of the catechism that I can remember when Michael Innes and I joined in 1949 was the final question, asked by Dorothy with her eye fixed beadily on us—“Do you take anything seriously?” To which Michael Innes replied “The Master of Balliol” and I “The president of the Law Society.” These replies were apparently judged to be in order by Dorothy, as being in keeping with the solemnity of the occasion. I emphasise this because it demonstrated to me one important aspect of her character—a mingling of the sort of sophistication in life and living that was appropriate to the creator of Lord Peter Wimsey, with an immature, almost schoolgirlish pleasure in trivialities. One of these was an insistence that she should always be referred to in writing as Dorothy L. Sayers. To leave out the middle initial was a deadly insult. I never discovered why and was too timid to ask her.

The pleasure in trivialities that Michael Gilbert noted must account for the enthusiasm Dorothy L. Sayers gave to the club as its mainspring from 1930 to the end of her life. She had stopped writing crime novels in 1937, but for twenty years after that the club was one of her pet projects. After the war, things had reached such a low ebb that John Dickson Carr, the secretary, wrote to his friend Fred Dannay (one-half of Ellery Queen) saying that the club had ceased to function officially. Not only did Miss Sayers rebuild it, but she was farsighted enough to admit writers like Eric Ambler, Julian Symons and Andrew Garve to the ranks, none of whom could truly be described as writers of detective stories. Her passing, in 1957, was deeply and sincerely lamented. It’s rather touching that Margery Allingham—who you will remember was so intimidated by the great lady—should have written in a letter in 1958, “Last week I went to the annual dinner of the Detection Club. It seemed very different without Miss Sayers, who was greatly missed.… We inducted Miss

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Christie and Lord Gorell as joint Grand Masters and I had the honour of carrying the skull on a cushion. We are all a bit white-headed for such nonsense not to be in alarming taste, but I understand we are electing some youngsters next month.” Yes, it took two people to fill Dorothy L.’s shoes. Agatha Christie was an obvious choice, but, notoriously shy as she was, she would only take on the role if someone else would wear the cloak and perform the ceremonies. Lord Gorell had been a member since 1930, but in truth he was not fit to join the company of Chesterton, Bentley, Sayers and Christie—in fact he was secretly known in the club as Lord Sheep—but he did the honours. All the paraphernalia came out again for his installation. It was said to have been full of high drama, with a lugubrious piano introduction and mock–Shakespearean lines spoken by a dozen voices. Whether the Warden of the Firearm actually pulled the trigger, I cannot say. It was before my time. But I can attest that the presidents since then—Julian Symons, H.R.F. Keating and Simon Brett—have stepped quietly into office without a shot being fired, which is no bad thing in any organisation. These days, Eric has a quieter life. He is brought out just once a year in November for the annual dinner. We have seventy writers listed as members and of course their work encompasses every facet of crime fiction. It is still an honour to be invited to join and we are proud to be associated with the bright young things who first thought of meeting over dinner more than eighty years ago. — Dorothy L. Sayers Society Lecture, March 23, 2011 An earlier version of this essay originally appeared in CADS G1 (October 2011): 3–10.

NOTES BY CURTIS EVANS 1. In addition to having served as an army artillerist during World War I and intelligence officer afterward, Cecil John Charles Street (1884–1964) before the war was the chief electrical engineer for the Lyme Regis Electric Light & Power Company, making him the obvious go-to man for electrifying Eric. He was renowned among Golden Age mystery readers for the ingenious murder methods that he devised in his many novels. See my chapter on John Street in Masters of the “Humdrum” Mystery: Cecil John Charles Street, Freeman Wills Crofts, Alfred Walter Stewart and the British Detective Novel, 1920–1961 ( Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012). 2. Josephine Bell (1897–1987), a doctor and prolific mystery writer, only became a member of the Detection Club in 1954, three years before Dorothy L. Sayers’ death, despite having published her first detective novel, the acclaimed Murder in Hospital, in 1937. 3. Ernest Robertson Punshon (1872–1956), author of over fifty mystery novels, joined the Detection Club in 1933, the same year as Gladys Mitchell and Anthony Gilbert and a

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year before Margery Allingham. His books were favorites of Dorothy L. Sayers. He was a devoted Detection Club member until the end of his life.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bell, Josephine. “A Face-to-Face Encounter with Sayers.” In Murderess Ink. Edited by Dilys Winn. New York: Workman, 1979. Brabazon, James. Dorothy L. Sayers: A Biography. London: Gollancz, 1981. Brand, Christianna. Introduction to The Floating Admiral. Boston: Gregg Press, 1979. Brett, Simon. Editor. The Detection Collection. London: Orion, 2005. Carr, John Dickson. “The Grandest Game in the World” (1946). Reprinted in first full edition in Douglas G. Greene, ed., The Door to Doom and Other Detections. New York: International Polygonics, 1991. Chesterton, G. K. “The Detection Club.” The Strand Magazine (May 1933). Detection Club broadcast. Brooklyn Daily Eagle (10 February 1935). Drayton, Joanne. Ngaio Marsh: Her Life in Crime. Auckland: HarperCollins, 2009. Gilbert, Michael. “A Personal Memoir.” Dorothy L Sayers: The Centenary Celebration. Edited by Alzina Stone. New York: Walker, 1993. Greene, Douglas G. John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. New York: Otto Penzler, 1995. _____. Unpublished speech to the Detection Club. November, 2006. Lyall, Gavin. “A Brief Historical Monograph on the Detection Club Initiation Ceremony.” Unpublished. Detection Club Archive. Marsh, Ngaio. Black Beech and Honeydew: An Autobiography. Boston: Little Brown, 1965. Mitchell, Gladys. “The Golden Age.” Post Mortem Books Catalogue of Crime. 1981. Reynolds, Barbara. Dorothy L. Sayers: Her Life and Soul, Barbara Reynolds. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1993. Reynolds, Barbara. Editor. The Letters of Dorothy L Sayers (Vols. I-V). 1996–2000. Rhode, John. Editor. Detection Medley. London: Hutchinson, 1939. Sayers, Dorothy L. Introduction to the The Floating Admiral. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1931. Symons, Julian. Introduction to The Scoop and Behind the Screen. London: Gollancz, 1983. _____. Editor. Verdict of Thirteen: A Detection Club Anthology. London: Faber & Faber, 1979. Thorogood, Julia. Margery Allingham: A Biography. London: Heinemann, 1991. Ward, Maisie. Gilbert Keith Chesterton. London: Sheed & Ward, 1944.

Afterword: Prayers to Kuan Yin B OONCHAI PANJARATTANAKORN

I came to know Doug Greene as the editor of that fantastic collection of John Dickson Carr’s short tales, The Door to Doom and Other Detections (1980; reprinted in 1991) and as a regular contributor to the Armchair Detective. Our friendship started with my first letter to him back in the mid–1990s. Time does fly because our “pen friendship ” has lasted for well over a decade now. In 2000 I almost had the opportunity of meeting him during my first trip to the United States of America but, regretfully for me, he was kept quite busy then with his daughter’s wedding preparations. Although Doug and I are different in many ways, we share a love of classical mysteries, especially those from the Golden Age of detective fiction. I will always be grateful to Doug for his generosity over the years in sending me all those complimentary books from his wonderful publishing house, Crippen & Landru. To me, Doug’s striking qualities include not only his great erudition about the mystery genre but his sincerity, kindness and generosity. Otto Penzler, whom I was very fortunate to meet during my visit to his renowned Mysterious Bookshop in New York, simply but aptly summed up Doug’s character when I mentioned his name as a friend: “He is a good man.” My friendship with Doug incredibly led me to connect with one of my favorite short story writers of all time, the late Edward D. Hoch, then one of Doug’s advisors with Doug’s Crippen & Landru publishing house. As mystery fans know, Ed was the creator of such memorable sleuths as Dr. Sam Hawthorne, Nick Velvet, Captain Leopold and Ben Snow. I found that Ed himself was also another kind-hearted gentleman like Doug. I still treasure a hardcover copy 312

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of Leopold’s Way, personally inscribed by Ed, which he kindly sent me as a gift, simply because I told him how much I adored his Capt. Leopold and Lt. Fletcher tales in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. The truly emotional stage of our relationship began in 1999 when Doug was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He underwent surgery in April 1999, but found in the summer that the cancer had spread to his lymphatic system. This was chilling news. The doctor told Doug’s wife, Sandi, to count on about two years for her husband to live. All this while, I was kept fully informed of the very grim prospects for my dear friend’s life. To be frank, when this shocking news reached me, I really did not know what say. I was stunned by this cruel twist of his fate. Why, I asked myself, does God summon Doug so early and in such untimely fashion? I selfishly rationalized that Doug still had so much left to do in his life, including making further contributions for the benefit of the great world of mystery fandom, particularly devoted Crippen & Landru followers like me. Such a good fellow like Doug just did not deserve this kind of fate. I was so deeply moved when he wrote me about his planned annual trip to celebrate the New Year with Sandi in England and how much he cherished this special trip, which could be his last. Doug knew that I was a Buddhist with a strong faith in Kuan Yin, Chinese Goddess of Mercy. He wrote to me, asking that I say a Buddhist prayer for him and that I do whatever seemed right in order to give him much-needed spiritual support. I assured him that I would wholeheartedly do so for a dear friend like him. I believed I was among many good friends of his—from all sects of religious beliefs around the world—who regularly prayed for his speedy cure, better health and long life. In my case, I made a point of saying a nightly prayer for his speedy recovery. I prayed to Kuan Yin every night before going to sleep. There were two places on my must-go list: One was the Kuan Yin Shrine, not far from where I lived, and the other was the Emerald Buddha Temple in a different part of the city. These were the two most sacred places that I would always turn to in the most difficult times of my life. I certainly considered my best friend’s worst time as mine too. I wasted no time submitting a sick leave at my office so that I could visit the Temple as soon as possible. There I solemnly sought mercy from the Emerald Buddha, Thailand’s most sacred Buddha image, to help speed Doug’s cure and to ensure his long life. Beside whichever sacred place in Thailand I chanced to visit during that period, I always made a point of merit making and saying a prayer for Doug’s speedy cure. Imagine how amazed I was when I witnessed the power of love and prayer. One day in the fall of 1999, I received an email from Sandi sharing with me

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the happiest possible news. She told me that, despite the life-threatening presence of Doug’s cancer, it had inexplicably become inactive. This was truly a miracle, the best thing that could happen to Doug and his loved ones. Doug continued his seven years of treatment, with promising signs of improvement. During that period, I continued saying my nightly prayer for his permanent cure and lasting health. Since 2007 Doug has had no further treatment for his cancer. Miracles do happen. I want to thank Doug Greene for being such a good friend. Our friendship, the moments we shared, all the cherished books he has sent me, will always take a special place in my heart. Happy birthday to my dear friend.

Appendix One

Works on Mystery Fiction by Douglas G. Greene

1978 “John Dickson Carr, Alias Roger Fairbairn, and the Historical Novel.” The Armchair Detective 11 (October 1978): 339–341.

1979 “John Dickson Carr on British Radio.” The Armchair Detective 12 (Winter 1979): 69– 71. “A Reader’s Supplement to Queen’s Quorum.” The Armchair Detective 12 (Summer 1979): 228-235.

1980 The Door to Doom and Other Detections. By John Dickson Carr. Edited with an introduction, notes, and bibliography by Douglas G. Greene [hereafter DGG]. New York: Harper & Row, 1980. Book Club edition, 1980; British edition, 1981; Japanese edition (two volumes) 1983; Italian edition, 1985; revised and enlarged edition in English, International Polygonics, 1991.

1981 “Adolf Hitler and John Dickson Carr’s Least-Known Locked Room.” The Armchair Detective 14 (1981): 295–296.

1983 The Dead Sleep Lightly and Other Mysteries from Radio’s Golden Age. By John Dickson Carr. Edited with an introduction and notes by DGG. Garden City: Doubleday, 1983. Italian edition, 1997; Japanese edition, 1998 (both with additional material). “The Demoniacal Saint Amand and the Brave Baron Von Kaz: The Early Works of Darwin and Hildegarde Teilhet.” The Armchair Detective 16 (Spring 1983).

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“Jon L. Breen and the Tradition of Parody.” The Poisoned Pen 5 (May-June 1983): 15– 18, 22.

1984 “Giving Flesh to a Ghost, or The Lady Detective.” The Poisoned Pen 6 (Winter 1984): 9–11. “A Mastery of Miracles: G. K. Chesterton and John Dickson Carr.” The Chesterton Review 10 (August 1984): 307–315.

1985 “Dr. Gideon Fell, Detective.” Introduction to Hag’s Nook (1933) by John Dickson Carr. New York: International Polygonics, 1985. Reprinted in The John Dickson Carr Omnibus London: Allison & Busby, 1999. “Menace in Wax.” By John Dickson Carr, edited by DGG. Espionage Magazine 1 (November 1985). Rim of the Pit (1944) by Hake Talbot. Introduction by Douglas D. Greene. New York: International Polygonics, 1985. Italian edition, 1991. The Talking Sparrow Murders (1933) by Darwin L. Teilhet. Introduction by DGG. New York: International Polygonics, l985.

