PETER CORRIS – Matrimonial Causes. Dell, 1st US printing, August 1994. First published in Australia by Bantam, paperback, 1993.

   In order of publication, this is the 13th of what is now a series of 41 novels and short story collections about a Sydney-based private eye named Cliff Hardy. It makes sense, in a way, that it was the first Hardy book to appear in the US, since — virtue of a story within a story — it is the tale of Hardy’s first case, and how he barely survived it.

   Why it doesn’t make sense that Dell would go with this one first is that the story just isn’t all that interesting, involving as it does how the high and mighty in Australia can get around the legal rules defining who can get divorces there without causing a lot of notoriety. And notoriety is exactly what these same high and mighty do not want, not when possible knighthoods lie in the balance.

   Hardy seems like your typical PI in most other ways, though: fighting through a marriage of his own on the brink of a breakup, a cheap mostly unfurnished office in a iffy part of town, and a singular lack of clients. He also, in this case, has not yet made the contacts he should have, either in the underworld or the police force. Especially the police force, a key element in Matrimonial Causes, and Hardy, telling the story later, says it’s a lesson he never forgot.

   To sum up, then. Cliff Hardy himself seems like an interesting character, a little stereotyped, perhaps, but solid enough for another go-round. The story he narrates this time, though, is far too bland for my liking.

Music by a short-lived group from the New York City area in the brassy Blood Sweat & Tears jazz-rock vein. Their self-titled first album from 1970 was also their last. Crank up the volume on this one.

M. E. CHABER – As Old As Cain. Henry Holt, hardcover, 1954. Paperback Library, paperback, 1971. Also reprinted as Take One for Murder: Bestseller #202, digest-sized paperback, 1957.

   After a fairly preposterous beginning — the FBI insists that Milo March fly from Denver to New York immediately after his wedding for a reason totally nonsensical — this novel settles down to not a first-class but certainly a high second-class level.

   An insurance investigator, March, his marriage unconsummated, is sent to Athens, Ohio, to check out security arrangements for the props to a movie not in much progress, West to the Hocking. It is to be a historical film, dealing primarily with the life of Hiram Hanna, who settled in the Ohio Territory in 1797. The props, many quite valuable monetarily and historically, were in the hands of Hanna’s descendants until they lent them to a museum the motion picture company set up.

   In Athens are the female star, not much, the male star, even less, the director, who would like to make a movie without people, the researcher and the screen writer. Only the latter is a suspect among the Hollywood contingent when a man guarding the antiques is killed with a historical poker and the murderer makes off with some of the more valuable items and one of little value.

   Imitating a private eye when people insist on it and cracking wise — some of them quite good — March beds down with the female star in a most ungentlemanly fashion and meanwhile pines for his recent bride. Oh yes, he also investigates the murder and the theft, and the reader discovers why his talents are in great demand among insurance companies.

NGAIO MARSH – Night at the Vulcan. Little Brown, US, hardcover, 1951. First published in the UK as Opening Night (Collins, 1951). Reprinted many times in both hardcover and paperback.

   It wasn’t until I’d finished this book and had done some research on it that I discovered that it was the sequel to the short story “I Can Find My Way Out” (EQMM, August 1946) in which a murder was committed in the same theater in a very similar fashion, with several of the same characters investigating, including Detective Inspector Roderick Alleyn. One difference, however, is that in the earlier story the theater is called the Jupiter. In the novel, it is the Vulcan, as the American title has it, the building having been modernized in the meantime.

   Marsh’s love for the theater comes through loud and clear in this book. (Nor of course is it the only one of her detective stories to take place with a theatrical setting.) Alleyn does not even make an appearance until page 147 of the paperback edition I read. Before that there is a long and wholly engrossing prelude to the tale as we follow the plight of a young girl and would-be actress from New Zealand looking for a job in London with barely a shilling to her name.

