September 2018


REVIEWED BY JONATHAN LEWIS:


THE 7th DAWN. United Artists, US/UK, 1964. William Holden, Susannah York, Capucine, Tetsurô Tanba, Michael Goodliffe, Allan Cuthbertson. Director: Lewis Gilbert.

   There’s a scene in the latter part of The 7th Dawn in which William Holden, along with two traveling companions, slog their way through the humid Malay jungle in a near futile attempt to reach the city before a prisoner they hope to save is hanged. As they swing their machetes to and fro, hoping to take down trees and brush that obstruct their path, you just sense how trapped these characters feel. Most of all, you feel the slowness of it all, the overpowering sense of how little time seems to be elapsing despite their valiant effort.

   Call me overly critical, but that’s essentially how I felt watching this turgid cinematic adaptation of Australian novelist Michael Keon’s The Durian Tree (1960). Although filmed on location in Malaysia, which admittedly does provide the viewer with some captivating scenery, the film never really makes a solid case for itself. William Holden is the star. He portrays Ferris, an American rubber plantation owner caught up in the power machinations of both sides during the Malay Emergency. He is a one-note character, a committed bachelor and political maverick, loyal to no side but compelled, like so many other characters in novels and movies before and since, to live in exotic non-Western locales.

   When the British detain his long time mistress Dhana (Capucine) for terrorist activities, he’s forced to make decisions that will impact not just his own life and fortune, but also the future of Malaysia and its people as they seek independence from British rule. He soon is forced to reckon his own desire to stay aloof from politics with the knowledge that Ng (Tetsurô Tanb), a comrade in arms from from the Second World War and the fight against the Japanese occupation, is leading the violent, pro-Soviet insurgency against the British. Added to the mix is an unlikely – and frankly unconvincing – platonic May-December romance between Ferris (Holden) and Candace Trumpey (Susannah York), the daughter of the newly appointed British Resident in Malaysia.

   For a movie that appears to have been promoted as both an adventure film and as a romance, The 7th Dawn is a shockingly dull motion picture. While there are a few somewhat exciting moments scattered throughout the film, none of them, save an overwrought scene in which British soldiers torch an insurgent village, are particularly memorable. And that one was cheap, clearly designed to pull the heartstrings of theater audiences and to build a moral equivalency between the British and the Malay communists.

   Perhaps that’s part of what made watching this movie such a slog. When all is said and done, you just don’t feel particularly keen on either the British or the Malay insurgents. Why make a movie with a plot that continually raises the stakes and gives the audience no one to truly root for?

HANK JANSON – Becky. Hank Janson #58(?) Gold Star IL7-70, US, paperback, 1965. Revised from its first publication in the UK as Sinister Rapture (Moring, paperback, 1957).

   Based on its cover, this is a book far different that I’m sure you’d be expecting. It’s #17 in its US Gold Star series, but its one of a much longer line of Hank Janson books published in the UK. [The numbering is questionable since it is one of five published in 1957, but listed alphabetically in Hubin for that year.] Janson is a crime writer for the Chicago Chronicle, a guy with a perpetual leer for the ladies and a lousy nose for a story right under his eyes.

   Among his many other adventures are such titles as A Nympho Named Sylvia, so what you expect in this one (I did) is a glorified sex farce a la Carter Brown, but what you really get is an even greater dose of that old paranoid TV series The Prisoner. The Chicago of this book is unlike any Chicago that ever existed, and the story will absolutely knock you off your feet.

   Let me back up a little, and then maybe I can do something about substantiating this claim. If you don’t have a copy of this book already, you’ll probably have a hard time coming up with one, so if I cover the plot a but more thoroughly than usual, I don’t think it could possibly hurt.

   Hank Janson the author, according to Al Hubin, was a house name used by a number of writers of a whole slew of cheap British thrillers, a scattering of which were published in this country by Gold Star Books, a small and insignificant company [that published 60 to 70 books between that years 1963 to 1965. Also known since this review was first published is that Stephen D. Frances was the author of this one, as now so stated in the current edition of Crime Fiction IV.]

   I haven’t read any of the other ones, but there’s certainly little that happens any where in the first half of the book that’s in any way out of the ordinary. An obvious crackpot comes to Janson’s newspaper office and tries to convince him that he’s come up with a mathematical formula that will nullify the radioactive effects of nuclear fission, but he can’t get anyone in authority to listen to him. In no mood for japery, Janson quickly shoos the old man away.

