Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police is summoned to the office of the head of CID himself at the beginning of Hardcastle’s Runaway. He’s never met the Commissioner before, so he knows the matter at hand must be important.
But in fact it’s not. The Commissioner wants him to look for
a missing girl, the daughter of a friend who’s a member of Parliament. It’s
1919, the Great War is newly over, and many young women like this one have bobbed
their hair (and their skirts) and become what’s known as “flappers.” Inspector
Hardcastle puts men on the job to find her, but after a few days she pops up of
her own accord. That seems to be the end of the matter.
But the girl disappears again. Inquiries among her gentlemen
friends, veteran military officers all, reveal that she was present at a party
at a country house, and nobody has seen her since.
There are many influential men who do not wish their
relationships with this young girl revealed. But Hardcastle has the Commisioner’s
support, and he proceeds with his customary bluntness and tactlessness. In the
end, a tragic secret will come to light.
The DDI Hardcastle novels were recommended to me as well-researched books, providing an accurate and realistic picture of London life around World War I. And this book provided that. A lot of research has been done, and it shows. Hardcastle’s Runaway was excellent as a time excursion.
What did not delight me was the main character. I like curmudgeonly heroes just fine (I flatter myself that I’m a curmudgeon myself). But Hardcastle seems to have nothing underneath the crust. He’s crust all through – bullheaded, opinionated, thoughtless of others. He seems to be a type rather than a character. I finally decided all this rudeness was meant to be comic. But it didn’t make me laugh. Maybe it’ll be more to your taste.
I recommend this book from an educational perspective, but
as a work of fiction I found it wanting.
“Is it too far to drive there to-night?” I inquired.
He looked at me in a puzzled manner.
“For this valise,” I explained, “contains all that I immediately need; in fact, I could do without my trunk for a day or two, if it is not convenient to send. So if we could arrive there not too late by starting at once—” I paused.
“It’s two hundred and sixty-three miles,” said the Virginian.
The scene above, (involving lost luggage) near the beginning of Owen Wister’s novel, The Virginian, seems to me to foreshadow a major theme of the novel. This is a panorama painted on a canvas a thousand miles wide. The landscape itself is a character in it. It’s a slow book, episodic and discursive, but that’s because everyplace is a long way from everyplace else, and travel takes time. There’s plenty of space in the intervals for serious thought or deep conversation. You get a real sense of the vastness of the Old West.
Built on a series of previously published short stories, some narrated by a character (unnamed, like the archetypal hero) who comes on stage only when needed, The Virginian has traditionally been regarded as the first serious Western novel (though recent critics have advanced the claims of some book nobody ever heard of, written – of course – by a woman).
I read it in high school, but my memories of it were vague.
I was mostly surprised at how different it was from the TV show, which was
being broadcast in those days (they made Trampas a good guy, for some reason).
What I didn’t remember – or was too young to appreciate then – was what a
beautiful novel it is (in spite of its antiquated style), nor did I imagine how
it would move me.
The Virginian is a young Wyoming cowboy, tall and athletic and handsome. He works for Judge Henry’s ranch out on Sunk Creek. He’s a man of few words (setting the style for cowboy heroes ever since, from Gary Cooper to Clint Eastwood). He is a natural man of principle. He has a sly sense of humor, and delights, with his rowdy friends, in practical jokes and taking people in with tall tales. (The tall tales are an interesting plot element. They serve as a nonviolent means of asserting rank in cowboy society – though they might lead to violence in any case.)
When an eastern schoolmarm from a respectable but impoverished family arrives in the area, the Virginian decides from the moment he sees her that he will marry her. She resists, attracted by his appearance and rough chivalry, but repelled by his low birth. His courtship takes years, and is resolved in an unexpected (and somewhat deus ex machina) manner. But win her he does.
The plot conflict centers on the struggle between the ranchers and the rustlers, whose leader is the scoundrel Trampas, who hates the Virginian mostly because he’s the better man, and they both know it. (Historically, the book was inspired by the Johnson County War of the 1880s and ‘90s. In those terms it’s remarkably biased and unjust. The “rustlers” the Virginian despises were actually often small ranchers fighting the high-handed tactics of the big operations. For a fictional treatment from the other side of the fight, check out Shane, by Jack Schaefer).
The final confrontation with the evil Trampas takes place (anticipating High Noon) on the Virginian’s wedding day.
