Ross Macdonald was also a significant reason to select it, and Midnight Blue is, as expected, an excellent Lew Archer story, written by the grandmaster with his distinctly elegant style and theme of messed-up middle-class families. It keeps sidetracking the reader into obvious conclusions, but concludes with a classic crime of passion. Sad and tragic, with no winners once Archer ends his investigation. It was not the most original or surprising ending, but I still liked it a lot for its fast-paced narrative and a decent ratio of pages to corpses.
I'd known Anthony Boucher only by name before reading On A Day Unknown, but this will soon change. Brilliant stuff, although I must admit that my knee-jerk reaction after reading a couple of pages was, "For fuck's sake, not one of those". British (!) true-crime (!!) police procedural (!!!) - "The case was a splendid challenge to a pathologist."
But soon, my dismay turned into curiosity, and by the fifth page, I was enjoying this immensely. It's a tender and tragic love story of two lost souls in England during the war years. The Canadian Indian soldier and a local British girl:
"At first," said Sangret, "when I slept with Joan I used to have connexions with her sometimes two or three times a night and later on sometimes not at all." They had reached a state of intense need to be with each other even in the absence of sexual hunger - which may be one definition of love.
And you can imagine what the connextions are, don't you? If not, this will clarify things:
We started kissing and cuddling and I asked her if she would 'go with me.' I mean by this that I wanted to have connexions with her. She did not refuse in any way and I had connexions with her. I did not use a French letter and I just did it the natural way.
(Throughout, both in his long statement to the police and later on the witness stand, connexions is the normally monosyllabic Sangret's only word for sexual intercourse. One imagines that it was suggested by a police stenographer.)
There's not a single line of dialogue! The whole thing is presented as court transcripts compiled from various testimonies, complemented by the narrator's witty comments and observations (he was, however, totally and literally illiterate). Very original and very funny but also sad and poignant
The next one is Fletcher Flora. I liked his story As I Lie Dead from Masters of Noir #1, but have since read a couple of his other things and wasn't very impressed. And after It was All the Girl had to Live For Now - Somebody Else's Death, I'm even less impressed. Apart from its cool title, this is totally forgettable. Probably something Mr Fletcher put together quickly to cover his rent:
A hitman (of sorts) shoots a politician during the rally because the guy has ruined his girlfriend's father. It then finishes with some wisdom about the revenge not solving anything, and "he understood with silent and assured despair that he had killed two people from the window upstairs".
Richard S. Prather's Film Strip was no disappointment because I knew what to expect. I just cannot get into his Shell Scott. His brand of cosy crime, mixed with a hard-boiled style, doesn't work for me, and I find its juvenile humour silly, sometimes idiotic, and even offensive. A teenager could call his girlfriend "my dear little imbecile", and maybe some of his friends would find it funny and laugh at it. But coming from a grown-up with white hair?
It begins with the "little imbecile" performing a private striptease for Shell on the beach while there's a murder in progress on a nearby cliff. It will also end the same way because the ridiculous plan to trap the murderer will go wrong. Shell is cornered by the killer in an empty movie theatre, and our exhibitionist cannot think of a better way to distract him so that Shell can take him over. Enough said...
Helen Nielsen's Confession plunges the reader into the midst of an angry mob about to lynch a couple of kids accused of hit and run. They break down under pressure, and the boy signs the confession. During this riot, we get the complete picture of what had happened in flashbacks. Well written, tight, and tense. Works well on both narrative and emotional levels. But the happy ending and simplistic morality message spoiled it for me a bit. I think the girl's "betrayal" would be more effective (and shocking?) if the couple were older people, rather than teenage kids eloping to Vegas to get married.
Hard Sell from Craig Rice is great. Fuck Shell Scott, this is the kind of humour that I like:
He found himself looking at a large man with iron-gray hair, blue eyes, and a prominent chin. The man looked so healthy that Malone wanted to turn away again.
Or, if you're not convinced, this (note that von Flanagan is a cop!):
Malone agreed. "You don't seem to be taking much of an interest in this one. Something wrong?"
