Harper’s Perennial Library keeps reprinting Dorothy L. Sayers, proving that there will always be an audience for class. In her lifetime Sayers published eleven Lord Peter Wimsey novels and three short story collections which included Wimsey stories. Perennial has now republished nine of the novels and all of the short story collections in uniform paperback editions at $3.95 each. (I suspect that the two remaining novels, The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club and The Nine Tailors, will also be reprinted shortly.)

   In addition, there is a trade paperback of almost five hundred pages, Lord Peter ($8.95), which contains all of the Wimsey short stories, including three that were never previously published in book collections. That book is enhanced by a James Sandoe introduction, an essay by Carolyn Heilbrun (who writes mysteries as Amanda Cross), and a delicious Wimsey parody, “Greedy Night,” by E.C. Bentley.

   Speaking of bonuses, I must again praise the illustration by Marie Michal which appears on all of the covers. They’re some of the best done paperback art I’ve seen in years.

   I’m not sure if there’s anything else about Sayers that hasn’t already been said. I could suggest that her non-series short stories not be overlooked since they are uncommonly good, especially “The Man Who Knew How,” in Hangman’s Holiday, as well as “Suspicion” and “The Leopard Lady,” in In the Teeth of the Evidence.

   Those volumes also contain stories about Sayer’s other series detective, wine salesman Montague Egg. Very down to earth with his advice on how salesmen should succeed, his stories are “no-nonsense,” yet imaginative in plotting. I especially enjoyed his information about wine.

   I would also suggest that one not be put off by the foppish quality of Lord Peter. I’m not sure why some detectives between the wars, like Wimsey, Reginald Fortune, and the early Albert Campion, were created as silly asses. The fact is that, if given half a chance, they will prove that they are far from effete.

   Also, their authors, especially Sayers, are people of intelligence, and they write as if they assume the same about their readers. These days, one feels that many writers are appealing mainly to our emotions or our libidos.

Editorial Comment.   I regret that two of the covers shown aren’t nearly as sharp as I’d like them to be. I’ll see if I can’t obtain better images to replace them. To see Marie Michal’s work the way it’s meant to be seen, follow the link in the essay above.

DICEY DEERE – The Irish Cairn Murder.

St. Martin’s; reprint paperback, March 2003; hardcover St. Martin’s edition, 2002.

   Dicey Deere is a new name to me, and likewise her mystery-solving character, Torrey Tunet, a professional translator by trade, living in Ireland, and by all accounts, a continual thorn in the side of Inspector Egan O’Hare. This is her third case, and the first I’ve had occasion to read.

   It also occurred to me that whenever you pick up a new author, one so new that there’s no word of mouth out on him or her yet, there’s always some mental evaluation going on in your mind as you read the first few pages, trying to stay flexible, but weighing one aspect of the story versus another — yes, this is good — no, that wasn’t very well done.

   And then there comes a point when suddenly you realize that, yes! this is maybe going to be OK, that the author knows what he or she is doing, and you can sit back and enjoy the rest of the read.

   In this book it comes very early on, on page four as a matter of fact, where it’s learned that to keep her linguistic skills in cutting-edge form, Torrey reads a stack of Maigret paperbacks in whatever language she’s going to need to be fluent in next. In this case, it’s Hungarian.

   (Note to self: It’s been a long time since I’ve read one of Inspector Maigret’s adventures. It’s time to remedy that.)

   As for the mystery itself, the dead man seems to have been a blackmailer, and of course it’s the victim (the blackmailee) who’s the obvious suspect. Torrey is not so sure.

   Dicey Deere’s manner of telling the story takes a little time to totally get used to. It’s told in fits and starts, with numerous hints and nuances, jumping sometimes abruptly from one scene to another. Mysterious events are followed by mysterious conversations, with mysterious trips ensuing. John Dickson Carr would have been very proud.

   The overall atmosphere is much cheerier and lighter than in any of Carr’s works, I hasten to add. It’s the idea that the reader doesn’t have to be told everything right away that’s the key in this comparison.