Once that’s out of the way, movie treatments of this book
tend to wrap the story up pretty quickly. But Owen Wister (once again) takes
his time, bringing the reader along on the Virginian’s and his wife’s honeymoon
(discreetly, of course). That section, which could have been anticlimactic,
instead consummates (if I can be excused for using that word) the main theme of
the whole book, it seems to me.
Because the Virginian and his bride become Adam and Eve in a new Eden – or perhaps Wister (whose opinions on religion, judging by the book, were not very orthodox) had Rousseau’s Noble Savage and the State of Nature in mind. I think he was expounding a vision for America’s future – that the New Man being formed in our wilderness would transform the earth through siring a new, wiser, more natural race of mankind.
Or so it seemed to me.
In any case, I found it deeply moving, even if I didn’t
believe it for a minute.
The Virginian is a challenging book for modern readers, accustomed to fast-paced narratives, to tackle. But if you give it a chance, it’s worth it. I rate it very high.
If you’re one of those underprivileged citizens who’s never enjoyed the Thin Man movie series, starring William Powell and Myrna Loy, you really owe it to yourself to watch them. The first two, at least, are almost perfect of their kind – a hybrid of hard-boiled crime story and screwball comedy, centering on a sophisticated, charming couple who adore each other and excel at repartee.
The Thin Man was Dashiell Hammet’s last and most successful novel, and was adapted (mostly by lightening its darker elements and cutting some stuff the censors wouldn’t approve) into a classic movie by film writers Albert Hackett and Frances Goodrich, themselves a married couple. It was so successful that the studio wanted a sequel, and offered Hammett a nice payday to come up with a story. Though delayed by drinking and blackouts, he delivered on time. The “story” he produced – basically a paragraph outline – became the movie After the Thin Man. Hammett’s story, combined with Hackett’s and Goodrich’s initial adjustments, constitute the first half of Return of the Thin Man. The second half is a similar story for the third film, Another Thin Man. At the end, Hammett’s proposal for a third sequel is included – it’s incoherent, inconsistent with the previous stories, and appears to show signs of Hammett’s advancing alcoholism.
The original Thin Man movie ends with our heroes, Nick and Nora Charles, in a Pullman car headed home from New York to San Francisco. After the Thin Man opens with them getting off the train (fans have chuckled for years over the fact that the trip took two years, so that clothing and car styles have changed). Arriving at their home, they find the place packed with Nick’s low-life friends from his days as a private eye – it’s a welcome home party, but nobody even notices their arrival for a while. The party is dampened by the appearance of a dead man on the doorstep, but Nick and Nora are summoned away to her grandmother’s grand mansion on Nob Hill. Her cousin’s dubious husband has disappeared, and she’s suspected of murdering him. Nora’s family strongly disapproves of Nick, but since he’s around, he must make himself useful by locating the errant husband and keeping the police off the premises. There is a murder, and the mystery that follows will involve a shady night club owner and multiple confidence games, before Nick can gather the suspects for the “payoff” scene, revealing the true culprit.
In Another Thin Man, Nick and Nora head back to New York state at the request of Nora’s father’s old business associate. He’s been threatened, and demands that Nick chase off the disgruntled former employee behind the threats. Nick also takes this opportunity to try to learn more about Nora’s family business – something he soon regrets (just out of boredom). Again, murder happens in spite of Nick’s efforts, but he will beat the police to the true solution.
I had looked forward to reading a couple of Thin Man novellas – which is what the publisher’s description calls these works. But that’s not what they are. “Stories” for movies are meant to be brief and spare and devoid of sparkle. Just the facts, ma’am. As such, these stories make rather dull reading.
I was surprised that I have no memory of Another Thin Man. It’s possible I’ve never seen it – or that it’s been so long I’ve forgotten it. Must remedy that.
I didn’t waste any money on Return of the Thin Man, since I got it free from Amazon Prime. But I can’t really recommend it, except to the hard-core Nick and Nora fan, who’ll be interested in the minor ways in which the narratives changed in the transition from story to screen.
I’ve lost all the sequence in the Inspector Skelgill series of novels, having jumped forward at some point and now needing to fill in the books I missed (I think I’ve caught up now). It doesn’t really matter, though, the basic formula doesn’t change – Inspector Skelgill, the crusty, misanthropic Cumbria policeman whose two passions are crime solving and fishing, supported by the attractive female DS Jones and transplanted cockney DS Leyton. In the background is always the unspoken attraction between him and Jones, which he’s too obtuse to follow up. But then women are always throwing themselves at him, and he generally doesn’t bother his head about them either.
