DANA CHAMBERS – Rope for an Ape

Jonathan Press Mystery J63; digest-sized paperback; no date stated, but circa 1951. Hardcover edition: The Dial Press, 1947. Previous paperback edition: Bestseller Mystery B-103; abridged; no date stated, but circa 1948.

   Jonathan Press and Bestseller Mysteries were each published by the same company, which was essentially Mercury Press, with Lawrence E. Spivak the actual publisher. Back in the 1940s Mercury Press also published Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, to set a frame of reference, perhaps. I have no idea why this particular book by Dana Chambers was so popular that they did it twice. The books they reprinted are not considered very collectible, since more often than not, many of them were abridged. In this case I read the uncondensed version, and I’m sure I’m far better off for having done so.

   Since Dana Chambers is all but a brand new author for me, you’ll have to indulge me. Let me check in with Al Hubin’s Crime Fiction IV to see what other mysteries he might have written:

CHAMBERS, DANA; pseudonym of Albert Leffingwell, (1895-1966); other pseudonym Giles Jackson

LEFFINGWELL, ALBERT (1895-1946); see pseudonyms Dana Chambers & Giles Jackson

JACKSON, GILES; pseudonym of Albert Leffingwell, (1895-1946); other pseudonym Dana Chambers

   There’s a year of death discrepancy there, I see, but I suspect that 1966 is the one that’s wrong, and that it was really 1946 when he died. If so, that would mean both that Leffingwell died young and that the book in hand was published posthumously. If and when I learn more, I’ll let you know.

   While I have some of the books listed above, I’m almost positive that Rope for an Ape is the first one of them I’ve read. As for who Jim Steele was, I admit I have to cheat and tell you what Bill Crider had to say about him on his blog, where he recently reviewed The Blonde Died First:

   So Jim Steele is a radio writer, is he? Then what’s he doing being listed on Kevin Burton Smith’s master list of private detectives on his Thrilling Detective website? Acting like a PI in all his stories, as a wild and probably not-so-far-off-the-mark guess.

   Jim Steele’s not in this one. Suffice it to say for now that the detective of record is a fellow named Nile Boyd, he has a girl friend named Anna Warriner, and I’ll say more about both of them more in a minute. First, though, what caught my eye was a short sentence on page 65 of this edition to the effect that he and Anne were involved in a case very much like this one “up in Connecticut a while back.” Aha! Here’s a series character appearance that Al Hubin didn’t know about before – see the pair of books written by Chambers as by Giles Jackson listed up there not too long ago.

   Boyd works for the New York Clarion, and now that the war has ended, he’s back from overseas as a war correspondent. Anne, who works for the same newspaper, is nearly twenty years younger than he, and since he’s now on the East Coast and she’s in California visiting her mother, and maybe having a good time out there as well, he’s beginning to worry about how strong the attraction he has on her may actually be.

   He needn’t worry too much, only just a little, as it turns out. As far as the detective puzzle is concerned, the one that Boyd soon finds himself in the middle of, this is one of those wealthy “upper crust affairs” that are the equivalent of the British manor house mysteries that were so common back in the 1920s, 30s and 40s. A well-to-do family is hosting a slew of guests over a long weekend, the only problem being that some of them starting to turn up dead.

   The chief suspect, and a huge negative as far as I was concerned, is a giant ape who has recently escaped from a circus train which derailed nearby. Forget that. I’ve heard too many bad radio shows and watched too many equally bad B-movies that’ve been based on this same old plot gimmick, which was tired and worn out even the first time.

   But the killer is all too human, as it turns out, and it takes all of Nile Boyd’s ingenuity to nab him. And all the while he’s doing so, with Anne’s assistance eventually, there is plenty of witty upscale dialogue to keep the reader amused on a fulltime basis – at least this one was – and as usual in novels like this, particularly in the beginning, everyone is drunk, was drunk or is about to get drunk. Well, yes, perhaps I am exaggerating, but maybe that’s because I am getting a little high on the fumes myself. (Never touch the stuff otherwise.)

   The case eventually turns to the tough, though, what with guns and blows to the head (Boyd’s) and a small amount of generally restrained violence such as that. After the second murder, it begins to dawn on everyone that they’re not playing fun and games any more. Nonetheless, this is a fairly-clued detective puzzle, with a long explanation at the end, with all of usual trappings.

   Something for everyone, you might say. An unusual mix, and maybe the book suffers a little for it, but if you ever come across a used copy and want my advice, I think you might take at least a second scan through it before saying Yay or Nay.

[UPDATE] 04-18-07.    S. B. has asked me about the cover of the paperback edition. “Is that what I think I see?”   Yes, indeed. If you think you see a man sitting in a bathtub with a gun in his hand, that it is exactly what it is. Is the scene in the book?   Yes, indeed again. What you see is what you get.