   (Note to self: It’s been a long time since I’ve read one of Dr. Gideon Fell’s adventures. It’s time to remedy that, too.)

   Another stylistic feature I liked is a form of emphasis new to me, though maybe not to you, if you’re been reading different books than I have. I’ll illustrate with a random quote, this one from page 180.

     Bibliography: [Expanded from the Revised Crime Fiction IV, by Allen J. Hubin.]

LA BARRE, HARRIET (ca. 1916- ). Pseudonym: Dicey Deere. Travel writer living in New York City.
      Stranger in Vienna. Popular Library pbo, 1986.
      The Florentine Win. Walker, hc, 1988; Ivy, pb, 1989.

      Blackwood’s Daughter. St. Martin’s, hc, 1990; Ivy, pb, 1992.

DEERE, DICEY. Pseudonym of Harriet La Barre. Series character: Torrey Tunet, in all titles.
      The Irish Cottage Murder. St.Martin’s, hc, 1999; pb, June 2000.

      The Irish Manor House Murder. St. Martin’s, hc, 2000; pb, August 2001.
      The Irish Cairn Murder. St. Martin’s, hc, 2002; pb, March 2003.
      The Irish Village Murder. St. Martin’s, hc, 2004; pb, March 2005.

MILTON PROPPER – The Family Burial Murders. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1934. Hardcover reprint: Grosset & Dunlap (cover shown).

   Milton Propper was born in 1906, graduated from the University of Pennsylvania Law School with honors in 1929, and saw his first detective novel published the same year. He never practiced law but went to work in the mid1930s for the Social Security Administration and continued mystery-writing on the side.

   His fourteen whodunits are usually set in Philadelphia and its suburbs and feature young Tommy Rankin, the homicide specialist on that city’s police force.

   Propper was far from a paragon of all the literary virtues. He wrote dull prose, peopled his books with nonentities, flaunted like a badge of honor his belief that the police and the powerful are above the law, and refused to play fair with the reader.

   Yet paradoxically his best books hold some of the intellectual excitement of the early novels of Ellery Queen. Propper generally begins with the discovery of a body under bizarre circumstances: on an amusement park’s scenic railway in The Strange Disappearance of Mary Young (1929); during a college-fraternity initiation in The Student Fraternity Murder (1932); in a voting booth in The Election Booth Murder (1935).

   Then he scatters suspicion among several characters with much to hide, all the while juggling clues and counterplots with dazzling nimbleness. His detectives are gifted with some extraordinary powers — for example, they can make startlingly accurate deductions from a glance at a person’s face — and have no qualms about committing burglary and other crimes while searching for evidence.

   Propper novels often involve various forms of mass transportation and complex legal questions over the succession to a large estate. Near the end, having proved all the known suspects innocent, Rankin invariably puts together some as yet unexplained pieces of the puzzle, concludes that the murderer was an avenger from the past who infiltrated the victim’s life in disguise, and launches a breakneck chase to collar the killer before he or she escapes.

   Such is the Propper pattern. One of the books in which it shows to best advantage is The Family Burial Murders, whose opening is reminiscent of Ellery Queen’s 1932 classic The Greek Coffin Mystery.

   Rankin is summoned to one of Philadelphia’s stately mansions after one body too many turns up at the gravesite during the funeral of a wealthy dowager. The old lady clearly died of natural causes, but her nephew, who also lies in her coffin, was just as clearly murdered, and Rankin’s investigation turns up an assortment of suspects with motive and opportunity.

   Propper juggles the legal tangles surrounding the dead woman’s estate with an array of trains, trolleys, elevated lines, and interurban electric trams that give him the crown as mystery fiction’s number one transportation buff.

   Unlike his novels, Propper’s life became ever more wretched and messy. He alienated his family, lived in squalor, was picked up for homosexual activity by the police whose lawbreaking he had glorified, eventually lost all markets for his writing and, in 1962, killed himself.

         ———
   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.