   Soon after, though, Janson gets a visit from a good-looking girl, one wearing transparent leggings as protection against the never-ending rain in Chicago. (Neither the rain nor the leggings are ever explained, by the way, but no matter.) She is Professor Morgan’s niece, on a visit from Florida, and he has disappeared. The police are not particularly interested.

   When Janson investigates, he gets the same kind of brushoff. He suspects bribery. He also stays overnight with Becky — she’s the niece, and she has this cute sort of pony tail, and with a little prodding, nature just seems to take it course.

   But then he discovers he’s been poking his nose in a bit too far. An organization calls Security shows up. Two quiet-spoken guys who think Janson is becoming a nuisance. Two guys who see Communist agents everywhere, Two guys who would work well with the American Investigation Committee (page 84). Two guys who think Christianity is the state religion (page 86). “Do you love your country,” they ask.

   Janson is fired. Insubordination. No other paper will give him a tumble. He’s booted out of his apartment. The tenancy law is quoted, and he’s given a week’s notice. Someone with more power than Security gives him a visit, someone named Mr. Brown. “There are inner workings of inner workings, matters of utter public importance that are too delicate to be handled by woolly-minded senators… Do you know, Mr. Janson, that the penalty for being a traitor is death?”

   Janson ends up naked in a sealed room with only a bed, toilet facilities and a small door through which meals can be provided. For how long, he doesn’t know. When released, he discovers he still has no story, because — you guessed it — no one will believe him anyway.

   There obviously is a huge parallel here between the dismal days of McCarthyism here in this country in the 1950s, given a quick little twist in the form of an overseas perspective. I’m not sure if it still has a form of social significance any more, or if it was worth all of this space to describe it, but please note that I haven’t even mentioned yet the girl Janson meets on page 90 — an utter misanthrope who is harder than any nails you can imagine and who just about steals him out of the story before it’s even half begun. She’s a stunner, and — this is the truth — I’ve not read a character quite like her is anything I’ve ever read before.

— Slightly revised and expanded from Mystery*File #17, November 1989.
REVIEWED BY DAN STUMPF:         


SLEEP, MY LOVE. United Artists, 1948. Claudette Colbert, Don Ameche, Robert Cummings, George Coulouris and Hazel Brooks. Written by Leo Rosten, St Clair McKelway, Decla Dunning and Cy Endfield. Directed by Douglas Sirk.

   A stylish variation on Gaslight, with Claudette Colbert waking on a train to Boston with no idea how she got there, aided by a too-helpful and rather snoopy stranger (Queenie Smith) and bundled back home in the charming company of Bob Cummings.

   Cut to her New York mansion where we see her presumably distraught husband (Don Ameche) reporting her missing to a somewhat sinister police detective (Raymond Burr), and it’s easy to see she’s “the victim of some diabolical mind control” as they say in the Movies.

   What could have been a simple copycat film emerges as a gripping, humorous, real and very elegant movie, thanks to witty writing, clever acting, and the emotive direction of Douglas Sirk. Sirk always had a feel for décor, but here he evokes Colbert’s mansion-prison into a landscape that seems to determine the fate of the characters in it; people are constantly struggling up and down staircases, perching on furniture, darting from bedroom to bedroom… and there’s a frosted glass door that hides a meaning all its own.

   Ms Colbert in her 40s radiates a mature sensuality, perfectly matched by Don Ameche’s slippery solicitude. Both of them come up against George Coulouris’ obsessive would-be mastermind, and whoever wrote Cummings’ dialogue had a perfect feel for Bob’s bemused charm. His encounters with the bad guys show off a vivid contrast of acting styles that translates into real conflict on the screen.

   But the most arresting screen presence in Sleep, My Love belongs to an actress whose career went nowhere: Hazel Brooks as Daphne, a femme fatale whose merest glance could freeze molten lava. Next to her, the bad girls of Detour and Double Indemnity look like the Flying Nun — even more effective because she never does anything very criminal here, but always looks like she’d rather be pulling the wings off flies.

   In all, this is a superb film, one that should be better-celebrated in the realms of Noir and Romantic Suspense. And one you should seek out for a fine, fun evening.


GARLAND LORD – Murder Plain and Fancy. Doubleday Crime Club, hardcover, 1943.

   Garland Lord was the joint pen name of husband and wife Isabel Garland (1903-1988) and Mindret Lord (1903-1955). They wrote four books together under this name, none with series characters, the first three for Doubleday’s Crime Club imprint. Isabel also wrote one book under her own name, apparently before they decided to team up together.