1987 Death Locked In: An Anthology of Locked Room Stories. Edited with an introduction and prefaces by DGG and Robert Adey. New York: International Polygonics, 1987. Revised edition. New York: Barnes & Noble, 1994. The Judas Window (1936) by Carter Dickson ( John Dickson Carr). Introduction by DGG. New York: International Polygonics, 1987. “The Russian Cipher” by Huan Mee (1900), “Northrup’s Little Game” by Nicholas Carter (1894) and “The Two Friends” by Guy de Maupassant (1903). Espionage Magazine 3 (May, July, September 1987). Introductions by DGG, who was also Contributing Editor.

1989 The Collected Short Fiction of Ngaio Marsh. Edited with an introduction and critical commentary by DGG. New York: International Polygonics, 1989. Book club edition, 1989. Expanded edition 1991. Reprinted by Dorset Press, 1992. Reprinted as Alleyn and Others, l995. Reprinted by Barnes & Noble, 1996. “Darwin L. Teilhet,” “Edward D. Hoch,” “John Dickson Carr,” “Patrick Quentin,” “Thomas W. Hanshew.” In Magill’s Critical Survey of Mystery and Detective Fiction. Pasadena: Salem Press, 1989. The Murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey (1936) by John Dickson Carr. Foreword and afterword by DGG. New York: International Polygonics, 1989. Japanese edition, 2007. “The Perils of Peter Duluth.” Introduction to Puzzle for Players (1938) by Patrick Quentin. New York: International Polygonics, 1989. “The Return of John Dickson Carr.” Mystery Scene (22 July 1989).

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1990 “Additions to Queen’s Quorum.” CADS: Crime and Detective Stories 14 (August 1990): 3–10. The Plague Court Murders (1934) by Carter Dickson. Introduction by DGG. New York: International Polygonics, 1990. Reprinted in Merrivale Holds the Key. New York: International Polygonics, l995. Japanese edition 2009. “Post-Queen’s Quorum.” CADS: Crime and Detective Stories 15 (November 1990): 3–6.

1991 “Depths of Frivolity: Edmund Crispin and Gervase Fen.” Introduction to The Case of the Gilded Fly (1944) by Edmund Crispin. New York: International Polygonics, 1991. Fell and Foul Play. Volume 1 of The Collected Short Stories of John Dickson Carr. Edited with notes and introduction by DGG. New York: International Polygonics, 1991. Merrivale, March and Murder. Volume 2 of The Collected Short Stories of John Dickson Carr. Edited with notes and introduction by DGG. New York: International Polygonics, 199l.

1993 “John Dickson Carr, Magician of the Locked Room.” In The Fine Art of Murder. Edited by Martin Harry Greenberg and Ed Gorman. New York: Carroll & Graf, 1993. “Queen’s Quorum Extended.” CADS: Crime and Detective Stories 21 (August 1993): 3–8.

1994 “John Dickson Carr and a Rational Universe.” Deadly Pleasures 8 (Winter 1994): 3–5.

1995 “Douglas Greene Interview.” Mystery Scene ( January-February l995): 22, 60, 62–64. “John Dickson Carr: Fairplay Foremost.” The Armchair Detective 28 (Spring 1995): 160–165. John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles. New York: Otto Penzler, 1995. Japanese edition 1996. Nominated for an Edgar Award by the Mystery Writers of America. “Marsh’s Miniatures: An Examination of Ngaio Marsh’s Short Mystery Stories.” In Ngaio Marsh: The Woman and Her Work. Edited by B. J. Rahn. Metuchen, NJ and London: Scarecrow, 1995.

1997 The Circular Staircase (l907) by Mary Roberts Rinehart. Introduction by DGG. New York: Dover, 1997. Detection by Gaslight: The Great Victorian and Edwardian Detective Stories. Edited with an introduction and prefaces by DGG. New York: Dover, 1997.

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The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu (1913) by Sax Rohmer. Introduction by DGG. New York: Dover, 1997. Reprinted 2005. The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920) by Agatha Christie. Introduction by DGG. New York: Dover, 1997. Reprinted 2005. Trent’s Last Case (1913) by E. C. Bentley. Introduction by DGG. New York: Dover, 1997. 1998 “Colin Dexter.” In Mystery Writers. Edited by Robin Winks. New York: Scribner, 1998. The Detections of Miss Cusack by L.T. Meade and Robert Eustace. Edited with an introduction and afterword by DGG and Jack Adrian. Toronto: The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 1998. The Red House Mystery (1922) by A. A. Milne. Introduction by DGG. New York: Dover, 1998. Reprinted 2005.

1999 “Adrian Conan Doyle and John Dickson Carr.” ACD: The Journal of the Arthur Conan Doyle Society 9 ( June 1999): 113–118. Classic Mystery Stories. Edited with an introduction and prefaces by DGG. New York: Dover, 1999. The Dead Hand and Other Uncollected Stories by R. Austin Freeman. Edited with an introduction by DGG and Tony Medawar. Toronto: The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 1999. Grand Guignol by John Dickson Carr ( Japanese language). Edited with prefaces by DGG. Tokyo, 1999. “Puzzle” and “Sleuthing Couples.” In The Oxford Companion to Crime and Mystery Writing. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999. “Reading Stuart Towne.” Introduction to Don Diavalo by Clayton Rawson. Toronto: The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 1999.

2003 “The Only Women: The Female Sleuth in Fiction.” The Baker Street Journal 53 (Summer, 2003): 6–13. The Romance of the Secret Service Fund by Fred M. White. Edited with an introduction by DGG. Toronto: The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 2003.

2004 “John Dickson Carr and Hill School Verse.” Introduction to The Helmsmen of Atlantis and Other Poems by John Dickson Carr. Sweden: Per Oliasen Fölag, 2004.

2005 “John Dickson Carr,” Dictionary of Literary Biography. Volume 306. American Mystery and Detective Writers. Edited by George Parker Anderson. Farmington Hills, MI: Gale, 2005. Pp. 53–65.

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2010 The Adventures of Rogan Kincaid by Hake Talbot. Edited with an introduction by DGG. Eugenia, Ont.: The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 2010. The Compleat Detectkative Memoirs of Philo Gubb, Esquire by Ellis Parker Butler. Edited with an introduction by DGG. Eugenia, Ont.: Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 2010.

2012 Before the Fact by Rodrigues Ottolengui. Edited with an introduction by DGG. Eugenia, Ont.: The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 2012.

2013 The Complete Achievements of Luther Trant, Psychological Detective by Edwin Balmer and Williamn MacHarg. Edited with an introduction by DGG. Eugenia, Ont.: The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 2013. “Criminal Associations: Allingham, Carr & Doyle.” Mystery Scene (Winter 2013). “Ellery Queen,” “John Dickson Carr,” and “Malice Memories.” In Not Everyone’s Cup of Tea, An Interesting and Entertaining History of Malice Domestic’s First 25 Years. Rockville, MD: Wildside, 2013.

2014 “The Yellowback and the Detective Story.” In Dime Novel Round-Up 83 (Spring 2014): 4–11.

The editor would like to thank Marvin Lachman for his assistance with this Appendix.

Appendix Two

Short Crime Fiction Collections Published by Crippen & Landru

LCL = Lost Classics Series

1994 John Dickson Carr, Speak of the Devil

1995 Marcia Muller, The McCone Files: The Complete Sharon McCone Stories Margery Allingham, The Darings of the Red Rose

1996 Edward D. Hoch, Diagnosis Impossible: The Problems of Dr. Sam Hawthorne Bill Pronzini, Spadework: Stories of the “Nameless Detective” Patricia Moyes, Who Killed Father Christmas? And Other Unseasonable Demises

1997 James Yaffe, My Mother, the Detective: The Complete “Mom” Short Stories H. R. F. Keating, In Kensington Gardens Once Margaret Maron, Shoveling Smoke: Selected Mystery Stories Michael Gilbert, The Man Who Hated Banks and Other Mysteries Edward D. Hoch, The Ripper of Storyville and Other Ben Snow Tales Peter Lovesey, Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose

1998 P. M. Carlson, Renowned Be Thy Grave: The Murderous Miss Mooney Bill Pronzini, Carpenter and Quincannon: Professional Detective Services Peter Robinson, Not Safe after Dark and Other Stories Jeremiah Healy, The Concise Cuddy: A Collection of John Francis Cuddy Stories

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1999 Lawrence Block, One Night Stands Doug Allyn, All Creatures Dark and Dangerous Ed Gorman, Famous Blue Raincoat Ellery Queen, The Tragedy of Errors and Others

2000 Marcia Muller, McCone and Friends Clark Howard, Challenge the Widow-Maker and Other Stories of People in Peril Edward D. Hoch, The Velvet Touch: Nick Velvet Stories Michael Collins, Fortune’s World Hugh B. Cave, Long Live the Dead: Tales from Black Mask Carolyn Wheat, Tales out of School Joe Gores, Stakeout on Page Street and Other DKA Files

2001 Ross Macdonald, Strangers in Town: Three Newly Discovered Mysteries Susan Dunlap, The Celestial Buffet and Other Morsels of Murder Max Allan Collins, Kisses of Death: A Nathan Heller Casebook Edward D. Hoch, The Old Spies Club and Other Intrigues of Rand Peter Lovesey, The Sedgemoor Strangler and Other Stories of Crime Ron Goulart, Adam and Eve on a Raft: Mystery Stories Michael Z. Lewin, The Reluctant Detective and Other Stories Lawrence Block, The Lost Cases of Ed London

2002 Wendy Hornsby, Nine Sons: Collected Mysteries Peter Godfrey, The Newtonian Egg and Other Cases of Rolf Le Roux (Lost Classics Series) Michael Gilbert, The Curious Conspiracy and Other Crimes Craig Rice, Murder Mystery and Malone (LCL) Charles B. Child, The Sleuth of Baghdad (LCL) Georges Simenon, The 13 Culprits Stuart Palmer, Hildegarde Withers: Uncollected Riddles (LCL) Brendan DuBois, The Dark Snow and Other Mysteries Christianna Brand, The Spotted Cat and Other Mysteries from Inspector Cockrill’s Casebook (LCL) Raoul Whitfield, Jo Gar’s Casebook (Tales from the Black Mask Morgue)

2003 Hugh B. Cave, Come into My Parlor: Tales from Detective Fiction Weekly Edward D. Hoch, The Iron Angel and Other Tales of the Gypsy Sleuth William Campbell Gault, Marksman and Other Stories (LCL)

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Gerald Kersh, Karmesin, The World’s Greatest Criminal—Or Most Outrageous Liar (LCL) Jeremiah Healy, Cuddy—Plus One Bill Pronzini and Barry N. Malzberg, Problems Solved C. Daly King, The Complete Curious Mr. Tarrant (LCL) Eric Wright, A Killing Climate: The Collected Mystery Stories Helen McCloy, The Pleasant Assassin and Other Cases of Dr. Basil Willing (LCL) Liza Cody, Lucky Dip and Other Stories William DeAndrea, Murder—All Kinds (LCL) Jon L. Breen, Kill the Umpire: The Calls of Ed Gorgon

2004 Margaret Maron, Suitable for Hanging: Selected Stories Anthony Berkeley, The Avenging Chance and Other Mysteries from Roger Sheringham’s Casebook (LCL) Kathy Lynn Emerson, Murder and Other Confusions Joseph Commings, Banner Deadlines: The Impossible Files of Senator Brooks U. Banner (LCL) Erle Stanley Gardner, The Danger Zone and Other Stories (LCL) T. S. Stribling, Dr. Poggioli: Criminologist (LCL) Mickey Spillane, Byline: Mickey Spillane Margaret Millar, The Couple Next Door: Collected Short Mysteries (LCL)

2005 Gladys Mitchell: Sleuth’s Alchemy: Cases of Mrs. Bradley and Others (LCL) Philip S. Warne/Howard W. Macy, Who Was Guilty? Two Dime Novels (LCL) Terence Faherty, The Confessions of Owen Keane Ellery Queen, The Adventure of the Murdered Moths and Other Radio Mysteries Edward Marston, Murder—Ancient and Modern Dennis Lynds writing as Michael Collins, Slot-Machine Kelly: The Collected Private Eye Cases of the “One-Armed Bandit” (LCL)

2006 Julian Symons, The Detections of Francis Quarles (LCL) Rafael Sabatini, The Evidence of the Sword (LCL) Erle Stanley Gardner, The Casebook of Sidney Zoom (LCL) Edward D. Hoch, More Things Impossible: The Second Casebook of Dr. Sam Hawthorne Ellis Peters, The Trinity Cat and Other Mysteries (LCL) Amy Myers, Murder, ’Orrible Murder! Peter Lovesey (editor), The Verdict of Us All: Stories of the Detection Club for H. R. F. Keating