[UPDATE] Later on 04-18-07. I’ve just received a pair of email messages from Victor Berch, who says in the first one:

    The second is a copy of Leffingwell’s obituary notice taken from The New York Times for August 15, 1946, so the year of death stated for him as Dana Chambers is the one that’s wrong, as suspected. Leffingwell, aged 51, was a former advertising executive who lived in Scarsdale NY at the time of his death, which occurred after a few months’ illness. He founded his own advertising agency, Olmstead, Perrin & Leffinwell, in 1925, the Times goes on to say, before turning to writing. It isn’t clear from the obituary whether he was ever a writer on a full-time basis or not.

   On page 11 of the June 8-14, 2006, online edition of the Canadian newspaper The Express is a bittersweet article about author Rachel Kimor-Paine and the release of her first mystery novel, Death Under Glass, published by Killick Press. Between the time she finished the manuscript and the book itself was delivered to her door, she was diagnosed with lung cancer.

   And on February 1st of this year, as reported by The Gumshoe Site earlier this month, Ms. Kimor-Paine lost her two-year battle with the disease. She was 55. The manuscript of a second book in the series, Death in the Tai Chi Retreat, is said to be in the hands of her publisher.

   Death Under Glass introduces as a series character Olga Erdos, a retired lawyer from Budapest now living in St. John’s, Newfoundland. The murder of a high society woman (and real estate agent) who is poisoned with pesticide is the first of several deaths and suspicious accidents that she must solve.

   The following is excerpted from the short biography of her as posted on her publisher’s website:

   A longer tribute to Rachel Kimor-Paine, including much more information about her very interesting life, can be found in the online edition of The Globe and Mail.

MEET BOSTON BLACKIE. Columbia, 1941. Chester Morris, Rochelle Hudson, Richard Lane, Charles Wagenheim, Constance Worth. Screenplay: Jay Dratler; based on a character created by Jack Boyle. Director: Robert Florey.

   I was warned by Vince Keenan that in spite of their popularity at the time — there were 14 of these Boston Blackie films with Chester Morris in all — they (um) weren’t very good, or certainly not as good as he’d expected. He taped a few of them last month from TCM, just as I did, only he got around to watching some of them before I did.

   This is the first one, as you might have guessed from the title — the series lasting until 1949 — and even before I started watching it, I was convinced that Vince was wrong. And for the first 10 or 15 minutes or so, I was even more convinced. After that, well, I’ll get back to it, but Vince — crossing my fingers where you cannot see them as I say this — I’ll never doubt you again.

   In this movie, it isn’t made clear whether Blackie is a reformed jewel thief or a very tricky one whom the persistent Inspector Faraday (Richard Lane) simply hasn’t been able to catch yet. They are on friendly enough terms, but Faraday has this obsession about finally outwitting his (much) more quick-witted nemesis, and he can’t quite do it.

   A body found in Blackie’s cabin on a ship returning from Europe gets the chase started, and to clear himself, Blackie has to nab a gang of foreign agents hanging around a Coney Island carnival. The black-and-white atmospherics are nicely done, and then done again, until finally overdone. Another location would have been welcome, but it’s not difficult to figure out that a lot of money, time and effort had already been spent on this one.

   Chased by the aforementioned gang, Blackie commandeers a roadster driven by a dark-haired beauty named Cecelia Bradley (Rochelle Hudson), whose charms Blackie doesn’t seem to recognize as quickly as the audience does — speaking only for myself, of course — but charms nonetheless.

   Running the car up into a freight train to escape doesn’t work as well as planned, but after a desperate automobile chase and dodging a few bullets, the pair finally manage to get away. Miss Bradley, no weak-kneed spinster lady she, discovers that she has had the time of her life, and signs herself up with Blackie to solve the case together. While her company is certainly welcome, in my heart of hearts, I am not entirely persuaded.

   I see that I am on the verge of revealing more of the plot than I should, and I had better watch what I say from here on out, except to say that the story line goes drastically downhill from here.

   The light-hearted approach is a little too light-hearted. The funny lines are tired, worn and generally not very funny, even (I would have thought) for 1941 audiences. The gang of agents couldn’t smuggle their way out of wet paper bags. And for most of their time together, Blackie seems to connect with Miss Bradley on a buddy-buddy basis more than he does on a man-to-woman basis

   On the other hand, Miss Bradley is definitely smitten, but as for the hint at movie’s end that she’d be coming back to appear in Blackie’s next exploit, well, it never happened. Too bad. While I’m sure Blackie will find plenty of women to pair up with through the course of his follow-up adventures, too bad indeed.

   Screenwriter Jay Dratler was later nominated for an Oscar (for the movie Laura) and won a Edgar in 1949 as one of the people responsible for Call Northside 777. He was still in the minor leagues, though, when he was assigned this one to work on.

[UPDATE] 04-17-07. Looking at this blog entry this evening, checking for errors and tweaking the prose a little, neither of which I actually did, it occurred to me that none of the images I’ve posted actually came from this particular movie, not even the one in the poster. The two women in the film never met, not once.

   And as long as I’m doing this update and to remain fair and balanced in my presentation, why don’t I give equal time to someone who liked the movie? Leonard Maltin gives it three stars (***) and goes on to say, “… a slick and fast-paced mystery comedy … Franz Planer’s stylish cinematography enhances this solid programmer.”