   This one starts out with the hugest of coincidences. When a young man and woman, both members of a traveling actors troupe, decide to visit the latter’s long estranged aunt, against her protests that she does not want to see her, they hardly expect to find her dead in her house at the bottom of the stairs, apparently the victim of a very untimely accident.

   Well, of course, if you are reading this, you would know as soon as I did that it was no accident. What’s more, since Sheila was the woman’s only heir, it is natural for the small town local authorities to suspect that either she or her male friend Ken had something to do with it.

   You might also suspect that this is a romance as well as a detective novel, but it is not Ken who Sheila finds herself more and more attracted to, but someone local, someone who’s had a taste of big city life and has decided it is not for him. Ever so slowly he has Sheila thinking that way too. Ken, of course, is green-eyed with jealousy, and begins to act more and more suspiciously.

   The two authors do an excellent job is disguising a fairly obvious reason for the dead aunt’s strange behavior, which as it turns out is also strongly involved with the motive for her death. In that regard, this is a minor affair, but it is the characters who make the story. Even the minor ones are extremely well drawn, each in their own way. The end result is very readable.

NOTE:   According to IMDb, Mindret Lord had some success writing for movies and TV, as well as radio.

REVIEWED BY BARRY GARDNER:


K. C. CONSTANTINE – Cranks and Shadows. Mario Balzic #11. Mysterious Press, hardcover, 1995; paperback, 1996.

   I was less than impressed with Constantine’s previous book, Bottom Liner Blues, but there’s no doubt that this gas been one of major series in American crime fictionm bd in American regional fiction as well.

   Rocksburg, Pennsylvania Police Chief Mario Balzic is 65, and he’s just becoming aware that his world is crumbling around him. His city is broke, and he’s going to be forced to lay off men from his already understaffed department. Not only that, he’s suddenly become aware that a para-military law enforcement team has been formed under county aegis, and is operating in his town.

   The old-time politicians are remaking the town, and his wife Ruth is increasing her pressure on him to retire. All of the things he’s been ignoring and avoiding are pressing on him at once, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do about them. Or what he can.

   Okay. The first thing to understand is that this is a Novel, not a crime novel, not a detective story — a Novel, It really shouldn’t be published by a genre imprint, though maybe the series is well enough known by now that it makes no difference.

   As always, you have Constantine’s unmatched ear for the voices and characters of small-town, ethnic Pennsylvania. The book is filled with people’s talk. Good people. Bad people. Indifferent people. You have an evocative, thoughtful, sad, and angry picture off what Constantine thinks is wrong with a good bit of America, and of course you have the final touches put to the continuing portrait of Constantine’s Pennsylvania.

   This is Balzic’s swan song, and probably Constantine’s; I think he’s said what he had to say. On its own terms, it’s an excellent book.

— Reprinted from Ah Sweet Mysteries #17, January 1995.
REVIEWED BY WALTER ALBERT:


STELLA DALLAS. United Artists, 1925. Ronald Colman, Belle Bennett, Alice Joyce, Jean Hersholt, Beatrix Pryor, Lois Moran, Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Vera Lewis. Based on the novel by Olive Higgins Prouty. Director: Henry King. Shown at Cinevent 22, Columbus OH, May 1990.

   One of the great all-time tear-jerkers, and I don’t imagine there was a dry eye in the room at the end. Colman was a major star before the talkies, and I’ve never seen him give a bad performance, but this Belle Bennett’s film, and she carries you with her all the way.

   Is her performance better than Barbara Stanwyck’s in the sound remake? Maybe not, but I think it’s just as good, and I am a great admirer of Stanwyck in almost everything she did in the thirties and forties.


BRUNO FISCHER – Murder in the Raw. Gold Medal #694, paperback original; 1st printing, August 1957. Cover art: James Meese. Reprinted as #1011, 1960.

   I don’t think it’s much of an exaggeration to say that Bruno Fischer wrote hundreds of pulp mystery stories, or if it is, it isn’t by much. (I’m counting stories under his own name as well as Russell Gray and Harrison Storm.) The first of these was “The Cat Woman” which appeared in the November 1936 issue of Dime Mystery Magazine under the Russell Gray byline.

   He wrote one hardcover mystery novel in 1939 (So Much Blood, for the obscure Greystone Press) but it wasn’t until the mid-1940s that he made the transition to novel length work for good. He was one of the early authors to sign up with Gold Medal when they began publishing, circa 1950, writing 11 novels for them throughout the first year they were in business.

