Tag: Crime Fiction

An English Murder by Cyril Hare

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At first glance, Cyril Hare’s 1951 novel An English Murder, seems to be a fairly typical example of a certain type of golden age detective story. A group of guests are snowed in at an isolated country house over Christmas when a mysterious death occurs and they find themselves involved in a murder mystery. The murderer can only be one of the occupants of the house. So far, so familiar, with a hint of Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None.

What sets this apart is the more realistic tone, the deeper characterisation and the political theme of the story, which is set during the years of the 1940s Labour government. Hare was a lawyer who became a judge and his precise, dry and ironic prose style means that although the novel is only some 200 pages, an awful lot is packed in and it does not feel short. 

Lord Warbeck is ill, so this small gathering of family and friends over Christmas may be his last. The guests include his son, Robert, who is the leader of a Mosley-style fascist party, and Lady Camilla, Robert’s on–off girlfriend, who would like their relationship to be resolved one way or the other. Then there is his cousin Sir Julius, Chancellor of the Exchequer, who is responsible for the punitive tax regime making post-war country-house life so difficult. Also present is Mrs Carstairs, daughter of the local vicar and wife to the man who would like to succeed Julius as Chancellor. The stage is set for tension and disagreement.

The party is completed by Dr Botwink, a Czech academic historian and survivor of the concentration camps. He is present in the house because he has been carrying out research on historical documents held there. Botwink is a fascinating character, with a keen interest in the nuances of the English language and the distinctive English way of doing things. In both these fields he proves rather more knowledgeable than his hosts.

After the death that at first appears to be suicide and is then confirmed as murder, the investigation is carried out by Sergeant Rogers, the Special Branch detective assigned to Sir Julius, because the local police are unable to get through the snow to reach the house. However, it is Botwink who is the real investigator here, and who is led to the solution of the case by something he finds in a book from the library.

Another crucial clue is provided by his outsider’s ear for the oddness of English expressions, and the precise meaning of the phrase “to have words with someone”.

The explanation of what has taken place is a comment on the England of that time, which is described as a curious mixture of modernisation and anachronistic survivals. An ancient legal oddity means that the crime could not have happened the way it did in another European country, hence the appropriateness of the title. This is almost a “state of the nation” novel, rather than simply a detective story.

The character of the butler, Briggs, is developed in more detail than is usual in this sort of story. He is a man who has devoted his life to the old way of doing things and must now try to adapt to changing times, struggling to keep up standards with a much-reduced complement of staff. He is rather reminiscent of the butler in Kazuo Ishoguro’s novel, The Remains of the Day.

One thing puzzled me, though. Was it normal in upper-class households at that time to have the Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve?    

He Who Whispers by John Dickson Carr

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John Dickson Carr was one of those crime writers I had been aware of for years but never got round to reading. For one thing his books were not readily available. When I did read The Hollow Man, often considered to be his masterpiece, I found it rather disappointing. Then I heard the radio versions of the Gideon Fell novels. I was impressed with the plotting and the atmosphere and I decided to give him another go. I’m very glad I did because He Who Whispers is, for me, on a different level to The Hollow Man. It’s an atmospheric and intense read. In fact, I think it’s one of the best stories of this type that I have ever come across.

Carr lived in England for many years and most of his best novels are set here. His work feels as if it belongs more in the English golden age tradition than the American hard-boiled one. He was one of the only American members of the Detection Club and a version of that appears in He Who Whispers, which was published in 1945.    

The war has finally ended and the Murder Club is to hold its first meeting in five years. Miles Harding is the guest of detective Dr Gideon Fell. When he arrives at the Soho restaurant where the meeting is to take place, he finds that none of the members have turned up. There is another guest, Barbara Morell, and the speaker for the evening, Professor Rigaud. Rigaud tells the story he had prepared anyway.

It is the tale of a seemingly impossible murder that took place in rural France in 1939. The victim was found at the top of a ruined tower and there are plenty of witnesses to confirm that no-one else was seen entering the tower during the relevant time. The victim was English and there was a young woman called Fay Seton who was staying with the family. She was romantically involved with the victim’s son and a cloud of suspicion has hung over her ever since. Rigaud shows her photograph to Miles who is fascinated by her.

