JAY FLYNN – A Body for McHugh. Avon T-444., paperback original, 1960. MacFadden-Bartell 75-378, paperback, 1966.

   This is one entry in a nifty little five book paperback series that Flynn did in the early 19608. McHugh owns a backstreet San Francisco bar, the Door, that serves as the local watering hole for assorted spy types, ours and theirs.

   McHugh (no first name is supplied) is one of ours, working for one of those secret agencies tucked away in a Pentagon sub-basement; he periodically takes on assignments messing around in Mexican or Caribbean revolutions, recovering Nazi war prizes, and the like.

   Oddly, the books were packaged as if they were typical private-eye novels; consequently they may have failed to find the audience that would best appreciate these neatly crafted action yarns. Matt Helm fans,in particular, will find them right up their street.

   In this one, a man is knifed just outside the Door, and a scared young girl, apparently there to meet him, slips out the back way before McHugh (and the FBI and CIA agents hanging around) can get a line on her.

   The killings that ensue (some engineered by adept assassin McHugh) have to do with a missing suitcase full of money, the loot from a double-cross-infested operation by a group of Cubans trying to get their wealth out before Castro grabbed it.

   The action ranges up and down the California coast, from San Francisco to L.A. to Carmel, with assorted law-enforcement agencies, intelligence agencies, and the Mafia mixed into the caper.

   The other four books in the series are McHugh (1959), It’s Murder, McHugh (1960), Viva McHugh! (1960), and The Five Faces of Murder (1962). Flynn also wrote a number of nonseries suspense novels, among the best of which are Drink with the Dead (1959), about a bootlegging operation in northern California; and The Action Man (1961), about a heist involving a golf tournament modeled on the one at Pebble Beach.

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   Reprinted with permission from 1001 Midnights, edited by Bill Pronzini & Marcia Muller and published by The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 2007.   Copyright © 1986, 2007 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.

Editorial Note:   For a long personal profile of Jay Flynn by Bill Pronzini, along with a complete bibliography of the author put together by myself, check out this page on the primary Mystery*File website.

A. S. BYATT – Possession. Chatto & Windus, UK, 1990. Vintage, US, softcover, October 1991. Film: 2002; with Gwyneth Paltrow, Aaron Eckhart; director: Neil LaBute.

   The cover proclaims this a Romance, but only a very patient Romantic would wade through it in search of a fevered embrace. What it is is a Literary Detective Story, cunningly designed and written with a skill that left me quite envious.

   The story spins out from one Roland Michell, a second-rate assistant to the second-greatest authority on Randolph Ash, a (fictitious) Victorian Poet along the lines of Tennyson or Browning. Doing his slow, patient, best to be of help, Michell peruses Ash’s copy of an old book, searching for notes in the margins, when two drafts of a previously unknown letter fall out, from Ash to an unnamed woman, and written with a not-quite-veiled passion that seems to hint at much more.

   Searching various references, Michell identifies the woman as one Christobel LaMotte, a little-known lesbian author of fairy tales and poetry of the times, recently “found” by feminists but still pretty obscure.

   Michell consults the nearest expert on LaMotte, a Professor Maude Bailey, who is distantly related to her. They visit the old Bailey estate, where LaMotte spent her last years, and, through a combination of luck, intelligence, and Michell’s good nature, discover reams of hitherto unsuspected correspondence between Ash and LaMotte. The sort of thing that will require radical re-evaluation among scholars of both their works.

   But, as with any fine detective story, there are hints of more: more clues, more journals, and something much more sinister. There are also added elements of suspense, such as the efforts of rival scholars to “scoop” them, discredit their findings or just buy their sources, Michell’s unraveling private life, and a great deal else.

   Byatt does an incredible job of balancing the unfolding story of the Victorian authors with the ongoing one of Michell and Bailey discovering it and themselves, fleshing out even the minor characters and wrapping the loose ends. And she truly appreciates both elements of her work. There’s the occasional line like “Literary critics make natural detectives … the classic detective story arose from the classic adultery novel….” and some very intelligent insight into the nature of literary study.

   But this is far, far from an academic exercise. Or a conventional love story. Or any ’tec I ever read before. Good enough that although I didn’t care for the ending — it smacks of bad Dickens or typical Keeler — I still enjoyed it.

   I should also add that Byatt writes like a very talented chameleon. Whether it’s paragraphs from dull Ph.D. theses, pages of old correspondence, academic ramblings on abstruse connections, or ersatz Victorian poems — both dry-as-dust and the really engaging ones — she handles each and all with faultless verisimilitude. This is a book by someone who really knows how to write. And read.

