Some Die Young (James Duff, 1956)

I really enjoyed Duff’s "Who Dies There?" and was eager to check out the second (and last) instalment of his P.I. Johnny Pelham series, published that same year. But unless I’m missing something (and I doubt I am), or my standards have mysteriously shot up since last October (they haven’t), this one could as well be written by some other author. 

One of those formulaic, connecting-the-dots mysteries where every action (however illogical it is) and clue inevitably leads our hero step-by-step to the conclusion with a surprising twist. The twist that I saw coming even before the author was finished setting it up.

Nothing really works, and on a few occasions, it gets so bad that it's actually fun to read. There's a scene in which our Johnny remembers a piece of scratch paper he had snatched, and then it takes him five minutes to go through his coat pockets to find it. Five. Fucking. Minutes!?!

But there are many more painfully bad ones. Nasty shit about slapping women around and being just generally rude ("you are too old for me") towards the fairer sex. And lots of shit that is simply stupid. When, for some reason, Johnny decides to mess up the crime scene, he informs us that he did so using his handkerchief so that... you know, he wouldn't leave any fingerprints!

Mr. Duff simply didn't understand the basic mechanics of crime fiction and its target audience. Nor women. And he most certainly wasn’t quite up to date on the streamlined efficiency of the average 1950s man’s coat.

Mediocre and boring. No wonder the series lasted only a couple of books. At least it saves me from having to write that I'm through with it... But I'm still glad to pick up the first one.

2.5/5

Facts:

Hero:

"You come very highly recommended, Mr. Phelan. I've been told you're very discreet. I hope you can remain so."

"For fifty dollars a day," I said, "I can be the soul of discretion."

Dames: 

"What do you know about Claire Harding?" I asked.

She straightened the skirt over her knees. Her eyes were serious.
"For the suckers, or you?"
"For me."
"She's a bitch."
I waited for her to continue.
"I mean that—you be careful. She's a first-class bitch. She's cut more throats in this business than I'd care to think about."

But bitch or no bitch, she is shockingly beautiful:

She came through the doorway then, and I got to my feet. She was a little older than she appeared to be on the screen, but, still and all, she was positively the most shockingly beautiful woman I had ever seen. The sunsuit was much too brief for my comfort.

And then there's Dianne Cochran, her personal secretary/confidante with an overly large mouth and quite ample bosom:

Her face just missed being beautiful; it was wide, with high cheekbones and an overly large mouth. Her bright black hair was cut short, her legs were long and trim and her bosom was quite ample, even in this crowd.

And finally, elusive Helen Bethke, the slut:

“If that’s what is troubling you,” I said, “I can see your problem.”

Claire Harding turned to look at me. Anger crossed her face and left it. She didn’t like to be compared with other women, especially young ones.

“That, as you so aptly put it, Mr. Phelan, is not my problem. She’s just a young slut. She has no talent.”

Location:

Hollywood, land of divorce, masquerade and make-up.

Body count:

4

 

The object of desire:

"Harrison is in some kind of trouble, Mr. Phelan," she said. "I'm not sure just what kind it is. But he hasn't been himself lately."
"You want me to find out what that trouble is?"
"That's right."
"Sounds simple enough."

Obviously, it only sounds simple. It will turn into some incomprehensible "dope racket" mud in which the European syndicate is buying 250k worth of drugs from Americans. 

Blackouts:

He was running down the aisle between the booths, heading for the back door. I started to follow. A hand grabbed me roughly by the shoulder and then something hard hit me in the back of the head and then it was like it always is . . .
It always scares the hell out of me.

Title:

Misleading, none of the deceased here are particularly young. But since 75% of victims are private detectives (I kid you not!), maybe something like "Some Die as PIs" would be more appropriate?

Edition:

Graphic #139, no printing date or edition specified

Cover:

Pretty standard woman-in-peril cover. By Roy Lance and the guy is credited, which is always nice to see.

Cool lines:

This section should be blank, but I thought it would be fun (of sorts) to share some of Johnny's witty, sharp one-liners

"That's a bad habit," she said.
"All habits are bad," I said.

"There are cops and cops," I said. "And there are people and people."

"You're not saying much."
"No, I'm not."

"Go to hell," I said.

And the concluding paragraph:

I stood there, and just looked.
It was a nice night.
Yeah, it was.
THE END