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

Who Dies There? (James Duff, 1956)

Graphic Books has become one of my favourite pulp publishers in recent years. I love their dark covers, and it happened more than once that I would buy their books blindly when chasing the stuff online. You know how it goes when you find some good deal on eBay: you just have to check out the seller's other items... 

But we don't buy these paperbacks just for their covers (or do we?). We actually try to read some of them, and the great thing about the Graphics is that I'm yet to find one that would really suck. I have been pleasantly surprised by some completely unknown authors, and I'm happy to report that this happened again with Mr James Duff, of whom I had never heard before picking up this one.

It's pretty much a Ross Macdonald clone with the familiar theme of messed-up families where sins and neurosis are passed from one generation to the next with devastating effects that finally culminate in a tragic and sad ending. You can only keep your shit swept under the rug for so long... 

It's not flawless. The dialogue could use a bit of rewriting, and plot development is occasionally silly and not very believable. For example, our sleuthing hero spooks some guy by nothing more than simply calling him three times and hanging up the phone. Really?

But the plot is decent, easy to follow (unlike Macdonald, with all due respect...), and delivers a good twist at the end. True, there are some cliches (like best friend cop), but it manages to avoid the most annoying ones like sex bombs throwing themselves at the hero and similar juvenile nonsense. Plenty hard-boiled also, which is always a plus.

The biggest reason why the book works is the hero, John J. Phelan. He comes in the grand tradition of Marlowe and Archer as the disillusioned loner, full of self-doubts, a bit sentimental, and with his own moral compass. We don't get to know anything about his past except that he was in WW2, and we can speculate that, somehow, that experience damaged him. I liked the way he gets introduced: upon receiving the fee, he immediately calls his bookie and places a bet with the entire amount. Nice touch. We now know everything we need to know about him without going into the usual stuff about the unpaid bills pilling...

I also loved the way it ends. There will be no sense of justice being served or any redemption for the family involved (The hell with them, I thought; the hell with them all). Johnny gets the second instalment of his fee (another 100 bucks), promptly calls the bookie and places another bet. The horse's name? Missie Gloom. And the bookie's response? "Ah, Johnny-boy, you're nuts. She won't even get outa the gate".

How much more noir-ish can one get?

4/5

Facts:

Hero:

What in hell, Phelan, what in hell? Why weren't you an accountant or a ditch digger or a truckdriver or a bank clerk or any goddamned thing but a private eye?

A good question. The only trouble with it was that it was unanswerable to the guy who had asked it. Me.

The bad guy(s):

"I'm Egan. Richie Egan. This is my place."

I said: "I'll now turn four handsprings and look to the heavens for guidance."

Dames: 

Pendleton sisters:

Honor wasn't a bad-looking dish, if you liked them thin. I didn't.

Landrith "was as beautiful as anything I'd ever seen, and she knew it".

Finally, our hero's love interest is the beautiful redhead Jean Gibbon - Miss SeaVue of Astoria, Oregon, 1953.

Location:

L.A.

Body count:

4 + a nasty dog called Turk

Blackouts:

The guy kept hitting me, and hitting me some more. He used his fist on my face and midsection, and his knee on my groin. He would grunt each time he hit me, and the other guy in the chair would laugh.

The last thing I remember was him hitting me.

They sure as hell enjoyed themselves.

References:

It's not exactly a reference that I usually write about, but it was depressing to read that the radios in 1956 were already reporting "about the latest skirmish on the Gaza border".

Title:

It sounds cool, but it's pretty silly when one thinks about it. There's never any doubt about who died in some particular location in this one.

Edition:

Graphic #134, no printing date or edition specified

Cover:

By Walter Popp. It depicts a scene in which drunk Honor tries to kill Johnny.

Cool lines:

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