JAZZ MAD. Universal Pictures, 1928; Jean Hersholt, Marion Nixon, George Lewis, Roscoe Karns. Director: F. Harmon Weight. Shown at Cinefest 18, Liverpool NY, March 1998.

   Hersholt plays a German composer who moves with his daughter to America to find a supporter of his classical symphony and finds all doors closed to him. In desperation, he takes a job in a club conducting an orchestra.

   The act is a comedy turn, which submits the conductor and musicians to vegetables thrown by the audience. When his daughter’s suitor’s wealthy parents learn of this public spectacle, they connive to separate the couple and Hersholt falls into a deep depression.

   The machinations of Roscoe Karns lead to a performance of the symphony by the Hollywood Bowl Symphony orchestra (performing indoors) and the conductor’s acclaim as an unrecognized genius.

   It sounds treacly, but the performance. are uniformly excellent and the public humiliation of the musician is a striking forerunner of Emil Janning’s role in The Blue Angel. Splendid photography by Gilbert Warrenton. A real find.

FLETCHER FLORA – Skuldoggery. Belmont B50-738, paperback original, 1967.

   A talented writer whose work received regrettably little attention during his lifetime, Fletcher Flora was one of the best producers of criminous short stories in the 1950s and 1960s. His range was remarkable: everything from hard-boiled tales for such magazines as Manhunt to police procedurals, to straightforward whodunits,to light whimsey, to literary stories that transcended the genre.

   As a novelist however, Flora was less successful. His books are extremely well written, with engaging characters and strong suspense; but they are all short on plot, tending to be slices of life or collections of incidents rather than fully realized novels. Skuldoggery falls into that category, but everything
else about it is so good that it ranks as Flora’s best novel — though probably his least known, owing to the fact that it was published by a small paperback house and poorly distributed. (The fact that a front-line publisher failed to recognize its merits is beyond comprehension.)

   When Grandfather Hunter dies, he leaves an estate of $10 million, which his greedy family — Uncle Homer, Aunt Madge; Junior; Flo; and Flo’s twins, Hester and Lester –expects to inherit. Ah, but no; grandfather’s will instead gives the dough to Senorita Fogarty, who happens to be a Chihuahua of questionable breeding, for her exclusive use throughout her lifetime and the lifetimes of her pup’s pups ad infinitum.

   Of course there is a proviso that should Senorita Fogarty and all her subsequent pups expire, the inheritance then passes on to the family. And of course what the novel is all about are the humbling attempts of Uncle Homer, Aunt Madge, Junior, Flo, and Flo`s twins to dispose of Senorita Fogarty, and the determined efforts of grandfather’s faithful servants, the Crumps, to thwart them.

   This sort of farce is not unfamiliar, but it is nonetheless beautifully conceived and written with considerable drollery and wit. Anyone willing to spend the time and effort tracking down a copy will not be disappointed.

   Most of Flora’s other novels were also paperback originals; among the more notable of these are The Hot Shot (1956) and Leave Her to Hell (1958), both of which are in the tough vein. He also published three hardcovers, Killing Cousins (1960), another delightfully murderous farce, which won the Macmillan Cock Robin Award; The Irrepressible Peccadillo (1962); and Hildegarde Withers Makes the Scene (1969), which he was commissioned to finish when Stuart Palmer died, and which he completed shortly before his own untimely death [in 1968].

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   Reprinted with permission from 1001 Midnights, edited by Bill Pronzini & Marcia Muller and published by The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 2007.   Copyright © 1986, 2007 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust.

FLETCHER FLORA – Skuldoggery. Belmont B50-738, paperback original, 1967.

   The Hunter family is gathered together to pay their last disrespects to Grandfather Hunter, who, if he was anything like the rest of his family, need not be mourned.

   Grandfather Hunter’s daughter and her brood — Hester and Lester, the twins — and his son, Uncle Homer, with his wife, Aunt Madge, and their unlovable son Junior are at the funeral primarily so that they can hear the will read. They are all, to put it mildly, distraught to discover that grandfather has left his money in trust to his dog, Senorita Fogarty, a chihuahua, and to her issue and her issue’s issue into perpetuity. The famil y gets the money only if Senorita Fogarty and her offspring, if any, shuffle of this mortal coil.

   Well, of course the only thing to do is to plot the demise of Senorita Fogarty before she finds out what sex is all about. Fortunately for Senorita Fogarty and the reader, the family members are not particularly bright, besides being unpleasant, so their machinations lead to a lot of good, clean fun, except when Mrs. Crumley, one of the dog’s guardians, apparently eats poisoned oatmeal intended for the dog and dies.

