LADY OF BURLESQUE. MGM, 1943. Barbara Stanwyck, Michael O’Shea Michael O’Shea, J. Edward Bromberg, Iris Adrian, Gloria Dickson, Victoria Faust, Stephanie Bachelor, Charles Dingle, Pinky Lee, Janis Carter, Gerald Mohr. Screenplay: James Gunn, based on the novel The G-String Murders, by Gypsy Rose Lee. Director: William A. Wellman.

   I’ve read somewhere that the murder mystery portion of this movie stays fairly close to the book, but it’s been so long since I’ve read the book, so I can’t confirm that one way or another. Maybe someone reading this can say more for sure.

   One thing’s for sure: no one came to see this movie in 1943 wanting to see a murder mystery movie. No, what they obviously came to see was whatever they could glimpse of what was forbidden grounds for most of them, the world of burlesque, girls, strippers and goofy comics, but mostly strippers. (The trailer above doesn’t even mention the murders.)

   Well, they saw girls, all right, but strippers? In 1943? In the movies? Not from MGM and the Hays Code in full force, they didn’t. Bare legs and midriffs, and a hint of cleavage, but no more. The jokes are borderline risque, but still far north of the border, and of course as corny as you can get. I still laughed at some of them.

   Barbara Stanwyck may seem like a strange choice to play the lead dancer, but she turns to have been a pretty good hoofer, cartwheels and all. (If they used a stunt double for her, they certainly did a good job of it.) She also holds her own with the wisecracks, and of course deep inside, she has a heart of gold.

   Lots of backstage action, far more than what the audiences in their seats saw on stage, including a couple of murders that bring in the police, not quite as dumb as usual, to investigate. The mystery was only frosting on the cake, as far as I was concerned, and the cake was delicious.

RENNIE AIRTH – The Decent Inn of Death. John Madden & Angus Sinclair #6. Penguin, US, trade paperback, January 2020.

   The first joint adventure of Scotland Yard detectives (recorded in River of Darkness, 1999) took place in 1921. It wasn’t clear in what year The Decent Inn of Deceit happens, but both gentlemen are well settled in retirement., and my sense is that it happens in the early 50s, but I could be wrong about that. It’s certainly post WWII.

   Sinclair appears to be older of the two. They live close by, but Sinclair lives alone and has heart and/or blood pressure problems and is under the medical care of Madden’s wife Helen. He must carry his pills with him at all times, and of course this comes into play later on.

   It begins with a woman with a German background being fond dead in a brook, and in spite of the coroner’s report, her housemate does not think it was an accident. In spite of his age, Sinclair decides to follow up, not exactly believing her, but he knew has a nose for sniffing into things when they just don’t feel right.

   And eventually both he and Madden are trapped in a snowbound house, totally isolated from the rest of the world with a possible murderer, possibly a vicious serial killer, caught in the house with them. The list of those inside includes the owner, a vivacious woman in a wheelchair, her would-be suitor, her chauffeur, her cook, and her personal assistant.

   All of the detective work that gets them into this predicament takes place in the first third of the book. After that it’s an edge-of-seat suspense thriller. If I’m any kind of an example, the last fifty pages or so will fly by in a blur.

   I don’t know if this a book to be read in snowbound New England in January or not. It will only add to the chill. You might want to put off reading this one in the middle of July instead, but read it, I most definitely recommend you do.

      The John Madden & Angus Sinclair series —

1. River of Darkness (1999)
2. The Blood-Dimmed Tide (2004)
3. The Dead of Winter (2009)
4. The Reckoning (2014)
5. The Death of Kings (2017)
6. The Decent Inn of Death (2020)

JOHN STEINBECK – East of Eden. Viking Press, hardcover, September 1952. Bantam F1267, paperback, 1954. Many later reprint editions. Film: Warner Brothers, 1955. With James Dean, Julie Harris, Richard Davalos, Raymond Massey, Jo Van Fleet, and Burl Ives. Director: Elia Kazan.

   I recently picked up East of Eden and had a go at it, and I can recommend it highly to anyone who loves that feeling of getting deeply immersed in a great trashy novel.

   Eden has it all: Sex, God, Violence, Love, Hate, Money … everything you look for in a trashy book, and so seldom find in a great one, put across with some of John Steinbeck’s finest prose, and that’s some of the best there is.

