Category: Book Review

Book Review: THE DEADLY TRUTH (1941) by Helen McCloy

3/31/2021

The premise is an enticing one: selfish socialite Claudia Bethune appropriates a vial of experimental truth serum from the laboratory of a scientist who is infatuated with her. Her objective is a mischievous, malignant one and the cause of her undoing. At a dinner party, her carefully chosen guests are served drinks spiked with the serum, while a sober Claudia has a ringside seat to watch the fun as inhibitions are shed and secrets are revealed. But two of the revelations provide nasty jolts for the hostess, and later that evening she is found by Dr. Basil Willing at her dining room table, strangled with her own jewel-set necklace. By morning, the effects of the drug have worn off, but the guests are hesitant to describe the scene from the night before. As Dr. Willing conducts his interviews, he needs to determine whether his subjects are telling everything or hiding important truths that someone has killed to conceal.

I am always excited to celebrate the return of classic mystery authors and their books after years or decades of unavailability, and this time it is Agora Books which offers readers the first three Dr. Basil Willing titles of American novelist Helen McCloy. Hopefully there will be many more to come. The Deadly Truth is the third book in the series, first published by William Morrow and Company in 1941. While years ago I read the Crippen & Landru Publishers collection of McCloy’s short fiction, The Pleasant Assassin and other Cases (2003), I never tried one of her mystery novels until now. Truth is engaging, well plotted, and nicely paced, even as the author’s series detective proves to be a little sedate and nondescript. McCloy’s cerebral psychiatrist Dr. Willing is highly capable and keenly observant, and perhaps it is wise for the detective to be relatively featureless compared to the flamboyant cast of characters he must investigate.

McCloy builds the backstories of her victim and suspects by employing some admirable twists and turns. In addition to the ambitious and trouble-stirring Claudia Bethune, Claudia’s husband Michael has cast off his first wife, Phyllis, for the wealthier and more attractive socialite. Michael and Phyllis both attend the truth-telling party, as does financial manager Charles Rodney and aspiring debutante Peggy Titus. The secrets revealed by the guests under the influence of the serum are unpalatable indeed, and Dr. Roger Slater, who has followed Claudia from his laboratory to recover the drug she stole from him, is a witness and reluctant conspirator at the fateful dinner.

McCloy peppers The Deadly Truth with some interesting clues, even as at least one – involving proving an individual’s real or feigned deafness – carries a questionable physiological explanation. I also enjoyed identifying the differences between this New York-set 1940s murder mystery and its traditional British equivalent. For one, American genre writers of this time often (unconsciously?) replicated the patter and archetypes of the characters from a Hollywood movie, so there is a glamour and archness to dialogue and dress that you don’t find in a village like Miss Marple’s St. Mary Mead. Additionally, business and finance are often more actively incorporated into the plots of American mystery writers, who seem to enjoy exploring the minutiae of directing board motives and office appointment alibis more than their British counterparts. (See Rex Stout or Emma Lathen, e.g.) In Truth, labor strikes, stock buyouts, and cumulative assets are all avenues of investigation.

Thanks to Agora Books for starting to reprint the Basil Willing books of Helen McCloy; may there be more to come soon. I received an advance reading copy through NetGalley in exchange for a forthright review. Kate from crossexaminingcrime and J.F. Norris from Pretty Sinister Books also have reviews posted.

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Book Review: MURDER AT MONK'S BARN (1931) by Cecil Waye

3/9/2021

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These days, you will often find me singing the praises of the independent presses whose continuing efforts are giving fans of Golden Age Detection mysteries access once more to long-unavailable stories. It’s a refrain that is well deserved: Mysterious Press and Open Road Media have brought back rare Q. Patrick and Patrick Quentin titles, while Agora Books has begun to reissue Helen McCloy’s series featuring Dr. Basil Willing, to give just two current examples. Dean Street Press has long been a champion in the reprint field, consistently providing fans with hard-to-find titles from prolific Golden Age authors like Christopher Bush, Brian Flynn, E.R. Punshon, and Patricia Wentworth. Dean Street has recently released four more rarities well worth celebrating and seeking out: the Cecil Waye stories published early in Major Cecil John Charles Street’s mystery writing career.

Street is best known for the more than 100 smart puzzle stories he produced using the pseudonyms John Rhode and Miles Burton. It is exciting to see how the Cecil Waye books fit into the canon. As of this writing, I have only read the first book to feature the sibling investigating team of Christopher and Vivienne Perrin, 1931’s Murder at Monk’s Barn. In his introduction, Tony Medawar describes the other Waye stories as “metropolitan thrillers”, but Street’s first entry in this brief series is a winning combination of locked-room mystery, lovers in jeopardy, and clue-driven puzzle.