Miles is looking for someone to help him catalogue his uncle’s book collection in the country house he has inherited. He is living there with his sister Marion who is about to be married to her fiancé Stephen Curtis. The candidate that the employment agency sends is none other than Fay Seton, who has just been repatriated from France and Miles takes her on.  

At the house in the New Forest, another seemingly inexplicable crime takes place. Just who or what is Fay Seton? It is then that Gideon Fell, accompanied by Professor Rigaud, arrives at the house and the investigation begins.

The two mysteries and the non-appearance of the Murder Club members all turn out to be connected of course, but it will be a very astute reader indeed who disentangles all the threads before Dr Fell does. There are many twists and turns along the way and it is a compelling, page-turning read. This is not a conventional whodunnit. There is even a hint of the supernatural. To explain the title would be to give too much away.  

What makes it so special I think, is the quality of Carr’s descriptive writing. He is able to summon up the mood or feel of a place in a few words so that it does not interrupt the pace of the plot. The three main locations come vividly alive. Shabby and exhausted post-war London, a world of back-street flats and overcrowded railway trains, contrasts with the rural peace of pre-war France. The New Forest is seen mostly by moonlight, quiet but almost haunted, unchanged for centuries. Everything feels realistic yet slightly heightened, dovetailing perfectly with the carefully crafted artificiality of the story.

That’s not to say that character or psychology are overlooked. More than one of the people here is not quite what they appear to be at first. The shadow of the war looms large and underneath everything is the mysterious personality of Fay Seton.  

This is ingenious golden age detective fiction at its best, by the acknowledged master of the impossible crime mystery. It is perhaps most similar to the Father Brown stories by G K Chesterton. You either like this sort of thing or you don’t. I very much do and I’ll be on the lookout for more books by John Dickson Carr.    

The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler

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I first read Raymond Chandler when I was barely out of my teens and now I’ve come to the end of my re-read of his novels with The Long Goodbye. This was the sixth novel featuring his Los Angeles private detective Philip Marlowe. It was published in 1953 and won the Edgar award in 1955. I know a lot of people think it is Chandler’s masterpiece. It is certainly a bit different to the others. It’s longer, moves more slowly and is sadder, somehow. There is more social comment and it’s as much a portrait of a corrupt society as anything Dickens ever wrote.

It’s something of a self-portrait as well with two characters who have elements of Chandler himself about them. If Terry Lennox is damaged by his war experiences, Roger Wade is a writer with a drink problem, who feels that his books are underrated because he writes genre fiction. The overall mood of the book feels as if F Scott Fitzgerald had decided to write a detective story. There are quite a lot of literary references as well, with quotes from T S Eliot, Shakespeare, and Christopher Marlowe.

I think the central theme in the book and what gives it that air of melancholy is Philip Marlowe’s friendship with Terry Lennox, who is introduced in that striking opening sentence: “The first time I laid eyes on Terry Lennox he was drunk in a Rolls Royce Silver Wraith outside the terrace of the Dancers.”

Later on, Marlowe helps Lennox escape to Mexico without asking too many questions and then comes under suspicion himself when it turns out that Lennox was a suspect in a murder case.

That seems to be that and then Marlowe is asked by a concerned publisher to help the alcoholic writer Roger Wade, who is struggling to finish a novel. Rather against his will, Marlowe finds himself drawn further into the lives of the wealthy inhabitants of the appropriately named Idle Valley.

This appears to be a second story, totally unconnected to the first but slowly and surely the connection between the two becomes apparent.

A good example of the atmosphere of the book is the scene where Marlowe stands by the lake at the back of Wade’s house and watches the speedboat and the surfer on the water. This has a kind of poetic resonance but also functions as part of the plot because we later find out that the noise of the engine masked a gunshot.

One thing that strikes me is how modern the book still feels, given that it was published in 1953. It seems to have influenced every depiction of Los Angeles since that time. There are drug-dealing doctors, mysterious out-of-town medical establishments and it all feels rather familiar from later books and films. Press magnate Harlan Potter seems to be the original for the John Huston character in Chinatown. The notorious Los Angeles smog is mentioned quite a lot, twenty years before the photo on the cover of Tim Buckley’s record Greetings from L A.

But then Chandler was a very influential writer in other ways. He didn’t invent the first-person, sardonic, private eye narrator (that was Dashiell Hammett) but he did refine and perfect the idea, giving a model to follow to many later writers such as Len Deighton and, more recently, Philip Kerr.

