THE GOOD DIE YOUNG. Romulus Films, UK, 1954; United Artists, US, 1955. Laurence Harvey, Gloria Grahame, Richard Basehart, Joan Collins, John Ireland, Stanley Baker, Margaret Leighton and Robert Morley. Screenplay by Vernon Harris and Lewis Gilbert, from a novel by Richard Macaulay. Directed by Lewis Gilbert.

   A bit too much fat on this one, but when it gets lean & mean, it’s just about perfect.

   Richard Basehart, Stanley Baker and John Ireland star as three men in crisis, each for different reasons: Basehart and Ireland are going through domestic problems, and Baker, who grievously injured his hand in a boxing match, is out of work. What it comes down to is that they all need money.

   Laurence Harvey is having domestic problems too, but his are of a different stripe; his rich wife (Margaret Leighton, who married Harvey in real life the next year) is tired of paying his bills while he fools around with other women, and she insists they must make a fresh start in Kenya. So if he wants to stay in London living the life he thinks he deserves, he’d better get rich quick.

   Harvey is at his slimy best in this one, projecting love and goodwill when absolutely necessary, but with a sneer never far from his lips. The perfect sociopath, and so well played that when the notion of committing armed robbery comes up, it seems perfectly natural for him. About an hour or so into the film, he convinces the others that everyone’s problems will be solved and no harm done, and the caper is underway.

   And a good thing too, because that first hour wasn’t much. Stanley Baker’s back story is pretty involving, and Laurence Harvey has a pleasingly acidic encounter with his father (Robert Morley) but the rest is just Richard Basehart trying to get his wife (Joan Collins) out from under her mother’s domination, and John Ireland kvetching at his unfaithful spouse (Gloria Grahame.) I nearly shut the damnthing off….

   â€¦but I’m glad I didn’t because the caper finally gets going, and it’s simply splendid, all fog-bound streets, twisting alleys, noisy train yards, and Laurence Harvey cheerfully shooting down cops, bystanders and his own partners in crime with casual aplomb. It’s handled with a sure feel for pace and tempo by director Gilbert, who did some of the Bond films, and it’s captured with moody fatalism by photographer Jack Asher, who would impart a distinctive look to Hammer’s horror films a few years later. Also, we get that classic feature of the noir film: the mortally wounded protagonist desperately walking toward freedom as he dies.

   There’s just one rub: This film was based on a book by Richard Macaulay, but I haven’t been able to find it offered for sale anywhere or even reviewed anyplace. Has anyone ever seen it?

HELEN McCLOY – Cue for Murder. William Morrow, hardcover, 1942. Reprint editions include: Dell #212 , paperback, [1948], mapback edition; Bantam, paperback, 1965.

   The opening two paragraphs establish the parameters of this finely clued detective puzzler in a most excellent fashion:

   Dr. Basil Willing, who over the years appeared in 13 of author Helen McCloy’s 29 novels and short story collections, at this time of his career, extending from 1938 to 1980, was officially a medical assistant to the District Attorney’s office in New York City, specializing in psychiatry. And yes, the statement in the paragraphs above is true, given a very basic concept in pop psychology.

   Dead is an unknown actor playing a dying man during the opening of a Broadway play. When the first act is done, he is discovered to be really dead, and only three people on stage could have done the deed. Even with the finest of timetables, what should be an easy task in narrowing three down to one proves not to be so easy — not without the fly and the canary.

   As finely clued as this story is, Cue for Murder is even more notable for the details of what goes on behind the scenes of a Broadway play, both before the curtain goes up and while the actors go through their night after night routines. As the author, Helen McCloy not only knew what separates a good (or only fair) actor from a great one, but how to put the knowledge into words so that even a layman like myself could tell the difference as well, and get a satisfying sense of recognition in doing so.

   I read the Bantam reprint paperback, which adds an introduction by Anthony Boucher, who praise for the book I can only echo. I enjoyed this one.

CHARITY BLACKSTOCK – Dewey Death. William Heinemann, UK, hardcover, 1956. London House & Maxwell, US, hardcover, 1958. Ballantine U2125, paperback, 1964.

   Charity (a.k.a. Lee) Blackstock’s first mystery remains one of the best library mysteries ever published. For London’s Inter-Libraries Despatch Association, the biggest scandal had always been the frequent and imaginative typos (e.g., “Law of Tarts”) by the typing pool on request forms. That is, until the evil-minded office busybody, Mrs. Warren, is found with her neck broken, spilling out of a book sack.

   Despite the investigation led by a Scotland Yard detective, and a second murder, Dewey Death cannot be classified as a classic detective story. It isn’t even a puzzling mystery. Readers, along with various characters, become increasingly aware of the murderer’s identity. This does not, however, lessen the suspense or interest of Blackstock’s novel, which is a masterful mixture of romantic fantasy and harsh realism.