   Obviously the most provocative thing about Murder in the Raw — well, make it two — are the title and the cover art, both designed to catch the eye of a would-be buyer (male, of course). I don’t know if the title was Fischer’s choice, but the scene shown is in the book.

   But even so, both the title and the cover art disguise the fact that this is a pretty good detective story and an even better character study. When newspaper reporter Clem Prosper tries to take a short vacation in a lodge along a lake, he finds his host missing and himself falling in love with a young woman living nearby who has been badly scarred by having been acquitted of killing her husband, a man she loved but did not know his secret life was that of a notorious gangster.

   Fischer does a good job of hiding the identity of the true killer, suggesting at one time it is one person, then another, and convincing the reader each time that it could have been him or her. I think that’s the sign of a good author, to flesh out and define his (or her) characters well enough to make what’s essentially a puzzle plot actually work.

REVIEWED BY DAN STUMPF:         


FRANKIE AND JOHNNIE. Republic, 1936. Helen Morgan, Chester Morris, Lilyan Tashman, Florence Reed, Walter Kingsford and William Harrigan. Written by Lou Goldberg, Moss Hart(!) and Jack Kirkland. Directed by Chester Erskine and John H. Auer.

HER MAN, Pathé, 1930. Helen Twelvetrees, Philips Holmes, Marjorie Rambeau, Ricardo Cortez, James Gleason, Hary Sweet, Thelma Todd and Franklin Pangborn. Written by Tom Buckingham and Tay Garnett. Directed by Tay Garnett.

   Okay so now that everyone has the tune running in their head, here’s one of my favorites:

   Now let’s get on to the movies, starting with Frankie and Johnnie:

   Helen Morgan, the tragic hard-boiled chanteuse of the jazz age, and virile, roguish Chester Morris. They seem born for the parts. Add seductive Lilyan Tashman as a gal named Nellie Blye, Florence Reed as the Lady that’s known as Lou, and stately Walter Kingsford as a raffish gambler with a derringer tucked in his vest, and you have a cast that should have carried this off.

   Unfortunately, they don’t.

   Frankie and Johnnie was an independent production made in 1934 and finally picked up for distribution by Republic in ’36, and the delay should be a tip-off that there was something rotten in Screenland. In this case, it’s the saccharine, Disney-esque treatment of the early parts, as the lovers meet and court each other amid flowering gardens and fluttering songbirds. A little of this goes a long way, and we get a lot of it: about an hour’s worth in a film that runs 66 minutes. And yet….

   There are two moments here that will stay in my mind long after much better movies have fled my brain cells for greener pastures. They both involve brothel-madam Florence Rice, looking down from the mezzanine where she keeps an eye on things. Sensing trouble, she daintily takes out her handkerchief, whereupon the bartenders covertly pull iron. Then she drops it and we see the wisp of fabric drift languidly down to the floor as shots ring out. The first time, it’s an interesting scene. The second time, it has the fatal resonance of a ballad.

   Which suits it just fine.

   Much much much much better is Tay Garnett’s take on the tune from 1930, Her Man. In this version, Frankie (Helen Twelvetrees) is a cheap hustler working a seedy Havana bar, exploited by knife-throwing pimp Johnny (Ricardo Cortez) because she still has her looks – though he’s casting an eye on Thelma Todd as a gal named Nellie Blye.

   Into this seamy milieu comes Dan (Philips Holmes) a lusty young sailor looking for a good time, with his perpetually drunken buddies James Gleason and Harry Sweet, who raise their inebriated slapstick to a fine art. Frankie hustles Dan, but she’s touched by his innocence to the point where she aborts an attempt to slip him a Mickey, at the risk of a slapping-around from Johnny.

   Ms. Twelvetrees over-emotes a bit, but her whipped-dog look in the presence of Cortez at his nastiest speaks volumes. Philips Holmes, normally type-cast as feckless wimps, is amazingly virile as Sailor Dan; Marjorie Rambeau casually lays out her whore-with-a-heart act, and Franklin Pangborn has a typically amusing and unusually combative part as the guy who wants his hat back – with a laugh-out-loud finish. We can see where the story is headed, with True Love on a troubled horizon for Dan & Frankie, but director Tay Garnett handles it with such rowdy enthusiasm no one minds much.

   At a time when many more prestigious films were stage-bound and static, Garnett moves his camera easily, fluidly, through mean streets, meaner back rooms, and a raucous Havana Saloon that looks like one of the less reputable circles of Hell. In fact, sometimes he’s just showing off, as when waiter Vince Barnett loads the spiked drink onto a tray, raises it overhead, and we follow the tray in close-up across a crowded dance floor and right up to the lovers’ table.