2007 Walter Satterthwait, The Mankiller of Poojegai and Other Stories Lloyd Biggle, Jr., The Grandfather Rastin Mysteries (LCL)

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Ross Macdonald, The Archer Files Max Brand: Masquerade: Ten Crime Stories (LCL) Mignon Eberhart: Dead Yesterday and Other Stories (LCL)

2008 Richard A. Lupoff, Quintet: The Cases of Chase and Delacroix Peter Lovesey, Murder on the Short List Hugh Pentecost, The Battles of Jericho (LCL) John Dickson Carr and Val Gielgud, 13 to the Gallows

2009 Robert Silverburg and Randall Garrett, A Little Intelligence Victor Canning, The Minerva Club: The Department of Patterns and Others (LCL) James Powell, A Pocketful of Noses: Stories of One Ganelon or Another Anthony Boucher and Denis Green, The Casebook of Gregory Hood: Radio Plays (LCL) S. J. Rozan, A Tale about a Tiger and Other Mysterious Events Vera Caspary, The Murder in the Stork Club and Other Mysteries (LCL)

2010 Michael Innes, Appleby Talks about Crime (LCL) William Link, The Colombo Collection Philip Wylie, Ten Thousand Blunt Instruments and Other Tales of Mystery (LCL)

2011 Erle Stanley Gardner, The Exploits of the Patent Leather Kid (LCL) Loren D. Estleman, Valentino: Film Detective Vincent Cornier, The Duel of Shadows: The Extraordinary Cases of Barnabas Hildreth (LCL)

2012 Melodie Johnson Howe, Shooting Hollywood: The Diana Poole Stories E. X. Ferrars, The Casebook of Jonas P. Jonas and Other Mysteries (LCL)

2014 Edward D. Hoch, Nothing Is Impossible: Further Problems of Dr. Sam Hawthorne

About the Contributors

Sergio Angelini is the information and publication executive for the British Universities Film & Video Council and writes the television review column for the British Film Institute’s Sight & Sound magazine. His previous publications include contributions to Directors in British and Irish Cinema (2006), Investigating Alias: Secrets and Spies (2007) and The Cult TV Book (2010). He writes about mystery, crime and suspense in all media at his blog, Tipping My Fedora. Mike Ashley has had a long career as a researcher, writer and editor. He has compiled many anthologies and written almost a thousand articles and essays. He is the author of Starlight Man: The Extraordinary Life of Algernon Blackwood (2001) and has compiled story collections by a diverse group of genre fiction writers, including, for Crippen & Landru, Vincent Cornier (The Duel of Shadows, 2011). He won an Edgar Award for The Mammoth Encyclopedia of Modern Crime Fiction (2002). Mauro Boncompagni is a professor of philosophy at the University of Genoa. He has written several books and essays about Benedetto Croce, Martin Heidegger, Hans Georg Gadamer, Helmut Kuhn and others. A keen collector of detective fiction, he is a consultant on this literary genre to the Italian publishers Mondadori and Polillo. Jon L. Breen is the author of eight novels and four short story collections, including Crippen & Landru’s Kill the Umpire: The Calls of Ed Gorgon (2003). He has won Edgar Awards for his critical works What About Murder? A Guide to Books about Mystery and Detective Fiction (1981) and Novel Verdicts: A Guide to Courtroom Fiction (1984; 2nd ed. 1999). Some of his numerous critical essays have been collected in A Shot Rang Out (2008). John Curran is the author of the Agatha, Anthony and Macavity Award–winning and Edgar Award–nominated Agatha Christie’s Secret Notebooks (2009) and Agatha Christie’s Murder in the Making (2011). In 2013 he completed his doctoral thesis on “The Golden Age of Detective Fiction” and received his Ph.D. at Trinity College in Dublin, where he lives.

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• About the Contributors •

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Michael Dirda is a Pulitzer Prize–winning book columnist for The Washington Post. His most recent books are Classics for Pleasure (2007) and the 2012 Edgar Awardwinning On Conan Doyle: Or, The Whole Art of Storytelling (2011). In his book Readings: Essays and Literary Entertainments (2000) he noted that the locked room mystery is the “highest form of the classic detective story” and that the “supreme examples are all by John Dickson Carr.” Martin Edwards’ Lake District Mystery series includes The Coffin Trail (shortlisted for the Theakston’s prize for best British crime novel). He has written ten other novels. He won the CWA Short Story Dagger in 2008 and has edited numerous books, including, with Sue Feder, Ellis Peters’ The Trinity Cat and Other Mysteries (Crippen & Landru, 2006). He is the archivist of the Detection Club and the Crime Writers’ Association and he blogs at Do You Write under Your Own Name? Roger Ellis is a retired physiotherapist who worked for thirty years in charge of rehabilitation at the Yorkshire Regional Spinal Injuries Centre. He held the position of team manager for wheelchair sport, serving the British team from 1977 to 1996 and four Paralympic Games. He began collecting J. S. Fletcher volumes while a student in the mid–1960’s and with Richard Williams has compiled J. S. Fletcher: A Bibliographical Checklist of the British First Editions (2013). Curtis Evans received a Ph.D. in history in 1998. He is the author of Masters of the “Humdrum” Mystery: Cecil John Charles Street, Freeman Wills Crofts, Alfred Walter Stewart and the British Detective Novel, 1920–1961 (2012) and Clues and Corpses: The Detective Fiction and Mystery Criticism of Todd Downing (2013). His blog is The Passing Tramp. Joseph Goodrich is the Edgar Award–winning author of the play Panic, as well as the editor of Blood Relations: The Selected Letters of Ellery Queen, 1947–1950 (2012), which was nominated for the 2013 Anthony and Agatha Awards for best non-fiction work. His short stories have appeared in two MWA anthologies and he is a regular contributor to Mystery Scene Magazine. Julia Jones is the author of The Adventures of Margery Allingham (2009, first published in 1991 as Margery Allingham: A Biography by Julia Thorogood) and Fifty Years in the Fiction Factory: The Working Life of Herbert Allingham 1867–1936 (2012), the latter work based on her University of Sussex doctoral thesis. She is the author of the award-winning The Salt-Stained Book and other volumes in the Strong Winds series of sailing adventures. Marvin Lachman has authored or co-authored six books and written hundreds of articles and book reviews. He has won the Edgar, Anthony and Macavity Awards. His book The Heirs of Anthony Boucher: A History of Mystery Fandom (2005) has quite a bit about the activities of Douglas G. Greene and he edited The Ripper of Storyville and Other Ben Snow Tales (1997), a Crippen & Landru collection of detective stories by Edward D. Hoch. Peter Lovesey’s short stories collections have been published by Crippen & Landru, as was The Verdict of Us All (2006), the Detection Club tribute to H.R.F. Keating that he edited. Since the publication of Wobble to Death in 1970, he has authored more

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• ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS •

than thirty novels. He has won many international awards, including the Macavity and the CWA’s Gold, Silver and Cartier Diamond Daggers. Jeffrey Marks’ critical works include Who Was That Lady? Craig Rice, the Queen of Screwball Mystery (2001). For Crippen & Landru, he also edited Murder, Mystery and Malone (2002), a collection of Craig Rice’s short fiction. His works have been variously nominated for a myriad of awards, including an Edgar, three Agathas, three Anthonys and two Macavitys. He won an Anthony for Anthony Boucher: A Biobibliography (2008). Tom Nolan is the author of the Edgar-nominated Ross Macdonald: A Biography (1999). Thanks to Doug Greene, he is also the editor of three Crippen & Landru collections: Strangers in Town: Three Newly Discovered Mysteries by Ross Macdonald (2001), Margaret Millar’s The Couple Next Door: Collected Short Mysteries (2004), and Ross Macdonald’s The Archer Files: The Complete Short Stories of Lew Archer, Private Investigator (2007). Patrick Ohl is a Canadian student at the University of Waterloo. His blog, At the Scene of the Crime, is devoted to spoiler-free reviews of crime and detective fiction. He also contributes a column to the e-zine Mysterical-E. Boonchai Panjarattanakorn graduated with a B.Sc. in statistics from the Faculty of Commerce and Accountancy, Chulalongkorn University, Bangkok. He has been a computer programmer, system analyst, translator, magazine editor and international division manager. A freelancer, he is also a fan of detective short stories, especially those published by Crippen & Landru. B. A. Pike is the chairman of the Margery Allingham Society and editor of its journal, The Bottle Street Gazette. He is the author of the Edgar-nominated Campion’s Career: A Study of the Novels of Margery Allingham (1987) and co-author of Detective Fiction: The Collector’s Guide (1988; rev. ed. 1994) and Artists in Crime: An Illustrated Survey of Crime Fiction First Edition Dustwrappers, 1920–1970 (1995). He has published many pieces about classic mystery fiction. William Ruehlmann is a professor emeritus of journalism and communications at Virginia Wesleyan College, where he received three teaching awards. He served as president and executive director of the national Society for Collegiate Journalists. He is the author of Saint with a Gun: The Unlawful American Private Eye (1974). He writes a Sunday book column for The Virginian-Pilot in Norfolk, Virginia. Jack Seabrook is the author of Martians and Misplaced Clues: The Life and Work of Fredric Brown (1993) and Stealing through Time: On the Writings of Jack Finney (2006). He has recently appeared on the Arrow DVD of Philip Kaufman’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978), discussing Finney’s work. He writes online about Fredric Brown and other mystery authors and is three years into a decade-long project to post an essay on every episode of Alfred Hitchcock’s television series. Steven Steinbock is the book critic for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. He is former president of the North American chapter of the International Association of

• About the Contributors •

327

Crime Writers and the author of several works of Judaica and Jewish education. He has written for the Portland Press Herald, The Armchair Detective, Crime Time and The Strand Magazine, as well as other publications and websites. Helen Szamuely has been reading detective stories since age eleven when her grandmother gave her a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories in Russian. She has written about detective stories in the Salisbury Review, on the Social Affairs Unit blog and on the Conservative History Journal blog. Henrique Valle is the pseudonym of a Portuguese lawyer and legal scholar. If he died today he would, just like Fernando Pessoa, leave a considerable number of unfinished detective stories and essays on mystery fiction. David Whittle studied music at the University of Nottingham where he completed his doctoral studies on Bruce Montgomery (Edmund Crispin). He wrote Bruce Montgomery/Edmund Crispin: A Life in Music and Books (2007) and has contributed to publications such as The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, The Oxford Companion to Crime and Mystery Writing and Irish Musical Studies. He is the director of music at Leicester Grammar School, UK.

Index

alcoholism 12, 138, 139, 149–150, 187, 189, 206, 216, 218–221, 224–229, 229n5, 252, 253 Alexander the Great 252 “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” 248 All But Impossible 158 Alleyn, Roderick 204, 209, 211n7, 213n21 Alligator 246 Allingham, Herbert 110 Allingham, Joyce 128 Allingham, Margery 2, 6, 9–11, 14, 90, 109– 120, 122–131, 176, 195, 202, 204, 206, 211n7, 224, 303–304, 306, 309–310; aesthetic view of mystery fiction 14, 109, 125; on distinction between right hand and left hand work 109; relationship of personal life to the writing of The China Governess, 128–131 Altus 248 Ambler, Eric 84, 308 “Ambush” (“Nightmare”/“Let the Reader Beware”) 250 Amis, Kingsley 84, 133 And Then There Were None 82, 96, 210n3 Anderson, Frederick Irving 87 Angelini, Sergio 5, 7, 11, 15 “Another Man’s Poison” 150 Ansell, Mary 104 Anyface 30 Appleby, John 213n21, 277 Appointment with Fear 137, 260 The April Robin Murders 220 The Arabian Nights Murder 97 Archer, Lew 13, 232–236 Aristotle 284n7 Ark, Simon 160 The Armchair Detective 215, 241–242, 245, 312 The Arrow of Heaven 96

Abbot, Anthony 14 ABC (American Broadcasting Company) 270–274 The A B C Murders 89, 96 Abner, Uncle 163, 251 Abramson, Hugh 159 Adey, Robert 85, 91, 158, 243, 244, 260, 266 “Adjustment” 146 Adler, Irene 24, 82, 278, 284n5 “Adolf Hitler and John Dickson Carr’s Least Known Locked Room” 242 Adrian, Jack 10, 245, 260, 266 “The Adventure of Black Peter” 187 “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle” 187 “The Adventure of the Conk-Singleton Papers” 13 “The Adventure of the Empty House” 23 The Adventure of the Murdered Moths and Other Radio Mysteries 243, 270 “The Adventure of the Paradol Chamber” 13 “The Adventure of the Priory School” 187 “The Adventure of the Scarecrow and the Snowman” 243 “The Adventure of the Speckled Band” 82 The Adventures of Archer Dawe (SleuthHound) 49 The Adventures of Ellery Queen (radio series) 15, 242, 270–274 The Adventures of Margery Allingham 129 “The Adventures of Mr. Banyard” 36 The Adventures of Rogan Kincaid 159 “The Aesthetics of the Criminous” 210n2 The Affair of the Half-Witness 162 After the Funeral 92 The Age of Innocence 69 Ainsworth, Oliver 175 Ainsworth, William Harrison 44 Al Capp: A Life to the Contrary 29