   With a good deal of humor, the author weaves her suspense plot well through the interplay of day-to-day office life. The heroine (like Blackstock under another pseudonym) is an author of historical romances. When she becomes smitten with a dashing co-worker, she soon learns just how dangerous and disruptive a swashbuckling antihero can be in real life.

   Like traditional whodunit writers, Blackstock studies the effects of murder on a small, insular community. But her library locale and her unusual characters are portrayed with a depth unequaled by most of her contemporaries.

   Charity Blackstock created several other excellent suspense novels — The Woman in the Woods (1958) and The Foggy, Foggy Dew (1959) are good examples — before turning to romance fiction more than a decade ago.

         ———
   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.

OSMINGTON MILLS – No Match for the Law. Geoffrey Bles, UK, hardcover, 1957. No US edition.

   While undoubtedly there will be many reviews [in this issue] of novels dealing with St. Geoffrey’s Day, another presumably won’t hurt. As all of you should know, though maybe the Archbishop of Canterbury doesn’t, St. Geoffrey of Michester received his sainthood, as well he should, for decreeing that no lawyer could set up practice within the bounds of the city.

   In observance of St. Geoffrey’s Day, a cricket match takes place between the “law” — members of the bar — and “order” — local civil officials. Mr. Justice Craven, an immensely unpopular jurist with both those who come to his court and with his family, having scored 42, takes a break and drinks a beverage he made himself from a recipe he found in an old book. Three hours later he dies of oxalic poisoning.

   Because of the judge’s unpopularity, the list of suspects is long. When the judge dies, Chief Inspector Baker of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch is at the cricket match and handles the investigation in exemplary fashion, but how was he to know about the joker in the woodpile? An excellent whodunit.

Bio-Bibliographic Notes:   This was the third of ten appearances for Inspector Baker as chronicled by “Osmington Mills,” a pen name of Vivian Collin Brooks, (1922-2002), a female journalist and writer.

JAMES HADLEY CHASE – A Coffin from Hong Kong. Robert Hale, UK, hardcover, 1962; reprinted many times by Grafton, UK, in paperback, including the 12th printing, 1988, shown to the right. No US edition.

   The private eye in A Coffin from Hong Kong is a fellow named Nelson (not Nolan) Ryan, whose home base is Pasadena City, a town somewhere along the California coast. This book is apparently his only appearance.

   The case begins with a phone call from a would-be client that turns out to be a wild goose chase. When he returns to his office he finds a dead Chinese girl, and all of the evidence points to him as the killer. Luckily even though Lt. Retnick,the police detective on the case, got his job only because he’s married to the Mayor’s sister, he’s not a complete fool. It’s obviously a frame-up job.

   Working for the dead girl’s father-in-law, whose son died recently in Hong Kong — the girl was bringing his body back to the US — Ryan is sent back to there to learn more. This is where most of the book takes place, producing lots of atmosphere as well as putting Ryan on the trail of several beautiful women who have even more secrets to be sifted through. PI work sometimes has many perks!

   The story’s competently told, though it rarely rises above that rather standard bar. It’s also a reasonably well-clued fair-play detective novel, which I gladly accepted as an not entirely expected bonus.

THE DRAGON MURDER CASE. First National Pictures, 1934. Warren William, Margaret Lindsay, Lyle Talbot, Eugene Pallette, Helen Lowell, Robert McWade, Robert Barrat. Based on the novel by S. S. Van Dine. Director: H. Bruce Humberstone. Shown at Cinefest #14, Syracuse NY, March 1994.

   The Dragon Murder Case, 1934, with Warren William replacing William Powell as Vance in four of the five previous entries in the series, was quite entertaining, and gave me infinitely more pleasure than any Van Dine novel I have ever read. High marks go to this film for the clever plot that generates a few genuine chills with a suggestion that there may be a real dragon in the pool where the first murder takes place.

   William is a great favorite of film convention audiences and always gets an enthusiastic hand during the credits. Here, he had relatively little to do, but he did it with intelligence and humor, albeit without Powell’s aristocratic poise. The Kennel Murder Case remains the classic Philo Vance film, but The Dragon Murder Case is worth seeking out.

From Wikipedia: “Fear Itself was a short-lived psychedelic blues-rock band formed by [vocalist] Ellen McIlwaine in the late 1960s in Atlanta, Georgia.”

