I recently unearthed an Ellery Queen mystery, or more precisely a mystery about EQ, which will not be solved easily if at all. The September 2002 issue of Radiogram, a magazine for fans of old-time radio, includes “In the Studio with Ellery Queen,” a brief memoir by Fred Essex, who was a producer-director for the Ruthrauff & Ryan advertising agency in the early 1940s when one of the programs the agency brought to the air every week was The Adventures of Ellery Queen.

   At this time Ellery’s creators, the cousins Fred Dannay and Manny Lee, were working out of an office in mid-Manhattan but asked the agency not to disturb them while they were in the throes of creation. “[T]he boys in the mail room who would deliver two mimeographed copies of the finished script each week were instructed not to enter the office…but to throw the fat envelope through the transom above the door.”

   At the time in question, Essex recalled, “Carleton Young played Ellery….” We know that Young took over that role in January 1942, when the series returned to the air after a 15-month hiatus, and kept it until August or September 1943 when he was replaced by Sydney Smith. Essex occasionally directed an EQ episode, and in his memoir described a segment where the murder “was committed in a radio studio that was supposedly rehearsing a crime program.”

   Essex recalled that the guest armchair detective that evening was radio comedian Fred Allen, and that he failed to solve the mystery. What’s wrong with this picture? Simply that The Sound of Detection, my book on the Queen series, lists no episode during Young’s tenure where Ellery solved a crime in a radio studio and no episode at any time where Fred Allen was the armchair sleuth!

   Either Essex misremembered radically or there’s still some information on the Ellery of the airwaves that hasn’t been unearthed. I hope to live long enough to find out which.

   Anyone in the market for another EQ mystery? As most mysteryphiles know, roughly between 1960 and 1966 Manny Lee was suffering from some sort of writer’s block and unable to collaborate with Fred Dannay as he’d been doing so successfully since 1929.

   Ellery Queen novels and shorter adventures continued to appear during those years, with other authors expanding Fred’s lengthy synopses as Manny had always done in the past. We know who took over Manny’s function on the novels of that period but not on the short stories and not on the single Queen novelet from those years.

   â€œThe Death of Don Juan” (Argosy, May 1962; collected in Queens Full, 1965) is set in Wrightsville and deals with the attempt of the town’s amateur theatrical company to stage a creaky old turn-of-the-century melodrama.

   Could this be a clue to the identity of Fred’s collaborator on the tale? In his graduate student days Anthony Boucher had worked in the Little Theater movement, and on his first date with the woman he later married the couple went to a creaky old-time melodrama.

   This is hardly conclusive evidence but, if I may borrow a Poirotism, it gives one furiously to think. Between 1945 and 1948 Boucher had taken over Fred’s function of providing plots for Manny to transform into finished scripts for the EQ radio series. Might he also have performed Manny’s function a dozen or more years later?

   The first publisher of the hardcover Ellery Queen novels and anthologies was the Frederick A. Stokes company, with whom Fred and Manny stayed from their debut in 1929 until 1941. A few months before Pearl Harbor they moved to Little, Brown and stayed there through 1955.

   After a few years with Simon & Schuster (1956-1958) they moved to Random House and the aegis of legendary editor Lee Wright (1902-1986), who among other coups had purchased Anthony Boucher’s first detective novel and the first “Black” suspense novels by Cornell Woolrich.

   What was behind their earlier moves from one publisher to another remains unknown, but when I interviewed Wright more than thirty years ago she explained why Queen left Random House. The year was 1965, a time when Manny was suffering from writer’s block and Fred called most of the shots for the two of them.

   He left Random, Wright told me, ”literally because Bennett Cerf didn’t invite him to lunch. His feelings were hurt….I said: ‘Fred, Bennett isn’t your editor. I am. You’re sort of insulting me. My attention isn’t enough for you, it has to be the head of the house, is what you’re saying.’”

   Fred tended to be hypersensitive to any hint that mystery writers were second-class literary citizens, while Manny over the years had come to hate the genre and his own role in it, to the point that he described himself to one of his daughters as a “literary prostitute.”

   That he and Fred could have disagreed about this and everything else and still have collaborated successfully for so long is nothing short of a miracle.

   When I was ten years old, for no particular reason I began squirreling away the weekly issues of TV Guide as my parents threw them on the trash pile with the week’s newspapers. The result is that today my bookshelves are weighed down by a week-by-week history of television from the early Fifties till the end of 2000, a goldmine of information unavailable elsewhere.

