REGINALD BRETNOR – A Killing in Swords. Pocket, paperback original, 1978.

   As far as I know, this book was never on sale in the Hartford area. I had to go all the way to Massachusetts for a copy, but even though Bretnor is pretty well-known to long-time readers of science fiction (follow the link), I’m awfully glad that that’s not the only reason I drove so far on such a hot day.

   I read a lot of mysteries, as you may have noticed, but there aren’t many that are actually hard work to read. This one was, and it’s hard even to find anything good to say about it.

   Doing the detective work is a San Francisco antique weapons dealer named Alastair Alexandrovitch Timuroff, which right away explains his overpowering Continental accent that only someone with a name like Zsa Zsa can get away with, and wouldn’t you know it, every last one of the suspects and all of the other main characters collect either swords, knives, guns or some other sort of lethal object.

   Dead is the city’s mayor, with his pants down, evidently while he was trying to mount one of the ultra-realistic mechanical women populating the home of eccentric genius inventor Dr. Grimwood.

   I’m serious. And I think Brettnor was, too. There is a question of locked doors, but maybe not, since that part of the case was never followed up. With all the secret doors and passageways infiltrating the place, it probably doesn’t really matter.

   What Bretnor seems to have been aiming for is the vintage flavor of 1930s Ellery Queen or Philo Vance, but perhaps writing a mystery story is harder than people think. Bizarre events and weird characters are not what I want in a detective story. I want people who can think logically instead of careening around in idle chit-chat. I want an investigation carried on by first-hand observation and personal interrogation and not indirectly through rumors and suppositions and half-baked accusations.

   I don’t want pages and pages on pseudo-Indian religions. Dirty limericks, well, OK, maybe.

   Enough. What else can I say? This is a book that misfires enough to be bad without yet being bad enough for it to be read and enjoyed for its own sake. I’d suggest skipping this one.

— Reprinted from The MYSTERY FANcier, Vol. 2, No. 6, Nov-Dec 1978 (slightly revised).


Bibliographic Note:   This was the author’s only mystery novel.