In Murder at the Flood he has more than his share. Roger Alcock, a local kayaking outfitter with a reputation as a lady’s man, disappears during a freak flood. When his body is found a couple days later, it looks like he hit his head and drowned, but the pathologist says no. It was murder. Roger Alcock’s widow is an obvious suspect, but Skelgill is reluctant to believe it of her. He knew her as a girl, when he dated her older sister – who has now returned from Australia and taken direct sexual aim at Skelgill. There’s also a female TV reporter who’s willing to scratch his back if he’ll scratch hers – probably in more senses than one.
Skelgill will sort it all out in the end, as he always does.
Good entertainment in a good series. The disturbing stuff happens offstage, and the author happily admits that he edits out the worst language. Recommended, as is the whole series.
A historical mystery set in an intriguing time and place. I figured I’d take a chance on A Bespoke Murder, by Edward Marston.
It’s 1915, and England is at war. In the wake of the sinking of the Lusitania, anti-German sentiment is boiling over in England. Even in London’s posh West End, Jacob Stein’s fashionable tailor shop is smashed up by a mob, and set on fire. Mr. Stein himself is left dead. And his daughter is raped.
But Stein’s death was not random violence. Someone stabbed
him, and made away with the contents of his safe. That makes it look like premeditated
murder. Particularly since Stein was not merely German, but Jewish.
Inspector Harvey Marmion and his assistant Sergeant Joe
Keedy are assigned to investigate. From the beginning, their work is hindered
by the meddling of Stein’s blustering brother, and by the fears of the
traumatized daughter. They will have to descend into the dark world of antisemitic
political groups to unmask the true villain.
In spite of an interesting mystery and an interesting setting, I found A Bespoke Murder a disappointment, for several reasons. First of all, the characters weren’t very vivid. The good characters acted and spoke very much as people do today – even sometimes using neologisms like “hassling” for “bothering.” A fair amount of research must have been done on this book – why not throw in some contemporary idioms in the dialogue? Not a lot, but a sprinkling would have added verisimilitude. And the “good people” were just so pleasant. Very little friction or conflict between them, and few attitudes expressed that would make 21st Century people uncomfortable. The book seemed to me overwritten, and aimed at an unsophisticated audience.
I finished the book to find out whodunnit, but although
there are several sequels, I’m not interested enough in these characters to
read them.
I’m always pleased by the appearance of a new Inspector Munro novel by Pete Brassett. The latest installment in the series, set in Ayrshire, Scotland, is Turpitude, and it was as enjoyable as its predecessors.
Inspector Munro is no longer a working police detective. He’s
overage and recovering from a heart attack. But he can’t keep away from the
office, and frankly his old team, led by female detective Charlie West, is happy
to have him on this one.
First of all, a couple garbage workers find three severed fingers in a tin of dog food. Oddly, nobody seems to have been treated for the injury in a hospital, and when they find the victim he’s not much interested in preferring charges.
Then a man walks into a jewelry store and bashes the owner over the head with a hammer. CCTV and witness statements provide few clues to the police.
It’s only Munro’s experience and intelligence that gently lead
the detectives down the right paths to finally identify the culprits,
uncovering an improbable conspiracy with bizarre motives.
As I said already, any time spent with Munro & Co. is time well spent. I recommend Turpitude, in spite of a measure of political correctness.
When a decorated World War II hero is found drowned in his bath – not by accident, according to the coroner – Detective Inspector John Tanner and his partner (both personal and professional) Jenny Evans are pulled from missing persons duty to look into it. There are two surviving sons, and a pair of adult twin grandchildren. None of them seems to need money enough to kill the old man for the value of the decaying boatyard he owns. That’s the premise of David Blake’s novel Moorings, third in his Norfolk Broads police procedural series.
People kill for motives other than money, however. The
suspect pool gradually shrinks as one by one the heirs are murdered, and in the
end Tanner and Jenny will face the irrational fury of someone who has suffered
an old, unpunished crime.
Moorings was an enjoyable, fast-paced mystery with appealing characters. I thought the plot had some weaknesses – there are a whole lot of coincidences, and the police procedures seemed kind of loosely observed to me (though perhaps their rules of evidence are different from the American). Also, Tanner and Jenny witness a particularly harrowing death that seems (to me) to affect them rather less than it should.
As in all the books, there’s a Bible passage at the
beginning. And we are told that Tanner is weakening in his agnosticism. Which
is always nice.
Recommended, for entertainment purposes. Mild cautions for
the usual stuff.
Book 2 in David Blake’s Norfolk Broads police procedural series is St. Benet’s. As you might guess, this novel takes its name from a church, and the issue of religion gets touched on.