   A pleasant way to while away an hour, or may be a little less, depending on how fast you read.

KEN BRUEN – London Boulevard. Minotaur Books, US, hardcover, November, 2009; softcover, November 2011. First published in the UK, The Do-Not Press, hardcover, 2001. Film: 2010, with Colin Farrell and Keira Knightley, directed by William Monahan.

   If you’ve been thinking about trying out Ken Bruen, London Boulevard is not a bad entry point. You’re not committing to the Jack Taylor or Brant/Roberts series, and you’ll be avoiding the broad parody of his “Max” collaborations with Jason Starr (that’s the absolute WRONG place to start with either writer).

   London Boulevard is a sort-of adaptation of Sunset Boulevard displaced to (guess) London, and it’s a well-written, fast-moving, and stylish neo-noir. I guess the only strike against it as a starting point for Bruen is that it’s set in England not Ireland, but Bruen seems comfortable in both locales, and this book offers much of what you’ll either really like or dislike about Bruen as a writer: quick, telegraphed prose with lots of white space on the page; melancholy interior monologues; wise-ass dialogue; lots of hip pop culture references; and a dark brooding Irish pessimism about life and human nature.

   This is not the best Bruen I’ve read (I am soon going to get back into the Taylor series), but is a solid and pleasing work of crime fiction and a real page-turner. (I have yet to see the film, but now I can.)

CORTO MALTESE AND THE GILDED HOUSE OF SAMARKAND. StudioCanal, France, animated film, 2002. Original title: Corto Maltese: La maison dorée de Samarkand. Based on the graphic novel by Hugo Pratt. Richard Berry as Corto Maltese (voice), Patrick Bouchitey as Raspoutine (voice), Catherine Jacob as Marianne (voice). Directors: Richard Danto & Liam Saury.

   Hugo Pratt is the Italian comic book industry, one of the most recognized and respected figures in Europe, and increasingly recognized here. He began his career with the super hero, the Ace of Spades and is best known for his long running western, Sgt. Kirk, about a white soldier living with the Indians and for Pyle, a war comic taken from the writings of Ernie Pyle. He is at once the Jack Kirby, Milton Caniff, Alex Raymond, and Harold Foster of the Italian comics.

   Like many comic book artists and writers around the world, his greatest influence was Milton Caniff, his Terry and the Pirates and Steve Canyon. You can see the artistic influence in his drawing style and brushwork, but also in his storytelling techniques, at once cinematic and picaresque. This is truest of his greatest creation, the soldier (or should that be sailor) of fortune and Seven League booted protagonist of his most famous works, Corto Maltese.

   But where Pat Ryan, Steve Canyon, Scorchy Smith, Smilin’ Jack, or even Frank Godwin’s Connie were straight shooting all-American heroes out of Hollywood central casting Corto Maltese is not.

   In Corto Maltese, Pratt combined his interest in history, exotic but realistic locations, and adventure with his mordant humor, deep suspicions about the West and his own country’s Imperial past in colonization (this runs deep in Italian popular literature predating Mussolini’s ambitions, dating at least to Emilio Salagari’s tales of Malay pirate and anti imperialist Sandokan), and a protagonist out of Joseph Conrad as much as Terry and the Pirates. Corto would be more comfortable in the company of Lord Jim, Nostromo, or Conrad’s Captain Marlow than Pat Ryan, Connie, or Flip Cochran, though he would not be misplaced with the Dragon Lady or Burma, or for that matter the Spirit’s Sand Saref and P’Gell. He trips over more femme fatales than Philip Marlowe.

   The closest thing I can find to compare this too would be Alvaro Mutis’s books Maqrol and The Adventures of Maqrol. There is no one in American or European comics or animation quite like Corto Maltese. He gives new meaning to unique.

   The stories take place in the early Twentieth Century between the turn of the century and the 1920‘s encompassing the First World War, the Russo Japanese War, the massacre at Musa Dagh, the Irish troubles and countless other adventures in Southern Europe, Arabia, Africa, Russia, Manchuria, Ireland, and all points exotic, often told in relation to a search for treasure (Alexander’s gold, El Dorado, …).

   Along the way Corto meets historical figures like T. E. Lawrence, Jack London, Mustapha Kemal, Enver Pasha, and his mad friend, Rasputin. Not to mention mysterious women ranging from orphans to seers from witches to murderous actresses to the queen of fairyland — as well as her husband Oberon, Puck, Merlin, and a talking raven. Things can easily get dreamlike and surreal in Corto’s fevered backwaters and he is always meeting mysterious women who don’t seem to be entirely of this world, however earthy their attractions.