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• Index • The Art of the Impossible 266 The Art of the Mystery Story 210n2 As for the Woman 103 Ascari, Maurizio 180n2 Ashley, Mike 11, 13, 87 Ask a Policeman 106, 283n1 Asmodeus 288 L’Assassin maladroit (The Awkward Murderer) 292 Aswell, Edward. C. 147 Aswell, Mary Louise (White) 145; see also Quentin, Patrick “At the Bells and Motley” 89, 92 At the Mountains of Madness 83 Athanasourelis, John Paul 210n2 The Attenbury Emeralds 16, 276, 280–281, 284n9 Aubrey-Fletcher, Henry Lancelot see Wade, Henry Auden, W. H. 232–233 Austen, Jane 16, 64, 276, 281–283 The Avenging Chance 102–105, 107 The Avenging Chance and Other Mysteries from Roger Sheringham’s Casebook 11, 87, 105 Bailey, H. C. 17n4, 174 Baker, George Pierce 161 Baker Street Irregulars 87, 279 The Baker Street Journal 10, 246 “A Ballade of Detection” 64, 65 Bardin, John Franklin 147 “The Bargee’s Holiday” 107 Baring-Gould, William S. 284n7 Barrymore, John 252 Barzun, Jacques 8, 12, 55, 62, 158, 210n2, 210n11, 212n20 The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box 7, 10, 87, 159, 245, 248 Baum, L. Frank 2, 3, 85 The Baum Bugle 3 BBC (British Broadcasting Corporation) 128, 243, 246, 260–263, 266, 266n5, 301 The Beast Must Die 17n4, 201, 204 Beat movement 221n3, 233–235 The Beautiful Derelict 70, 72 Beck, Adolf 106 Beck, Paul 90 The Beckoning Lady 120, 123 Beford, Harold 261 Behind the Screen 301 Bell, Josephine 306, 310n2 Bellem, Robert Leslie 256 Bencolin, Henri 16, 247 Bennett, Elizabeth 281–282 The Benson Murder Case 174, 177 Bentley, E. C. 6, 56n15, 67, 101–102, 283n1, 304–305, 307, 310

329

Berkeley, Anthony (Anthony Berkeley Cox; also Francis Iles) 11, 14, 87, 90, 94, 101– 107, 138, 187, 190, 195, 247, 275, 283n1, 297, 298–301, 303; aesthetic view of mystery fiction 107 Best Detective Stories 136 Le Bestiaire de Sherlock Holmes (Sherlock Holmes’ Bestiary) 291–292 “The Betrayer of Secrets” 35 Bibliographia Oziana 2 Bierce, Ambrose 263 The Big Bow Mystery 93, 291 Big Fish, Little Fish 153 “Big Game” 38 The Big Sleep 172, 206, 209 Biggers, Earl Derr 14 “The Birds” 83 The Bishop’s Park Mystery 173 Black Coffee 283n1 Black Mask 206 “The Black Minute” 261 Black Plumes 119 Blackerchief Dick 110 Blackwood, Algernon 36, 165 Blake, Nicholas (Cecil Day Lewis) 17n4, 201, 204, 209n1, 304 Blake, Sexton 25 Blake, William 1 The Blind Barber 12, 216 the Blitz 307 Block, Lawrence 2, 12 Blood Relations: The Selected Letters of Ellery Queen, 1947–1950 268 Bloody Murder: From the Crime Story to the Detective Novel 171, 259 Bloom, Harold 183, 196n1 “The Blue Cross” 82 Boca, Gaston 286 Bodkin, C. McDonnell 90 Bodkins, Godfrey “Odds” 254 Boileau, Pierre 287 Bolitar, Myron 254 Bolitho, William 175, 181n11 Bolt, Dave 254 “The Bonanza Maze” 252 Boncompagni, Mauro 7, 14 Bond, James 246 “The Bond Street Poisoning Bureau” 39 Book of Tobit 287–288 Borden, Lizzie 148 “The Border-line Case” 115 Boswell, James 251 The Bottle Street Gazette 110 Boucher, Anthony 11, 14, 87, 136, 210n5, 247, 270 Bouchercon 3–4 The Bowstring Murders 93

330

• INDEX •

Brabazon, James 303 Bramah, Ernest 6, 102 Brand, Christianna 11, 90, 105, 138, 275, 307–309 Brant, Rick 81 Breen, Jon. L. 11, 158, 243, 246, 269, 283n1 Brett, Simon 298, 300 The Bride of Newgate 13 “The Bride Vanishes” 262, 265 Brock, Lynn 171, 175, 179 “The Broken Toad” 17n4 Brooke, Loveday 10 Brown, Father 10, 82–84, 70, 90, 276 Brown, Fredric 12, 15, 224–229 passim, 229n1, 229n5 Brown, George Douglas 49 Browne, Denis 304 Bruce, Leo (Rupert Croft Cooke) 276 Bunter, Mervyn 281 Bunyan, John 52 Burgess, Gelett 33, 64 Burke, Thomas 187 The Burning Court 5, 17n4, 84, 86, 93, 97, 261 Burns, Robert 231 Burroughs, Edgar Rice 83 Bush, Geoffrey 138, 140n11 But the Doctor Died 220 Butler, Ellis Parker 6 Byng, Sergeant William 187–189, 193 Cabaret 153 “Cabin B-13” (radio play) 264 Cabin B-13 (radio series) 260 Cabine B-13 265 Cain, James M. 6, 212n15 Calamity Town 268 “The Call to New York” 37 Cambridge University 35, 146 Campenhaye, Paul 53 Campion, Albert 110, 114–118, 120, 122– 123, 125, 127–128, 131, 204, 209, 211n7, 213n21 “Can You Solve This Crime?” 250 The Canary Murder Case 90, 177–178 Candide 153 “Os Canibais” (The Cannibals) 186 Cannan, Joanna 211n7 The Cape Cod Mystery 75n21 Capote, Truman 147 Capp, Al 28 Captain Cut-Throat 13 Carr, Clarice 306 Carr, John Dickson (Carter Dickson, Roger Fairburn) 2–3, 5–16 passim, 17n2, 17n3, 17n4, 17n5, 21, 28, 60–62, 82, 84–88, 91, 95–97, 101, 104, 107, 111, 133–139 passim,

151–152, 158–160, 162–163, 178, 181n18, 185, 190, 195, 196n6, 203, 210n5, 215, 216, 241–247 passim, 251, 253, 259–266 passim, 266n5, 275, 277, 278, 283, 283n4, 288, 291, 297, 301, 304–306, 309, 310, 312; and aesthetic feud with Raymond Chandler and attitude to hard-boiled mystery 6, 12–13, 17n13, 203, 210n5; aesthetic view of mystery fiction, 7, 245, 247; conservatism of, 60–61; Detection Club 137– 138, 293, 301, 306–307, 309; importance in mystery genre history of 6–7, 14, 84–87, 158; influence on other detective fiction writers, 8, 10, 133–139; literary influences upon 10–11, 60–61; see also locked room mystery; radio mystery The Carr Club 137 Carrie, Maurice 118 Carroll, Lewis 64, 226 “A Carta Magica” (The Magic Letter) 190 Carter, Tom 128 “The Case Is Altered” 117 The Case of Charles Dexter Ward 83 “The Case of Mr. Arnott” 187–188 The Case of the Constant Suicides 216 The Case of the Gilded Fly 10, 134–135 “The Case of the Quadratic Equation” 187, 189 “The Case of the Science Master” 187–188 The Cask 177 “O Caso do Quarto Fechado” (The Case of the Locked Room) 190–191 “O Caso do Triplo Fecho” (The Case of the Triple Lock) 190 O Caso Vargas (The Vargas Case) 190, 193, 194 Cassuto, Leonard 202 The Castle of Otranto 159 A Catalogue of Crime 62, 212n20 The Cathra Mystery 175 The Cavalier’s Cup 97 Cave, Hugh B. 12 CBS (Columbia Broadcasting System) 260– 262, 264, 272–273 A Certain Dr. Thorndyke 193 A Chain of Evidence (novel) 65–66 A Chain of Evidence (novella) 65 Challenger, Professor 24 Chandler, Raymond 6–7, 12, 15, 17n13, 136, 172, 175, 181n12, 201–209 passim, 209n2, 210n3, 210n4, 210n5, 210n7, 210n10, 210n15, 210n17, 210n20, 210n21, 259 Charlemagne 251 “Charlemagne and the Secret Plans” 251 “Charlemagne and the Whisperer” 251 Charlotte Bronte: A Psychological Study 56n11

• Index • Charteris, Leslie (Leslie Charles BowyerYin) 30 Chatterton, Thomas 277 Chesterton, G. K. 5, 63, 70, 82–83, 90, 96, 101–102, 105, 163, 190–191, 195, 263, 276, 297–298, 301, 303–305, 310 Child, Charles B. 11, 247 Chimera 151 The China Governess 122–131 passim Chinitz, David E. 172 Christie, Agatha 3, 5–7, 9, 14, 53, 56n15, 64, 66, 69, 82, 89–97, 101–104, 123, 135, 147, 171, 176, 179, 192, 195, 197n14, 202–204, 207, 208, 210n3, 212n17, 259, 276, 279, 283n1, 289, 301, 303, 306, 310; see also locked room mystery A Christmas Carol 2 Churchill, Winston 5, 219 Clason, Clyde B. 14 Classic Mystery Stories 3, 8, 10 Claudius 253 Cleek, Hamilton 10–11, 21–28 passim Cleek of Scotland Yard 23, 26 Cleek, The Man of the Forty Faces 21, 23, 26 Cleek’s Government Cases 23 Climax! 264 “The Clock Strikes Eight” 264 “Close Shave” 253 Clouzot, Henri-Georges 287 The Clue 62, 65–67, 74n14 The Clue of the Eyelash 70, 73 The Clue in the Glass 175 Clues: A Journal of Detection 149 Clues of the Caribees 46 Coachwhip Publications 33 Cobb, Irwin S. 83 Coben, Harlan 254 The Cocakatoo 38 “The Cold Winds of Adesta” 255 Cole, G. D. H. 102 Cole, Margaret 102 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 232 The Colfax Bookplate 175 The Collected Short Fiction of Ngaio Marsh 3, 9, 244 The Collected Short Stories of John Dickson Carr 244 Collins, Max Allan 12 Collins, Michael 12 Collins, Wilkie 15, 48, 171–172, 175–177, 179, 180n2 Collis, Rose 129 Colony Club 73 Columbo 264 “The Comic Opera Murders” 253 Commings, Joseph 11, 247 Communism 211n10

331

Conan Doyle, Arthur 13, 16, 23, 38, 43, 47, 65, 68, 81–83, 102, 174, 176–177, 187–189, 195, 207, 245, 277–278, 280, 283n4, 291, 299, 301, 304; see also parody; pastiche Coney Island 262 Confucius 180n6 Connington, J. J. (Alfred Walter Stewart) 102, 171, 173, 176–179 Cooke, Arthur O. 175 Cooper, James Fenimore 44 Cornier, Vincent 11, 87, 247 The Corpse in the Waxworks 85, 87 The Corpse Steps Out 217 Corrigan, Maureen 86 Cottage Sinister 146 The Count of Monte Cristo 288–289 Coward, Noël 63 Cox, Anthony Berkeley see Berkeley, Anthony Coxe, George Harmon 210n3 cozy mystery 6, 61 Craig, Bosco 216 Craig, Mary (Randolph) 216, 219 “Crime” 192 The Crime at Diana’s Pool 174 Le Crime d’Orcival (The Mystery of Orcival) 182n22 “Crime for Our Delight” 125 Crime Queens 6, 9–10, 14, 176, 195, 202, 204, 211n7, 224 Crippen & Landru 2–4 passim, 8, 11–12, 15, 87, 101, 105, 111, 220–221, 242–243, 246, 248, 264, 266, 269, 275, 297, 312–313 Crispin, Edmund (Bruce Montgomery) 4, 10, 14, 90, 133–139 passim; aesthetic view of mystery fiction 136–137 The Criterion 15, 171–180 passim, 180n3 Croft Cooke, Rupert see Bruce, Leo Crofts, Freeman Wills 15, 90, 102, 151, 171, 176–178, 181n15, 188–189, 192–195 passim, 202, 204, 206–207, 209, 210n2, 304, 306 The Crooked Hinge 82, 84, 134–135, 138– 139 Crowley, Aleister 194 “Cul de Sac” 253 “Os Cumplices” (The Accomplices) 193 Cuppy, Will 56n12 Curran, John 9, 14 Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case (Curtain) 89, 96 Curtis, Richard 248, 254 The Curved Blades 67–68 Cusack, Florence 10 “The Customs of the Country” 255 “The Cyanogen Affair” 39 “The Dagger with Wings” 83 Dale, Jimmie 23