The phrase the “long goodbye” was mentioned in the news the other day, because of the death of Gene Hackman. It is now used to refer to cases of Alzheimer’s, apparently. That theme is in the book, though almost hidden in what appears to be a sub-plot. When Marlowe is trying to find Roger Wade, his only clue is that the doctor’s name begins with the letter “v”. He finds three such doctors and one of them runs a rather sinister old people’s home, where the frail elderly are kept sedated and presumably fleeced of their money. Later on, a character writes something in their suicide note about not wanting to live to be old so “the long goodbye” does not just refer to Terry Lennox. Did I notice that theme when I was younger? I don’t remember that I did. A really good book reveals more and deeper meanings with the passage of time and re-reading.       

There is also a fascinating connection with the recent TV drama about Ruth Ellis, the last woman to be executed in Britain, in 1955. One of the detectives explains to Marlowe why the police have not looked further into a murder. “You don’t fool around with an open-shut case, even if there’s no heat to get it finalized and forgotten [. . .] No police department in the world has the men or the time to question the obvious.” This is exactly what happened in the Ruth Ellis case, I think.

Two years later, Chandler wrote a letter to the London Evening Standard criticising the decision to execute Ruth Ellis. He wrote that it was barbaric and that no other country would have done it.

I’ve never seen the 1970s film of The Long Goodbye and I don’t think I want to. It isn’t supposed to have much to do with the book, as it has been updated to the 1970s and the plot has been altered. It’s a pity, because a decent film, done in the correct period, could have been quite something.

Is The Long Goodbye Chandler’s masterpiece? I don’t know, but it does have a haunting quality, with the characters lingering long in the mind. I liked it when I first read it all those years ago and I like it even more now. One of those “books of a lifetime”, I guess.

The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins

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The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins was published in 1860 and has often been regarded as the first mystery novel. It is a combination of gothic romance and detective story and still highly readable today, although it does perhaps rely a little too heavily on coincidence. It stays just this side of melodrama, though, and Collins manipulates suspense in ways that would not be out of place in a modern novel. Even at 600 pages, it’s pretty well unputdownable, what we would today call an “immersive” read. It is very intense and very atmospheric.

Collins makes use of an original narrative technique. There are several different narrators, who, as the story progresses, tell the reader about the events that they were actually present at, thorough their journals and legal statements. It’s rather as if they are witnesses in court, as the first narrator, the art tutor Walter Hartright, tells us and it may reflect Collins’ legal background.

The striking scene near the beginning, Walter’s late-night encounter with the woman of the title while he is walking across a lonely Hampstead Heath is deservedly famous. He has just learned that he is to be employed as a tutor at Limmeridge House in Cumberland. The strange and distracted woman who appears suddenly on the road seems to have some connection with the place. This meeting sets the whole complex and intricate plot in motion. Just who she is and what her connection to Cumberland is are key parts of a mystery that is very much concerned with identity and family secrets. There is also a great deal in the book about the position of women in relation to men in the Victorian era.

In Cumberland, Walter finds himself tutor to two young women, Laura Fairlie and her half-sister, Marian Halcombe. He falls in love with Laura and the feeling is mutual but Laura is engaged to Sir Percival Glyde and feels obliged to marry him as it was her late father’s wish. A heartbroken Walter goes abroad and the story is continued by Marian.

Things take a darker turn after the marriage when the scene shifts to Glyde’s country estate in Hampshire. Marian is part of the household as are Glyde’s friend Count Fosco and his wife, who is Laura’s aunt. Glyde turns out not to be quite as charming as he appeared during his courtship of Laura. He insisted on a pre-nuptial arrangement under which Laura’s money would pass to him on her death and he is soon trying to get access to her fortune while she is still alive. To say much more about how things develop would be to spoil the book for those who have not read it. There are plenty of twists and turns that are not easy to predict, even today.

Apart from the unusual narrative structure, Collins shows other great strengths as a writer in this novel. His superb visual sense places the scene right before our eyes. This is used to great effect with the transition from Cumberland to Hampshire, to the gloomy house and grounds named, rather appropriately, Blackwater.