   He also runs into a wide range of natives, some good, some noble, some evil, some angry, in short, humans, not stereotypes.

   Tall and dark in a peaked cap with Elvis side burns, and wearing the uniform of a ships captain of the era and with an earring in one ear, Maltese’s adventures are best read in the rich detailed color editions with Pratt’s otherworldly water colors. Not that the black and white isn’t just as startling. The animated series follows the rich water color look of Pratt’s work with extremely effective beauty. It is easily the most beautiful animated series I have ever seen.

   The animated series has so far stayed close to Pratt in style and color scheme, and while the animation is limited, it is also rich and eye catching. I’m not sure I have seen anything quite like it outside of a feature film.

   The Gilded House in Samarkand refers to a Turkish prison in Samarkand where Corto’s friend Rasputin is held. Gilded, because the only escape is through the Golden Dreams of opium enhanced sleep, well, for anyone but Rasp (Corto’s nickname for Rasputin).

   And yes, Corto Maltese is the type of hero whose best friend is Rasputin, the mad monk.

   You should know dreams play a great role in Corto Maltese’s adventures, fevered, drugged, from concussions, mushrooms; the mystery of the series tropical and other exotic locations are always part of the story.

   T. E. Lawrence’s “Beware of those who dream in the daytime, for they will make their dreams come true,” might almost be an epigraph for all of Corto Maltese’s adventures.

   In Samarkand, Corto is in Rhodes on the trail of the lost treasure of Alexander, stolen from Persia and Cyrus the Great. He is already in trouble as the story begins, mistaken for the traitorous Turk Chevet who is part of the Turkish schemes of Kemal and Enver Pasha to re unite Turkey after its collapse following allying itself with Germany in the first war. Not only do the Turks think he is Chevet, so do the Armenians seeking revenge against Chevet and Enver Pasha who was responsible for the Turkish genocide against the Armenians.

   After stealing a map and evading both sides and the police Corto sails east for Samarkand to free his friend Rasputin and seek the treasure, but not before a seeress named Cassandra predicts a curious and enigmatic future for him.

   Along the way he picks up an odd lot including a murderous sexually precocious actress who he rescues from the Turks in Tarsus, and is paid to escort a young Armenian girl. He will have a fevered opium dream he shares with his mad murderous friend Rasputin across great distances, hide out with whirling dervishes, get caught between the Russians and Turks at war in Samarkand, witness the death of Enver Pasha, dance in the streets with Rasputin, and in the cold heights of Kafiristan reach the cave where the treasure allegedly waits haven see the treacherous Chevet fall to the Russians like his master.

   If you get the idea this is not a Saturday morning animated series and Corto Maltese is neither Terry and the Pirates or Indiana Jones, you are right.

   At times surreal, fevered, enigmatic, beautiful to look at, poetically written, maddening, and exciting, the Corto Maltese films are unlike any other animated series you have ever seen or likely will ever see. I’m not sure it is for everyone. It certainly isn’t Disney, but it isn’t Ralph Bakshi either. It is intelligent, intriguing, demanding, and enigmatic, like its laconic hero, and you may not be quite ready for animated characters with this much depth or animated stories this complex or ambiguous.

   There are episodes available on YouTube in English — only half hour episodes though. The original Italian episodes offer full stories, or there are French language episodes of complete titles in multiple parts with English subtitles. Unless your Italian is good I recommend the latter, though you might want to dip your toes in with the English language episodes. Among the full serials available are The Gilded House in Samarkand, The Ballad of the Salt Sea, The Celtics, Under the Capricorn Sign, and Corto in Siberia (each runs about eighty minutes total). Whether they are available on DVD or not I don’t know, but they are certainly worth the effort to at least get a taste.

   Saturday morning was never like this.

   For that matter, nothing on American television and few movies were ever like this.

IT ALWAYS RAINS ON SUNDAY. Ealing, UK, 1947. Googie Withers, Edward Chapman, John Slater, John McCallum, Jimmy Hanley, John Carol, Alfie Bass, Jack Warner. Written by Angus MacPhail, from the novel by Arthur La Bern. Directed by Robert Hamer.

   I hate to keep doing this, but here’s another movie few if any of you ever heard of that you must go out and watch immediately, if not sooner. Dealing with twenty-four hours, dawn to dawn, in an east-end London neighborhood, it’s crammed with sub-plots more criminous than you might think: an escaped convict (John McCallum) hiding out with an old girlfriend (Googie Withers), a few crooks who have pilfered a warehouse trying to dispose of the loot, and a wonderfully patient and droll British cop (Jack Warner) tracking things down, all this set against a detailed background peopled with characters who seem wonderfully well-realized.