   It’s a rag to riches story for her, beginning with being chosen by chance to be a dresser for the female star of a new play about to open, then to understudy to a female player who’s in the role only by her uncle’s insistence, and finally to playing the role herself on opening night. Overwhelming in the sudden change in fortune for her, yes, but the ride is also very exhilarating.

   It’s too bad, then that she doesn’t get to enjoy it. Dead (suicide?) is the uncle, a tosspot no longer able to hold his own, and cuckolded husband of the female star Martyn Tarne was hired to be dresser for. The backstage drama that precedes this very momentous opening night, thus upstaged by the murder, is actually the stronger portion of the novel. The killer — it is not suicide — is obvious, but the motive is not, nor is it (regrettably) one that the reader has a way of knowing until Alleyn explains all at the end

   Net result: quite enjoyable, but with a small caveat regarding the detective end of things.

SIMON RAVEN – The Sabre Squadron. Anthony Blond, UK, hardcover, 1966. Harper & Row, US, 1967. Reprinted several times, including Panther, UK, paperback, 1967; Beaufort, US, hardcover, 1987.

   It was said of Simon Raven “he had the mind of a cad but the pen of an angel,” a statement that explains why much of his work has the wicked appeal of really juicy gossip; nasty, bawdy, cruel, but impossible not to listen to. If you can imagine Christopher Hitchens rudely crossed with Kingsley Amis and Gore Vidal you at least approach Raven’s unique voice.

   In the period following the Second World War he produced a series of ten novels known as the Alms for Oblivion sequence that have been compared to Anthony Powell, C.P. Snow, and Evelyn Waugh, and yet have their own wicked glories. Many of these books and his other works touch on elements of crime, suspense, intrigue, and murder, and The Sabre Squadron, from the Alms sequence is a glimpse at the icy hell beneath the glamour of the world of James Bond:

   The Sabre Squadron follows the fate of Daniel Mond, a mathematician in post-war England sent to Gottingen in Germany in 1952 to work on the Dortmund papers, the work of a brilliant mathematician whose work was ignored by the Nazis in favor of their atomic and rocket research, but which now has been found to have some value. “…it’s hard to see why he behaved as he did (Daniel writes of a colleague’s reaction to learning Daniel will be working on the Dortmund Papers); he went on at me as if I were practicing Black Magic or hunting for the Philosopher’s Stone.”

   From the beginning Mond finds that there is more to Dortmund’s work than he might suppose:

   Mond, a British Jew, has been a lonely scholarly type for most of his life, but shortly he will find himself adopted by the officers of the 49th, Earl Hamilton’s Light Dragoons with whom he is barracked, among them the charming Major Fielding Grey, the hero of the first novel in the Alms sequence, and recurring character in all ten books and the late First Born of Egypt series, a bi-sexual hedonist who frequently leaves chaos and charm in his wake.

   But Mond finds nothing but good will and amusement among the Dragoons, the first real fellowship and feeling of belonging in his life. And he finds he needs it now more than ever because there is something dangerous about the work Dortmund has done; sinister and deadly secrets:

   Eventually Mond enlists his new friends to smuggle him out of Germany to escape the implications of his work, a nightmarish farce that nearly ends in his death. Mond is about to discover some unhappy truths and be left with only one choice if he is to be true to his new friendships, his honor, and the God he doesn’t believe in.

   At his best, Raven has the ability to be wonderfully vulgar without ever descending to the mere common, equally at home in a boardroom or a brothel, and equally observant of the social mores of both, observing with a scalpel like eye in as chilly a novel of international intrigue as you will ever read.

   Raven wrote at least one mystery (The Feathers of Death), a spy novel (Brother Cain), and several horror novels (Doctor Scarlett or Incense for the Damned, and September Castle). His work is wicked and amusing, shocking, and unsparing of anyone. In his later years he had another career as a memoirist and travel writer revealing how much of his Fielding Grey was biographical — at least in his nature. Here he reveals a glimpse of hell that you will never forget. He is a most remarkable writer, for the razor wrapped in velvet nature of his prose, and the revelations in his work of himself and his society..