Detective John Tanner is now cohabiting, at least much of
the time, with his partner, attractive DC Jenny Evans. This is against
regulations, but nobody’s called them on it yet.
Jenny in particular is appalled when they’re called to the
ruined abbey adjoining the Catholic church to which she (technically) belongs,
though her practice has lapsed. A man has been found on the site of the old
altar, his head nearly severed and a knife in his hand. It looks like suicide,
but if so it’s an extreme one, and John isn’t certain about it. The dead man
was the former priest of the parish. Years ago he was accused of the rape and
murder of a teenaged girl. He was acquitted, but excommunicated. After that he
became the head of his own Satanic cult, and wrote a bestselling book. In that
book, he suggested that he might be able to kill himself and rise from the
dead, through diabolical power.
And then his tomb is struck by lightning, and another young girl is murdered on the site. And the priest’s corpse disappears.
Tanner’s and Jenny’s working relationship is strained when he makes some disparaging remarks about religion, which offend her. But they have to keep their eyes on the puzzle, because more murders are coming, and they are very cruel murders. Of course they can’t have been committed by the dead priest… can they?
St. Benet’s was a fairly engaging mystery in which religious questions were handled more or less even-handedly (though some very poor theology gets expressed, but that may just be the individual characters’ voices). My biggest problem with the book was that I figured out the murderer fairly early on.
The “local color” mystery seems to be an established literary tradition by now. David Blake kicks off this particular new series with Broadland, the first in a series featuring Detective Inspector John Tanner of the Norfolk police in England.
Tanner is newly arrived from London. Burned out after the murder
of his daughter and his subsequent divorce, he hopes the quieter atmosphere of
the “Norfolk Broads” country will bring him some peace. He moves onto a friend’s
sailing yacht and reports for work.
His hopes for peace are frustrated, however, by the discovery of a young woman’s body, mutilated in an encounter with a boat’s motor. Everyone assumes she merely fell into the canal and drowned, but Tanner is unsatisfied with that explanation. On top of that, another detective, with less experience but more local knowledge, is put in charge of the investigation.
This will prove to be a tragic decision.
When another woman is found drowned and mutilated, Tanner
gets his own case. Partnered with a young female detective (with whom he soon
begins a not-entirely-appropriate relationship), he follows the clues to a
shocking and nearly disastrous final showdown in an abandoned windmill.
The Norfolk Broads series (I’ll review the next two in the
next couple days) is a competent, entertaining police procedural series. It’s
not a standout at this point – the characters are a little shallow, I’d say,
and Tanner has a suspicious habit of being right all the time – but I enjoyed
the book.
One interesting point – which I’m not sure how to interpret –
is that each book is prefaced by a Bible passage – not just a single verse, but
a paragraph or so. The books are not particularly “religious” in the Christian
publishing sense, but the verses are there. Make of them what you will.
Fenene looked even bigger indoors than he had in that alley. Like being in a phone booth with a freezer.
Not a book that will make a fan out of me,Threshold by G.M. Ford is nevertheless a very well-written mystery novel, offering many pleasures. I’ve become pretty shameless at discarding books I disagreed strongly with in recent years, but I stuck with this one (perhaps because I’m tightening my belt these days), and I don’t really regret it.
Grace Pressman is a beautiful albino with a mystical gift.
In some cases, she can bring people back to consciousness from deep comas. The
problem is that she’s not always sure she did them a favor. On top of that, she
dislikes the limelight, and so she keeps hidden. This is also advisable in that
she assists her mother in running a shelter for battered women. Right now, they’re
even conspiring to break the law – hiding a bipolar woman and her daughters
from a powerful husband who is rich enough to get custody in spite of evidence
that he’s been abusing the girls.
Meanwhile Detective Mickey Dolan, just returned to work
after a divorce and temporary suspension, is assigned to find the fugitive
mother and her children. When he meets Grace and learns the true story, he’ll
be faced with a crisis of integrity, one that forces him to choose between his career
and freedom, and his soul.
Threshold was a compelling mystery with a (possible) touch of the supernatural. It worked very well. The writing was classic hard-boiled of the highest quality. Author Ford did a good job, I thought, portraying his (mostly liberal) heroes as flawed human beings. He was less successful (I thought) with his villains, who are generally crude stereotypes of right-wingers.
I imagine Ford wouldn’t want someone like me for a fan anyway, so I won’t read more of his books. But I will say that Threshold was an extremely well-written novel. Cautions for language and disturbing themes.
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