"Plenty," von Flanagan said. "For one thing, it's an impossible one to solve. For another, I don't want to solve it"
"Why not?"
Von Flanagan shook his head wearily. "Malone" he said, "have you ever had a run-in with a magazine salesman? Have you ever had one of those little monsters stick his foot in your door and tell you how much you needed his rotten magazines? Have you, Malone?"
Malone nodded.
"They should kill every last one of them," von Flanagan said. "I mean it, Malone. Anybody kills a magazine salesman he deserves a medal."
Great stuff. Outrageous! One cannot but like the main protagonist Malone "the little lawyer" and admire his efficiency as he solves this one by mainly drinking at the bar and making some phone calls along the way.
With two double ryes under his belt and a pair of beer chasers keeping them company, Malone felt in condition to use the phone.
Admittedly, the "suicide" solution is a bit bonkers, and I'm not sure I really got it, but I don't care. Like Mr Boucher, Mr Rice is another one on my radar now.
Moving on. Before the main feature, there's a cool intermezzo. A "special report" on the history of forgery and counterfeit titled Reasonable Fascimile, written by Rex Lardner. Educational, I guess, but foremost funny. Quite a tongue-in-cheek stuff like this:
The earliest counterfeiters, who clipped coins and made new ones from the shavings, had their ears
clipped when caught. King Canute decreed that their hands should be cut off. The Romans deprived counterfeiters of their citizenship and then removed their ears and noses. Later, these steps not considered sufficiently discouraging, their ears, noses, hands, and feet were cut off and what was left was served to hungry lions. One presumes they were hungry.
It concludes on a resigned note that a significant amount of counterfeit merchandise is being sold these days, but little can be done to prevent this. It kind of makes you long for the days of good old King Canute.
McBain's 87th Precinct novelette The Empty Hours is the central part of this digest. I won't spend much time on it because I don't want to repeat myself when it comes to this series. It is paradoxical that the police procedural methods hinder the story and make it less plausible.
For example, as we are approaching the end, cops are still (a week or so after the crime), for some reason, interrogating the victims' neighbours and informers even though they have plenty of hard evidence and other leads to pursue. And, btw, there's a description of a line-up that is more or less copy/paste-ed from Cop Hater. Similarly, they also find the solution by fluke here.
The last story is Richard Matheson's chilling The Faces. A little psychological gem about the abuse and mental illness that (I believe) says that some people simply shouldn't have kids.
An excellent choice to conclude this intriguing collection with a hint of horror.
4.5/5
Facts:
Dames:
A hitman (of sorts) shoots a politician during the rally because the guy has ruined his girlfriend's father. It then finishes with some wisdom about the revenge not solving anything, and "he understood with silent and assured despair that he had killed two people from the window upstairs".
Richard S. Prather's Film Strip was no disappointment because I knew what to expect. I just cannot get into his Shell Scott. His brand of cosy crime, mixed with a hard-boiled style, doesn't work for me, and I find its juvenile humour silly, sometimes idiotic, and even offensive. A teenager could call his girlfriend "my dear little imbecile", and maybe some of his friends would find it funny and laugh at it. But coming from a grown-up with white hair?
It begins with the "little imbecile" performing a private striptease for Shell on the beach while there's a murder in progress on a nearby cliff. It will also end the same way because the ridiculous plan to trap the murderer will go wrong. Shell is cornered by the killer in an empty movie theatre, and our exhibitionist cannot think of a better way to distract him so that Shell can take him over. Enough said...
Helen Nielsen's Confession plunges the reader into the midst of an angry mob about to lynch a couple of kids accused of hit and run. They break down under pressure, and the boy signs the confession. During this riot, we get the complete picture of what had happened in flashbacks. Well written, tight, and tense. Works well on both narrative and emotional levels. But the happy ending and simplistic morality message spoiled it for me a bit. I think the girl's "betrayal" would be more effective (and shocking?) if the couple were older people, rather than teenage kids eloping to Vegas to get married.
Hard Sell from Craig Rice is great. Fuck Shell Scott, this is the kind of humour that I like:
He found himself looking at a large man with iron-gray hair, blue eyes, and a prominent chin. The man looked so healthy that Malone wanted to turn away again.