   There’s also something that appealed to me personally: late in he book there’s a brief fugue with a character named Joe Venuto, a cat-house ramrod — who would have been played in the 30s by Jack LaRue or in the 40s by Dan Duryea — who gets sent out by the Madame to round up a whore-errant.

   This leads to a passage like something out of a Gold Medal Original, with Joe haunting the shabby underworlds o nearby towns, than holing up in a sleazy hotel room with a pint of whiskey as he tries to figure out the angles.

   It’s classic hard-boiled stuff, and though this is just a minor bit in a panorama novel, I get the feeling if Ace or Avon had published East of Eden in the 50s, Joe would have been on the cover.

   To my mind, this is the greatest garage rock song of all time:

   â€™Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even the corpse…

   Wrapping paper, ribbons, candy canes, and Christmas tree ornaments aren’t the only things that pile up around the holiday season, so do bodies, and almost from the start of the genre, the holiday of peace and love has also produced no few crimes and criminals.

   Sherlock Holmes made his debut back in A Study in Scarlet in Beeton’s Christmas Annual in 1887, and crime and murder were popular themes in numerous competing Christmas Annual‘s over the years. Since books had long been a traditional gift at Christmastime, it was no surprise as the genre became more popular publishers often scheduled their bestselling mystery writers books around the holiday season hoping readers would pick up a copy of the new work for themselves and as a gift.

   It was an ideal time for the genre in the Golden Age with families and friends gathered in tense stately mansions for a little mulled wine and cyanide, and the holiday often featured in classics of the genre.

   Here are just a few examples over the years from classic Golden Age to modern thrillers.

NICHOLAS BLAKE – Thou Shell of Death. Nigel Strangeways #2. Collins, UK, hardcover, 1936. US title: Shell of Death. Harper, hardcover. 1936.

   Nigel Strangeways is kept busy in his second outing, where he he encounters his wife Georgina for the second time, with no courting involved, and takes on a complex mystery that depends on a good use of snow and an adventurous finale.

  MICHAEL INNES – Appleby’s End. John Appleby #10. Gollancz, UK, hardcover, 1945. Dodd Mead, US, hardcover, 1945.

   Appleby’s End is a train station, not the finish of John Appleby, where young Detective Inspector John Appleby of Scotland Yard is deposited and becomes involved in the affairs of the Raven family in one of Innes’s best fantasmagorical outings. There are curses, pulp fiction, seeming lunacy that is eventually explained, actual lunacy no one can explain, Appleby meets and proposes to Judith Raven, the future Mrs. Appleby, while both are naked in a haystack, the wit and chuckles are genuine, the mystery good, and the end result a cross between an Ealing comedy and Agatha Christie.

   Granted your taste in eccentricity may get strained, but in his tenth outing Appleby and Innes are in fine fettle for the holiday celebrations. When he wanted to no one wrote a wittier mystery than Innes. The chuckles and chortles here are deep and real.

ELLERY QUEEN – The Finishing Stroke. Ellery Queen #24. Simon & Schuster, hardcover, 1958.

   From 1958, this late entry in the Queen saga is the American equivalent of the Great House mystery and incidentally a late recounting of Ellery’s first case.

   Granted it is a bit hard to reconcile this Ellery with the one of The Roman Hat Mystery much less Cat of Many Tails, but there is a rhyming killer whose poesy predicts murder to follow and a case that takes Ellery his entire career to successfully solve.

   Not the best of the Queen books, but nowhere near as much of a failure as some critics would have it.

  DAVID WALKER – Winter of Madness. Collins, UK, hardcover, 1964. Houghton Mifflin, US, hardcover, 1964.

   It’s back to Ealing, with a bit of Monty Python thrown in, as Lord Duncatto hosts a Christmas guest list at his Scottish estates that includes his beautiful and easily charmed wife and daughter, an Oxford educated son of a Mafia don, Russian spies, a mad scientist, an android, and Tyger Clyde, the idiot second best man in the British Secret Service (007 is busy) who spends more time seducing Duncatto’s wife and daughter than actually helping as all comes to a head on Duncatto’s private ski slope with a roaringly funny shoot out.

   Walker is best know for his humorous novel Wee Geordie, about a naive Highlander come to London to compete in the Olympics, and Harry Black and the Tiger about the hunt for a man-eater in Post War India, both books made into films.