VICTOR CANNING – The Limbo Line. Wm. Heinemann, UK, hardcover, 1963. William Sloane Associates, US, hardcover, 1964. Hardcover reprint (UK): Companion Book Club. Paperback reprints (UK), Pan; several printings. Paperback reprints (US): Berkley F1085, 1965; Award 1467, 1975; Ace/Charter, 1979.

   Victor Canning isn’t read much today, which is a shame. He was a major figure in the period from the 1950’s to the 1980’s and one of the best of the British thriller writers, a club that included Eric Ambler, Hammond Innes, and Desmond Bagley.

   Though he began his successful writing career before the war in England, it was with The Chasm in 1950 that his real career began. His best known work is probably The Rainbird Pattern, an atypical crime novel set in the South of England and filmed by Alfred Hitchcock as The Family Plot.

   The Limbo Line is one of only three Cold War novels Canning wrote during the first half of his thriller-writing career, and something of a throwback to the thrillers of John Buchan, although the subject is up to date and contemporary to the period it was written in.

   Richard Manston (the similarity to the name of Buchan’s Richard Hannay is no accident) is a typical Canning hero, a retired agent turned gentleman farmer, a sportsman (golf fanatic like his creator), and a cool capable customer. As The Limbo Line opens he is drawn back into the spy game while on the links with his old boss Ronnie Sutcliffe. Manston resists at first, but his mistress visiting at his farm knows he will go back to work. He always does.

   The Soviets have been up to their usual tricks, and this time it’s a cleverer scheme than usual. AGRIP, a Soviet trade organ, is the front for the kidnapping and brainwashing of Russian defectors who are then smuggled back to the Soviet Union to much fanfare at yet another triumph of the Soviet system.

   The British Secret Service has identified the next victim, a balllerina, Irina Tovskaya, as the next victim. Manston’s job is to dangle her as bait and follow her through the “Limbo Line” the organization that handles the kidnapping, brain washing, and smuggling of the kidnapped defectors.

   It’s a dirty business using an innocent like Irina as bait but Manston is a pro, at least until he starts to fall for her. The trail leads to the spectacular country around Fauberg St. Honore in France and Manston sets out to track down the locals who run the Limbo Line for AGRIP.

   Along the way there are numerous crosses and double-crosses, escape and evasion, and Manston finds himself falling for Irina before he finally smashes AGRIP, shuts down the Limbo Line, and finds himself in love with Irina after nearly losing her.

   The writing is crisp and intelligent as might be expected in Canning’s hands. Manston is a tough smart agent and the Soviets running AGRIP are portrayed as believable men and women who are professionals and not monsters however monstrous their actions.

   The developing relationship between Manston and Irina is countered by the one between Oleg, the head of AGRIP and Ludmila his attractive and smitten secretary. When Oleg is killed at the end we last see Ludmilla:

   Manston later appeared as a much darker character in Canning’s novels about international private detective Rex Carver, and the cynical Birdcage sequence of novels later in his output, when he had come to take a darker view of the British security services and their actions.

   The Limbo Line was a mediocre film in 1968 with Craig Stevens heading an otherwise British cast.

   Virtually any of Canning’s thrillers are worth reading. Just out of personal preference I would suggest Panther’s Moon (filmed as Spy Hunt, about a pair of escaped leopards loose in the Balkans with microfilm in one of their collars), Castle Minerva (filmed as Masquerade, the 1965 Basil Deardon film a slick spy spoof with Cliff Robertson and Jack Hawkins, reviewed here), The Great Affair, Queen’s Pawn, and the off beat Fingers of Saturn, as well as any of those mentioned above. He also wrote a notable series of Arthurian novels late in his career.

   Canning doesn’t deserve his temporary decline. He was simply one of the most intelligent and capable of the writers who marked out the territory of the British thriller in this period. His books sold well and are easy to find, and if you have never read him, or haven’t read him for a while you’ll soon find how good he can be. Many of his books were made into films including His Bones Are Coral filmed as Sam Fuller’s Shark; Venetian Bird filmed as The Assassin; The Golden Salamander; and The House of the Seven Flies filmed as The House of the Seven Hawks.