332

• INDEX •

The Dance of the Years 128 Dancers in Mourning 115, 125 Danger Next Door 149 The Dangerfield Talisman 173, 178 Dangerous Crossing 264 Dannay, Douglas 269 Dannay, Frederic 3, 11, 60, 61, 87, 106, 150, 158, 207, 241–243, 248–251, 253, 268– 270, 273, 275, 309; see also Queen, Ellery (author); radio mystery Dannay, Richard 269 Dante 231, 232, 307 The D’Arblay Mystery 172, 177 Darcy, Mr. 281–283 The Darings of the Red Rose 11, 111–112 The Daughter of Time 291 Davie, Donald 233 Dawe, Archer 49 Dawn, Paul 253–254 Day Lewis, Cecil see Blake, Nicholas The Dead Hand and Other Uncollected Short Stories 3, 246 “Dead Leaves” 39 “Dead Man’s Mirror” 94 The Dead Sleep Lightly and Other Mysteries from Radio’s Golden Age 243, 260, 265– 266 Deadly Duo (Take Two at Bedtime) 118 Deadly Pleasures 242, 247 Death and the Dancing Footman 90 Death and the Maiden 149 Death Comes as the End 89 Death Comes to Pemberley 16, 276, 281–282 “Death Flies Blind” 262 Death for Dear Clara 148–149 Death Goes to School 148–149 Death in the Clouds 92 Death Locked In 3, 85, 244 Death, My Darling Daughters (Death and the Dear Girls) 152 Death on the Nile 94, 96 The Death That Lurks Unseen 49 Death-Watch 84, 97 Death’s Old Sweet Song 152 de Carvalhal, Alvaro 186 “The Definite Article” (“The Black Tent”) 115, 117 Delafield, E. M. 103 de la Torre, Lilian 251 DeMille, Cecil B. 304 Deming, Richard 256 Dene, Dorcas 10 De Nerval, Gerard 291 Denoel 286, 287 “The Department of Impossible Crimes” 253 de Quincey, Thomas 291

“O Desaparecimento do Dr. Reis Gomes” (The Disappearance of Dr. Reis Gomes) 190 de Souza, Edward 266n5 Destination Unknown (So Many Steps to Death) 89 Detection by Gaslight: The Great Victorian and Edwardian Detective Stories 3, 10, 245 Detection Club 9, 13–14, 16, 101–102, 105, 106, 137–138, 190, 208, 210n5, 283n1, 297–310 passim, 310n2, 310n3; Detection Club oath 301–303; see also Sayers, Dorothy L. The Detections of Miss Cusack 10, 245 “Detective Story” 181n15, 184 “A Detective Story Decalogue” 300, 303 Le Détective volé (The Stolen Detective) 291 The Devil at Saxon Wall 17n4 “The Devil in the Summer-House” 261– 262, 266 The Devil in Velvet 13 Devil Kinsmere 251 “The Devil’s Saint” (“The Sleep of Death”) 262–263 The Devil’s Tower 175 Dexter, Colin 5 Les Diaboliques 287 Diagnosis Impossible: The Problems of Dr. Sam Hawthorne 87 The Diamond in the Hoof 173 The Diamond Pin 67 The Diamonds 47 Diavolo, Dan 87 Dickens, Charles 2, 43, 48, 64, 172 Dietz, John 265 Dike, Donald 173 Dirda, Michael 5, 7, 13–14, 81–88 passim, 196n1, 278 “Direct Evidence” 106 “The Disappearance of Mr. Holsworthy” 39 The Dogs Do Bark (Murder Goes to Earth) 151 Dollops 22, 25, 27 The Door Between 90 The Door to Doom and Other Detections 7, 17n3, 84, 243, 260, 266, 312 Dos Passos, John 249 “Double-Bluff ” 106 Douglas, Carole Nelson 278, 284n5 Dover Press 10 Downing, Todd 14, 72, 73 Doyle, Adrian 12, 245, 277, 278, 283n4 “The Dream” 94, 95 Drummond, Hugh “Bulldog” 303 du Boisgobey, Fortune 65 The Duel of Shadows 87

• Index • Duluth, Peter 149–151 Dumas, Alexandre 288–289 du Maurier, Daphne 83 Dumb Witness 94 Dunsany, Lord (Edward Plunkett) 83 Dupin, C. Auguste 16, 90, 184, 187–189, 291 Dyall, Valentine 263–264 Eberhart, Mignon 2–3, 11, 14 Edison, Thomas 27 Edmunds, Christina 104 Edwards. Martin 11, 14 8 Faces at 3 217 The Eight of Swords 97 Élémentaire, mon cher Holmes (Elementary, My Dear Holmes) 290–292 The Eleventh Hour 52 Eliot, T. S. 8, 14–15, 67, 171–180 passim, 180n1, 180n2, 180n3, 180n6, 180n7, 180n14, 180n15, 180n18, 180n22, 183, 233; see also intellectuals Ellery Queen Award 16 Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine 4, 10–12, 17n3, 220, 242, 245, 248, 313 Ellin, Stanley 186 Ellis, Roger 11, 13 Emerald Buddha 313 Eminent Victorians 56n11 “The Empty Flask” 39 Endless Night 89 Endrebe, Maurice-Bernarde 152, 286 Ennis, Woodrow 255 Erdnase, S. A. 166 Eric the Skull 16, 298–299, 301 The Erotic Revolution 222n3 “The Errand of Death” 36 Eustace, Robert 6, 101, 245 Evans, Curtis 5, 11–15 passim, 18n14, 149, 152, 154n1 Everitt, Tom 270 Every Man His Price 39 Exbrayat, Charles 289–290 Expert at the Card Table 166 The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes 13, 245, 277, 283n4 “The Eye of Apollo” 83 “The F. Scott Fitzgerald Murder Case” 252 “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” 164 “Fade to Murder” 264 fair play in detective fiction 5, 7–10, 12–14, 54, 86, 94, 151, 171–173, 179, 187, 191–192, 195, 201–203, 207–208, 210n3, 218, 245, 249, 251–252, 300, 302, 204; see also Golden Age of detective fiction Fairr, Michael 218 The Falcon’s Brother 220

333

Family Skeletons 153 Farewell, My Lovely 83, 206, 209, 212n20 The Fashion in Shrouds 116, 125–126, 128 Fear Is the Same 13 The Fear of the Night 49 Fear on Four 266n5 Fearless Fosdick 29 Featherstone Riot 46 Fell, Gideon, 17n2, 85, 87, 134–135, 158, 165, 261–264, 266 Fell and Foul Play 88, 244, 261, 266 Fen, Gervase Ferguson, Albert 216 Ferguson, W. B. M. 175 Ferrars, Elizabeth 3, 11 Fezziwig 2 Fielding, A. (Dorothy Feilding) 173 The File on Claudia Cragge 149, 152 The File on Fenton and Farr 149 Un Fils de Prométhée (A Son of Prometheus) 292 Find That Clue 273 The Fine Art of Murder 244 “The Fine Italian Hand” 255 “The Finger Man” 249 Finney, Jack 83 Fire, Burn! 13 “Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble” 263 Fish, Robert L. 246 “Fishhead” 83 Fitzgerald, F. Scott 56n18, 69, 252 The Five Red Herrings (Suspicious Characters) 135 Flanagan, Thomas 248, 254–256 Flaubert, Gustave 84 Fleming, Ian 259 Fletcher, Annie (Busfield) 45 Fletcher, J. S. 10–11, 13, 43–55 passim, 55n1, 55n2, 55n5, 56n10, 56n12, 56n15, 56n16, 56n17, 56n18, 57n19, 57n22, 57n23, 173– 175 Fletcher, John 43 Fletcher, Lucille 266n4 Fletcher, Sarah (Smith) 43 Fletcher, Valentine 46–47 Fl*m*ng, I*n (Michael K. Frith and Christopher B. Cerf ) 246 The Floating Admiral 301 Flowers for the Judge 90 Follows, John 216 Footsteps in the Night 173 The Footsteps That Stopped 173 Ford, James Lauren 50, 56n18 Ford, Leslie 14 Ford, Robert Arthur Douglas 231–232 Forrest, Richard 4 Fortune, Reginald 165

334

• INDEX •

Four Knocks on the Door 175 The Fourth Postman 217, 219 The Franchise Affair 211n7 Francis, Dick 52 Fraser-Simson, C. 173 Freeman, R. Austin 6, 15, 47, 54, 102, 151, 171, 173, 176–177, 181n15, 189, 193, 202, 204, 206–209, 210n2, 212n14, 304, 307 Freitas, Ana Maria 197n13, 197n14 French, Inspector/Superintendent Joseph 204 Fu Manchu, Dr. 303 Fungi from Yuggoth 83 The Furthest Fury 70 The G-String Murders 219 Gaboriau, Emile 65, 182n22 Gaddis, William 83 The Galton Case 13, 232–237 passim, 237n2 Gang Busters 273 Gardner, Erle Stanley 2, 12, 14, 209, 247, 253 Garve, Andrew 309 Gass, William 84 Gattiss, Mark 266n5 Gaudy Night 172, 204 Gault, William Campbell 12 “The Gentleman from Paris” 185, 196n6 George N. Dove Award 16 Il Giallo Mondadori 150 “The Giant Sloth” 36 Gielgud, John 243 Gielgud, Val 243 Gilbert, Anthony 304, 307, 310n3 Gilbert, Michael 11, 111, 206, 309 Gilbert and Sullivan 253 Gillingham, Anthony 203–204 Gilt-Edged Guilt 70 Girl’s Cinema 110 Give Me That Old-Time Detection 107 “Giving Flesh to the Ghost, or The Lady Detective” 245 The Glimpses of the Moon 136 Gold and Thorns 38 The Gold Bag 66, 74n17 Golden Age of detective fiction 5–11, 13–16, 17n2, 17n4, 43, 47–48, 55n1, 60–62, 65– 67, 70, 72, 73, 86, 87, 90, 95–97, 102, 104, 123, 136, 145, 151, 162, 165, 171–172, 177– 178, 181n14, 181n18, 183, 185, 187–190, 194–195, 197n13, 202, 203, 211n7, 212n20, 215, 216, 224, 243, 264, 276, 303–304, 306, 310n1, 312; feminization/bifurcation of 6, 17n2, 211n7, 269; rules of 67, 75n20, 173–174, 180n7, 299-300; see also fair play in detective fiction; locked room mystery Gollancz, Diana 134 Gollancz, Victor 134 Gomes, Augusto Ferreira 194

Goodrich, Joseph 11, 15, 268 Goops 64 Gore, Colonel Wyckham 179 Gorell, Lord (Ronald Gorell Barnes) 310 Gores, Joe 12 Gorman, Ed 12 Gorman, Herbert Sherman 50, 56n18 Gothic style 82, 86, 114, 153, 159, 160, 260 Gould, Chester 29 Grand Guignol 266 “The Grandest Game in the World” 7, 17n3, 61, 151, 178, 243, 245 Grant, Alan 211n7 Grant, Cary 218 Grant, James 44 Graustark 25 Gray, William S. 253 The Great Brighton Mystery 51 The Great Detectives 242 The Great Gatsby 69 “Greedy Night” 283n1 Green, Anna Katherine 61, 64–66, 90, 176– 178, 181n16, 181n18, 181n22, 196n6 Green Corn 110 Green for Danger 307 The Green Rope 174 Greene, David 2, 3 Greene, Douglas G. 1–13 passim, 16, 21–22, 28, 31, 60, 84–88, 97, 101–102, 104–107, 111, 145, 153, 158–160, 162–163, 171, 196n6, 215, 221, 221n1, 241–248 passim, 259–262, 264–266, 269–270, 275, 283n4, 297, 298, 301, 307, 312–314; and awards and honors 16, 244; the Detection Club, 16, 101, 297–298, 301; on Edwardian/ Victorian mystery fiction, 10; on fair play detective fiction 8–10, 171–172, 245; family, personal and professional life of 1–4, 101, 160, 312–314; on Gothic fiction 159; on John Dickson Carr and locked room mystery 5–6, 8, 10, 60, 97, 101, 158–159, 241–247 passim, 307; and the mystery short story 11–12, 87, 241–248 passim; on parody and humor in mystery fiction 247; on rationality in detective fiction 8, 247; on women sleuths and mystery writers 9– 10, 244–246; see also The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box; Crippen & Landru; International Polygonics, Ltd. The Greene Murder Case 177–178 “Greenshaw’s Folly” 95–96 The Grindle Nightmare 146–147 Grivel, Daniele 265 Gryphon 248 Gun in Cheek 21, 62 Haggard, H. Rider 83, 162

