Three Must Die! (Dan Gregory, 1956)

The last post was something like War and Peace, but I just couldn't stop myself. I'm redeeming myself with this short one.

An amateur detective in a small town with his romantic interest as a sidekick is most definitely not my cup of tea, but this one is all right. Nothing exceptional about it, but also nothing awful, except the prolonged ending with a whodunit resolution that one figures out five chapters in advance.

Our main man can be annoying at times with all his wisecracking, but that shit was still within my tolerance limits. His aspiring journalist, wanna-be girl Friday, is cool, and not at all some dumb blonde bimbo who would throw herself at our guy. In fact, it is he who tries to impress her. The plot is simplistic, but still decent. Some characters are dull, but some are great (see the 'Bad Guy' section of the facts below). No femme fatales, but there is one nicely bitchy dame. Cops are neither totally stupid nor completely absent.

It has a naive quality and would probably be best suited for the so-called young adult market these days. It's not scarce on eBay and is pretty affordable, so if you have teenage kids around that you want to corrupt with pulp fiction, you may consider gifting this paperback. They would appreciate more Raymonds and Dashiells and the like. Also, it wouldn't be a bad way to start a collection with such a badass cover.

Quick, forgettable read. I speculate that this reflected in sales, as this seems to be the only thing published by Mr Gregory. However, it deserves its place in the digital world. If nothing else, check out the killer cover!

3/5

Facts:

Hero:

Dinny Powell

"I'm not a newspaperman. The paper I run is a shopping guide, purely and simply, and I don't want anything to do with the new."

The bad guy(s):

Junior Thorpe, the old man's son, is by no means the sort of bad guy that we are used to on this blog, but he is such a delightful asshole that he deserves a mention.

He had sailed a schooner around the world, had gone through three or four wives, each one of them fabulous enough to have satisfied the average man for life, had served with distinction in World War II and the Korean one, and had taken up Hollywood.

How can one not like an eccentric who spent six months in the Caribbean shooting a definitive (short) documentary about game fishing (whatever that is) and blowing 200k (of his father's) dollars in the process? 

He just sold it to MGM and now expects to win an Oscar. Even though he couldn't get Hemingway to do the narration, which is his only regret about this masterpiece

Dames: 

Elizabeth Ressler, aka Libby. His assistant/secretary and his future wife.

She was a beautiful girl, and if I said that her figure made the De Milo Venus look like a handful of unbaked hot cross buns, it would be only the simple truth. She had green eyes and shoulder-length hair that could have been used to advertise St. Petersburg, Florida, the Sunshine City. All the art in the Metropolitan Museum couldn’t have decorated the office with greater effect than Libby.

Junior's cousin Nancy Schuyler from Philadelphia. The mildest term for her was "international whore." At times the old man was surprisingly acute.

She had the kind of figure that made you think of all the other expensive things in the world you couldn't afford either. Her skin was clear golden tan, not the mahogany that looks so well on Duncan Phyfe tables and terrible on women. Her face had a slim, remote loveliness, like that of a beauty in the court of Louis XIV who had remained untouched by the passing of a hundred lovers.

But it only takes a couple of pages for Dinny to get less impressed with her:

I revised my first impression of her. She had the voice and body of a sultry courtesan, but her eyes reminded me of the dark gleam of the spring of a bear trap.

Location:

A horse-town called Rocky Hill in Bucks Valley

Body count:

3 (one is a lawyer, but I counted him in anyway)

The object of desire:

"Honey," I said, "all the police would get would be the briefcase. I want the killer. We both know he considers me fair bait. I don't think a man who murders people should get away with it. I'll drop a few hints around, once I have the loot, and the murderer will come to me. I won't have to look for him."

There's a multi-million-dollar will in this briefcase that some interested parties are eager to obtain at any price; they are even willing to pay in redheads!

Why are you holding out? You asked for a hundred thousand and I'm moving heaven and earth to get it together. You can have it any way you want—in redheads, dollar bills or yachts. You name it and it's yours. Don't say anything now. You're hot. Think it over for a day. Think it over for a couple of days. But let's get it settled. I'm going crazy.

Blackouts:

Pretty standard rockets thing:

Something came down heavily across the back of my neck, driving me forward and down to my hands and knees. From a far distance I heard a tiny scream from Libby. I tried to call to her, but my voice sounded like the echo of a tinkle. I was again on my feet, reeling in a tarry blackness. I stumbled and my forehead struck something that exploded in a brilliant fountain of sparks, like a skyrocket.

Coming out of it is better:

Light stabbed into my brain with a thousand blades. I closed my eyes and groaned. My head felt like the inside of a bass drum during the St. Patrick's Day parade.

Technically, there's another one. He faints again in that same scene once he sees the corpse's blown head. 

And, for completion's sake, I'm including this one, too:

Whereupon a ton of bricks fell on my head.

I didn't exactly pass out. I know that because I can still remember the stars I saw and the blaze of incandescence that let me know someone had switched on a lamp. 

References:

“You mean, where there’s a will, there’s a slay?” she asked brightly. “You know—I think that kind of stuff went out before Agatha Christie. We’re supposed to be dealing with fact, not fiction.”

Title:

Sounds cool, but it is totally inaccurate. True, there are three witnesses to the fatal car "accident", but they only receive a threatening note advising them to "just go on keeping your lip buttoned and you won't have nothing to worry about". Nobody tries to kill them.

Edition:

Graphic Mystery #143

Cover:

A gorgeous, and totally badass one, by Roy Lance. The guy seemed to have a thing about blondes with guns. This one is cool, too, and that book is not bad either.

Not that it matters, but, like the title, it's also completely inaccurate. No blonde shoots the guy in this one.

Cool lines:

"Are you drink, Powell?"

"No, but I could be talked into it."

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