IAN FLEMING – On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. James Bond #11. Jonathan Cape, UK, hardcover, 1963. New American Library, US, hardcover, 1963. Film: Eon, 1969.

   James Bond, 007, celebrates Christmas with a spectacular escape on skis from Ernst Stavro Blofield of SPECTRE’s Alpine HQ Piz Gloria and an encounter with Tracy, the daughter of Marc Ange Draco capo of the Union Corse, and soon to be future Mrs. Bond, foiling a plot to destroy British agriculture, and setting up a New Years Day raid to free Tracy and finally do away with Blofield and SPECTRE — almost.

   It’s one of the best of the Bond books, and ended up the only Bond film to introduce a genuine Christmas song (“Do You Know How Christmas Trees Are Grown”).

   It isn’t Christmas until James Bond throws a SPECTRE henchman into a snow blower cleaning the train tracks.

   These are just a few examples of the genre celebrating Christmas in its own special way. Everyone from Sherlock Holmes to Hercule Poirot to Henry Kane’s Peter Chambers has taken on a holiday mystery. Even the 1953 film of Mickey Spillane’s first Mike Hammer mystery I, The Jury has a Christmas setting, as does the Robert Montgomery Philip Marlowe film of Lady in the Lake.

   Maybe it’s because so many of us remember awaking to a special book on Christmas that we associate the genre we love with the holiday, maybe the canny Christmas release schedule of publishers, perhaps Mr. Dickens and his ghost story led us to wonder why there couldn’t be murder for the holidays if there were ghosts. Whatever the reason, the red in the holiday isn’t always from candy canes and Santa’s suit, and most of us are perfectly happy to associate a bit of mayhem with the eggnog and turkey.

   Hopefully this Christmas morning will find you unwrapping a happy murder or two under your tree.

ILARIA TUTI – Flowers Over the Inferno. Supt. Teresa Battaglia #1. Soho, hardcover, April 2019. Translated from the Italian by Ekin Oklap.

First Sentence: There was a legend that haunted that place, the kind that clings like a persistent odor.

   Inspector Massimo Marini’s arrival at the crime scene of his new posting in Northern Italy is less than auspicious, particularly when he mistakes a male officer for his new superior. In her sixties, Superintendent Teresa Battaglia is overweight, diabetic, and has other health issues, but is known to be an excellent profiler.

   Teresa and her team have been called to a gruesome scene: the body of a naked man whose eyes have been removed. Marini is determined to win his superior’s respect, but can Teresa’s and Marini’s very different styles find the perpetrator?

   The story’s evocative opening, set in 1978, has a very Gothic feel to it. Tuti then does an interesting segue to a child in the present, and then to the crime scene and the introduction of Marini, Teresa and the first example of her analytic skills— “She wondered why he had requested a transfer from a big city to this small provincial precinct… We run away from what scares or hurts us—or from what holds us captive.” As opposed to the usual cooperative relationship between the lead and subordinate, this begins very differently but with intent.

   The story is told from four perspectives: that of Teresa, Marini, members of the group of four young children, and the killer. Plus, in the background, is the School with its rules of “Observe, record, forget.” Each voice is very clearly differentiated and important to the story.

   Tuti has a remarkable voice. It is one which compels one and yet tempts one to draw away from it as it can resonate too clearly at times— ”Solitude was an unobtrusive housemate; it took up no room and never touched anything. It has no smell or color. It was an absence, an entity defined in contrast to its opposite. Yet it existed; it was the force that made Teresa’s cup of chamomile tea shake on its saucer on those nights when sleep refused to come to her rescue.”

   It is fascinating watching Teresa build her profile while training Marini— “Criminology is an art. … It’s not magic; it’s interpretation. Probability, statistics. Never certainty.” Teresa is truly a complex, compelling character.

   Beyond the story being a suspenseful mystery, the plot touches on relevant and important themes. Among them is the importance of compassionate and empathetic touch along with the instinct to nurture which is contrasted with man’s unfathomable ability for cruelty. Yet there are still nice touches of humor— “Ed Kemper would dissect the bodies of his victims to play around with their internal organs.” “Do you mind if I throw up?” “Not all over my evidence, Inspector.”

   When one realizes the motive, it’s someone one wouldn’t expect. After all, one never expects that learning about the killer can break one’s heart.