Gilbert Wynter, a senior partner of an electrical engineering firm, is shot through the curtained window of his Monk’s Barn residence. His younger brother Austin, who is now the chief suspect, visits the Perrins Invesigators office and requests their help in clearing his name. The assignment becomes especially personal for Vivienne Perrin, who quickly falls in love with her client. The murder is a baffling one, however, as the shot (and the retrieved gun) originated from within the walled and gated gardens of the home, yet no visitors could have entered or exited without being noticed. Motive is also unknown; the only person with one appears to be Austin, who had just quarreled with his brother about the direction of the company. With Gilbert out of the way, Austin is one step closer to complete ownership of the firm.

But the dead man’s wife inherits Gilbert’s share of the holdings, and Anne Wynter appears to be just as obstinate as her husband had been about expanding the company. When a poisoned box of chocolates arrives in roundabout fashion as a gift at Monk’s Barn and a gossipy neighbor named Mrs. Cartwright becomes the next fatality, Superintendent Swayne cannot ignore the mounting evidence against Austin Wynter and makes an arrest. It is Vivienne, with Christopher following a step behind, who must race against the clock to find a solution that will clear the name of her inamorato.

The presence of a romantic narrative in detective fiction has long been a source of contention for some readers. Others, like myself, have no real problem with the “human element” seeping into a whodunit as long as it doesn’t threaten to overtake the story and shift its genre status. Street, writing as Waye, strikes a pleasing balance here, in my opinion. As he will be known for his exercises in clinical detail through the dozens of John Rhode mysteries featuring the science-minded Dr. Lancelot Priestley, it is enjoyable to see how the “humdrum” author approaches a romantic motif; I think he acquits himself admirably, and of course Vivienne’s feelings for the accused man raises the stakes for the character and (ostensibly) for the reader.

The puzzle of Monk’s Barn is a satisfying one, even as the pool of alternative suspects is limited to precisely two. Presuming, as the Perrins do, that their client is innocent, the circumstances of the first murder (and Vivienne’s mid-book exploration of the neighborhood terrain) spotlight the villain for the reader early on. The solution is clever but not overly complicated, and there is also a touch of effective melodrama through the final tragic tableau the author creates for his murderer.

If I have one (minor) complaint, it is connected with the introduction of that fateful box of chocolates. The prop is introduced and handled in such an obvious way that it might just as well have a flashing neon skull and crossbones atop it. I primarily bristled at its unnatural absorption into the story, which could have been more subtly deployed to much greater effect. As written, the reader watches as Austin offers to buy Vivienne a box of local chocolates, Vivienne explains that she never eats chocolate, Austin sends a box to her anyway, Vivienne decides to gift them to Mrs. Cartwright, who explains repeatedly that she will bring them to Mrs. Wynter, who will eat the square chocolates while she, Mrs. Cartwright, will eat the round ones... By the time the poison finally makes its entrance, it feels like we have been immersed in the Chocolate Saga Set-Up for pages upon pages, which we have.

Still, Murder at Monk’s Barn quickly recovers after this, even as Mrs. Cartwright does not, and the book is great fun for aficionados of classic mystery fiction. It was every bit as enjoyable as the Miles Burton titles I have read featuring Inspector Arnold and Desmond Merrion, another pair of Street investigators where one is grounded and the other more free-thinking. You can find supportive reviews of Monk’s Barn from Nick Fuller at The Grandest Game in the World, Puzzle Doctor at In Search of the Classic Mystery Novel, and José Ignacio at A Crime is Afoot. Thanks again to Dean Street Press and all of the reprint publishers who are making out-of-print titles available to a new generation of readers and fans.

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Book Review: THE Z MURDERS (1932) by J. Jefferson Farjeon

2/28/2021

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Richard Temperley arrives at London’s Euston Station in the “cold grey hour… the tail-end of a tired blackness.” Looking for a place to spend the pre-dawn hours before the city awakens, he chooses the smoking lounge of a nearby hotel on a porter’s advice. The choice is fateful on two counts: there he will first glimpse a lovely young woman, and there a fellow train passenger will be shot in an armchair, with a strange metal “Z” found beside him. Detective-Inspector James interviews Temperley, who was dozing before the fire at the time of the murder, and Temperley finds in the room – and decides not to tell the police about – the mystery woman’s abandoned handbag. Instead, he visits her address, and the chase across England begins: Temperley in search of Sylvia Wynne, who seems frightened and may be involved; and D-I James in search of them both. Also en route is a criminal with a chilling plan and a collection of metal Zeds to distribute.