   One such nugget is buried in the listings for Thursday, June 14, 1956. One of the top Thursday night programs broadcast that season was the 60-minute live dramatic anthology series Climax!

   That particular evening’s offering was “To Scream at Midnight,” in which a wealthy young woman breaks down and is placed in a sanitarium after being thrown over by her lover. Her psychiatrist becomes suspicious when the man reappears and claims he wants to marry her.

   Heading the cast were Diana Lynn (Hilde Fraser), Dewey Martin (Emmett Shore), Karen Sharpe (Peggy Walsh), and Richard Jaeckel (Hordan). John Frankenheimer directed from a teleplay by John McGreevey which, according to TV Guide, was based on something by Highsmith.

   But what? I can recall no novel or story by her from 1956 or earlier (or later either) that remotely resembles this plot summary, but I am no authority on Highsmith. Joan Schenkar, author of the Edgar-nominated The Talented Miss Highsmith (2009), has read every word her subject ever wrote, including hundreds of thousands of words in her diaries.

   When I sent her a photocopy of the relevant TV Guide page, she too couldn’t connect the description with any Highsmith novel or story.

   That makes three mysteries about mysteries in one column, all of them probably unsolvable. If any readers have suggestions I’d love to see them.

   Breaking News! My chance encounter last Thanksgiving with that website devoted to William Ard has borne fruit. Ramble House, a small publisher with which every reader of this column should be acquainted, has arranged with Ard’s daughter to reprint a number of her father’s novels of the Fifties, probably in the two-to-a-volume format pioneered by Ace Books back when Ard was turning out four or more paperback originals a year. More details when I have them.

MARRIED?   Jans Productions, 1926. Owen Moore, Constance Bennett, Evangeline Russell, Julia Hurley, Nick Thompson. Director: George Terwilliger. Shown at Cinefest 28, Syracuse NY, March 2008.

   The complicated plot of this romantic action film brings together Eastern socialite Marcia Livingston (Constance Bennett) and Dennis Shawn (Owen Moore), the rugged foreman of her lumber holdings, in a “temporary” marriage arranged by elderly, aristocratic Mme du Pont (Julia Hurley), owner of an adjoining property.

   The marriage is intended to unite the two holdings and thwart the machinations of an unscrupulous corporation intent on gaining control of both properties. The unlikely couple turns out to be a good match but only after some hairbreadth escapes from situations that any fan of silent chapter plays will appreciate. The most innovative is a reversal of the heroine and an electric saw routine, here threatening the hero with death by buzzsaw.

   A wildly improbable adventure film that was wildly entertaining.

● JOE GORES – Dead Skip. Random House, hardcover, 1972. Reprint paperbacks include: Ballantine, 1974; Mysterious Press, 1992.

   While holding down a variety of jobs, one of them a stint as a San Francisco private investigator, Joe Gores published numerous (and generally hard-boiled) short stories in the 1950s and 1960s. One of these, “Sweet Vengeance” (Manhunt, July 1964) became the basis for his first novel, the violent suspense thriller A Time of Predators (1969).

   Dead Skip is the first of three novels in the DKA File series (which also includes a dozen or so short stories) — a series Ellery Queen called “authentic as a fist in your face.”

   DKA stands for Daniel Kearny Associates, a San Francisco investigative firm modeled on the real agency for which Gores once worked. (It was Anthony Boucher who first suggested Gores utilize his PI background as the basis for a fictional series.)

   DKA operates out of an old Victorian that used to be a specialty whorehouse, and specializes in the repossessing of cars whose owners have defaulted on loans from banks and automobile dealers.

   Kearny, the boss, is tough, uncompromising, but fair; his operatives, each of whom plays an important role in some if not all of the novels and stories, include Larry Ballard (the nominal lead protagonist), Bart Heslip, Patrick Michael O’Bannon, Giselle Marc, and office manager Kathy Onoda.

   Dead Skip begins quietly enough, with Bart Heslip (who happens to be black) repossessing a car in San Francisco’s Richmond district and returning it to the DKA offices, where he files his report. But when he leaves he is struck down by an unknown assailant — and the following morning the other members of DKA are confronted with the news that Bart is in a coma in a hospital intensive-care unit, the apparent victim of an accident in a repo’d Jaguar.

