Mystery fiction is no rocket science, and that goes double for the private detective genre. Our hero goes from point A to B, maybe missing C, but eventually returns to it after uncovering some new facts when reaching point D. Once there, he or she may be slightly delayed by (for example) getting drunk and/or laid, but more likely than not, the solution and culprit(s) will be found back in A or B.
A simple concept. It has worked for almost a century, and we all know and love it. But there are always exceptions, and Mr Quarry seems to be one of them. He sends his sleuth, Jake Barrow, gumshoeing through the entire alphabet. Pretty soon, this becomes a series of interviews, each leading to another, with almost no action or story development between them. It's not exactly boring, as some members of this huge cast are interesting, but still, I gradually started to lose interest as they all get dropped almost as soon as Jake finishes interviewing them.
I guess this is how private detectives work in real life, but are we really interested in such mundane stuff?
Jake, however, does make one exception to this M.O.: he is more than willing to take a step back when it comes to women. He starts hitting on his very first female interviewee, but she is murdered before they can even go on the first date. He doesn't mourn her for long and will soon manage to score with long-limbed, deep-breasted Midge.
The case was all crooked angles and I couldn't get anywhere with it; it was too late and my brain was too tired. Midge Resko, on the other hand, was all bewitching curves, and I just might manage to get somewhere with those; it wasn't too late and I wasn't too tired for that.
And it actually helps his case! Because after he's finished whining to her:
A lot of this detective work is like that. You just go around picking up rocks and looking under them. Half the time you don't even know what you expect to find. But you pick up enough rocks, and sooner or later there's usually something under one of them.
...Midge gets an epiphany and remembers the name of the small town where elusive Julia, the tramp, grew up. Jake promptly packs his shit and departs for Smithsport. He starts with interviewing (what else?) the high school principal,... and she will point him to Julia's sweetheart Charlie,... who is not very helpful, but he points our hero to Julia's best friend... and so on and fucking on. Relentless.
The whole thing is beyond repetitive and is bordering idiotic. Luckily, in the end, the deus ex machine strikes in the form of the interviewee (let's say) M and Jake will fall over the finishing line. Together with the exhausted reader.
2/5
Facts:
Hero:
Tank got my wallet and the Magnum from my coat pocket. He looked in my wallet. "Barrow's the right name, Frisk," he told the stocky guy with the gun in my back. "Jacob Barrow. Says here he's a private dick."
I was surprised he could read that good. "That's right," I said.
Dames:
Julia Hiller, aka Fran Ford, the tramp from the title:
Angry eyes, curved hips, her bust high on her slim chest, her hair a natural honey blonde. something downright inflammable about her looks. And her eyes dared you.
Martha DeFalco, the photographer:
Short, fabulously-curved build and round, pleasant face.
Midge Resko, the nightclub singer:
Strong, healthy, luscious package of a girl, sly-humoured good looks, full-bodied voice and full-bodied figure, clean-cut, strong-boned face, undulating curves, deep-breasted, small-waisted, long-limbed figure, high-cheekbones and bold features
Location:
Mostly New York City. The trail also leads him briefly to Surf City in New Jersey, some small town in Connecticut called Smithsport, and to Hoboken.
I liked a lot that, unlike 99% of authors from New York, Quarry is not exactly fascinated and romantically obsessed by the city. If anything, it's the opposite:
I know some people who claim they like to walk in the rain. They must mean in the country. In New York City, every raindrop carries a cargo of soot, and the dirty puddles lie around, just waiting to splash up around your ankles.
Body count:
6
The object of desire:
The usual missing person case.
Blackouts:
The first one is touch and go for a minute. He doesn't go out all the way after getting whacked on the head with the blackjack:
I tried to duck. The lead-weighted leather cracked against the side of my skull. A gong tolled deafeningly inside my head. The room tilted, slammed against my shoulders. Pain reached down my spine from my exploding brain and cut my knees out from under me. I went down like a dropped sack of cement.
But the next time he does. The way it happens is slightly bizarre. It's 4am, and Jake and Midge are in his flat, about to get down to the hanky panky business, when they get interrupted by the bad guy. A fight ensues, Jake is almost down, and Midge screams in panic. The bad guy gets scared (?) and runs away, but now Jake is so exhausted that he only manages to:
"Don't pass out on me," I rasped. "For Pete's sake don't pass out now."
"I - I won't... pass out," she whispered tightly.
So I let go of the door knob, and I passed out.
Title:
The way it read to me, I'd finally followed Fran Ford - or Julia Hiller, as she called herself here - all the way down. From singer to carny stripper to hotel floozy to murdereres.
Edition:
Gold Medal #413, UK edition, 1960
Cover:
Illustration uncredited. Not great, but not bad either. I like the abstract background, besides, of course, the central part...
Cool lines:
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