It is perhaps the depth of the characterisation that keeps the reader turning the pages as much as the mystery element. The women are particularly interesting, especially Marian, who is a fascinating character. When Walter first sees her, he admires her figure, but thinks her face “ugly” when she turns round. That does not seem to deter Count Fosco’s admiration of her at all. What is going on here? Is it because she is described as “dark” and he is Italian? It is the blonde, more passive, Laura that Walter falls for. Is Collins just going along with the standard Victorian idea of what is desirable, or is this intended as a subtle criticism of Walter, an indication that he is a bit superficial? I suspect modern readers are likely to think he has chosen the wrong woman and that it is rather unfair for Marian to end up as a sort of perpetual aunt.

Several of the women refer to their limitations as women. Is this to do with their physical strength or their legal position in relation to men? Or is Collins being a bit ironic here, particularly in relation to Marian, given her forcefulness and determination?

The malevolent Mrs Catherick, with her insistence on hard-won respectability, is another interesting character, but perhaps the most fascinating of the female characters is Madame Fosco. The change in her personality after her marriage and Fosco’s utter dominance of her is never really explained although there are hints of something sinister on his part. It feels like an example of what we would now call “coercive control”.

It is in the third part of the novel that the detective element becomes strongest, when Walter has returned from abroad and sets to work to unravel the mystery. Collins is careful to plant details that justify later events in a way that is still used in crime novels now. Perhaps that is the secret of the book’s enduring appeal, the curious combination of things that are very Victorian and things that are timeless or modern. And given some of the stories that make the news these days, has that much really changed since the nineteenth century?

The Documents in the Case by Dorothy L Sayers and Robert Eustace

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I was very excited when I found out about The Documents in the Case, published in 1930. I have read and enjoyed several of Dorothy L Sayers’ other books, but I did not realise she had written this, the only one not to feature Lord Peter Wimsey. It is a crime novel written in epistolary form, based to a certain extent on the real-life Edith Thompson case. I was hoping it would be another Trent’s Last Case or Malice Aforethought but despite being a compelling read, I was left with a slight feeling of disappointment at the end.

The beginning is the most interesting part, where we gradually learn about the slightly odd Harrison household. It’s rather reminiscent of Patrick Hamilton’s boarding house tales. Margaret Harrison is the much younger second wife of George Harrison, who has a grown-up son, Paul, working abroad. John Munting, a writer, and Harwood Lathom, a painter, rent the flat upstairs and since the hallways adjoin, come into contact with the Harrisons. Agatha Milsom is a sort of paid companion to Mrs Harrison. Mr Harrison is keen on his hobbies of painting and the study of wild mushrooms. It is his sudden death, supposedly from eating the wrong kind of mushroom, that is the case of the title.         

One picture of the Harrisons’ marriage emerges through Agatha Milsom’s letters to her sister. Another view comes from Munting’s letters to his fiancé. Mr Harrison seems quite a different character in his own letters to his son Paul. Miss Milsom thinks that Harrison is an unfeeling brute and his wife is a victim, but she inadvertently reveals that Margaret Harrison is a rather self-dramatising character, perhaps as much the cause of the rows as Mr Harrison. Munting has quite a low opinion of Mrs Harrison and is sure that the marital discord is her fault. Is Harrison the bullying husband that Agatha Milsom takes him to be, or simply older and rather set in his ways with fixed ideas of how a wife should behave? If Margaret Harrison is based to a certain extent on Edith Thompson, I got the feeling that Sayers did not altogether approve of her.

Agatha Milsom, the spinster companion who is mentally troubled and obsessed with sex is the most interesting character, but she disappears from the narrative too early on, after having played a crucial role in how events unfold. The later part of the book features the statements of John Munting and Paul Harrison. These are much longer than the letters and it begins to feel more like a conventional novel.

Munting’s letters to his fiancé, Elizabeth Drake, who is also a writer, convey something of the intellectual climate of the late 1920s, when old certainties had been shattered by the first world war and the ideas of Freud and Einstein were becoming known. His obsession with how life came into being is rather irritating, though. How are we supposed to take all this? It does rather neatly set up the discussion among the scientists at the end that leads to the solution. This chapter is very irritating, but more of that later.