   Bart’s girlfriend, Corinne Jones, refuses to believe in the “accident” and convinces Ballard that Bart was the victim of violence. In spite of Kearny, who seems more concerned about the cost of the wrecked Jag than about Bart’s welfare (thus causing tension in the ranks), Ballard embarks on a search for Bart’s assailant and an explanation for the attack.

   Starting with the files on Bart’s recent repo jobs, he follows a twisting trail that takes him all over San Francisco and to the East Bay; involves him with a number of unusual characters, one of them a rock musician with a group calling itself Assault and Battery; and ends in a macabre confrontation that endangers not only Ballard’s life but that of Giselle Marc, in a house high above the former haven of the flower children, the Haight-Ashbury.

   The motivation for the attack on Bart is hardly new to crime fiction, and some of the villain’s other actions are likewise questionably motivated, but these minor flaws shouldn’t spoil anyone’s enjoyment of what is otherwise an excellent private-eye procedural. It is, in fact, strong stuff — realistic, powerful, “a traditional American crime novel, out of Black Mask, Hammett and Chandler” (New York Times).

   Even better are the other two novels in the series — Final Notice (1973) and Gone, No Forwarding (1978).

● JOE GORES – Hammett. Putnam’s, hardcover, 1975. Reprint paperbacks include: Ballantine, 1976; Perennial Library, 1982.

   Gores is a lifelong aficionado and student of the works of Dashiell Hammett, and Hammett’s influence is clearly evident in Gores’s own fiction. Hammett is his personal monument to the man he believes was the greatest of all crime writers — part thriller, part fictionalized history, part biography set in the San Francisco of 1928, “a corrupt city, owned by its politicians, its cops, its district attorney. A city where anything is for sale.”

   When an old friend from his Pinkerton days, Vic Atkinson, is murdered after Hammett refuses to help him, the former op-turned-Black Mask writer once again finds himself in the role of detective and man hunter.

   But as the dust-jacket blurb says, “During his search through the teeming alleys of Chinatown, through the cathouses and speakeasies and gambling hells of the city, Hammett discovers that the years of writing have dulled his hunter’s instincts, have made him fear death — and that failure to resharpen his long-unused skills as a private detective could end… his life.”

   The blurb goes on to say, “[Gores’] dialogue crackles and sparks with the wry, tough humor of the twenties. His characters are thinly disguised portraits of the men and women who shook and shaped this most fascinating of American cities. His plot, drawn from actual events in San Francisco’s corrupt political past, casts harsh light on a stark and bloody era.”

All of which is true enough, at least up to a point. Hammett is considered by some to be Gores’ best book, and in many ways it is. But it also has its share of flaws, among them some overly melodramatic scenes and a disinclination on Gores’ part to even mention Hammett’s left-wing politics.

   All things considered, it is certainly a good novel — one that should be read by anyone interested in Hammett, San Francisco circa 1928, and/or fast-action mysteries of the Black Mask school — but it is not the great novel it has occasionally been called.

   The 1982 film version produced by Francis Ford Coppola, on the other hand, is pure claptrap. Frederick Forrest is fine as Hammett, and the script by Ross Thomas is faithful to the novel, but the direction (Wim Wenders) is so arty and stylized that all the grittiness and power is lost. Some of the scenes, in fact, are so bad they’re almost painful to watch.

   Gores’ other non-series novels, A Time of Predators (which received an Edgar for Best First Novel of 1969) and Interface (1974), are also excellent.

   The latter is one of the toughest, most brutal novels published since the days of Black Mask — so hard boiled that some readers, women especially, find it upsetting. But its power is undeniable; and its surprise ending is both plausible and certain to come as a shock to most readers.

         ———
   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.

JOE GORES, R.I.P.   Posted earlier today on Yahoo’s Rara-Avis group was an announcement by publisher Vince Emery of Joe Gores’ death. Quoting briefly:

    “Sad news: Joe Gores, one of my favorite authors — and favorite people — passed away Monday, in a hospital in Marin County.

    “Joe was a three-time Edgar Award winner, past president of the Mystery Writers of America, and author of my favorite hard-boiled mystery series set in San Francisco, the Daniel Kearny & Associates series, which was based on Joe’s own experiences as a detective and repo man. He was working on a new DKA novel when he died.”

    Mr. Gores’ most recent novel was, of course, Spade & Archer (Knopf, 2009), a prequel to The Maltese Falcon, by Dashiell Hammett. Quite coincidentally (this is Steve talking) I am halfway through it now, and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.