GEORGE HARDINGE, Editor – Winter’s Crimes 9. St. Martin’s Press, US, hardcover, 1978. First published in the UK by Macmillan, hardcover, 1977.

   The contents page, and for that matter, the front cover, is a veritable who’s who of contemporary British mystery writers. Not all of these authors are well known in this country, yet, but along with the less familiar names are ones like Geoffrey Household, Patricia Highsmith, and Ruth Rendell that are known to mystery readers everywhere.

   The twelve stories here are originals, written especially for this collection, but even if they had been scoured up as the best of the year from everywhere else, they could hardly be of any greater quality. What we’re given is in fact a cross-section of current crime fiction, with tales ranging from the pure detective puzzle proposed by Colin Dexter to the subtle domestic affair tinged with bitter irony that James McClure writes about, in which crime has only the most tenuous connection.

   A definite must for fans of the short story.

NOTE: For the record, the other authors are: Celia Dale, Elizabeth Ferrars, Derek Robinson, John Wainwright, Martin Woodhouse, Margaret Yorke, and P. B. Yuill.

THE HURRICANE EXPRESS. Mascot Pictures, 12 chapter serial, 1932. Tully Marshall, Conway Tearle, John Wayne, Shirley Gray, Edmund Breese, Lloyd Whitlock. Directors: J. P. McGowan & Armand Schaefer.

   Speaking of Serials (here and here), I did spend four hours and twenty minutes watching The Hurricane Express, a Twelve chapter 1932 release of somewhat modest dimensions from the folks at Mascot, whom I mentioned some time ago in connection with The Last of the Mohicans.

   Hurricane Express would probably be pretty much forgotten today, except that it starred an overgrown athlete of exceptional thespic incompetence (in those days) named John Wayne. Wayne had just come off the biggest commercial flop of his career, The Big Trail, and found himself sudenly a Star with nowhere to go; the closest contemporary comparison would probably be Klinton Spillsbury.

   Anyway, for the next few years Wayne would shift uneasily between minor parts at Major Studios and Star Turns on Gower Gulch, until the years somehow turned him into a seasoned performer. Hurricane Express is one of the happier steps in his apprenticeship, a film that enabled him to show off his natural athleticism while avoiding the Big Dramatic Scenes that he was as yet woefully ill-equipped to handle.

   The Plot, such as it is, deals with Young Duke’s efforts to catch The Wrecker, a Pulp-style Master of Disguise who goes around smashing toy trains (the miniature work/special effects in this are about on a par with The Claw Monsters) and is responsible for the death of Wayne’s Dear old Dad in an HO scale pile-up. Writer/Director Armand Schaefer puts some nice touches in, though, and even manages a Real Thrill from time to time, what with folks jumping on and off speeding trains, shooting down airplanes, stealing the Gold Shipment and gosh-all.

   There’s also a nifty bit involving the Wrecker’s Secret Identity: He apparently has detailed life-masks of everyone in the cast, and goes around impersonating them for his own evil ends. What this means in practical terms of course, is that Wally The Brakeman, who’s been acting sort of suspicious for the last few chapters, will suddenly do something overtly criminal, then sneak out of sight, clinching everyone’s suspicions that he’s actually the Wrecker. Then the actor playing him will reach behind his own neck the camera pans to his feet, and a mask of Wally’s face drops to the floor -neatly confounding our suspicions and eliminating the necessity of paying another player.

   So who is the Wrecker? Well, I had a good hunch by Chapter 2 and was pretty well sure of it by Chapter 4. He’s the one who acts normal; the one without an obsession over something-or-other; the fellow who tries to be helpful and counsels everyone to take the path of least resistance. A man, in fact very much like you or me. Or like me, anyway.