• Index • Hag’s Nook 5–6 Hair of the Sleuthhound: Parodies of Mystery Fiction 283n1 Half Mast Murder 90 Hallard, John and Renie 38 Hamilton, Hamish 205, 207, 211n10 “The Hammer of God” 83 Hammett, Dashiell 6, 12, 17n13, 53, 72, 101, 201, 203, 208, 211n10, 216, 221n2 “The Hands of Mr. Ottermole” 187 “The Hangman Won’t Wait” 264 The Hangman’s Handyman 162, 164, 166 Hannah, Sophie 283n1 Hanshew, Hazel Phillips 23 Hanshew, Mary E. 23 Hanshew, Thomas W. 6, 10, 13, 21–23, 27– 28, 30 hard-boiled mystery 6, 12–15, 23, 53, 70, 175, 201–203, 206–209, 210n2, 210n3, 211n7, 211n10, 212n15, 212n20, 216, 224, 233, 236, 269 Hard-Boiled Sentimentality 202 Hardican’s Hollow 47–48 Hardy, Thomas 64 The Hardy Boys 3, 81, 101 “The Harlequin Tea-Set” 92 Harper’s Bazaar 147 Harriman, Florence Jaffray 73 Hastings, Arthur 89, 91 “The Hat Trick” 116–117 “A Hatter of Form” 115 The Haverfordian 260 Having Wonderful Crime 217 Hawthorne, Dr. Sam 312 Haycraft, Howard 61, 158, 184, 202, 210n2 Hayden, Robert 232 He Who Whispers 93, 97, 152 He Wouldn’t Kill Patience 88 Healey, Jeremiah 12 Heinlein, Robert A. 83 Hemingway, Ernest 146, 255 Hercule Poirot’s Christmas (A Holiday for Murder) 94–95 Herrmann, Bernard 262–263, 266n4 Hertel, Theodore B., Jr. 243 Hide My Eyes (Tether’s End ) 122–124, 130 “The High House” 162 The High Window 209, 212n20 Hiney, Tom 210n2 “His Last Bow” 292 historical mystery 13, 251–252 The History of the St. Leger Stakes 52 Hitchcock, Alfred 83, 218, 261, 287 Hitler, Adolf 242, 252, 307 Hoch, Edward D. 2–4, 11, 87, 158, 160, 163, 246, 256, 312, 313 Holding, James 256

335

Holmes, H. H. 292 Holmes, Mycroft 82 Holmes, Sherlock 3, 10, 13, 16, 23–25, 36, 47, 81–84, 90, 101, 138, 176–177, 187, 189, 243, 245, 276–280, 283n4, 283n5, 296, 290– 292, 299, 300; see also parody; pastiche Holt, Ken 81 The Holy Barbarians 221n3 Home Sweet Homicide 217–219 Hoover, Herbert 73 Hope, Anthony 25 Hopps, Napthali 47 Hornung, E. W. 38 Horowitz, Anthony 16, 276, 278–279, 281, 283 Horsley, Lee 211n7 Horwood, William 103–104 Hotel des Artistes 63 Houghton, Hadwin 63 Houghton, Henry Oscar 63, 69, 74n8 Houghton, Mifflin 63 Houdini, Harry (Erich Weiss) 24 The Hound of Death 93 The Hound of the Baskervilles 47, 81–82, 85, 101 The House of Green Shutters 49 The House of Silk 16, 276, 278–279 The House of Sin 173 Household, Geoffrey 81 Howard, Clark 275 Hubin, Allen J. 241 Hughes, Maud 110 Humdrums 15 Hutchings, Janet 4 Hutton, Jim 268 I Love a Mystery 160 Idle Idylls 64 “The Idol House of Astarte” 92–93 Iles, Francis see Berkeley, Anthony “I’m Scared” 83 “In Another Country” 146 In the Mayor’s Parlor (The Time-Worn Town) 52 “In the Under-Currents” 35 The Incredible Schlock Holmes 246 The Infallible Godahl 87 Ink in Her Blood 110, 118 Innes, Michael ( John Innes Mackintosh Stewart) 3, 11, 134, 195, 213n21, 276–277, 283, 309 The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu 83 Inspector French and the Starvel Tragedy 177 Inspector Frost’s Jigsaw 182 “Inspector Silence Takes the Underground” 243 intellectuals 14, 15, 122, 172, 180, 183

336

• INDEX •

International Polygonics, Ltd. (IPL) 6–9, 13, 145, 153, 159, 166, 215, 244 International Wizard of Oz Club 3 The Investigators 47 “The Invisible Bullet” 39 “The Invisible Man” 191 It Walks by Night 16, 91, 247 The Ivory God 49 Jack the Ripper 261, 290, 291 Jackson, Shirley 153 Jakes, John 248, 254–255 James, Breni 248, 251, 252 James, M. R. 135 James, P. D. 7–9, 16, 17n4, 171, 172, 179– 180, 202, 204, 276, 281–283 Jeanneret, Marie 106 Jefferson, Thomas 219 Jepson, Edgar 101 Jethro Hammer 218 “John Barrymore and the Poisoned Chocolates” 252 “John Dickson Carr and a Rational Universe” 242, 247 “John Dickson Carr: Fairplay Foremost” 245 “John Dickson Carr: Magician of the Locked Room” 244 John Dickson Carr: The Man Who Explained Miracles 2, 5, 8, 11–13, 21, 60, 85, 88, 196n6, 221n1, 244, 245, 283n4 The John Riddell Murder Case 246 Johnson, Hal (“Library Fuzz”) 256 Johnson, Samuel 251 “Jon L. Breen and the Tradition of Parody” 246 Jones, Indiana 166 Jones, Julia 9, 14, 110–111, 306 Jorkens Remembers Africa 83 Joshi, S. T. 260, 277 Joy 110–111 Joyce, James 249 The Judas Window 5–6, 84, 87 Justus, Helene and Jake 217–218, 220 Kabatchnik, Amnon 153 Kabbalah 1 Katyn massacre 211n10 Kaye-Smith, Sheila 211n7 Kearns, Joseph 261 Keating, H. R. F. 3, 11, 136, 297, 310 Keats, John 231 Keeler, Ruby 148 Keirans, James 265 Kelley, Albert Bartram 146 Kelley, Florence 146 Kelley, Marianna Parrish 146

Kelley, Martha Mott (“Patsy”) 145; see also Quentin, Patrick Kelly, Grace 218 Kendal, Norman 304 Kendrick, Merle 265 Kennedy, Milward 90 Kincaid, Rogan 6, 159, 162–167 King, C. Daly 11, 14, 147 King, Paul 175 King, Rufus 14, 147 King, Veronica 175 Kitchen, Dennis 29 knife chords 262 Knight, Stephen 55n1, 62, 74n14, 221n2 Knocked for a Loop 220 Knopf, Alfred A. 50 Knox, Ronald 67, 101, 173–174, 181n22, 184, 298–301, 303, 306 Krafft-Ebing, Richard von 147 Kuan Yin 313 Kusak, Handsome 218, 220 Lachman, Marvin 11, 15, 158, 243 The Lady in the Lake 12, 209, 212n20 Lady Molly of Scotland Yard 10 Lady of Burlesque 219 Lafarge, Marie 104 “Lair of the Devil Fish” 266 Lane, Alan 74n16 Langbridge, Canon Frederick 47 Langbridge, Rosamond Grant 46–47, 56n11 Langtail Press 268 Larkin, Philip 133 “Last Act” 118 Latimer, Jonathan 216 Laurie, Joan Warner 129 The Layton Court Mystery 90, 94, 102 Lear, Edward 64 The Leavenworth Case 66, 90, 176, 196n6 Leblanc, Maurice 278 Lechard, Xavier 286 Lee, Gypsy Rose 219, 222n4 Lee, Manfred B. 243, 250, 268, 270–274; see also Queen, Ellery (author); radio mystery Lee, Rand B. 270 Leopold, Captain Julius 312–313 Leopold’s Way 313 Leroux, Gaston 90 Lewis, Sinclair 148 Lewis, Wyndham 133 Life in Arcadia 46 The Life of Raymond Chandler 202, 210n2 Li’l Abner 28, 29 Link, William 275 “The Lion’s Mane” 255 Lipton, Lawrence 217, 219, 221n3 A Little Night Music (film) 153

• Index • A Little Night Music (musical) 153 The Little Sister 208 Locke, George 33, 105, 106 Locked Room Murders and Other Impossible Crimes 91 locked room mystery 2, 6, 8, 66–67, 85, 89– 91 passim, 94–96 passim, 134, 151, 158, 165, 168, 181n18, 190, 242, 244, 253, 263– 264, 291; see also Carr, John Dickson; Golden Age of detective fiction; Talbot, Hake The Lodger 261 The Long Goodbye 206 “The Lord of the Witch Doctors” 261 Lorre, Peter 262–263 The Lone Wolf 25 The Long Farewell 276–277 Look, We’ve Come Through 153 Lord Edgware Dies (Thirteen at Dinner) 96 Lorne, Ailsa 25 The Lost Mr. Linthwaite 51 The Lost World 24 Love Lies Bleeding 138 Lovecraft, H. P. 83, 152 The Lover 110 Lovesey, Peter 2, 3, 5, 9, 11, 246 Lowndes, Marie Belloc 261 Lucky Jim 137, 139 The Lucky Stiff 217 Lugg, Magersfontein 116–117 Lukas, Paul 263 Luke, Charlie 122 Lupin, Arsene 23, 90, 278 Lyme Regis Electric Light & Power Company 310n1 Macbeth 263 Macdonald, Ross (Kenneth Millar) 2, 12–13, 15, 212n15, 231–237 passim, 237n2 Machado de Sousa, Maria Leonor 186 Macleod, Adam Gordon 175 MacShane, Frank 202, 210n2 The Mad Hatter Mystery 87 Madame Tussaud’s 262 Madball 224–225, 227, 229 Magic and Showmanship: A Handbook for Conjurors 161 Magill’s Critical Survey of Mystery and Detective Fiction 6 Magnum, Professor 38–40 Magruder, Inspector 248–249 Mailer, Norman 234 Malice Aforethought 102 Malice Domestic 3, 87, 215, 243 Mallowan, Max 95 Malone, John J. 217–220 The Maltese Falcon 83

337

The Man in Black (character) 260–263, 266n5 The Man in Black (radio series) 266n5 The Man in the Brown Suit 89 the Man in the Corner 165 “The Man in the Velvet Hat” 248–249 “The Man Who Lived Again” 36 The Man Who Slept All Day 218 The Man with Two Wives 153 Manchester, William 5 Manchette, Jean-Patrick 286 Manhunt 220, 256 Manners, Margaret 256 The Mantle of Ishmael 48 marabouts 166 March, Colonel 88, 305 March, Maxwell 115 Marchester Royal 47–48 Margery Allingham: A Biography 126 Margery Allingham Society 110 Margot (Queen of the Apache) 25 Marjorie 74n10 The Mark of Cain 67, 68, 74n17 “The Market Basing Mystery” 91, 94, 192 Marks, Jeffrey 5, 12, 15, 268 Marling, William 212n20 Marlowe, Philip 17n13, 165, 206 Maron, Margaret 246 Marple, Miss Jane 89–90, 92–93, 95–96 Marryat, Frederick 44 Marsh, Ngaio 3, 6, 9–10, 90, 123, 195, 202, 204, 206, 211n7, 224, 244, 305 Marsh Test 104 “Marsh’s Miniatures” 9, 244 Martin, Richard 110, 118 Mary Celeste 73 Mason, A. E. W. 304 Mason, Perry 14 The Massingham Butterfly 53, 173 The Master Key 85 Masters of Mystery 54, 184 Masters of the “Humdrum” Mystery 5, 6 Mathieson, Theodore 248, 252 “A Matter of Form” 117 Maugham, W. Somerset 252 Maxwell, John 134 The Maxwell Mystery 67 Mayo, Asey 75n21 McBain, Ed (Evan Hunter) 220 McCloy, Helen 11 The McCone Files 12 McCullers, Carson 147 McCutcheon, George Barr 25 McNeile, H. C. see Sapper Meade, L. T. 6, 10, 245 Meadows, Squeakie 256 “The Meaning of the Act” 117