    It must have been sometime around ten years ago that I discovered Rosemary Herbert’s excellent encyclopaedic work The Oxford Companion to Crime & Mystery Writing (Oxford University Press, 1999), loaded with a myriad of cross-references and ‘see also’ footnotes. For me, this book opened numerous avenues of further exploration within genre literature as well as being something of a mini education in various genre elements and associations.

    With a child-like sense of wonder, perhaps, it also induced me to visualise a television Crime & Mystery genre version. An exploration of the TV genre shaped in the book’s fascinating cross-reference format and structure. Instead of author entries, overviews of genre TV series.

    I went on to spend months compiling an outline and a book proposal. During this time I indulged in an almost fanatical research programme (rather prematurely) which, ultimately, resulted in several large cartons of documentation. But it also enriched my life with marathon viewings (via VHS/DVD) of previously unseen genre series.

    When the book proposal and chapter outline were complete, I pursued various possible media publishers. However, I soon discovered that these ‘media’ publishers (at least the London-based ones) seemed to barely have a grip on aspects of cinema history. That Television — genre television, at that — was considered not even a footnote in the grand scheme of things exploitable.

    Fortunately, Steve has very graciously allowed me to put some of this research and enthusiasm to use as an occasional series of observations on popular cycles and phases in the history of the TV Crime & Mystery genre.

    I intend to call it Prime Time Suspects (Crime & Mystery Television). For this on-line format I have revised (and greatly shortened) the draft of my original Introduction:

    It is a dangerous — and perhaps insane — undertaking to attempt to compress into a series of installments the history of a television genre as prolific and for the most part as rewarding as the Crime & Mystery. A genre that has enjoyed viewer popularity for over 60 years.

    The only thing that may be possible here is something of a bird’s eye view of the various TV forms and phases. My interest here will be to share a discussion of the series and programmes in this history, both in their relationship to their sources (literature, of course, as well as radio and cinema) along with the general evolution of the medium and its developing culture.

    There was a time when the approach to genre television tended to be structuralist, often dismissive. For instance, Tom Ryan, writing in Sight & Sound in 1976, noted that “Kojak, Columbo, Police Woman, Joe Forrester, S.W.A.T., Streets of San Francisco, and the others are seen to merge into each other, distinguishable only in terms of the different stars in each of the series.”

    Rather uncomfortably, this crude opinion sounds somewhat like the once held, blinkered view of the “Hollywood production factory” of cinema — until it was noticed (originally by French Cahiers critics, later exemplified by Andrew Sarris) that there were significant differences within the genres.

    One of the earliest writers to observe and evaluate aspects of television was Jack Edmund Nolan in his pioneering TV column in the pages of Films in Review magazine (running from around the mid 1960s).

    Nolan was perhaps the first to apply Sarris’ auteur theory to television, observing and analysing the small-screen work of directors ranging from Stuart Heisler to Sam Wanamaker (and, in one instance, even considered Roger Moore’s directorial excursions during production of The Saint series, ITV 1962-69).

    There can be no doubt that, taken in bulk, the genre series which concern us regularly tend to perpetrate distortions and omissions which have proved extremely galling to this writer’s critical generation. My contention, ultimately, is that many of the short-run, lesser-known series can be richer in nuance, in tension, in character and intricacy of plot, than they have been given credit for in the past.

    For instance, Ralph Meeker’s laconic military police investigator in Not for Hire (syndicated, 1959) and Roddy McMillan’s Glasgow private eye in The View from Daniel Pike (BBC, 1971-73) are more than equal to the acclaimed NCIS (CBS, 2003- ) and Baretta (ABC, 1975-78), respectively.

    It may be easy enough to summarize an epoch by selecting the most distinguished series, and concentrating thereon. But the manifest conveniences of this process have confirmed one of the principal distortions of TV criticism. The impression is conveyed that run-of-the-mill series never say anything, that vivid or insightful remarks or situations are a monopoly of a few prestigious individuals (the Stephen Bochco or Lynda La Plante productions, for example).

    Ranging from world-wide counter-espionage to the mean streets of the private investigator, the television law keeper is impelled by an almost idealistic world-view and a belief in justice, a commitment to order, and, at times, a sense of chivalry. The quest for justice underlies all of these activities; the plots follow a pattern of murder, corruption, and the establishment of a governing system to solve a puzzle and to return a sense of order to its citizens.