   Garnett’s adept visual style shows itself best in the slam-bang finale, as Dan storms down a crowded street, knocking by-passers aside, and into the saloon like a gunfighter in a western, followed by a classic barroom slugfest – so good in fact that Garnett did it again, almost shot-for-shot, in Seven Sinners (Universal, 1940.)

   Come to think of it, there’s a whole lot of Her Man that reappears in Seven Sinners, including the knife-wielding bad guy, the disreputable side-kicks, and sundry other bits of business, but that’s a story for another day. I’ll just say here that this is not an easy film to find (I found one dealer, whose DVD proved to be incomplete – had to catch the ending on YouTube.) but if you take the trouble, you’ll enjoy it immensely.


REVIEWED BY DAVID VINEYARD:


JUANJO GUARNIDO & JUAN DIAZ CANALES – Blacksad. Dark Horse Comics. hardcover, 2010. Contains the first three stories: “Somewhere Within the Shadows,” “Arctic Nation” and “Red Soul.” Other albums are “Blacksad: A Silent Hell” and “Blacksad: Amarillo.” Originally published in Spanish.

   There are mornings when you have trouble digesting your breakfast, especially when you find yourself in front of the dead body of an old flame, the remains of a beautiful dream.

   So opens the first adventure of John Blacksad, private eye in 1950’s New York and America. John Blacksad, the best new eye of this millennium for my money, a tough but compassionate man with the soul and voice of Philip Marlowe, the vengeful spirit of Mike Hammer, and the sheer cool of Peter Gunn, all wrapped up in the most fascinating private eye in decades. He is one cool cat, John Blacksad.

   A cool black cat. Literally. John Blacksad is an anthropromorphic cat in a world of anthropromorhic animals; racist polar bears, tough police dog cops named Smirnov, sadistic millionaire frogs (Ivo Statoc), a wisecracking fox newsman named Weekly (for how often he changes his underwear), serpent and rat assassins, you name it. It will probably come as no surprise that Blacksad’s creator Juanjo Guarnido is a Spanish Disney animator who worked on Zootopia, but this is no Disney cartoon.

   John Blacksad operates in Mean Streets as tough as any Raymond Chandler ever portrayed and in a world as corrupt. He would be at home in Black Mask if the pulp paper could have supported the lush drawings and beautiful coloring that marks the graphic novels. Frankly, in story terms, he wouldn’t suffer all that much as a prose hero, though those handsome graphics are impossible to underestimate in terms of impact.

   â€œSomewhere Within the Shadows” is the defining adventure, the origin of a sorts, Guarnido and Canales’ I, The Jury, John Blacksad’s mission statement. It opens with Blacksad summoned to the home of star dancer Natalia, an old flame, who has been found brutally murdered. Police dog cop Smirnov warns him off, but knows Blacksad won’t be stopped, and as Blacksad, who once protected Natalia from a stalker and was briefly her lover learns her love life was complicated. Complicated, and dangerous as a pair of killers, a knife wielding snake and a rat soon prove.

   Wounded, worked over, Blacksad isn’t about to stop, and when Smirnov comes to tell him the department has been ordered to lay off the case he surprises the private eye. A brutal and sadistic killer is trying to buy his way out of two murders, Natalia and another lover, a writer. Smirnov may be a cop but he won’t stand by and watch that happen. It’s an open invitation, find the killer and stop him and the Department will look the other way.

   Shades of Pat Chambers and Mike Hammer.

   Blacksad does find the killer and also his purpose in life. To avenge the helpless and take on the powerful and corrupt, but not before brief snapshots of various characters in the city (a walrus talent agent is memorable as is a literal gorilla bodyguard), and a surprising moment with a dying assassin in his office.

   The violence, when it comes, is cathartic, but there is far more to this, including rich humor and good storytelling. Blacksad owes something to Will Eisner and his famed Spirit, to whom Blacksad is a spiritual cousin visually and story wise.

   And so it begins.

   In “Arctic Nation” a missing little girl puts Blacksad in the middle of a series of brutal murders of black animals and against a Klan/Nazi like group of white animals called Arctic Nation. This is the one where he meets Weekly, his sidekick and eventually pal. “Red Soul” introduces a new female interest who will also become a regular.

