Leacinig You a Dance
Half-Way House. By Ellery Queen. (Gollancz. 7s. 6d.) Clue for Mr. Fortune. By H: C. Bailey. (Goliancz. 7s. (Id.) The Talkative Policeman. By Rupert Penny. (Crime Club.
7s. 6d.)
Last Will and Testament. By G. D. H. and M. Cole. (Crime Club. 7s. 6d.).
Case for Three Detectives.. By Is3o Bruce.: (Geoffrey Ries. 7s. 6d.)
Fear Haunts the Roses. By Charman Edwards. (Ward Lock. 7s. 6d.) He Shot to Kill. .Bv. Peter Drax. (Hutchinson. 7s. 6d.)
THE orchids, this month, go to Miss Mitchell. Ever since her elashic Saltmarsh .31 larders, I have considered her to be one of the half-dozen best detection-writers in this country. Not only has she created that unforgettable • sleuth—the eccentric, flamboyant and witch-like alienist, Mrs. Bradley : she is also witty and ingenious ; she carries her load of erudi- tion with the utmost grace ; and she likes the detective story to be full-blooded fantasy with no nonsense about it.
Consider this new book of hers. Having thrown off an apposite quotation from Cicero, Miss Mitchell proceeds to entitle her chapter heads from the steps of the Headington Morris Dance, to initiate us into the mysteries of pig-breeding, to dabble in heraldry, and to show an almost perfect mastery of the Oxfordshire dialect—a dialect which probably holds more pitfalls for the unwary writer than any other in England.
A solicitor is discovered dead on Thames' bank near Riley, having gone out for a wager on Christmas night to beard a local ghost : then a farmer's body is discovered on Shotover Hill, gored to death by a pedigree boar. The denouement occurs during a Morris Dance at Easter, when Mrs. Bradley— who has already given-alarming proof of her skill both at darts Ad detection—wields a life-preserver to considerable purpose. The morals of Oxfordshire (I do not refer only to murder) leave much to be desired, if one is to believe Miss Mitchell. Mrs. Bradley's habit of jumping from one point to another may be rather confusitig to _the leSs agile-minded reader, and I am not ct.nife sure that we are given enough material to enable us logieallic.to deduce the murderer. -But Dead Men's Morris leads you a rare dance and you will enjoy every minute at it.
Mr. Queen is another one who does us proud. Half-Way House is, I think, his best book since The Roman Hat Mystery. His style, which had lately tended to be rather too luscious for our sober English taste, is considerably more restrained ; the plot is cunningly developed and apparently most complex, yet all hinges on one small obvious detail which Mr. Queen forces upon your attention time and again with the innocent expression of a poker-player putting across a double bltiff. Joseph Wilson, a commercial traveller, is found murdered in a lonely shack. It soon becomes evident that he has been leading a double life ; both Lucy Wilson and Mrs. Gimbal', a New York society woman, claim him for husband. Lucy, in whose favour Wilson had taken out a large insurance policy, is tried and convicted. But' Mr. Queen finally convinces :Andrea—Mrs. Gimball's attractive daughter—that honesty is the best policy, and with the aid of the information she gives him manages to trap the real murderer in the nick of time. .1 would call your -attention to the curious assortment of objects found in the same room as the corpse—a burnt cork, the stubs of a number of paper matches, a new writing-set, an empty fountain-pen, the precious stone out of a ring, and a complete absence of mud or tobacco. These are all impor- tant clues ; but one of them—or perhaps two in conjunction— will give you the murderer. Mr.. Queen tins always been a bit exhibitionist in his final unmasking of the criminal ; this time, at least, the convention justifies itself, for it produces a succession of thrills that will cause your spine to tingle pleasurably for a good quarter of an hour afterwards.