    Even though the genre has a strong tradition of unique conventions and the programmes themselves have been popular from the early days of broadcast television (the mid 1930s) to the present, a lack of attention may be the result of a certain confusion over precisely what comprises the TV genre. It has been described so narrowly as to include the police detective procedural exclusively, and so broadly as to encompass virtually any TV series featuring a crime.

    I would like to think that the occasional chapters that follow will take steps toward what may be an original definition of TV Crime & Mystery, emphasising the importance of the formal TV crime puzzle and its attendant characterisations and codes of behaviour.

    The TV genre includes not only police detectives but also similar related crime and mystery forms, such as adventurers, spies and investigative science experts. One of my central aims will be to demonstrate just how rich and rewarding these programmes can be in their own sub-divisions. I concluded eventually that only a mapping of the various sub-genres existing within the larger field could provide the overview I was looking for.

    Future installments will have me looking at, for example, the late 1950s Private Eye cycle (Peter Gunn, 77 Sunset Strip, etc.), the Prohibition Era Mob (The Untouchables, The Lawless Years, etc.), the New Age of Agatha Christie (UK television period 1980 to 1992), among many other genre cycles and forms.

       — Tise Vahimagi is currently the TV Database Editor for the British Film Institute.

WALTER TYRER – Such Friends Are Dangerous. Staples Press, UK, hardcover, 1954. 1st US publication: Garland Publishing, hardcover, 1983. Paperback reprint: Perennial, 1984.

   Recently while perusing Barzun & Taylor’s Catalogue of Crime I came across quite serendipitously the title of this book. I was tantalized by Barzun’s brief write-up, which promised something along the lines of an early Ruth Rendell or Minette Walters book.

   It also happened to be one of the starred titles indicating that Barzun reissued it in one of his two sets of “Top 50 Mystery Novels.” I immediately went looking for the book and was lucky to discover there was a copy at my local branch of the Chicago Public Library.

   The story deals with the investigation of the drowning death of Kitty Pinnock, the town tramp, who inveigled her way into the lives of nearly every man in town, taking from them what she wanted and discarding them when she found a new conquest.

   There are plenty of secrets uncovered from a multitude of characters and there are several suspects found among the discarded men Kitty left in her wake of seductive destruction. However, lingering in the background of the involved investigation is Helen Luton, a mousy housewife whose husband is one of Kitty’s abandoned projects, and Vera Sylvaine, Helen’s ultra-hip writer friend who constantly reminds Helen that she is undervalued and underappreciated by her husband.

   Mrs. Luton is painted as a buffoon by Tyrer, and the reader may wonder (as I did) why several chapters are devoted to her conversations with Vera who seems to be quite a bad influence despite her supposed good intentions. A clever reader may begin to glean the author’s intent, but I challenge anyone to come up with the genuine and fully accurate solution. For me it came as a jaw-dropping surprise.

   It’s been a long time since I audibly gasped when the solution was presented. I never saw it coming. That, I think, makes for an excellent writer who knows exactly what he is doing.

   Even if the surprise may be a trick used many times by modern writers, in the context of Tyrer’s story it still felt like the rug was pulled out from under me. Up till the final pages the book is a scathing satire on village life, so the reader is paying attention to all the gossip, all the deceit, the facades being ripped away by the police inspector and his accidental Watson, an intrusive reporter looking for his “big break.”

   There is quite a bit of legitimate detective work on the part of both the police inspector and the reporter, who at one point seems determined to solve the crime himself and who comes up with some very unusual ideas about how and why the crime was committed.

   While all this is going on Tyrer has something hidden up his sleeve which he presents almost on the final page when the murderer is unmasked and a horrifying secret is finally revealed.

   This is an excellent book by a man who spent his early career writing school boy adventures, moved on to short stories and novels, with the latter portion of his career split between magazine story writing and contributing several thrillers for the Amalgamated Press “Sexton Blake Library” series.

   Barzun in his intro to the reissue of Such Friends Are Dangerous disparagingly refers to Tyrer as a “writer of primarily juvenile adventures” and then goes on to insult that audience by calling the readers of such books “the simple minded.” (I take he didn’t think much of children as readers. Or am I misinterpreting that?)

   I find much of what Barzun has to say about the genre to be condescending or arrogant, often extremely shallow. For instance, he often misses obvious humor and modern sarcasm, and he definitely shows a limited spectrum of tastes in detective fiction.