   Private eyes have been around for a while in comics, before Superman, Joe Shuster and Jerry Siegel had Slam Bradley. Dan Turner had a long comic book run, and at various times tough PI’s like Ken Shannon and Sam Hill had runs in their own titles, Black Canary was even a private eye in her secret identity at one point. Most famously Mickey Spillane debuted Mike Hammer as the failed comic book hero Mike Danger.

   For the most part the two haven’t been as compatible as you might expect, even though there is a Golden Age adaptation of The Maltese Falcon. Some have done more with the genre than others, and likely the best was DC Comics Nathaniel Dusk by writer Don MacGreggor (who earlier created the independent Detectives Inc.) and artist Gene Golan, a visual and literary high mark for the private eye in comic book form. More recently there was a well done adaptation of Raymond Chandler’s The Little Sister done in black and white.

   But Blacksad is far and away the most successful of these attempts in terms of success with his audience. Somehow the anthropromorphic animals capture an aspect of the film noir universe that mere humans missed in this format. It’s as if Carl Barks of the brilliant Disney comics many of us grew up on had collaborated with Herge of the Tintin albums and added Robert B. Parker on the script. Shadows of Sydney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, Clifton Webb, George Sanders, Bogie, and Bacall appear in these pages transformed into their animal archtypes. The Blacksad saga turns everything you think you know about comics on its head, you have to see it to believe it, but don’t just look at the stunning visuals, Juan Diego Canales’ scripts and lyrical narrative are just as important.

   I’ll be surprised at anyone who loves private eyes, femme fatales, noir streets, or hard boiled tales isn’t taken by this no matter how much they may dislike or disdain comic books. Blacksad manages the neat trick of being both a paean to something nostalgic and itself entirely original and unique. No one is going to match this for a long time.

ERLE STANLEY GARDNER “Cheating the Chair.” Sidney Zoom #14. Detective Fiction Weekly, 17 September 1932. [Added later:] Reprinted in The Casebook of Sidney Zoom, edited by Bill Pronzini. (Crippen & Landru, 2006).

   Alphabetically the last of the series detectives in the online Crime Fiction Index, I do not know if it is precisely correct to call Sidney Zoom a private eye. In this story, the only one of his adventures that I’ve read, he does not have a paying client, which would, I think, be one of the several criteria that must be satisfied to qualify.

   Zoom thinks of himself as a fighter for the underdog, and reads newspapers to find cases in which he believes justice is not being served. He appears to be independently wealthy. He has a devoted secretary named Vera Thurmond, and lives on a yacht with a captain on board to take him up and down the coast to wherever he needs to go.

   What attracts him to this current case, in which a disgruntled ex-convict is accused of killing the county attorney who sent him up, is that Zoom is convinced that the prosecutor’s version of what happened does not match the facts.

   In this regard, the detective work is fine, but the story gets muddled more than I’ve come to expect from Gardner. Zoom has to depend on bluffing the miscreants involved to secure the release of the accused man.

   As you can see from the list below, there were quite a few Sidney Zoom stories, but based on this one, while certainly readable, they may not be at the same level, quality-wise, as some of Gardner’s other series pulp heroes. I’ll have to investigate further.

       The Sidney Zoom stories —

The Higher Court (ss) Detective Fiction Weekly Mar 8 1930
(*) Willie the Weeper (ss) Detective Fiction Weekly Mar 29 1930
(*) My Name Is Zoom! (ss) Detective Fiction Weekly Apr 12 1930
The Purple Plume (ss) Detective Fiction Weekly May 24 1930
Time in for Tucker (ss) Detective Fiction Weekly Sep 13 1930
Strangler’s Silk (nv) Detective Fiction Weekly Jan 3 1931
The Death Penalty (nv) Detective Fiction Weekly Jan 17 1931
(*) Borrowed Bullets (nv) Detective Fiction Weekly Mar 21 1931
The Vanishing Corpse (nv) Detective Fiction Weekly Aug 15 1931
(*) Higher Up (nv) Detective Fiction Weekly Sep 19 1931
(*) The First Stone (nv) Detective Fiction Weekly Oct 24 1931
It Takes a Crook (nv) Detective Fiction Weekly Feb 6 1932
(*) The Green Door (nv) Detective Fiction Weekly Aug 20 1932
(*) Cheating the Chair (nv) Detective Fiction Weekly Sep 17 1932
(*) Inside Job (ss) Detective Fiction Weekly Jan 7 1933
(*) Lifted Bait (nv) Detective Fiction Weekly Oct 21 1933
(*) Stolen Thunder (nv) Detective Fiction Weekly May 19 1934

       (*) Included in The Casebook of Sidney Zoom.

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