I found The Z Murders to be great, outsize fun, but puzzle purists should note that we are now in breathless thriller territory rather than keeping to the manicured lawns of ratiocinative mystery fiction. Farjeon backloads his plot points so the reader understands the situation only in the book’s final third. There are no clues to gather, as the killer’s motivation and Sylvia’s role in the affair aren’t really seeded ahead of the reveal. That didn’t matter to me, since the journey itself is lively (deadly?) and the author manages to keep the reader, with Temperley as the P.O.V. proxy, uncertain of where the dangers lie and of whom to trust. There are elements here that compare favorably with John Buchan’s chase narrative in The 39 Steps as well as another letter-centric crime spree title, X v. Rex by Philip MacDonald (writing as Martin Porlock).

One has to admire J. Jefferson Farjeon’s full-hearted effort to make The Z Murders appealing to his contemporary readership by offering something for everyone. The protagonist’s actions place chivalry above all as Temperley tries to rescue the Damsel from the Danger that stalks her. (The burgeoning romance between the two is as inevitable as the villain’s comeuppance.) The antagonist, when revealed, is a convincing caricature of Evil personified, with a backstory of pain and criminality that leaves him irredeemable and deadly. In this entity, whose physique is an extension of his hatred for mankind, Farjeon presages some of the more flamboyant henchmen one finds within the James Bond franchise.

So there’s young-couple romance, snarling villainy, a well-compressed race against time to prevent more murders, and a world where (at least for a time) we are not sure where the next deadly peril may arise. In his introduction to the British Library Crime Classics reprint edition, Martin Edwards writes (not dismissively) that “the plotting is melodramatic, and the portrayal of the principal villain lurid, while there are regular cliff-hangers similar to those in the Paul Temple stories of Francis Durbridge.” About those cliff-hangers: the author generates some very effective suspense scenes, with one of the best occurring midway through the tale. While Richard and Sylvia have enlisted a comically reluctant cab driver to bring them to the next destination, the killer has forced a more unscrupulous cabbie to make the same journey. The confrontation between the two men in that second car – and especially the driver’s dawning realization of his fare’s identity and how much danger he is in – builds to an unnerving climax that resonates through the following chapters.

For me, The Z Murders proved an exciting and entertaining early example of the serial killer thriller plotline. There is the caveat for the mystery-minded that it is not whodunnit? but whathappensnext?, and readers interested in that second type of storyline will have much to chase after here. Other reviews are found at my colleagues’ sites Classic Mysteries, crossexaminingcrime, Pretty Sinister Books, and In Search of the Classic Mystery Novel.

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Book Review: THE HOUND OF DEATH (1944) by James Corbett

2/21/2021

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Should I be foolhardy enough to read and review another James Corbett novel in the future, let me provide context regarding where I am now in that valiant battle. I have just finished The Hound of Death, a mystery-ish thriller published in 1944 by Herbert Jenkins Limited. Mr. Jenkins may well have had a masochistic streak, as he and/or his company released all of Corbett’s print titles on an unsuspecting British public between 1929 and 1950. My first James Corbett reading experience involved his first published book, The Merrivale Mystery, and it was an unforgettable assault on the senses. You can read my review here, or you can track the book down and be buffeted yourself by the author’s complete incompetence in all matters of character, dialogue, prose, and plot. Suffice to say, after The Merrivale Mystery it has taken me more than a year to recover and check in once more with this remarkable author; The Hound of Death is my second timorous visit to Corbett-land.

It is important to note that 15 years and an impressive 30 published titles in between (!) separate the two books. This Hound, it turns out, could almost have been composed by a completely different writer, one who actually understands the rudiments of narrative structure and has a working command of the English language. Unlike The Merrivale Mystery, where 98% of the story seems to take place in the same manor house study and the chapter rhythms repeat with the endless consistency of a Mobius strip, this later story employs varied settings, a plotline that actually builds to a climax, and characters who, while not exactly dimensional, are at least sketched in with enough detail so the reader can tell them apart. The Hound of Death isn’t a great mystery, but it is a functional entry within the genre, and that alone places it leagues above Corbett’s questionable début.

But then, I shouldn’t be too surprised: one would have to actively work at one’s ignorance to keep writing and still maintain the level of ineptness on display at chez Merrivale. I wondered why William F. Deeck, who was so delighted with/repulsed by this author’s skill set, primarily quoted from only four early titles when making his case for (or against) Corbett. I know now that it is likely because the truly so-bad-it’s-good material is delivered early in the author’s career. And that’s understandable, if a little disappointing, since Corbett can be positively inspired when he reaches his unparalleled heights of poor writing.