   Flowers Over the Inferno is an incredible book which will be on my “Best of 2019” list. It is one which touches on every emotion and leaves a mark on one’s soul. It stays with one long after the final page and leaves one wanting more. How wonderful to know this is the first of a trilogy.

Rating: Excellent

SHADOW OF SUSPICION. Monogram, 1944. Marjorie Weaver, Peter Cookson, Tim Ryan, Pierre Watkin, Clara Blandick, J. Farrell MacDonald, John Hamilton. Director: William Beaudine.

   Maybe it’s because of energetic pace director William Beudine put his players through, but here’s a prime example of a detective movie that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but you can sit back and enjoy it anyway.

   At stake is a valuable diamond necklace that any number of people would like to get their hands on. It’s being sent to the Los Angeles branch of Cartell Jewelers, but a dashing young chap (Peter Cookson) with a glint of larceny in his eyes is hanging around, making a pest of himself, suspiciously so. He also has his eyes on the manager’s pert and sassy secretary (Marjorie Weaver), which suggests he’s one of the good guys.

   But is he? He has a partner (in crime?) with a hearty, tall-tale telling fellow (Tim Ryan) from the New York branch, but why do they feel they need to swap names? And if they’re the good guys, who hired them and who are they working for?

   Not a lot of questions such as this are answered, even by the movie’s end, but somehow it just doesn’t seem to matter. The pace only falters during a trip across country with the secretary, who unknowingly has the necklace in her possession safely (?) tucked inside a pair of bronzed baby shoes.

   Once in New York, it’s a short and quick wrap-up, no holds barred. Overall, some parts of this film are well done, others will have you scratching your head. Myself, I’d call it a draw — and forgive me for all the questions marks!

BRYNN BONNER “Jangle.” Novelette. Session Seabolt #1. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, May 2007.

   Many of you, and I’m willing to wage a majority of you, are collectors of one thing or another: books, magazines, records, DVDs, comic books, Lego sets, Star Wars toys, whatever. And even if you’re not, I think you can identify with those of us who do haunt library sales, old used book and record stores, tag sales (garage sales, perhaps, where you live), hoping that the next place you visit will be The One.

   Such is the case in this short tale. Session Seabolt is the owner of a used record store, and when she’s not in the shop, she loves to go browsing all of the garage sales in the area:

   It’s happened to me. I know the feeling. The author (not her real name) has nailed it perfectly.

   What Session has found is almost irrelevant at this point, but since I’m sure you’d like to know — I know I was, and Ms Bonner puts off telling us for as long as she can. An early pressing of Bob Dylan’s first LP, the one containing several tracks that didn’t appear on the version finally released to the public. Some of the early ones did get into circulation, and they’re worth thousands of dollars.

   To assuage her guilt, Session also takes an old stereo set, complete with turntable and speakers. I might have done the same.

   The rest of the story is not nearly as good as the beginning — it gets a little too complicated, and I don’t think I need to go into it. Well, here’s a hint: it has more to do with the other stuff she bought than the Dylan LP. I’ve told all there is to know about the really good part.

      —

PostScript:   According the introductory notes, this was to be the first of series. It was, but the second known Session Seabolt story didn’t come along until “Final Vinyl,” which appeared in the Sept-Oct 2012 issue of EQMM.

MAX ALLAN COLLINS – Blood and Thunder. Nate Heller #7. Dutton, hardcover, 1995. Signet, paperback, 1996. Amazon Encore, trade paperback, 2011.

   You already know I think Collins is underrated. Though they’ve been uneven, I think the Heller novels include his best work.

   Collins has one writing habit the irritates the hell out of me — he overuses the word “smirk.” And from the contexts, I think he mis-uses it sometimes as well.

   Nate Heller met the Louisiana Kingfish, Huey Long, back in Chicago in ’32. when Long was stump-beating for FDR. Now, in 1935, Long is preparing to make his own run for the Presidency. The only thing that kept Long from being a full-fledged paranoid is that there really were people out to get him, and now he’s got wind of another scheme. Heller finds himself offered a non-refusable sum of money to investigate down in Louisiana, so off he goes to the swamp country.

   As always, Collins does a thoroughly researched, thoroughly competent job of writing a historical crime novel. His prose style is breezy and semi-pulpish — and I’ve explained before that I do not intend that as a slur — and he always keeps his story moving.

   This one didn’t strike me as one of the strongest Hellers, but that’s more an impression than an analysis. I liked it just fine.