Paul Harrison does not believe his father’s death was an accident and becomes the main investigator into what really happened. It’s very well worked out how he has gathered all the documents together. He also says that Munting’s letters to his wife were the work of a writer with one eye on future publication, giving us a clue as to how to read them. Some of Munting’s comments about publishers probably come from Sayers’ own experience, rather like the advertising agency background she used in Murder Must Advertise.

I was slightly irritated by Sir Gilbert Pugh only being named as the Director of Public Prosecutions right at the end of the book. Since it begins with Paul Harrison sending the bundle of documents to him, it would make the whole story much clearer if Pugh’s role was identified at the beginning.

It’s also slightly frustrating that once the poison is proved to be artificial, that is the rather abrupt end of the novel. Yet Paul Harrison spent a great deal of time trying and failing to work out exactly how the poison was administered and we never learn that.

The book was written as a collaboration between Dorothy L Sayers and Robert Eustace. He was a doctor who had worked with other crime writers before, so I assume the science came from him. I suspect that the science versus religion debate might have appealed to the religious Sayers and her desire to write something that would be seen as more than a detective story. The penultimate chapter, in which the scientists discuss the method of proving whether a substance occurred naturally or was artificially synthesised is far too long and tedious in the extreme.

The novel as a whole reads like a cross between a golden-age detective story and a “highbrow” novel of the 1920s, by an author such as Aldous Huxley, whose Point Counter Point gets a mention. It is full of references to writers of the time. John Munting is rather dismissive about A High Wind in Jamaica, and Agatha Milsom is a bit puzzled by the work of D H Lawrence.

Sayers even refers to one of her own novels, because the pathologist Sir James Lubbock says he is working on an arsenic case, presumably that of Harriet Vane in Strong Poison, published around the same time as The Documents in the Case.

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie

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Agatha Christie’s novels are rather unfairly seen as “cosy” these days. Anyone who wants to find out just how dark her work can be should take a look at And Then There Were None, published in 1939.

An author’s note reveals what a technical challenge it was for her to write. It’s also a challenge for me to convey something of the flavour of the book without giving too much away.

The set-up is very simple. A group of ten strangers are lured to a house on the mysterious Soldier Island, off the Devon coast. During dinner on the first night, a voice rings out and accuses each of the guests of a crime. These are mostly the sort of crimes that are beyond the reach of the law, because no-one realises that any crime has actually been committed.

The voice turns out to be a recording that one of the servants has been tricked into playing.  

In each guest’s room there is a framed inscription of the old nursery rhyme which begins “Ten little soldier boys went out to dine” and ends with “and then there were none”. On the dining room table are ten china figurines. The guests begin to die, one by one, in ways that resemble the rhyme. Then they realise that each death is a murder. Every time someone dies the others find that one of the figures has disappeared from the table.

Someone is exacting retribution for the crimes that went undetected and unpunished.

A thorough search of the island reveals that there is no-one else there. The killer must be one of the guests.

The tension ramps up as the number of people left alive dwindles and the survivors become extremely suspicious of each other. Each of them is now trapped in a nightmare of doubt, believing one of the others to be the killer.

It would be unfair to anyone who has not read the book to say any more. It’s all very well worked out by Christie so that even the arrival of the police at the end does not clear up the mystery. That is revealed right at the end in a note by the perpetrator explaining how they set the whole thing up.

A quick resume of the plot may make the book sound like a rather soulless and mechanical exercise in suspense, but it’s much more than that. There is a crucial point at the very end that seems to go missing in the numerous film and TV adaptations. The guests die in the order of seriousness of their crimes. This makes the reader think back over what they have just read. There are different degrees of moral responsibility and guilt. There are also different ways of betraying trust. And Christie makes clear just what is the most serious crime of all, for which the punishment must be suicide not murder.

The characters are introduced skilfully so that the reader has little difficultly telling them apart. The introductory part of the novel is reasonably realistic. As the tension rises, this gives way to something different. The island is bleak and treeless and the only building on it is the house, a nineteen-thirties modernist structure. There are no gothic trappings here and much of the action takes place in broad daylight.

Everything is stripped back to focus the reader’s attention on the characters and their situation. There is a sort of double suspense, as to just what each did in the past, as well as who might be the killer now. As the survivors begin to contemplate the possibility of death, and their different attitudes to it are revealed, the novel takes on something of an existential atmosphere.

