Murder On The Rocks (Robert Dietrich, 1957)

It's bad enough that our hero is a pipe-smoking accountant, but what really kills this one is that he is a self-absorbed, narcissistic snob who has an opinion on everything and everybody. He keeps making idiotic, corny jokes and comments that sometimes border on bizarre.

I'll give you an example: when he notices two teenage girls (heavy-chested!) staring at lurid covers of horror books displayed on the magazine rack, he just can't help himself but bark at them:

"Back to your algebra. When you're a little older it'll be a big help to your husband in figuring a system to beat the ponies."
The girl's eyes popped open. "Huh?"
"Well," I said, "it was a thought for the day." 

I don't know... Am I too literal-minded? Is someone out there who finds this kind of shit even remotely funny? You're welcome to leave the comment below.

Since he's an accountant, it would be unfair to hold his lack of detective skills against him. Like every efficient bureaucrat, he hires a proper private detective and takes over the investigation once he gets a short list of suspects. And I wonder why he takes over because he never misses a chance to explicitly explain to everyone around him that he is not a proper PI and has no intention of getting involved in the case.

The case? The standard story of some missing, insanely expensive diamond, a couple of murders, one junkie, a beautiful night-club singer, two horny sisters throwing themselves at our hero, a sinister mafia guy, incompetent police that is nowhere to be seen, etc. To be honest, it starts all right, but after the first fifty pages or so, it gets stale. Most definitely nothing that we haven't read before. 

So, yes, it's bad, and you may wonder why I even bother writing this review. The reason is simple: it contains the most ludicrous plot device I have ever encountered. And I'm a big Mike Avallone fan! Now check this: Steve narrows down his suspects to just a couple of them because he realises that the culprit is most likely a drug addict. So far, so good. The good old elimination method, right? But the crazy part is that one of his remaining suspects got hooked up on morphine when he was imprisoned in the fucking concentration camp!!!

No need to make tasteless jokes about nazi experiments in death camps, so let's stop right here. 

It's difficult to admit, but I'm beginning to realise that my relationship with our favourite Watergate spy is beyond salvageable. As love affairs often do, ours started a good ten years ago with a bang when I was devouring Hard Case Crime books and read his brilliant House Dick (which, btw, still has my favourite HCC cover!). Since those days, everything just kept going downhill, and I've been through a series of forgettable novels.

This one is at least memorable but for the wrong reasons. Skip it.

2/5

Facts:

Hero:

Steve Bentley, a tax consultant.

You're alert, quick, and highly intelligent. You've proved yourself in the world of business and you have your clients' respect. By any standards you're quite sufficiently cultured to mingle with any social group. You're honest, solid, and you have integrity. And beneath it all you're little bit of a snob. Do I make myself clear?

The bad guy(s):

When Cadena was a tank sergeant on Luzon he had pulled the head off a dead Jap to win a ten-cent bet.

Dames: 

Two daughters of some Banana Republic ambassador: Iris Sewall (with eyelashes bigger than butterflies) and Sara Cutler (The little sister. She looked like a mantrap).

Plus Janice Western, the night club singer: She had the look of a female with plenty in the bank and a private way to get more.

And let's not forget Mrs Bross, his ageing secretary who enjoys shopping during her lunch breaks.

Location:

As for Washington, it has, per capita, more rape, more crimes of violence, more perversion, more politicians, more liquor, more good food, more bad food, more tax collections, more hotels and apartments and more gold toothpicks than any city in the world. A fine place if you have enterprise, durability, money and powerful friends.

Body count:

3

The object of desire:

The Madagascar Green. La Verde de Madagascar. Cleopatra's Emerald. It was too romantic for me, the terms were too large, the menace too heavy.

Blackouts:

/

References:

In his typical condescending style, Steve treats us with a short review of The Teahouse of the August Moon:

The movie was Marlon Brando with gauze tapes slanting his eyelids and a straw coolie hat shaped like a hollow gong, the kind J. Arthur Rank's blacksmith beats in those British films. In the picture Brando spoke a lot of Japanese and some English. The pronunciation of both was bad, but I assume there was artistry behind it all.

Title:

We have some murders, and there's the precious rock of Madagascar Green diamond, so it's close enough. But even the title of this one could be improved; how about something like "Deadly Harvest of Cleopatra's Emerald"?

Edition:

Dell #A141, First edition, first printing - June 1957

Cover:

It's horrible, and unfortunately, it's similar to what we see in bookstores today. Would it be possible that Dell's art director was as unimpressed with the book as I was, so he just threw a sketch of some damsel in distress at the bottom and splashed the title in big letters all over the page? Sloppy and so very un-pulpy.

Cool lines:

/