Here, we start with Detective-Inspector Jimmy Brigg, a “burly man” with “a fighting chin”, “whimsical grey eyes”, and “strong, capable fingers”, surveying the grounds at the greyhound track. He is collecting information from the bookies about Colonel Trevor, a racing regular who recently killed himself with a revolver. A mysterious dog named “Black Shadow” runs and wins a race, and moments later a man collapses and dies. The astute detective notices there is a recent scratch on the dead man’s hand.

A journalist acquaintance of Brigg’s named Cardew (whose Christian name is also Jimmy for some reason) smells a story and sticks to Brigg, who chooses to give the reporter access to the investigation. During the case, Cardew meets the lovely Cora Dainton, the deceased Colonel Trevor’s niece, and soon Cora is menaced by a “Hindu” in a turban, while the gallant Cardew must fend off a bedroom cobra attack by shooting the snake, which was clearly intended for the ingénue. DI Brigg also keeps his whimsical grey eye on a night club singer, an entertainment manager, a spiritualist who owns the black greyhound, and a pair of on-the-lam racetrack gamblers, and by the book’s climactic séance scene (along with three pages of block explanation from Brigg to tie everything up) the detective has caught his criminal and the reporter has acquired a fiancée.

All in all, comprehensible if disposable genre fare, and Corbett’s approach is suitably melodramatic and stereotypical to make it all feel rather artificial. Here and there, I still found examples of the memorable floridness and not-quite-right wording of the maestro’s early works, as with this description:

Than the hard-boiled Detective-Inspector Brigg, C.I.D., New Scotland Yard, there was no one more prosaic. And as for Jimmy Cardew, wide-ranging reporter, blessed with both innate and hardly-acquired good horse-sense – his very profession had made him more than ordinarily skeptical. Yet both men experienced at the same time a sudden chill, a dampening, deadening influence that seemed to lay a clammy hand upon them. “Haunted!” said Cardew beneath his breath, and strove to laugh at himself, but his forced mirth made him uneasy. Brigg stopped and looked at him curiously.

“Did you say anything, Jimmy?”

“I did not.” Cardew was terse. “I was thinking, instead.”

“Interesting,” said Inspector Brigg.

I love the perfect absurdity of “hardly-acquired good horse-sense”. There’s also the joy of seeing the author sidestep a criminous detail that would have been worth the research to a lesser (or greater) mystery writer. Here’s how Jimmy Corbett handles it:

The pathologists had got it at last – an obscure Afghan poison with some unholy name that he couldn’t pronounce. A clear case of murder, if ever there was one… The effect of this blasted stuff, if one could read between the lines of the mess of high falutin’ technical language was that it brought about an intense depression in the mind of the victim. First, of course, the poison worked its way into the blood-stream via a scratch on the surface of the skin; then it gradually had an insidious and deadening effect on the nerves.

Oh, those awful, unpronounceable Afghan poisons. Actually, Corbett has graduated from the foundational writing failures evidenced in The Merrivale Mystery to some more subtle advanced composition problems, and that is progress. Notice the “blasted” pathology report filled with “high falutin’ technical language”: Corbett uses a mode called third-person limited omniscient throughout The Hound of Death. This means that the reader is aware of the scene character’s perspective and thoughts, even as the narrative stays away from “I” and remains in the third-person. So it is Brigg’s frustration with the technical aspects of the report, and we view it through his eyes. The only problem is that the author sometimes jumps mid-scene to follow another character, and the abrupt point-of-view change can cause a mild literary whiplash.

In Chapter Ten, for example, we spend three pages looking at the scene as Cardew, who is on the search for Jackson, one of the missing gamblers. Then Cardew meets Jackson and promptly gets punched, and when “the ace London reporter of the Worldwide” drops to the ground, we are suddenly in Jackson’s head, “glanc[ing] down ruefully” and privy to all of Jackson’s thoughts. It’s a bit of a jolt, especially as we have never previously experienced Jackson’s point of view in the story. Conventional narrative rules would suggest ending the scene and starting clean with a new character to avoid this awkward switcheroo.

But who am I to complain? I made it through another JC thriller, betting on The Hound of Death. And if it didn’t exactly win the long shot, it also didn’t stumble spectacularly from the moment it left the starting gate. All in all, not bad for a day at the James Corbett races.

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Book Review: THE DEADLY TRUTH (1941) by Helen McCloy

Book Review: MURDER AT MONK'S BARN (1931) by Cecil Waye

Book Review: THE Z MURDERS (1932) by J. Jefferson Farjeon

Book Review: THE HOUND OF DEATH (1944) by James Corbett

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