338

• INDEX •

Medawar, Tony 87, 105, 107, 246, 260, 265 The Mellbridge Mystery 176 The Memoirs of Schlock Holmes 246 Memories of a Spectator 43, 57n19 “Menace in Wax” 262 Meroy, Martin 286 Merrivale, Henry 17n2, 87 Merrivale, March and Murder 88, 244, 266 MicKiewcz, Adam 233 The Middle Temple Murder 47, 50 Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine 252 Millar, John Macdonald 231 Millar, Kenneth see Macdonald, Ross Millar, Margaret 147, 232–233, 247, 275 Miller, Agnes 175 Miller, Deborah 111 Milne, A. A. 6, 203, 304 The Mind Reader 33, 36–38 The Mind Readers 112, 126, 131 “Miss Marple Tells a Story” “Mr. Bearstowe Says…” 106 Mr. Campion: Criminologist 115 Mr. Campion’s Lady 109, 126 Mr. Fortune Please 174 “Mr. Kiroshibu’s Ashes” 253 “Mr. Markham, Antique Dealer” 264 Mitchell, Gladys 3, 11, 16, 17n4, 134, 304– 306, 310n3 Mom 254 “Moment of Darkness” 263 Montgomery, Bruce see Crispin, Edmund The Moonstone 15, 48, 52, 171–172, 180n1 Moore, Mani S. 148 Moore, Scott 2 Moorehead, Agnes 266n4 More Work for the Undertaker 122, 124 Moriarty, Professor James 82–83, 250, 291 Morley, Christopher 82 Morpurgo, Jack 129 Morrison, Arthur 102, 304 Morse, Carlton E. 160 Morstan, Mary 284n7 Mort au jury (Death to the Jury) 287 “A Morte de D. João” (The Death of Don Juan) 190–191 The Mortover Grange Mystery 174 Moss, Anthony 265 Most Secret 251 Mostly Ghostly 33 Mother Finds a Body 219 Mott, Lucretia 146 The Mouth of Hell 194–195 The Moving Toyshop 136 Moyes, Patricia 11 Mrs. O’Malley and Mr. Malone 220 Muller, Marcia 3, 12, 246, 275

Murder at Cambridge (Murder at the ‘Varsity) 146 Murder at the Women’s City Club (Death in the Dovecot) 146 Murder by Latitude 147 Murder for Pleasure: The Life and Times of the Detective Story 61, 184, 210n2 Murder for Profit 175, 181n11 Murder in Hospital 310n2 Murder in Mesopotamia 94–95 Murder in the Maze 178 “Murder in the Mews” 92, 94, 192 Murder in Wrides Park 53, 57n3 A Murder Is Announced 103 Murder, Mystery and Malone 221 The Murder of Roger Ackroyd 96, 179, 181n22, 212n17 The Murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey 13 Murder of the Only Witness 54 “Murder on the ‘Delta Queen’” 252 The Murder on the Links 94 Murder on the Orient Express (Murder in the Calais Coach) 96, 203 Murder on the Yacht 147 Murder through the Looking Glass 218 The Murders in the Rue Morgue 90 My Kingdom for a Hearse 217, 220 My Mother the Detective 254 The Mysteries of Udolpho 159 The Mysterious Affair at Styles 89–91 Mysterious Bookshop 312 The Mysterious Chinaman (Rippling Ruby) 52 The Mysterious Disappearances 173, 180n6 The Mysterious Mr. Campion 109, 125 Mysterious Press 268 “The Mystery Man of Soho” (“A Quarter of a Million”) 112 Mystery Mile 111, 112 “The Mystery of Horne’s Copse” 106 “The Mystery of J. S. Fletcher” 43 “The Mystery of Marie Roget” 175, 181n7 “The Mystery of the Piper’s Ghost” 81 “The Mystery of the Sevenoaks Tunnel” 33, 39 “The Mystery of the Spanish Cave” 81 “The Mystery of the Tide” 39 “The Mystery of the Vanishing Gold” 39 The Mystery of the Yellow Room 90 The Mystery of West Sedgwick 74n17 Mystery Scene Magazine 215 “Mystery Writer in a Box” 109, 125, 128 Mystery Writers of America 3, 13 “The Name on the Wrapper” 116–117 Nancy Drew 101 Narcejac, Thomas 287

• Index • Narkom, Superintendent Maverick 25 Nash, Ogden 299 NBC (National Broadcasting Company) 268, 272, 274 Nelms, Henning see Hake Talbot Nevins, Francis M. 268 Ngaio Marsh: The Woman and Her Work 9, 244 Nietzsche 180n6 Night of the Jabberwock 224–227, 229 Night of the Kill 252 Nightingale, Florence 252 Nijinsky 153 No Love Lost 119–120 Nolan, Tom 13, 15, 237n2 A Nonsense Anthology 64 Noone, Father David 256 North and South 255 Northcliffe, Lord (Alfred Harmsworth) 35 Not to Be Taken 106 “The Number 13” 36 The Oaken Heart 128 Oates, Stanislaus 116, 118 Obelists at Sea 147 O’Connell, Bridget Mary 74n8 Octave II (Second Octave) 286 “Odds Bodkins and the Duke’s Divorce” 254 “Odds Bodkins and the Dutch Master” 254 “Odds Bodkins and the Featherstone Affair” 254 “Odds Bodkins and the Locked Room Caper” 254 “Odds Bodkins and the £100 Wager” 254 Oh! To Die in England 152 Ohl, Patrick 13, 16 Old Dominion University 1–2, 247 “The Old Man at the Window” 116 On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts 291 101 Years’ Entertainment 3, 101, 105 The Only Women: The Female Sleuth in Fiction 10, 246 Orczy, Baroness 10, 23, 102, 165, 304 The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow 148 Orwell, George 205 Osborne, Charles 283n1 Ostrander, Isabel 61 Other Man’s Danger (Dangerous Secrets; The Man of Dangerous Secrets) 112–113, 115 “The Other Side” 162 Ottolengui, Rodrigues 6 The Outer Limits 83 Overseas League 39 Oxford University 133–134, 137, 139, 204, 299–300

339

Pachter, Josh 253 Packer, Hermione 10, 47 The Pale Horse 89, 93 Palmer, Stuart 14, 220, 247 Patrick, Q. see Quentin, Patrick Pan Tadeusz 233 Panic in Box C 263 Panjarattanakorn, Boonchai 5, 16 Paradise Court 48 Paris Exposition Story 264 parody 13, 138, 234–235, 246, 276, 283n1 Les Passe-temps de Sherlock Holmes (The Pastimes of Sherlock Holmes) 291; pastiche 13, 276–283 passim, 284n5; distinguished from parody 276 The Passing Tramp 149, 152 Patchen, Kenneth 235 “The Patient at Peacock’s Hall” (“Dark Invitation”) 118–120 Paton Walsh, Jill 16, 276, 279–281, 283, 284n9 Pattison, Iris 149–150 Patty 74n10 Paul Campenhaye, Specialist in Criminology 53 Pearce, Donald 233–234 “Pearls Are a Nuisance” 202 Pemberley Revisited 284n10 Penzler, Otto 265, 312 “Perfect Alibi” 105 “O Pergaminho Roubado” (The Stolen Parchment) 190–191, 197n13 Peril at End House 96, 103 Perfect Crime 248 Perkoff, Stuart 221n3 Pessoa, Fernando 8, 15, 181n15, 183–196 passim, 196n1, 196n6; aesthetic view of mystery fiction 15, 181n15, 184; see also intellectuals Peters, Ellis 11, 247 The Pickwick Papers 48 Picture Show 110 Pike, B. A. 9, 11, 14 Pikis, Catherine L. 10 Pilgrim’s Progess 52 Pinkerton, Uncle 255 The Pit and the Pendulum (radio play) 261, 264 “The Pit and the Pendulum” (short story) 261 The Plague Court Murders 85 Poe, Edgar Allan 8, 16, 64–65, 90, 101–102, 139, 149, 162, 164, 172, 175, 179, 181n7, 183–189, 195, 241, 261, 291 Poggioli, Dr. Henry 46 “The Point of Honor” 255 Poirot, Hercule 53, 89–92, 94–96, 165, 276, 283n1

340

• INDEX •

Poirot Award 16 The Poisoned Chocolates Case 104, 105 The Poisoned Pen 245–246 Pontefract (Yorkshire) 45, 50 Popular Culture Association 16 “Portrait of a Murderer” 148 Post, Melville Davisson 163, 251 Pound, Ezra 180n6, 233–235 presentism 277–283 passim, 284n5 A Presumption of Death 280 Pride and Prejudice 276, 281 Prince, Harold and James 248–250, 256 “The Pro and the Con” 115 “Problem at Sea” 94 “The Problem of the Emperor’s Mushrooms” 253 The Problem of the Green Capsule (The Black Spectacles) 84, 104 Problems of Modern American Crime 175 Pronzini, Bill 3, 12, 17n13, 62, 158, 162, 246, 275 Proust, Marcel 148 Psychopathia Sexualis 147 Pullein-Thompson, Josephine 211n7 The Punch and Judy Murders 17n2 Punshon, E. R. 308–309, 310n3 “The Purloined Letter” 184–185 “The Purple Cow” 64 “The Purple Seaweed” 33 Puzzle for Fools 149 Puzzle for Players 6, 145, 150 Puzzle for Puppets 150 Pynchon, Thomas 84 Pyne, Parker 90, 94 Quaresma, Abilio Fernandes 189–193 Quaresma, Decifrador 179 Queen, Ellery (author) 3, 7, 11, 14–16, 28, 49, 60, 75n21, 87, 90, 101, 105–107, 150, 160, 163, 190, 195, 207, 224, 241, 243, 245, 248, 250, 252, 253, 268–275 passim, 309; see also Dannay, Fredric; Lee, Manfred B.; radio mystery Queen, Ellery (character) 268, 270–274; see also radio mystery Queen’s Quorum 49, 101, 241, 242 Quentin, Patrick (also Q. Patrick/Jonathan Stagge) 6, 14, 145–154 passim; aesthetic view of mystery fiction 151; see also Aswell, Mary Louise (White); Kelley, Martha Mott (“Patsy”); Webb, Richard Wilson; Wheeler, Hugh Callingham “The Question Mark” 116 Quimperdene, Solomon 50 Quin, Harley 89, 90, 92 Radcliffe, Ann 159, 162

radio mystery 11, 15, 137, 160, 242–244, 246, 259–275 passim; see also Carr, John Dickson; Dannay, Frederic; Lee, Manfred B.; Queen, Ellery Raffles 25, 38 Rahway (New Jersey) 64 Raising the Wind 139 Ramble House 248 Raphael (archangel) 288 Raspberry Jam 67 Rathbone, Basil 265 Rationalism in detective fiction 8, 159–160, 163–164, 167, 169, 173, 179, 185, 189, 195, 247 Rawson, Clayton (also Stuart Towne) 14, 87, 166 “A Razor in Fleet Street” 265, 266 “Razor-Edge” 106 The Reader Is Warned 84–85, 93, 259 “Red Anemones” 106 “The Red-Headed League” 188 The Red House Mystery 203 The Red Thumb Mark 47, 208 Reeder, J. G. 49 “The Regatta Mystery” 93–94 Reichenbach Falls 23 “The Remarkable Hero” 205 Reouven, Rene (also Albert Davidson) 16, 286–292 passim “The Rescue of the Rain Clouds” 110 The Rest of My Life 63 Return to the Scene (Death in Bermuda) 149 Rex Stout’s Mystery Monthly 250 Rexroth, Kenneth 221n3, 234–235 Reynolds, William 149 Rhoads, May (Frank) 72 Rhode, John (Cecil John Charles Street) 16, 192, 304–305, 307, 310n1 Rice, (Georgiana) Craig (also Michael Venning/Daphne Saunders) 12, 15, 215–221 passim, 221n1, 221n2, 221n3, 222n4, 247 Rice, Elton and Nan 216 Riddell, John (Corey Ford) 246 The Right Murder 217 Riggs, Bingo 218, 220 Rim of the Pit 6, 158–159, 162–163, 165–167 Rinehart, Mary Roberts 6, 14, 73 Rittenberg, Benjamin 34–35 Rittenberg, Daisy (Minter) 40 Rittenberg, Lily (Moss) 34, 35 Rittenberg, Max (also Max Ritson) 11, 13, 33–40 passim Robert-Houdin, Jean Pierre 166 Robin Hood 235 Robinson, Arthur 87, 105 Robinson, Frederick William 45 Rockwell, Norman 63

• Index • The Roger Sheringham Stories 105 Rogues’ Holiday (Rogue’s Holiday) 113–114 Rohmer, Sax 6, 48, 83, 174, 303 The Roll-Top Desk Mystery 70–73 The Roman Hat Mystery 75n21, 269 Roosevelt, Franklin Delano 17n2, 56n17, 211n10 Roosevelt, Theodore 73 Roselle, Daniel 248, 251 Rosenbach, A. S. W. 57n22 Ross, Alan 133 Ross, Clancy 256 “O Roubo da Quinta das Vinhas” (The Theft at Vineyard Manner) 192 Royal Bloodline: Ellery Queen, Author and Detective 268 Rozan, S. J. 275 “The Ruby of Rameses” 244 Ruehlmann, William 11, 13 Ruritania 25 Rzepka, Charles 208, 212n20 Saatchi, Charles 33 Sabatini, Rafael 247 “Safe as Houses” 117 “Safe Number Sixty-Nine” 53 “Safer Than Love” (“Marriage by Design”) 118–119, 120 St. Leger Stakes 52 Sale, Richard 256 Sampaio, Maria de Lurdes 186 Sampson, Roger 25 Sand, George 149 Sandoe, James 211n7 Sapper (Herman Cyril McNeile) 174, 303 Saunders, Daphne see Rice, (Georgiana) Craig Sayers, Dorothy L. 6, 9–10, 16, 53–55, 56n15, 67, 68, 101–102, 123, 135, 137, 172, 176, 190, 195, 202, 204, 206, 208, 211n7, 224, 276, 279–281, 284n7, 284n9, 297– 299, 301, 303–310, 310n1, 310n3; and pastiche 279, 289; personality of 307–309; see also Detection Club Sayler, Carlos 129 A Scandal in Bohemia 24, 82, 284n5 The Scarlet Circle 152 The Scarlet Pimpernel 23 Schumacher, Michael 29 Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! 160 The Scoop 301 Scott, Walter 44, 64 Scott-Giles, Charles Wilfred 280 The Screaming Mimi 224–227, 229 Seabrook, Jack 12, 15 Seabrooke, John Paul 175 “The Second Gong” 94