UNDERTOW. Universal International, 1949. Scott Brady, John Russell, Dorothy Hart, Peggy Dow, Bruce Bennett. Director: William Castle

   Truthfully, I didn’t know what to expect from Undertow, but having just watched this lesser-known crime film I have to say that I thoroughly enjoyed it and would recommend it for those who haven’t yet had the occasion to see it. Directed by William Castle, who is better known these days for his work in the schlock horror genre, Undertow is very much in line with the late 1940s “film noir” aesthetic. Set primarily in the urban jungle of Chicago, the movie has gambling, a femme fatale, betrayal, coincidence, a protagonist framed for a crime he didn’t commit, a renegade cop working to clear an innocent man’s name. You get the picture.

   The plot. Without giving too much away, here are the basics: Tony Reagan (Scott Brady) is an ex-GI who used to work for Big Jim, a Chicago mob boss. But Reagan now wants to go straight and work in the legitimate real estate business in Nevada.

   Before he can do that, though, he needs to settle matters with Big Jim and, more importantly, with his fiancée who just happens to be Big Jim’s niece. Before he can do so, Big Jim ends up murdered, and Tony, who is framed for reasons that become clearer over time, is the police department’s primary suspect.

   Although it’s not a classic, Undertow perfectly captures the same sense of post-war urban paranoia and social isolation as do other similar films noir and programmers released in the late 1940s. There’s that creeping sense that, although Tony Reagan has made some bad life choices, what has happened to him could happen to any one of us. This Kafkaesque dread is best exemplified by a stunningly effective scene in which Reagan darts around a concrete and steel Chicago “L” station in the desperate hope that he can outrun the cops who are hot on his trail.

C. H. B. KITCHIN – Death of My Aunt. Hogarth Press (L. & V. Woolf), UK, hardcover, 1929. Harcourt Brace & Co., US, hardcover, 1930. Reprinted many times, including Perennial P682, US, paperback, 1984.

   Universally acclaimed as a classic, including being included in H. R. F. Keating’s Crime & Mystery: The 100 Best Books, for example, but I fear Death of My Aunt is starting to show its age. I doubt that many of today’s mystery fans will find much of interest, even if they’re into Sherlock Holmes, say, a character with a lot more going for him than young mild-mannered London stockbroker Malcolm Warren.

   For it is he whose aunt dies, unwittingly drinking the poison that kills her right in front of him. Other than the servants, there is no other person in the house save his Uncle Hannibal from a later marriage, so of course Malcolm, who tells his own story, is one of the two primary suspects.

   So of course, being a reader of detective stories, Malcolm takes it upon himself to not rely on the capabilities of the police, but to solve the case himself, complete with a written list of all possible suspects, no matter how far away the live, plus the usual: means, motive and opportunity. Kitchen’s witty sense of humor adds immensely to the proceedings, with the emphasis on tracing the poison and when it could have been brought into the house.

   Dated and relatively sedate, but for me, still a lot of fun to read. Surprisingly, since this case was so personal, Malcolm Warren made three more appearances as a detective: Crime at Christmas (1934), Death of His Uncle (1939) and The Cornish Fox (1949).

J. M. T. MILLER – Weatherby. Ballantine, paperback original; 1st printing, September 1987.

   Artie Weatherby, to be precise. This one’s the first of three recorded adventures, but it’s not quite clear where it takes place. Somewhere in the Southwest is the best I can say. Somewhere in a fairly large city (but with streets I’ve never heard of), but somewhere such that not far out of the city you can find yourself in a desolate “sun-baked, sun-bleached, sun-drenched” misery of a town called Desolado.

   Artie is hired by a young woman to find out where her brother is, and where he is is in Desolado, riding a Harley with a big-bosomed bimbo named Bunny hanging onto him from behind. A local storekeeper suggests that he’s riding with a gang of bikers called the Satan’s Sadists, who may also be heavily involved with heavy drugs across the border activity.

   Not hardly good news. Other characters in this story are the siblings’ father, who is rich, maintains a zoo in his back yard, and who thinks he’s turning into a werewolf. The girl’s fiancé is a well-known plastic surgeon who has been in trouble with various medical boards.

   Not your usual functional family, but nothing seems to faze Weatherby all that much. Not that there’s much to the story. I had it all figured out by page 144, then I skipped to the end of the book to find out if I was correct. I was. I hate it when that happens.

   About Weatherby himself, I seem not to have much to say. Totally generic, in other words, in a semi-macho sort of way. But in passing, I did learn not to trust the judgment of James Ellroy when it comes to touting PI fiction to unwary readers. The blurb on the front cover makes me think he was reading another book altogether.

       The Artie Weatherby series —

Weatherby. Ballantine, 1987.
On a Dead Man’s Chest. Ballantine, 1989.
The Big Lie. Nelson, 1994.

   The author, Janice Marie Tubbs Miller, wrote one other crime novel under these initials and two as Janice Miller.