His new volume of short stories shows Mr. Bailey and the one and only Reggie Fortune at their very best. The short story is really the sharpest test of the detection-writer ; he has no space to open out a large cast and therefore cannot seek gaiety in numbers of suspects. Mr. Bailey stands the test .pncommonly well. His first tale, The Torn Stocking, is the neatest and most realistic : it is also notable for diVulging ho Mr.- Fortune- first' teek "tcv criminal investilLiktiPn• The Swimming Pool is the most startling and intricate, containing as it does a millionaire, a too voluble doctor, a missing nurse, a decapitated female body, and a bottle of vitriol. The Hole in the Parchment is the most sprightly : even experts in ancient manuscripts can make mistakes—I'm not sure that the usually impeccable Mr. Bailey has not let a flaw creep in too (how did B. know that T. was motoring out to buy the second MSS. ?). The Holy Well is the most exemplary and the most sinister : it tells how Mr. Fortune, by reading the purple passages in a Sunday newspaper and noticing evidence that neither the Judge nor Counsel for the Defence had considered worth his attention, saved an innocent woman from execution. The Wistful Goddess (murder, theft, kidnapping, torture) is the most dramatic. The Dead Leaves; which -hinges on the discovery of bog-myrtle and Arctic willow in a dead woman's handbag, is the least satisfactory—not to the reader; I should hasten to add ; to Reggie Fortune and the amiable Superin- tendent Bell.
Mr. Penny engages our sympathy at the outset by remarking in his preface that " the detective novel is nothing per se, because it is impermanent " ; these are refreshing words after the solemn stuff that is. talked ' nowadays about " The Detective Novel as an Art Form," " Aristotle and Detection," and so on. The crime-novelist's job, Mr. Penny says, is " to please a limited number of readers " : a modest, sensible ambition, and I have no doubt that Mr. Penny will achieve it. The Talkative Policeman (I don't think the title is of the aptest) contains an exceedingly intricate problem, an unusually nice Superintendent, a technical dissertation on finger-prints, and a challenge to the reader. The detection is exhaustive but never exhausting. It is emphatically his teeth for the reader who likes a really tough puzzle to get his teeth into, not- for the superficial or the mere, thrill-addict.
Mr. and Mrs. Cole in their new book conclude the Pendexter saga. Twenty-five years ago Dr. Tancred had investigated the murder of Simon Pendexter. He had found the murderer, but been unable to prove his guilt. Now Lord St. Blaizey, head of an old Cornish family and big-businessman, is found dead—apparently as a result of a riding accident. - Dr. Tancred is called in by an old lady who claims to have had a vision in which she saw. Lord St Blaizey.murdered : he soon discovers material evidence to support this, and we are left in little doubt that the piurderer of Lord St. Blaizey is the man who killed Simon Pendexter twenty-rere years before. Our knowledge of the criminal's identity, however, in no way spoils this very competent and readable tale. The Coles are adepts at suggesting character with a few strokes of the brush : their present narrative, if a little repetitive in places, is most attractive in its quiet, leisurely way.
Case for Three Detectives is a leg-pull : my main criticism of it is that Mr. Bruce forgets occasionally that he is meant to be pulling our legs, lets go, and in consequence we all fall down rather hard. A lady is murdered it is apparently one Of those locked-room cases—and three amateur detectives. appear on the scene, Lord Simon Plimsoll, M. Amer Picon and Monsignor Smith ; these are unconcealed burlesques of Wimsey, Poirot and Father Brown. Each constructs an elaborate and specious solution of the crime, only to be proed wrong by the local police-sergeant, who shows that the murder itself was, up to a point, a joke. The last two books on my list are thrillers. Fear Haunts ihe Roses begins with the Murder of Judge Danby ; suspicion at first falls on a gang 'whose leader the Judge had lately sentenced to death. But three other bodies have been found, each—like Denby's.— With a green rose in its hand, and we begin to suspect that deeper forces are at work. You need go no- further than the title to realise that this is all frank melodrama ; but you probably will go a good deal further, led on from one thrill to another. He Shot to Kill is also melodrama, but of a less conventional pattern. Mr. Drax has something of the late Edgar Wallace's ability to make us believe in his characters in spite of the unbelievable things that are happening to them. I can't imagine that the authorities would be so negligent about the load of bullion that is the casts belti between the two rival gangs in Mr. Drax's new book ; but he shows con- siderable insight into the' workings of the' incorrigible (if indeed it is) criminal mind, his underworld and his riverside police are convincing, and—in short—this is a first-rate thrnier.
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