I wonder if this was because it was written at the beginning of the second world war. I detected a similar contemplation of mortality in Eric Ambler’s Journey Into Fear, written around the same time.

In the latter stages, the bleak setting gives the feeling that the characters are in a sort of hell. More than once, there is a hint of the supernatural, as if they are being punished by God. There is a touch of “the voice of God” about the recording. Indeed, the whole story has a rather parable-like feel to it.

The Little Sister by Raymond Chandler

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Having read a Philip Marlowe continuation novel, Only to Sleep by Lawrence Osborne, I felt it was time to return to the original novels by Raymond Chandler. A long time ago, he used to be a real favourite of mine. How would his writing seem to me now, a lifetime later?

I assumed that I had read all the Philip Marlowe books, so when I took The Little Sister out of the library, I thought I would be re-reading it. As I started reading, it did not seem very familiar and I realised that I had missed this one.

What a treat it was to have a Marlowe story come up fresh! I think it might just be the best of them, having a slight edge over The Long Goodbye. What I had forgotten is the intensity of Chandler’s writing, the visual quality that makes reading him feel like watching a film noir in one’s mind’s eye. He is such a marvellous prose stylist. Let’s face it, he’s a considerably better writer than many other American writers of the second half of the twentieth century who have more “literary” reputations.  

He didn’t invent that distinctive first-person style, but he did refine and perfect it. Every now and then we get a hint that Marlowe is an educated man. “Browning, the poet not the gun.”, for example. This justifies the language in which his thoughts are framed.

So many of the writers I have liked over the years use a style that derives from Chandler. Len Deighton borrowed quite heavily from Chandler in his early novels, perhaps most of all in Billion Dollar Brain where the assassin uses the same killing method as in The Little Sister. Derek Raymond went so far as to adopt “Raymond” as his pen name. Philip Kerr used a world-weary, Marlowe style detective to examine the Third Reich.

This time, I’m not going to bother with a detailed description of the plot. Chandler himself was famously unconcerned about that side of things. During the filming of The Big Sleep, when asked to confirm a detail in the plot, he said he had no idea. What plot there is here is driven by the search for some photographs that could compromise the career of a rising Hollywood star. But why are people prepared to kill to get them? 

It’s the atmosphere, the sense of place, the feeling that Marlowe is involved in murky goings-on that he can’t quite understand, that are so compelling. Marlowe’s not really a logical detective in the Holmes manner, more of an intuitive one like Maigret.

This story seems even more cynical than the others. It’s full of quotable passages, including the famous line about Los Angeles: “A city with all the personality of a paper cup”. There is a description of a well-off lawyer: “He looked as if it would cost a thousand dollars to shake hands with him.”

Perhaps it is the Hollywood setting that makes this one so good. Chandler had seen it all from the inside by the time this was published and he uses his knowledge to great effect. He had worked very successfully in the film industry, writing the original screenplay of The Blue Dahlia and adapting Double Indemnity. As the movie mogul says “Save fifty cents in this business and all you have is five dollars’ worth of book-keeping”.

The reference to the studio owning “1500 theatres” is a reminder that this was published in 1949 and set in the late 1940s, just before the legal challenge that forced the studios to sell off the cinemas, thus ending their monopoly of the business that was more or less a licence to print money.

It’s a detective story but also a look at the dark side of Hollywood glamour. Money values have become the only values in Los Angeles, making the city a target for all kinds of criminal interests and vulnerable to corruption. This is something more than a murder mystery and Chandler is a serious writer who cannot be confined to a category marked “detective story”.

He is contemplating serious matters here as in this description of Marlowe coming across a dead man: “Something had happened to his face and behind his face, the indefinable thing that happens in that always baffling and inscrutable moment, the smoothing out, the going back over the years to the age of innocence.”

Plain Murder by C S Forester

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Plain Murder was the second of C S Forester’s crime novels and was published in 1930. It’s really a portrait of what came to be known later on as a psychopath, although Forester does not actually use that word. It’s comparatively short and fast-paced, with not a word wasted and a good balance between plot and character.

Forester writes in a rather detached style, and the overall effect is like a cross between Patrick Hamilton and Georges Simenon, with a similar sense of the characters being trapped by circumstances and their own limitations. The nineteen thirties atmosphere is like a black and white photograph. It’s no surprise that these books have been called “London Noir”.        