   During his heyday he ran Eric Ambler a close race for the top British thriller writer, and Hammond Innes an equally close race for the title of best adventure novelist — neither a small achievement. He deserves to be rediscovered by anyone who likes the British thriller at its most literate and intelligent.

LOUISE PENNY – Still Life. St. Martin’s Press, hardcover, July 2006; paperback reprint, May 2007. First published in Canada & the UK: Headline, hc & pb, 2005.

   A Canadian rural mystery, with Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the Quebec Sûreté and his team called in to investigate the suspicious death of Jane Neal, a reclusive resident of Three Pines, felled by an arrow.

   The strength of the novel is in its portrait of the town and its colorful inhabitants, but Gamache and his team are also nicely portrayed, with Gamache’s sharply observant eye seldom missing a significant detail in the convoluted relationships that make the investigation difficult to pursue. A promising debut for the series.

Bibliographic data:   The Chief Inspector Gamache mysteries.

1. Still Life.

2. Dead Cold (UK/Canada), A Fatal Grace (US).

3. The Cruelest Month.

4. The Murder Stone (UK/Canada), A Rule Against Murder (US).

5. The Brutal Telling.

MILTON K. OZAKI – The Dummy Murder Case. Graphic Books #33; paperback original; 1st printing, 1951.

   As part of Professor Caldwell’s class in psychology, the Professor plans a visual presentation to instruct perceptual responses. Instead of the usual classroom show, a rather comlex presentation is given to the class outdoors:

   Two friends of the Professor’s assistant, Bendy, stage a mock murder, with a young lady being shot at the end of a, pier and falling into the water. A mannequin has already been sunk at on the spot. The police, with prior arrangement, are to come and drag for the body.

   Instead of finding the mannequin, the draggers recover the body of a young woman with her throat slit. The police report to Caldwell that the woman had no visible means of support — and no visible person to support her — and has in her apartment a room equipped like the wrapping department of a store, with paper from several first-class establishments and totally empty boxes already wrapped.

   If there were no other reason for him to investigate, this puzzle would bring Caldwell into the case, despite the objections of Bendy, who knows he will have to do all the work while the Professor does the thinking.

   There are enough coincidences in the novel to keep a reader muttering, “It’s a small world,” or maybe even “It’s an infinitesimal world.” Only an interest in the explanation for the wrapped empty boxes kept me reading to the end.

EDITORIAL COMMENT.   An homage to Milton K. Ozaki’s prose style, along with a complete checklist of all his mystery fiction, can be found here on the primary Mystery*File website.

   A longer profile on Mr. Ozaki himself can be found here, where it is said: “Even though he was the product of a mixed marriage, we believe that Milton K. Ozaki is among the earliest mystery writers of Japanese heritage writing in English as his (or her) primary language.”

ROBERT B. PARKER – The Judas Goat. Houghton Mifflin, hardcover, 1978. Reprinted many times, both in hardcover and soft.

   Another book in the hard-boiled Spenser series is always more than welcome. Promised Land, the one just preceding this one, won a great deal of critical acclaim, including an Edgar award, but in spite of extraordinarily good writing, it was noticeably thin on plot, and in many ways it was largely an introspective character study of the tough Boston private eye named Spenser, and the world around him.

   As if to compensate, this time the pace is fast and bloody, regenerating the series completely by means of extreme violence. A gang of terrorists wipes out most of a wealthy industrialist’s family, and Spenser is hired to track them down. After a cleansing process of this ferocity, digging out those responsible, we can only look forward to what’s in store for the future — and, no, Spenser’s proven that he’s not yet too old for this sort of thing.

   Not a perfect book, but then again, so few are.

[UPDATE] 07-04-09.  More often than not, I’ve been revising these old reviews slightly, not to change my opinion — not ever — but to correct small typos, to change some wording around and — every once in a while — to clarify points that I’ve thought I expressed poorly the first time.