RICHARD BURKE – The Frightened Pigeon

Unicorn Mystery Book Club; hardcover reprint, June 1946. First Edition: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1944. Paperback reprint: Dell 204, mapback edition, 1947.

   When Victor Berch, Bill Pronzini and I did our annotated bibliography of the Ziff Davis line of Fingerprint Mysteries , we included a short profile of Richard Burke, which of course you should go read. Many of his books, we said, involved a Broadway private detective named Quinny Hite, but as it happens, this is not one of them. In fact The Frightened Pigeon takes the reader to another part of the world and (one imagines) another kind of mystery altogether.

   But first a word on the cover that’s shown, though, before getting down to details. This is, of course, the Dell mapback edition that’s mentioned above, and in case you can’t make out the details, the map on the back below is that of the city of Marseilles, which is where the last eighty percent of the story takes place.

   The setting of the first fifty pages is Paris, 1942, with the Germans solidly in control of the city. An American dancer named Valerie Bright is still there, however — the pigeon of the title –- and very determined to stay non-political. From page 8, of the Unicorn edition:

   Her close male friend, Charles John Dillon, nicknamed “Ching,” is working closely with the French underground, however, and events, beginning with a stolen German diary, bound to be embarrassing if it falls into the wrong hands — as, for example, into Ching’s hands — soon make the light-hearted Val realize how dirty — and dangerous — war really is, not knowing what will happen next nor whom your friends really are. By page 40, she is one frightened pigeon indeed, as off to Marseilles they and a small group of displaced others go, hoping to find a way out of France and its closed borders.

   The diary appears and disappears with amazing regularity. It is, in fact, amazing, how much mileage an author (Burke) can make of one small important object. Otherwise here is a novel one can learn a large amount from — supposing, that is, that one has never been in a place controlled by Nazi-like enemies one is trying his or her best to avoid — both in term of locale (well-described) and people, especially those like Valerie, whose mind is soon brought down to earth in satisfying (but not very surprising) fashion, but also the large number of others who find themselves caught up in events far beyond their say.

   Don’t get me wrong. This is by no means a major work. It’s no more than ordinary at best, in the overall scheme of things, but what it does have is atmosphere, and plenty of it.

PRAIRIE LAW. RKO Radio Pictures, 1940. George O’Brien, Virginia Vale, Slim Whitaker, Paul Everton, Cy Kendall. Directed by David Howard.

   Generally speaking, I didn’t intend to include reviews of B-western movies here on the M*F blog, but since there’s more than the usual amount of criminous activities going on in this film’s 60 minutes, I decided to break my own rule, and who better?

   A crooked land promoter, Judge Ben Curry (Paul Everton), is taking money from farmers hand over fist, without telling them two things: One, that the former ghost town of Olympia City, where his headquarters are, has no water, and two, that the land he is selling them belongs to cattleman Brill Austin (George O’Brien).

   Yes, in this movie it is the cattlemen who are the good guys and not the usual other way around. Among the settlers is the daughter of one of the farmers, Priscilla Brambull (Virginia Vale) – and no, I didn’t think of that until right now, and no, it’s not that kind of movie. Among other legal misbehavior committed by Judge Curry is his blatant attempt to call for an election without proper notice, stuffing the ballot box, and declaring Olympia City the county seat so that the killer of the sheriff, Brill Austin’s Uncle Jim, can be set free.

   Later on in the movie while a valid trial is being held in Prairie Rose, the jury does double duty: while deliberating on the verdict, they’re also dodging bullets by the judge’s henchmen. All this in sixty minutes, I remind you, which also includes a song sung by the uncredited Ray Whitley and his band.

   There’s nothing here to be taken too seriously, as the players certainly don’t, but other than that, it’s a rather pleasurable experience. As for George O’Brien, a former silent film star who went into non-series westerns like this one when talkies came in, this was close to the end of his steady movie career.

    [Truth in advertising: The photo of O’Brien comes from another film of the same vintage and not this one — but it could have been.]

  Dear Steve,

   Someone sent me your review of my long lost book Dreamboat. I write to say that you are correct that the Flippo series is packed up and put away, and that I remain at the Dallas Morning News as a reporter and editor. You were too kind to Dreamboat, I thought. I wrote it in a tremendous hurry, and never liked it. But thanks, anyway.

   Writing crime novels started out as a hobby, then became a part-time job, then a burden. The books weren’t making enough money for me to quit my newspaper gig, and after number five all the pleasure had drained away. So I stopped writing for a few years.

   About a year ago I started writing again, but once again as a leisure-time activity. The new book is a one-off suspense that bears little resemblance to the previous five. Don’t know if I’ll ever finish it..

   It was a fun ride for a while, but you’re right: it didn’t last long. Long enough, though. I had a good time while it lasted.

>>   Thanks for writing, Doug, and best wishes in return on getting that new novel finished!    — Steve