Or, if you're not convinced, this (note that von Flanagan is a cop!):
Malone agreed. "You don't seem to be taking much of an interest in this one. Something wrong?"
"Plenty," von Flanagan said. "For one thing, it's an impossible one to solve. For another, I don't want to solve it"
"Why not?"
Von Flanagan shook his head wearily. "Malone" he said, "have you ever had a run-in with a magazine salesman? Have you ever had one of those little monsters stick his foot in your door and tell you how much you needed his rotten magazines? Have you, Malone?"
Malone nodded.
"They should kill every last one of them," von Flanagan said. "I mean it, Malone. Anybody kills a magazine salesman he deserves a medal."
Great stuff. Outrageous! One cannot but like the main protagonist Malone "the little lawyer" and admire his efficiency as he solves this one by mainly drinking at the bar and making some phone calls along the way.
With two double ryes under his belt and a pair of beer chasers keeping them company, Malone felt in condition to use the phone.
Admittedly, the "suicide" solution is a bit bonkers, and I'm not sure I really got it, but I don't care. Like Mr Boucher, Mr Rice is another one on my radar now.
Moving on. Before the main feature, there's a cool intermezzo. A "special report" on the history of forgery and counterfeit titled Reasonable Fascimile, written by Rex Lardner. Educational, I guess, but foremost funny. Quite a tongue-in-cheek stuff like this:
The earliest counterfeiters, who clipped coins and made new ones from the shavings, had their ears
clipped when caught. King Canute decreed that their hands should be cut off. The Romans deprived counterfeiters of their citizenship and then removed their ears and noses. Later, these steps not considered sufficiently discouraging, their ears, noses, hands, and feet were cut off and what was left was served to hungry lions. One presumes they were hungry.
It concludes on a resigned note that a significant amount of counterfeit merchandise is being sold these days, but little can be done to prevent this. It kind of makes you long for the days of good old King Canute.
McBain's 87th Precinct novelette The Empty Hours is the central part of this digest. I won't spend much time on it because I don't want to repeat myself when it comes to this series. It is paradoxical that the police procedural methods hinder the story and make it less plausible.
For example, as we are approaching the end, cops are still (a week or so after the crime), for some reason, interrogating the victims' neighbours and informers even though they have plenty of hard evidence and other leads to pursue. And, btw, there's a description of a line-up that is more or less copy/paste-ed from Cop Hater. Similarly, they also find the solution by fluke here.
The last story is Richard Matheson's chilling The Faces. A little psychological gem about the abuse and mental illness that (I believe) says that some people simply shouldn't have kids.
An excellent choice to conclude this intriguing collection with a hint of horror.
4.5/5
Facts:
Dames:
From Midnight Blue:
She had on a plain white blouse, which was full of her.
Body count:
She had on a plain white blouse, which was full of her.
From the Empty Hours:
She moved with an expert femininity, a calculated unconscious fluidity of flesh that suggested availability and yet was totally respectable. She seemed to have devoted a lifetime to learning the ways and wiles of the female and now practiced them with facility and charm. Body count:
3 + 2 + 1 (discounting of course the spiritual dead) + 1 + 1 + 3 + 0 (discounting the counterfeiters devoured by hungry lions) + 2 + 1 = 14
References:
"On A Day Unknown" retells the story of Georg Büchner's Woyzcek (so now we also know from where the Boucher pseudonym originates). But even though I've seen Herzog's film, I must admit I didn't make the connection until this play is explicitly mentioned at the end.
Cover:
Pretty cool. It could be portraiting a scene from either The Empty Hours or Film Strip. However, since none of the tough guys have white hair, I would lean more toward the latter.
Cool lines:
From Midnight Blue:
Pretty cool. It could be portraiting a scene from either The Empty Hours or Film Strip. However, since none of the tough guys have white hair, I would lean more toward the latter.
Cool lines:
From Midnight Blue:
She touched her thin breast absently, pathetically, as if perhaps she hadn't been much needed in the past.