   But those two potshots make me think that he was not only a snob but just plain old mean. In any case, I like to think that this book was a personal triumph for Walter Tyrer, as it appears to be his only foray in writing for a truly adult audience.

Editorial Comment:   I am somewhat surprised and even more chagrined to discover that I do not own a copy of this book. It can be obtained cheaply enough, but if you were to search it out, in all likelihood you would have to settle for the Perennial Library edition. There are 10 copies of the latter on ABE under $10 at the moment, but none of either hardcover.

JAMES CRUMLEY – The Mexican Tree Duck. C. W. Sughrue #2. Mysterious Press, hardcover, September 1993; reprint paperback, October 1994.

   What can you say about James Crumley that hasn’t been said before? No writer in the field has garnered so much critical attention for just three books, and a respectable number of respectable critics have lauded him as the best of the private eye writers.

   While considering him to be a powerful writer, I never shared that opinion, and in fact found it ludicrous. Nevertheless, I looked forward to reading this. I thought the first C. W. Sughrue book, The Last Good Kiss, was the best of his first three.

   C. W. hasn’t changed a whole lot, other than being middle-aged, now. He’s still rough as pine bark, and he’ll still have a drink or do a line with you, or whip your ass if it needs it. He’s hired by twins who own a fish store, overweight weapons freaks, to get their fish back from an outlaw biker that’s stiffed them on a check.

   In the process of doing that, he gets hired by the biker to find his mother. At least he thinks she’s his mother. Sound humorous? Not really. She’s a Mexican national married to a Texas oilman, and she’s been kidnapped.

   Before it’s over it’s turned to politics, drugs, and money, and Sughrue has hooked up with some Viet Nam buddies, taken on two or three governments, waged his own private war, fallen in love, and been in on the spilling of more blood than you could wipe up with a bale of tissues.

   Crumley’s prose is powerful, though I think not so much as in his earlier books. The characters are mostly of a type: the women crude, loving. tough, and ready, and the men cut from the same cloth as Sughrue himself — tough, violent, and abusers of any substance that’s inert enough to be abused.

   The improbable plot was just a framework, not terribly important to Crumley in comparison to what he had to say. Plotting never was his thing.

   This isn’t a detective novel. It’s a war story, or perhaps a paean to the brotherhood of warriors. It seems to me a book written by a man frozen in time, one not able to leave behind the world of war, drugs, and whiskey.

   There’s little here that speaks to me. To someone tortured by Crumley’s own demons it may be a fine novel, but to me it was just a sad waste of talent, not redeemed by the prose.

   The only message I got was that whiskey, drugs, and fighting are good, government and business are bad, and a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. In the end, I tired of the macho posturing and the gunfire, and there wasn’t much else to it.

      The “Milo” Milodragovitch series —

The Wrong Case (1975)

Dancing Bear (1983)
Bordersnakes (1996) [with C. W. Sughrue]
The Final Country (2001)

      The C. W. Sughrue series —

The Last Good Kiss (1978)
The Mexican Tree Duck (1993)
Bordersnakes (1996) [with Milo Milodragovitch]

The Right Madness (2005)

   Posted by me last Friday on this blog was an advance announcement of an essay by Paul Collins in today’s New York Times Book Review section, in which he revealed the identity of the hitherto unknown author of The Notting Hill Mystery, described as the world’s first detective novel. The book version was published in 1865, but before that, the novel had appeared in serialized form in Once a Week magazine, beginning with the November 29, 1862, issue.

   The identification of “Charles Felix” as Mr. Charles Warren Adams seems solid enough. It’s the characterization of The Notting Hill Mystery as the first detective novel that no longer is valid. When I reported the news on Yahoo’s FictionMags group, I received the following reply from well-known science fiction writer and historian Brian Stableford:

   My reply, somewhat shortened, was: Just to sure, if I may ask — definitions may be important here. Even though Jean Diable had a character who was a detective, it sounds as though the novel may have been a thriller rather than a detective story. The distinction may be more important to some than to others, I know.

   Brian’s response:

[UPDATE] 01-10-11.   I’ve been away from the computer most of the day, and I’m still in the process of going through the email this post has brought forth. Many of these emails, as well as the comments that have already been left, plus suggestions I have have seen elsewhere, have included other books that ought be be in the running as “the world’s first detective novel.”