   This one I decided to leave exactly as it first appeared, except for the letter grade I assigned to each book back then, which I haven’t using at all in the reprint appearances of these reviews. I gave this one an “A,” so I obviously I enjoyed it, even though the plot as I described it, I have to admit, I don’t remember very much, if at all.

   Over the past few years, Robert B. Parker and I have been drifting apart. It’s not his doing, and it’s not for a lack of appreciation of my part. I think he’s a terrific writer, and for a long time, he was one of a small grouping of authors, less than only five of them, whose books I bought in hardcover as soon as they came out.

   I mention this because the flaws that many friends of mine keep pointing out to me in his work, I see them too. I guess they (the flaws) bother them (my friends) more than they do me.

   So why haven’t I read any of his Spenser books recently? Why have I never read a Jesse Stone novel? Or one of the Sunny Randall books?

   He just seems to be writing books faster than I can read them, that’s about the only excuse I can think of, and what’s really amazing is that he’s going to be 77 this year. Unbelievable.

   It’s time, I think, to make time in the day to read another Spenser novel or two, and maybe even some of those with his other characters. I think that in the 1970s and 80s, Robert B. Parker almost single-handedly saved the PI novel from extinction. I really do.

EDGAR WALLACE – The Four Just Men. The Tallis Press, UK, hardcover 1905; Tallis, UK, 1906, with the solution to the mystery. Small Maynard, US, hc, 1920. Reprinted many times.

   The Four Just Men is the book that put Edgar Wallace name on the front page, and kept it there, thanks to an ingenious news paper promotion in the Daily Mail in which he challenged the readers to solve the mystery for a big reward.

   Wikipedia has a good account of the mess this led to. Unfortunately for Wallace, too many came up with the solution, and he had to swiftly change his ending and even then he ended up losing money, but by then his name was made. Money always went through his fingers like that — often at the racetrack. But whatever the circumstance, The Four Just Men was a sensation, and Edgar Wallace was off to his own literary races.

   The plot involves what I call ‘the great vote,’ a particularly British invention wherein for some reason a Minister, MP, or member of the House of Lords must be stopped from introducing a bill (usually involving defense funds) or making a key vote.

   As far as I know, it first showed up in a story by Lord Dunsany, and its most famous incarnation before Wallace may have been in American Richard Harding Davis’s novel In the Fog (really a collection of related novellas in the mode of Stevenson’s Arabian Nights or Andrew Lang’s The Disentanglers), both well known and popular. (The Davis is worth finding just for the beautiful color illustrations by American Sherlock Holmes illustrator Frederic Dorr Steele). The Four Just Men stands as the best known version of the plot today.

   In Wallace’s case his heroes, who call themselves the Just Men, announce that if Cabinet Minister Sir Philip Ramon doesn’t withdraw his upcoming bill that will send many honest revolutionaries to certain death at the hands of their homelands dictator, they will be forced to kill him. A brief summary of their career is compiled by the police:

   Scotland Yard draws in its forces, the Minister refuses to budge on his bill, and in due course the Just Men strike. The Just Men, Leon Gonzallez, George Manfred, Raymond Poiccart, and Thiery plan their move and the nations holds its breath, the question being how will they managed the feat.

   The Just Men win out, but at the cost of one of their lives. Notably Wallace doesn’t make the case clean cut. Ramon is a good man who will not be the victim of extortion, and the Just Men swear to kill him for the greater cause of justice, not because he is evil.

   Few thrillers today deal with such moral quandaries, much less any in the Wallace class of popular fiction. Though Wallace spends precious little time on the moral question (it’s a fairly short book), the fact that it comes up at all in a newspaper serial designed as a thriller is a tribute to Wallace’s instincts as a writer. It doesn’t hurt that the solution to how they kill Ramon is clever in itself and well handled by Wallace.

   The Just Men are what Robert Sampson called Justice Figures in his survey of the pulps, Yesterday’s Faces (published in six volumes by Bowling Green Press), avengers who operate outside the law for the public good. Their name derives from the Jewish tradition that to each generation forty just Gentiles are born who treat the Jewish people fairly and with justice.