   No one is unusually good or bright or heroic, nor compellingly nasty; just ordinary folks making mistakes (the stolen loot turns out to be crates of roller skates) and muddling through.

   With all the characters and their interrelations, this could have easily have gotten very confusing, particularly since everyone speaks in an East End argot hard for a stranger to decipher, but director Hamer (remembered for Kind Hearts and Coronets and part of Dead of Night) sets it all pretty straight, mainly by differentiating the cast so clearly. John Slater is particularly effective as a predatory bookie given to fits of charity (but not too many) and Hanley, Carol and Bass make a memorably inept trio of bungling burglars.

   Then too, there’s a beautifully understated scene where Withers is trying to provide for her fugitive boyfriend: she digs deep in a drawer, comes up with a carefully wrapped ring she’s been keeping ever since he gave it to her years ago, so he can pawn it. And what happens next is too good for me to spoil for you. Suffice it to say that everyone involved manages to reveal character and get the point across with a muted pathos I found quite moving.

   And then there’s the ending, a sardonic arrest in a pub (“Have one for the road boys.” “We aren’t leaving.” “Oh yes you are.”) followed by a riveting chase that just about defines film noir: all rain-swept streets, dark alleys, and a tense finale in a train yard.

   This is filmmaking at its absolute best, and one you should not miss.

JONATHAN LATIMER – The Lady in the Morgue. Doubleday Doran/Crime Club, hardcover, 1936. Reprint editions include: Pocket Books #246, paperback, 1944. Dell Great Mystery Library, paperback, 1957. IPL, paperback, 1988. Film: Universal, 1938 (Preston Foster as Bill Crane, Patricia Ellis, Frank Jenks as Doc Williams).

   William Crane, private eye, is at the morgue in Chicago to try to discover the identity of a young woman who is a resident of that temporary dwelling place and is believed to have committed suicide. The body is stolen, the morgue attendant is murdered, and the police blame Crane for both crimes.

   Crane also has the misfortune to be considered the body-snatcher by two gangsters, both of whom want the corpse for difforent reasons and don’t care what happens to Crane as long as they get the body. The gangsters think the body is one individual, while Crane’s clients think she’s someone else.

   Crane and his colleagues, Doc Williams and Tom O’Malley, are on the verge of, if not well into, alcoholism, and the main wonder of the novel is how they keep functioning full of liquor and without sleep. Still, they do manage to find the corpse — where else but a graveyard — and cart it back to the morgue, where the corpse suffers the indignity of having her head removed and Crane is nearly murdered.

   As might be imagined, this is a rather ghoulish novel, but surprisingly amusing also. And not bad detection on Crane’s part.

   One does wonder, though, how the corpse, several days after her demise and having under gone embalming, for reasons inexplicable — why embalm a corpse that is to be burled illegally? — can still be in a state of rigor mortis.

TAZA, SON OF COCHISE. Universal International, 1954. Rock Hudson (Taza), Barbara Rush, Gregg Palmer, Rex Reason (as Bart Roberts), Morris Ankrum, Ian McDonald, Jeff Chandler (Cochise, uncredited). Director: Douglas Sirk.

   Directed by Douglas Sirk, Taza, Son of Cochise is an above average, although unforgivingly predictable and formulaic, mid-1950s Western. Rock Hudson, in a somewhat early role, portrays the title character, Taza, one of the Apache leader’s two sons. Unlike his brother, Taza wants to maintain cordial relations with U.S. government. But it’s not going to be so easy. Not when his brother, Naiche (Rex Reason), and rival Apache leader, Geronimo (Ian MacDonald), both are inimical to his peaceful intentions towards the Whites.

   There really isn’t anything the matter with Taza, Son of Cochise. The plot makes perfect sense, the actors are all more than competent, and the outdoor scenery transports the viewer to the American Southwest. It’s a perfectly fine escapist adventure.

   And yet one gets the feeling as if one as seen this all play out before.

   You know what I mean: good Apaches (on the side of the Whites) face off against renegade warlike Apaches (on Geronimo’s side), all under the watchful eyes of the U.S. Cavalry led by the alternatingly competent and clueless Captain Burnett (Gregg Palmer). Then there’s the love interest, Oona (Barbara Rush), a beautiful Apache woman that both Taza and Naiche lust after. Taza, Son of Cochise is a competently made film, no doubt about it. It’s just not a particularly daring one.

   It’s worth keeping an eye out for Jeff Chandler in an uncredited cameo as Cochise, a character he portrayed with distinction in 1950’s Broken Arrow.