   On the Yahoo FictionMags list, for example, Doug Greene said (and this is a very small excerpt from a longer post), “Many of the sensation novels from the early 1860’s come close to detection. A strong argument can be made that Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s The Trail of the Serpent (1861) is a detective story — perhaps the first full-length one.”

   Last October on this blog, in the midst of a flurry of lists of favorite and significant books from various eras, David Vineyard submitted “100 Important Books From Before the Golden Age,” a list of titles not all of which were intended to be Detective Novels, but each of which he felt were progenitors of the form in one way or another. It’s very much worth your going back to re-read it.

   While it’s awfully fun to try, attempts to name the first of almost anything historically are almost always doomed to failure, not in terms of obtaining universal agreement. I’m not convinced that anyone can say that any one book is a detective novel, and this other one, which came before it, is not, even if you have a definition everyone agrees with, an event which I suggest is next to impossible in and of itself.

   Literary history proceeds in incremental fashion, building on what came before, not quantum jumps.

[UPDATE #2.] 01-11-11. I received the following email from Paul Collins before I added the update above, but after he had seen Brian Stableford’s comments about Jean Diable, by Paul Féval:

Dear Steve:

    Many thanks for the links, and for the kind attention to the article!

    I first became interested in tracing The Notting Hill Mystery last spring, after a footnote in the OUP edition of The Moonstone got me curious about the mysterious Charles Felix.

    I am, perhaps, too quick to accept Symons’ snub of Féval, who seemed to regard Féval as a writer of “criminal romances.” Mr. Stableford’s perspective on this is certainly of interest, and I do hope that he may note Féval’s work in a letter to the editors.

    If I may hazard one potential line of inquiry: regardless of how these things are categorized, if Féval and Adams were indeed published just three months apart, that may be suggestive. Adams is also known to lived in France in the early 1860s, so perhaps he was reading Féval. Or maybe it was “in the air” — interesting timing, in any case!

          Best,

             Paul

ROCKY KING, DETECTIVE. (Original title: Inside Detective.) DuMont Television Network, January 14, 1950 – December 26, 1954. Cast: Inspector Rocky King: Roscoe Karns; Mabel King: voice of Grace Carney; Announcer: Ken Roberts; Sergeant Lane: Earl Hammer, 1950-1953; Sergeant Hart: Todd Karns (Roscoe’s son), 1953-1954.

   There once was a TV series about a befuddled homicide detective who wore an old raincoat he refused to replace and had a wife the audience never saw; that detective was Rocky King.

   Rocky King, Detective was a live half hour police mystery series on the DuMont network. Few remember DuMont, one of the original four TV networks (1946 to 1955 (or 1956)). Its lack of stations to reach enough viewers and a radio network to draw talent and dollars doomed the network to producing low budget, little seen programs.

   Perhaps the network’s most popular series, only a few episodes still exist on kinescope copies. The four episodes reviewed here are available to view for free at various websites such as Classic TV Archives. (See below.)

   Roscoe Karns, a veteran movie co-star, finally got his chance to play the lead. Rocky’s never seen wife Mabel was the scatterbrained female type. Each episode would feature a scene with Rocky at home talking to Mabel, often about their never seen or heard son, Junior. The show always ended with Rocky in his office calling Mabel. He hang up the phone and say, “Wonderful girl, that Mabel.”

   The domestic scenes were played for laughs and reportedly written by Karns who received a screen credit for “additional dialog”.

   The music by Jack Ward is a major distraction with over the top organ music more fitting for a bad melodrama.

   Considering its network limitations, Rocky King is a far better show than it should have been. The live broadcasts had the expected number of mistakes, but it didn’t stop the talent from taking risks and having fun.

   Live in the camera tricks such as split screen and creative dissolves between scenes were common. While the mystery and suspense was played straight, the writers and cast occasionally let less serious moments slip in, even breaking the fourth wall.

   In “One Minute For Murder,” Karns was sick and Earl Hammer as Sergeant Lane took over the mystery and scenes with Mabel. At the end Sergeant Lane reassured the viewers Rocky would be OK and would be back next week.

   The episodes reviewed:

● “Murder Scores a Knockout.” Aired July 13, 1952. Written: Carl Abrams. Directed: Lee Polk. Guest cast: Pete: Kem Dibbs; Edward: William Sharon; Viola: Henrietta Moore/ A magician is murdered as the three suspects search for a missing object.