It’s set in an advertising agency and when the story opens, three young men who work there are discussing what to do about the fact that their scheme to bribe clients has been discovered. Morris is the ringleader and he has rather pushed his colleagues, Oldroyd and Reddy, into going along with it. They fear dismissal without a “character” (a good reference), which would make it almost impossible to get another job. This is London on the verge of the great depression with no welfare safety net.

Morris realises that the manager, Harrison, has not yet told the owner of the company that he is going to sack the three of them. Noticing that the next day is Bonfire Night, he persuades the other two that the only way out is to murder Harrison. Oldroyd has a pistol and Reddy has a motorcycle; their participation is necessary for the plan to work and Morris convinces them that he alone will be criminally responsible. He carries out the killing, the noise of the shots covered by the fireworks, and then scornfully tells the other two that they are accessories to murder who could face hanging if discovered, so must keep their mouths shut about what he has done.

Morris appears to have got away with it. The police make no headway with their investigation and he is promoted to take Harrison’s place. The irony is that the working-class Morris is a much more vigorous and dynamic manager than the rather languid Harrison ever was.

Morris becomes more and more convinced of his cleverness and superiority, both as a successful criminal and someone who is going places in the world of advertising. Meanwhile, young Reddy’s conscience is troubling him deeply. Morris realises that Reddy is likely to blurt out exactly what has happened. He begins to think that he will have to be disposed of too. He approaches this problem like an artist thinking out a creative difficulty. Inspiration strikes when he sees his wife pushing their son’s pram at the top of the hill on the estate where they live. If she let go, there would be nothing to stop the pram running down the hill into the busy traffic on the main road at the bottom.

He contrives a meeting with Reddy and invites him to tea. While he is there, Morris slips away and tampers with Reddy’s motorcycle. Shortly after he leaves, the drive chain comes off because Morris has loosened it; the brakes won’t work because Morris has loosened them too and Reddy is unable to lose any speed as the bike accelerates down the hill and into the stream of traffic where he is killed. The police assume that the drive chain snapped accidently and the brakes were damaged in the subsequent crash. Forester suggests that the German police system, where every citizen has a file, might possibly have led the police to connect Reddy to Morris. If they had realised that Reddy worked at an office where the manager had been murdered in mysterious circumstances and that he had just left the house of another man who worked there, they might have taken a different view of events.

Morris has got away with it again. He now feels that he is a sort of superman and he starts to view other people as “mere tools and instruments that he could use and throw aside”. Forester tells us that the main characteristic of a criminal is “an unusual idea of the importance of his own well-being compared with the importance of the well-being, or the opinions, or the ideals of other people”.

The business goes from strength to strength and more staff are required. The owner brings his daughter to work there and Morris thinks she is a very attractive girl. If only he was not shackled to his wife! Here is another little problem for him to give some creative thought to. He is detached from reality now, completely misinterpreting the young girl’s mild flirting. And he realises that Oldroyd is becoming a problem for him too.

To go beyond this point would spoil the book for anyone who has not read it. I’ll just point out that there are three murders, one that the police can’t solve and two that are never thought to be murders at all. No-one is punished, or at least not by the law. The resolution is very satisfying to the reader. It’s a novel that is almost a hundred years old and has lost none of its power.

Payment Deferred by C S Forester

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Payment Deferred, published in 1926, is an early novel by C S Forester. In theme and tone it is quite different from the Hornblower series he is most famous for today, or his other later novels based on military and naval history, such as The General or The Good Shepherd.       

This is a crime novel in the true sense of that term, a psychological study of the effect of a murder on its perpetrator. It’s startlingly different from detective stories that were published the same year, by Agatha Christie and Dorothy L Sayers, and it’s still quite surprising that something as black as this was written almost a century ago.

The tone and sort of life described is rather reminiscent of the novels of Patrick Hamilton, but without the humour. Something, perhaps the sex references, highly unusual in a British novel of this vintage, reminds me strongly of the work of Georges Simenon, the standalone novels that do not feature Inspector Maigret, that he called “romans durs”. There is also a reference to the 1920’s flu pandemic that today’s reader can’t help noticing.