341

The Secret Adversary 66 “The Secret Analysis” 39 The Secret Way 47–48 Seeley, Mabel 14 Seldes, Gilbert 180n7 “The Sending” 37 The Shadow in the House (The Devil and Her Son) 114–115, 119 Shadow of Guilt 153 Shakespeare, William 45, 186, 231, 263 The Shake-Up 252 Shaw, Reeves 115–116 Shelley, Mary 162 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 231 Sheringham, Roger 102 Shiel, M. P. 248 short stories 2–3, 7, 9–12, 14–15, 17n4, 21– 31 passim, 33–42 passim, 46, 48–49, 51, 53, 87, 89–91, 92, 94, 96, 98–99, 101–103, 105, 107, 111–112, 115–118, 138, 148, 159, 162, 172–174, 177, 181n7, 183–197 passim, 202, 220, 221, 241–258 passim, 277, 291– 292 “Shoscombe Old Place” 82 The Sign of Four 82 Silence, John 36 Simenon, Georges 286 “The Simple Art of Murder” 15, 201–204, 206, 208–209, 210n3, 211n7 Simpson, Helen 303–304, 307 Sisters in Crime 3 The Sittaford Mystery (The Murder at Hazelmoor) 93 Slung, Michelle 85 Smith, Annie (Harrison) 43 Smith, Erin A. 211n7 Smith, H. Maynard 182n22 Smith, Nayland 83 Snow, Ben 312 Snow, Jack 3 Socrates 251 “Socrates Solves a Murder” 251 “Socrates Solves Another Murder” 251 “Solved by Inspection” 101 Something for Everyone 153 “The Sorcerer of Arjuzanx” 36 Sorry, Wrong Number (film) 266n4 “Sorry, Wrong Number” (radio play) 266n4 South, Fred (“Uncle”) 120 Souvenez-vous de Monte-Cristo (Remember Monte Cristo) 288–289 Spade, Sam 17n13, 165 Spain, Nancy 128 Spargo, Frank 50 Sparkling Cyanide 92 Speak of the Devil 11, 111, 246, 263, 266 “The Speaking Clock” 264

342

• INDEX •

Spicy Mystery Stories 256 The Spider’s Den 175 Spillane, Mickey 2, 12 Sprague, Frank Julian 69 Sprague, Julian King 69 “Squeeze Play” 253 S. S. Murder 146 Stagge, Jonathan see Quentin, Patrick Stanwyck, Barbara 266n4 The Stars Spell Death (Murder in the Stars) 152 Station X 180n6 Steeman, Stanislas-Andre 286, 290 Stein, Gertrude 146 Steinbock, Steven 1–5 passim, 7, 14 Steinbrunner, Chris 265 Stevenson, Robert Louis 162, 263, 290, 292n2 Stevenson, Traill ( John) 174, 180n6 Stewart, Alfred Walter see Connington, J. J. Stewart, J. I. M. see Innes, Michael Stine, Kate 215 Stoker, Bram 162 “The Stolen Document” 184–185, 187 Stone, Fleming 61, 62, 65–73 passim, 74n14 Strachey, Lytton 56n11 The Strand Magazine 23, 47, 115–116, 120, 291, 301, 305 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde 290, 291 Strangeways, Nigel 201 Street, Cecil John Charles see Rhode, John Stribling, T. S. 11, 46, 50, 56n10, 56n18 Stronach, Alexander (“Sandy”) 270–274 Strong, Harrington ( Johnston McCulley) 175, 181n11 A Study in Scarlet 187 Sudden Death 90 Suddenly at His Residence 90 “Suffragistes in Evidence” 35 The Sunday Pigeon Murders 218 “The Sunken Memory” 37 Suspense 243, 249, 260–265 passim Swan Song 90, 136 Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street 153 Sweet Danger 112 Swift, Tom 81 Swirling Waters 37, 38 Symons, Julian 3, 9, 11, 91, 147, 171, 231, 259–260, 297, 299, 309–310 Szamuely, Helen 9, 13, 16 Taisey, Robert D. 154n2 Talbot, Hake (Henning Nelms) 4, 6–8, 14, 158–168 passim; see also locked room mystery

Tales of a Reasoner 187 Talking about Detective Fiction 7, 9, 17n4, 171, 202 The Talking Sparrow Murders 6 The Tannahill Tangle 70, 72 Taylor, Phoebe Atwood 14, 75n21, 216 Taylor, Wendell Hertig 62, 212n20 “The Tea Leaf ” 101 The Technique of the Mystery Story 62, 67, 75n20 Teilhet, Darwin 4, 6 Templar, Simon 30 Temple of the Emerald Buddha (Wat Phra Kaew) 313 The Ten Teacups 84 Tennant, Emma 281 Tennente, Major 255 Terry, Ellen 23 Terry, Fred 23 Tey, Josephine 195, 211n7, 291 Thackeray, William Makepeace 64 That Affair Next Door 65 The Thin Man 216, 221n2 The Thirteen Problems (The Thursday Club Murders) 93 13 to the Gallows 243, 264 Thomas, Ross 84 “Thomas Wolfe and the Tombstone Mystery” 252 Thomson, H. Douglas 54, 56n15, 184 Thomson, June 278, 283n5 Thompson, Leonard 248, 253–254 Thompson, Ruth Plumly 3 Thompson-Bywaters Murder Case 103 Thorndyke, Dr. John Evelyn 177, 193, 204, 207, 209 “Thou Art the Man” 186 “The Thrall of the Past” 37 Three Act Tragedy (Murder in Three Acts) 96 The Three Coffins (The Hollow Man) 84, 93, 97, 158 The Three Days Terror 47 The Three Fears 152 “The Three Henry Clarks” 39 The Three Taps 174 The Threshing Floor 46 Thrones, Dominations 280 The Thursday Turkey Murders 218 The Tiger and the Smoke 123–124 “Till Death Do Us Part” (radio play) 262 Titus Andronicus 186 To Catch a Thief (film) 218 To Catch a Thief (novel) 218 Tobie or Not Tobie (Tobiah or not Tobiah) 287–288 Todmanhawe Grange 54 Tommy and Tuppence 66, 93

• Index • Top Storey Murder 102 Torquemada (Edward Powys Mathers) 54 The Town of Crooked Ways 49, 50, 52, 56n16 Tracy, Dick 29 Tragedy at Ravensthorpe 178–179 The Tragedy of Errors and Others 269 Traitor’s Purse 126 Travels with My Aunt 153 Treacherous Crossing 264 Trent’s Last Case 56n15, 67, 102, 304 Un Trésor dans l’ombre (A Treasure in the Shadow) 292n2 Trial by Fury 217 Trollope, Anthony 64 A Trouser-Wearing Character: The Life and Times of Nancy Spain 129 Troy, Jim 252 true crime 13, 103–104, 173, 175, 181n11, 244, 250 T. S. Eliot and the Cultural Divide 172 Turn of the Table (Funeral for Five) 152 Turner, Robert E. 146, 154n2 Twelve Notes on the Mystery Story 175, 181n12, 208, 212n17 Twilight Zone 83 The Umbrella Murder 70–71 “Unc Probes Pickle Plot” 255 “Unsound Mind” 105 Upward, Allen 173, 175, 180n6 Valentine, Jimmy 25 Valentine, Mark 180n6 Valentino, Rudolf 63 Valle, Henrique 8, 14–15, 181n15 Van Dine, S. S. (Willard Huntingdon Wright) 14, 54, 67, 90, 147–148, 171, 173–179, 184, 212n20, 224, 299; aesthetic view of mystery fiction 173, 184, 212n20, 299 Vance, Philo 54, 165, 174, 179, 246, 299 van Dusen, Augustus S. F. X. 165 Vane, Harriet 68, 204, 280–281 Velvet, Nick 312 The Venetian Key 175 Venner, Owl-Eye 256 Venning, Michael see Rice, (Georgiana) Craig Verdict of Thirteen 298 The Verdict of Us All 297 The Verdict of You All 174 Verne, Jules 44 “Versus the Bank of England” 38 Vertigo 287 “A Very Original Dinner” 184–187 Vicky Van 63, 67, 69–70, 73, 74n17 Vidocq, Eugene François 23 von Flanagan, Daniel 217

343

Vous souvenez-vous de Paco? (Do You Remember Paco?) 289 “W. Somerset Maugham and the Riviera Robbers” 252 Wade, Henry (Henry Lancelot AubreyFletcher) 102, 174 Wallace, Edgar 48–49, 174, 303–304 Walpole, Horace 159, 162 Walpole, Hugh 304, 307 Walsh, Chad 232, 234 “Wanted: Someone Innocent” 119 Ward, Alfred C. 43 The Waste Land 180n3 “The Watchers and the Watched” 249, 250 Watson, Colin 8 Watson, John 23–24, 83, 106, 278, 279, 283n5, 291–292, 300 We Have Always Lived in a Castle 153 Webb, Richard Wilson 145–153, 154n2; see also Quentin, Patrick Welles, Orson 249 Wells, Anna Potter (Woodruff ) 63 Wells, Carolyn 11, 13, 60–73 passim, 74n7, 74n8, 74n10, 74n16, 74n17, 75n20, 75n21 Wells, H. G. 291 Wells, Ida Eloise 63 Wells, Margery 74n10 Wells, Walter Farrington 63 Wells, William Edmund 63 Welty, Eudora 147 The Wench Is Dead 224–225, 228–229 “The Wendigo” 165 Westlake, Dawn 151 Westlake, Dr. Hugh 151–152 Wharton, Edith 69 Wheeler, Hugh Callingham 145, 147–154, 155n13; see also Quentin, Patrick Wheen, Natalie 128–129 When Charles the First Was King 45–46 Whig interpretation of history 277 White, Frederick Merrick 6 The White Alley 67, 74n17 “White Butterfly” 106 “The White Elephant” (“Caesar’s Wife’s Elephant”) 115–117 Whitechurch, Victor L. 174 Whitfield, Raoul 12 Whitman, Walt 73, 149 Whittle, David 10, 14 “Who Killed Matthew Corbin?” 261, 264, 266 “Who Killed Robin Cox?” 117–118 Who Was That Lady? 217, 221, 221n1, 221n3 Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? 90, 93, 96 “Why Do I Write Detective Stories?” 107 Wickham, Mr. 282–283

344

• INDEX •

“The Widow” 116–117 Wiggins 25 Wilde, Oscar 149 Wildside 248 “Will You Make a Bet with Death?” 262 William Morris Agency 270–274 Williams, Race 165 Wilson, Edmund 7 Wilson, Stephen Shipley 146 Wilson, Woodrow 50, 175 Wimsey, Bredon 281 Wimsey, Lady Peter see Vane, Harriet Wimsey, Lord Peter 9, 53, 68, 106, 135, 165, 204, 205, 209, 211n7, 213n21, 276, 277, 280–281, 283n1, 299, 309 Winks, Robin 86 Winsor, G. McLeod 173, 180n6 Winwar, Frances (Francesca Vinciguerra) 148–149 Wise, Pennington (“Penny”) 74n16 “With Colt and Lugar” 210n5 Withers, Hildegarde 220 Wolfe, Nero 165 Wolfe, Thomas 252 The Woman Next Door 74n17 “The Woman Who Found Herself ” 37 The Wonderful Wapantake 46 Woolrich, Cornell 249 World War One 13, 34, 39–40, 50, 279, 292, 310n1

World War Two 30, 40, 60, 96, 102, 106, 128, 135, 137, 243, 261, 280, 307 Worsley, Lucy 17n2 Wrench, Evelyn 39 Wright, Willard Huntingdon see S. S. Van Dine “The Wrong Jar” 106 The Wrong Murder 217 “The Wrong Shape” 83 Wrychester Paradise (The Paradise Mystery) 52 Wycherley, Dr. Xavier 33–34, 36–39 The Wychford Poisoning Case 103 Yaffe, James 11, 248, 253–254 The Year of the French 256 Yeats, William Butler 231, 233 The Yellow Taxi 152 Yog-Sothoth 152 The Yorkshire Moorland Murder (The Yorkshire Moorland Murder) 52 Youngman Carter, Philip (“Pip”) 123, 128– 131 Zangwill, Israel 2, 93, 291 Zarkov, Dr. (Surgeon of Souls) 256 Zizi 74n16 Zorro 181n11