● “The Hermit’s Cat.” Aired August 31, 1952. Written: Ed Morris. Directed: Wesley Kenney. Guest cast: Mark: Ed Peck; Norton: Frank Campanella; Mildred: Virginia Low. Millionaire who had refused to leave his home is found dead on a nearby highway.

● “Murder, Ph.D.” Aired December 14, 1953. Written: Frank Phares. Directed: Wesley Kenney. Guest Cast: Gerhart: Somer Alberg; Bartender: John Anderson; Alice: Anne Roberts. Mysterious phone caller repeatedly taunts Rocky that he is the real killer not the man about to be executed at midnight.

● “One Minute for Murder.” Air date unknown. Written: Carl Abrams. Directed: Wesley Kenney. Guest cast: Nora: Barbara Joyce; Mike: Steven Gethers; Helen: Mary Jackson. Blackmailing columnist is murdered in the leading lady’s dressing room during a performance.

   All four are included on one DVD easily available from Amazon, Oldies.com and other well-known online outlets.

   For those interested to learn more about Rocky King, Detective or the DuMont Television Network, I recommend two websites:

Classic TV Archives: http://ctva.biz.

Charles Ingram’s DuMont Television Network Historical website: http://www.dumonthistory.tv/index.html

    A few weeks ago on this blog I posted a review/essay by J. F. Norris of The Notting Hill Mystery (1865), a book considered by many to be the first detective novel ever written. When it was serialized in one of the magazines of the day, the author was noted as “Anonymous.” When it appeared later in hardcover, someone named Charles Felix was given credit.

    Who was Charles Felix? It’s been a mystery. “Felix” has long been known as a pen name, but who was the person behind the pseudonym? His was a name lost over the years, if it was ever known, and if so, forgotten by everyone since.

    But no longer. We now know who done it. In this Sunday’s New York Times Book Review section will be an essay by Paul Collins, who explains all:

   http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/09/books/review/Collins-t.html?pagewanted=2&_r=1

    I won’t go into all of the detective work that Collins has done — you’ll have to read the full article to do that — but here’s the key paragraph:

    “I’d almost given up when I stumbled upon a Literary Gossip column in The Manchester Times for May 14, 1864. The sole identification of Charles Felix had lain there for 146 years, hidden in this single sentence: ‘It is understood that Velvet Lawn, [another book known to have been written by] by Charles Felix, the new novel announced by Messrs. Saunders, Otley & Co., is by Mr. Charles Warren Adams, now the sole representative of that firm.’”

   The entry for The Notting Hill Mystery on Wikipedia has been updated to include this information. A link to John’s review on this blog appears at the bottom of the Wiki page.

MARJORIE ALAN – Dark Prophecy. M.S. Mill, hardcover, 1945. Hardcover reprint: Detective Book Club, 3-in-1 edition, December 1945. Originally published in the UK as Masked Murder (Hale, hc, 1945).

   Chapter 1:   “Of course, Valerie thought, as she laid it [the letter] down, she wouldn’t go.”

   Chapter 2:   “Directly she got into the train at Paddington she knew that she ought not to go to Wayfarers. Knew in a clear, definite premonitory flash, as unmistakably as though someone had spoken the words…”

   Had I but known, I wouldn’t have begun the book. But unlike our heroine, I at least was wise enough not to undertake this perilous journey.

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

MARJORIE ALAN.   Pseudonym of Doris Marjorie Bumpus, 1905- .

    Masked Murder. Hale 1945. US edition: Dark Prophecy, Mill 1945.
    Murder in November. Hale 1946. US edition: Rue the Day, Mill 1946.
    Murder Next Door. Hale 1950.
    The Ivory Locket. Hale 1951.

    Murder at Puck’s Cottage. Hale 1951.
    Dark Legacy. Hale 1953.
    Murder Looks Back. Hale 1955.
    Murder in a Maze. Hale 1956.

Editorial Comments:   This is essentially all I have learned about the author. One online source adds a birthplace (in England), but no one seems to have even a year of death for her.

    Confession time. I have not been posting all of Bill Deeck’s fanzine reviews I come across, generally choosing not to use any that are as short and dismissive as this one is. I’ve made an exception this time. Even though it’s short and dismissive, it’s also one (in my opinion) that gives a honest description and evaluation of the book.

    If you can’t get an idea of what the novel’s about in these 150 words or so, and whether you’d like it or not, I don’t think another thousand would help. You be the judge!