   The Just Men have led dangerous lives before the book begins, and will continue for several volumes, one dying, one retiring, the two survivors eventually opening a sort of detective agency after receiving pardons for their past crimes.

   It has probably already dawned on you that by modern standards the Just Men are political terrorists — at least in this first book — but by the standards of the day such a passionate love of country and justice could be justified, and Wallace goes out of his way to portray his gentlemen as good men of high moral and political fiber who believe theirs is the only way to prevent a dangerous threat to moral good.

   This was the heyday of anarchists, nihilists, and the Fenians, and it was still possible to romanticize figures of social justice such as the Just Men. The mass killing of WWI and the Russian Revolution would change the milieu which they operated in, however.

   Still, in today’s world it is hard not to think of modern terrorism and the ‘excuses’ given for its atrocities when reading the book. If you can park that modern sensibility, The Four Just Men is a classic that deserves to be read, and the sequels among Wallace’s best works. But you may find it makes you think more than Wallace ever intended when he wrote it.

   Whatever its politics, The Four Just Men is a compelling and entertaining Edwardian tale (it was published the year Queen Victoria died), with a quartet of interesting heroes and enough invention and suspense for a much longer book. Though it does reveal its origin somewhat as a newspaper serial, it is still highly enjoyable today.

   Wallace was never one to miss out on a money maker, and the Just Men would return throughout his career in books like The Three Just Men, The Just Men of Cordova, The Council of Justice, and The Law of the Three Just Men.

   It’s only speculation, but they may have been inspired in part by Eugene Sue’s Prince Rodolfe in The Mysteries of Paris, and E.W. Hornung’s Mr. Justice Raffles, which both deal with heroes who set up their own underworld court systems to hand down justice to those the law can’t touch. (No doubt a little of the thieves court from Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame and Balzac’s Thirteen Men also contributed.)

   Whatever their origin the book became an instant classic, still in print, and at one point even issued by Oxford University Press. Pretty good company for a newspaper serial.

   The Four Just Men came to the big screen in 1939. Known as The Secret Four in the US, the plot was moved up to a contemporary setting but was otherwise faithful. Francis L. Sullivan, Hugh Sinclair, Griffith Jones, and Frank Lawton were the Just men. Walter Forde directed from an Angus McPhail script.

   In 1959 thirty-nine episodes of a syndicated television show starred Dan Dailey, Richard Conte, Vittorio de Sica, Jack Hawkins, and a semi-regular Honor Blackman as modern variations on the characters ran and was seen worldwide.

   Paul Gallico later penned a novel about a group of aging Resistance fighters who behaved much the same way as the Just Men, The Zoo Gang (Coward, 1971). A summer replacement series that was based upon it starred Brian Keith, John Mills, Barry Morse, and Lili Palmer, running for six episodes in 1975.

   The Four Just Men isn’t great literature by any means, but it is one of the high points of Edgar Wallace’s career, and one of the most important books in the genre.

   It’s a quick and easy read, and one that has entertained for over a century. As far as I know it is still in print, and in any case it is fairly easy to find and available as a free e-book as well.

   The film, The Secret Four can be found on the gray market, and may be available from a legitimate source as well. Wallace fans who don’t know it, genre historians, lovers of Victorian and Edwardian detective fiction, and readers who like to be entertained should all give it a chance. All the Saints, Shadows, Spiders, and the like who came afterward are in the shadow of Wallace and the Just Men.

   I suspect that detectives like Henry Tibbett [whose mystery case Falling Star, by Patricia Moyes, was reviewed here several days ago] were a reaction to the eccentric sleuths of an earlier era, e.g., Holmes, Wolfe, and Poirot.

   Mystery writer John Creasey fathered a small army of detectives, all of whom had “smarts” and physical prowess, though none were especially colorful. Understandably, but perhaps unfairly, Creasey’s name has often made mystery readers smile. The most prolific mystery writer, he started by writing some dreadful books in his early days.

   Nor were all of them mysteries, since he wrote in all genres. (One of his early “Tex Reilly” westerns is reputed to contain the deathless line about coyotes flying in the sky.)

