I start with the appreciative acknowledgment: on August 3, Otto Penzler returns to print another mystery from detective fiction’s Golden Age. Craig Rice’s first book, 1939’s Eight Faces at Three, will be available as part of Penzler’s American Mystery Classics series. The very busy story presents the murder of an elderly aunt just before she has a chance to change her will. Newlywed Holly Inglehart finds herself in the clifftop house in the middle of the night with all of the clocks stopped at 3:00 am, the men of the family out on a wild goose chase, and a knife in the chest of Aunt Alexandria, her body parked in front of an open window. Holly had just married band leader Dick Dayton, but their honeymoon is postponed when the bride is arrested for murder.
This is my first Craig Rice read, courtesy of an advance reading copy through NetGalley. It is not uncommon for an otherwise entertaining mystery to disappoint with a weak puzzle; it is less common, as I found it here, for a strong (if unbelievable) puzzle plot to be undermined by a prose style and characterization that alienated instead of entertained. My reaction is due in large part to an artificiality – in the banter, in the emotions, in the constant consumption of alcohol as a charming social quirk – that I couldn’t surmount. It is as if Rice, a pseudonym for the hard-drinking journalist Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, tried to reproduce the chemistry of The Thin Man’s boozy socialites Nick and Nora Charles but only succeeded in building a hollow Hollywood imitation. (Craig was also a screenwriter.) I had little interest in or affection for Helene Brandt and Jake Justus, with the former cracking wise and the latter talking tough but carrying a torch for his Belle Helene. It is possible that other readers may find them charming, or at least less irritating. It is also possible that the couple may become more well-rounded and less relentlessly Hollywood screwball as the series progresses.
A few details or caveats, as the case may be: Helene and Jake drink a lot, rye mostly, but they’re not too picky. Helene calls for a new bottle after she finishes her current one while driving on icy Chicago streets. They arrive at Dick’s nightclub mid-bender with Helene in a fur coat and blue silk pyjamas. And upon waking, to clear their heads, one’s hand reaches for the rest of the rye, naturally. My criticism may sound prudish – lots of male PIs hug their whisky bottles – but Rice turns inebriation into an idée fixe. I want to believe it’s a misguided attempt at parody, yet the author struggled with alcoholism, which factored in her death at 49. Her characters’ obsession with booze may have been more amusing 90 years ago; observed today, it’s hard not to feel at least a little censorious.
A few details or caveats, as the case may be: Helene and Jake drink a lot, rye mostly, but they’re not too picky. Helene calls for a new bottle after she finishes her current one while driving on icy Chicago streets. They arrive at Dick’s nightclub mid-bender with Helene in a fur coat and blue silk pyjamas. And upon waking, to clear their heads, one’s hand reaches for the rest of the rye, naturally. My criticism may sound prudish – lots of male PIs hug their whisky bottles – but Rice turns inebriation into an idée fixe. I want to believe it’s a misguided attempt at parody, yet the author struggled with alcoholism, which factored in her death at 49. Her characters’ obsession with booze may have been more amusing 90 years ago; observed today, it’s hard not to feel at least a little censorious.
This is also the book that introduces the author’s crafty lawyer, John J. Malone, a figure who fares better in part because Rice doesn’t enforce endless witty dialogue upon him. The plot and its attendant clues are engaging, and the lovers’ plight and Jake and Helene’s attempts to help them give the story some forward momentum. In spirit, Eight Faces at Three could easily be envisioned as a B-picture, banter and clifftop climax and all. And there are worse ways to spend a Saturday matinee.
This is also the book that introduces the author’s crafty lawyer, John J. Malone, a figure who fares better in part because Rice doesn’t enforce endless witty dialogue upon him. The plot and its attendant clues are engaging, and the lovers’ plight and Jake and Helene’s attempts to help them give the story some forward momentum. In spirit, Eight Faces at Three could easily be envisioned as a B-picture, banter and clifftop climax and all. And there are worse ways to spend a Saturday matinee.
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