   I’ve mentioned this before, but I always thought it should be a sign of Literary Sophistication not to be able to pick out the Mystery Villain in one of these things. I mean, when we get to the scene where they’ve tied up Dick Dauntless and are torturing Helen Heroine, and Freddy-who’s-been-hanging-around-all-movie-for-no-apparent-reason pipes up, “Oh for Gawd’s sakes, Helen, tell them where the Map is!” the Truly Discerning Viewer should think he’s supposed to identify with this guy: “Obviously, the writers put him in to add a touch of Evelyn-Waugh realism to the Characterizations, someone to take our minds off the cardboard protagonists and their pulp-paper problems. A Henry James Everyman to provide a touchstone of emotional verisimilitude. What? You mean he’s the Villain? How utterly crass!”

LUCY CORES – Corpse de Ballet. Duell Sloan & Pearce, hardcover, 1944. Collier, paperback, 1965 (shown). Rue Morgue Press, trade paperback, 2004.

   The threesome of detectives who work together in this book to solve the murder of a male ballet star on the night of his comeback also appeared in one earlier novel, Painted To Kill (Duell, 1943). The occupations of two of them, however, have changed. Lt. Andrew Torrent is still a homicide detective, but Eric Skeets has become a lieutenant in the army, and Toni Ney is now a newspaper reporter, albeit only a daily exercise columnist who sometimes also covers the world of ballet.

   I am not ordinarily a fan of ballet, but Miss Cores’ depiction of what goes on behind the scenes, either in rehearsal or the actual performances themselves, is fascinating. Jealousy and competitive rivalry being what it is, there is no shortage of suspects in the death of the famed choreographer and dancer Izlomin, and it takes quite a while (over 220 pages) to sort out who was where when and why they might want to see him dead.

   Damping my enthusiasm a tad, though, is the complicated nature of the means, requiring five jam-packed pages for the final full explanation, parts of which require a sizable suspension of disbelief, at least on my part. The attraction of Toni to one of the suspects, seriously threatening her unofficial engagement to Lt. Skeets, also seemed to have been added as an edgy distraction I’m not sure the story really needed.

   It all ends well, however, and thankfully so, as this was our protagonists’ last recorded adventure together.

Monk’s first album for Columbia, 1963. Personnel: Thelonious Monk – piano, Charlie Rouse – tenor sax, John Ore – bass, Frankie Dunlop – drums.

BANK SHOT. United Artists, 1974. George C. Scott (as Walter Upjohn Ballentine), Joanna Cassidy, Sorrell Booke, G. Wood, Clifton James, Bob Balaban, Bibi Osterwald, Frank McRae, Don Calfa. Based on the novel by Donald E. Westlake. Director: Gower Champion.

   The names have been changed to protect … who? In the book the leader of a hapless gang of crooks who try to rob a bank by stealing the whole bank is named John Dortmunder, whose exploits filled the pages of several of Donald Westlake’s comic crime novels, with emphasis on the “comic.”

   Why he becomes Walter Upjohn Ballentine in the movie is a mystery to me, one that I’m hoping that someone reading this will come along and explain.

   And while you’re at it, tell me why someone thought George C. Scott has any business playing Dortmunder. I just don’t see it, even with the bushiest caterpillar eyebrows you’ve ever seen on a big time movie star.

   Let me explain about the bank. It’s only a temporary one — a trailer filled with guards overnight, but just begging to be put on wheels and towed away. The movie was intended to be a comedy, but I found myself very quietly not laughing almost all the way through. I permitted myself a few smiles now and again — Scott is a very good actor, and while I don’t believe he did comedies very often, once in a while the perpetrators of this movie came up with a scene that worked.

   See this for the presence of brassy redhead Joanna Cassidy, whose character is financing the deal and who is (unaccountably) madly in lust with Walter Upjohn Ballentine. The rest of the cast, a motley crew at best, I could easily have done without.