   Creasey was best known for his Commander George Gideon books, written under the J.J. Marric pseudonym, but G.G.’s roots were clearly in his older literary brother, Inspector Roger “Handsome” West, who appeared in forty-three novels and at least one short story.

   West started off rather inconspicuously in 1942, depending on a socialite friend for much of his detection and legwork. However, as the series progressed, Creasey’s writing and West, as a hero, improved.

   Happily, Harper’s Perennial Library has recently reprinted eight of the Roger West series, and their selection is excellent, as witnessed by the following examples.

   Serial killers are everywhere today. (I’m sure I pass them on the streets as I walk from the train to work.) The Beauty Queen Killer (1954) is a good early example, with some exciting scenes, marred only by difficult to accept motivation.

   The Gelignite Gang (1955) dates from the same year as the first Marric novel, and it also gives a good picture of London from a policeman’s viewpoint.

   Here, the police are faced with a series of jewelry robberies, with the titular form of dynamite the common factor. When murder occurs during robbery in the city’s largest department store, West is called in to solve a mystery that has more surprises than most.

   In Death of a Postman (1956) Creasey accomplishes what relatively few mystery writers do: he makes us care about the victim. A postal worker, who leaves behind a wife and five children, has been murdered during the Christmas rush. As we rapidly turn the pages of one of Creasey’s best narratives, we become involved and want West to track down a particularly heinous killer.

Bibliographic details:

   The Beauty Queen Killer.   Harper & Brothers, US, hardcover, 1956. First published in the UK as A Beauty for Inspector West, Hodder & Stoughton, hc, 1954. US paperback editions include: Dell 985, 1957, as So Young, So Cold, So Fair. Berkley F1095, 1965; Lancer 74757, 1971; and Perennial, 1987.

   The Gelignite Gang.   Harper & Brothers, US, hardcover, 1956. First published in the UK as Inspector West Makes Haste, Hodder & Stoughton, 1955. US paperback editions include: Bantam 1884, 1959; Berkley F1176, 1966, as Night of the Watchman; Lancer, 1971, as Murder Makes Haste; and Perennial, 1987.

   Death of a Postman.   Harper & Brothers, US, hardcover, 1957. First published in the UK as Parcels for Inspector West, Hodder & Stoughton, 1956. US paperback editions include: Bantam 1883, 1956; Berkley F1167, 1965; and Perennial, 1987.

JUDSON PHILIPS – A Murder Arranged. Dodd Mead, hardcover, 1978. Reprint hardcover: Detective Book Club, 3-in-1 edition, November 1978. No US paperback edition. (Shown is the cover of an Italian softcover edition.)

   Journalist Peter Styles’ crusade against senseless violence leads him to an out-of-the-way New England village where he becomes the champion of a young man accused and convicted of murder. All the evidence seems to point directly to Tim Ryan, but the feeling of at least half the townspeople is that the state police wrapped up their case far too quickly.

   Obviously there’s more than a little resemblance here to a story that recently made Connecticut headlines, and the reader is swallowed up at once into the affairs of a small town. In spite of some fast deductions and the long arm of coincidence in the final chapters, Philips demonstrates once again that few authors are so non-stop reliable as he.

[UPDATE] 06-29-09.  For an author as popular as Judson Philips (1903-1989) was, it never made sense to me that a good percentage of his books never came out in paperback. Including the books he wrote as Hugh Pentecost, his hardcover mystery fiction would have filled at least two long shelves at your local library.

   Philips began his career writing an even longer list of stories for the pulp magazines in the 1930s, and books continued to come from his typewriter very nearly up to the day he died. A list of his book-length fiction can be found online here.

   If it weren’t for readers and collectors of pulp magazines, I imagine that Philips would have fallen long ago into that ever-growing limbo of mystery writers who sold tons of books in their day, but who are fast fading from memory today. (A list of his “Part Avenue Hunt Club” stories from Detective Fiction Weekly that have recently been reprinted in a two-volume set from Battered Silicon Dispatch Box can be found online here.)