Mr Marble is a bank clerk, married with two children, living in a shabby south London suburb in the years immediately after the great war. He is in serious financial trouble when temptation presents itself in the form of a wealthy nephew on a visit from Australia. Mr Marble’s hobby is photography, so there is a convenient bottle of potassium cyanide in his cupboard. The murder takes place offstage; it is hinted at by the scream that Mrs Marble thinks she has heard when half asleep and her puzzlement at the muddy state of her husband’s suit.

The whole tragic sequence of events that unfolds derives from the fact that Mr Marble has buried the body in the garden. He takes to sitting alone with his secret in the back room, blotting out his fear of the hangman with whiskey, while keeping an eye on the untended scrubby garden to make sure no-one notices anything.

The house is rented. Mr Marble becomes obsessed with getting enough money to secure the freehold to prevent someone else moving in and finding the body. His frantic desperation spurs him on to use his financial knowledge as a foreign exchange clerk to do a little insider trading. The irony is that it is only his guilt that makes him daring enough to take the risk. His scheme succeeds beyond his expectations, making him wealthy, but the problems for this most unhappy of families are only just beginning.

Mr Marble can drink all the whiskey he wants now, as he contemplates the garden, while reading a book from his newly acquired library on crime. Eventually, of course, things move beyond his control.   

The novel is grimly compelling, because the reader can see from quite early on that things will end badly and that Marble’s crime will be discovered. The suspense comes from wondering exactly how it will all play out. The end, when it does come, is both a surprise and bitterly ironic. The title is highly appropriate for a novel where money plays such an important role.    

Only to Sleep by Lawrence Osborne

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Lawrence Osborne was the third writer commissioned by the estate of Raymond Chandler to write a Philip Marlowe continuation novel and Only to Sleep was published in 2018.

The brilliant idea here is that it is 1988, the tail-end of the Reagan era, and Marlowe is seventy-two, retired and living in the part of Mexico that is just south of California. When an insurance company in San Diego approaches him to investigate a claim, he can’t resist accepting the case; one last job to stave off the boredom and inertia of retirement.

It’s the sort of mystery familiar from Marlowe’s earlier career. Wealthy property developer Donald Zinn has died in Mexico and his Mexican widow is making a claim on the life insurance. The company suspect it may be a fraud and that Zinn is still alive. Marlowe is despatched to Mexico to find out the truth.

Marlowe is not quite what he was, though. That’s hardly a surprise given the hard living that was depicted in Chandler’s books. He has got his drinking just about under control, but tends to have strange dreams. He has a limp because of arthritis and walks with the aid of a cane. It’s suggested that he is impotent now. Something of what he was remains though, because the cane is actually a swordstick. His determination and quick wits in a sticky situation are still intact, too. So is that moral sense, the feeling that in the end he will do the right thing because he can’t help it. 

Marlowe laments the way the world has changed, and what he sees as debased modern tastes in clothes and music. He remains a suit-and-tie man, fond of the old jazz songs. As much as a detective story, this is a meditation on the passage of time, ageing and retirement, and facing up to mortality.

Pretty soon the plot turns into a pursuit of a man who may or may not be Zinn. There’s a hint that Zinn is a sort of sinister double of Marlowe, being another retiree yet married to a Mexican woman half his age. It has the same dream-like feel of never quite coming into focus that you find in Raymond Chandler’s books. This is reflected in the title, taken from an Aztec song: “We come here only to dream/We come only to sleep”.

The real main character of this book is Mexico, described with such vividness that you have to read quite slowly to take in the precise, descriptive prose. Osborne is also a travel writer, after all, and catches the bright light and colour of Mexico. He has reproduced the distinctive tone of Marlowe’s first-person narration, but also subtly adapted it. Marlowe is as observant as ever, but the setting is Mexico, not Los Angeles. He is older and a bit gloomier.

Once again Marlowe is on a quest, a road trip from hotel room to hotel room as he goes further south into Mexico and further from America in every sense. Much as the book recalls Chandler, it also reminded me quite strongly of Patricia Highsmith. I am thinking of those tales of American expatriates adrift in Greece or North Africa where dollars will buy a lot of things not available at home. There’s also a hint of F Scott Fitzgerald in a rather sinister Gatsbyesque masked party.

This is that rare thing, a continuation novel that is based on the work of another writer yet stands up on its own as work of fiction. I don’t think you have to have read Raymond Chandler to get a lot out of Only to Sleep.