Forgotten Book - The Little Walls

The Little Walls was published in 1955, and the following year, it won the CWA's Crossed Red Herring Award for the best crime novel of the year. That was the very first time the prize had been awarded. It's now the CWA Gold Dagger. Some of the finest crime novels of the past sixty years have won the Gold Dagger, but a surprising number have fallen far out of sight since then.

The Little Walls is among them, and yet its author is renowned. He was Winston Graham, famous above all for Poldark, which I've never read or watched, but which is undoubtedly very popular. What is more, Graham's crime fiction was also successful - Hitchcock filmed Marnie, for instance, and The Walking Stick also became a movie.

This novel reminded me strongly of the type of thriller Eric Ambler was writing at much the same time. Graham's writing, like Ambler's, is several cuts above the average. He is strong on character and setting and competent with plot, though this isn't a whodunit. Rather, it involves the attempt by Philip Turner to find out the truth about the death of his brother, who apparently committed suicide by jumping into a canal in Amsterdam.

The heart of the book lies in a series of moral dilemmas. Graham contrasts two different types of personality, in effect representing good and evil, and does so in a way that is constantly interesting, even if the pace is occasional less fast than one expects of a thriller. Much of the action takes place in Capri, and he evokes that lovely island's languid nature very well. I can see why this book won the award, and I'm glad I finally caught up with it at last.

Anthony, Ambler, and Words in the Square

A quick trip to London for two contrasting events began brilliantly, when I received an email telling me that The Golden Age of Murder has been shortlisted for an Anthony award, at the New Orleans Bouchercon this September. The shortlist includes, as well as Kate White's popular MWA cookbook, and two other highly informative and interesting books, Val McDermid's book on Forensics, which I rushed out to purchase shortly after its original publication.

So The Golden Age of Murder has won two awards and been shortlisted for two others; three of my novels have, over the years, been shortlisted for major awards (one of which, the Theakston's award for best crime novel of the year, for which The Coffin Trail was a contender, was actually won by Val) but I've never had an experience like this. It's a once in a lifetime thing, and to say I'm delighted is a massive under-statement.

On Friday evening, I was one of no fewer than eight speakers at the British Library, talking about Eric Ambler. Three of Ambler's post-war novels have just been reissued in the BL's Classic Thrillers series, and I wrote introductions for each of them. I'm an Ambler fan - my favourite is his masterpiece, The Mask of Dimitrios - and it was a pleasure to chat about his work. I particularly liked Stav Sherez' suggestion that Ambler's work has something in common with that of the noir writers. A thoughtful and persuasive observation, I think.

The next day, I headed for St James's Square (pictured above) for the London Library's celebration of its 175th anniversary, Words in the Square. There was a glittering cast of speakers, so I felt honoured to be included among the invitees. Last year, Golden Age expert and commentator Helen Szamuely took me on a guided tour of the Library, and I thought it a fantastic place, full of atmosphere and history.

The panellists whom I was moderating were James Runcie (son of the Archbishop, literary curator, documentary producer and author of the books on which the highly successful TV series Grantchester is based), Simon Brett, and Kate Summerscale, author of The Suspicions of Mr Whicher, one of the most successful books about real life crime in living memory. Simon told the story of the creation of The Sinking Admiral, which is due to be published next month - something that I hope all crime fans who like a bit of fun with their fiction will anticipate eagerly. With writers of such pedigree, moderating is an easy task, and the hour sped by. The audience seemed to enjoy it, and I certainly did.

Forgotten Book - The Great Impersonation

The British Library has been very active on the publishing front over the past year or so. Quite apart from its Crime Classics series, it has also republished a couple of espionage thrillers by E. Phillips Oppenheim, The Spy Paramount, and The Great Impersonation in another series, British Library Spy Classics. The latter novel is my choice for today's Forgotten Book.

Although I haven't written much about them on this blog, I've always had a soft spot for spy stories. As a schoolboy, I received as a present The Spy's Bedside Book by Hugh and Graham Greene, a wonderful anthology which really fired my interest n the genre. A while later, I became a huge fan of Len Deighton's books, and also had the pleasure of discovering the likes of Eric Ambler and John Le Carre.

I must confess, though, that until this pair of books came out last year, I'd never read E. Phillips Oppenheim. He was, in his day, highly successful, and known as "the Prince of Storytellers", but  I doubted whether his work would appeal to me, despite the fact that he evidently led a colourful life. But I can honestly say that I was pleasantly surprised by The Great Impersonation.

This edition benefits from an introduction by Professor Tim Crook, who gives an insightful overview of the author's life and career. He also confirms that the book was originally published in 1920 (the copyright page suggests 1935). The essence of the story is conveyed by the book's title. This is a tale about two men who are lookalikes. One is an English aristocrat, the other is a German baron. When Edward Dominey arrives back in the UK after time spent in Africa, the question arises - is he the man he claims to be, or the agent of a foreign power? Tales of duality always exert a considerable appeal, and this is no exception. This is a story which sold over a million copies, and thanks to the British Library's initiative, I now have a much better understanding of why Oppenheim was so popular in his hey-day.



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Eric Ambler - guest blog by Peter Lewis

Peter and Margaret Lewis have been good friends of mine for more than 25 years. They have a distinguished track record in academe, and have both written some fiction, but are best known for their books about other writers - Margaret, for instance, wrote a super book about Ngaio Marsh. They also ran Flambard Press, and published Dancing for the Hangman. Today, I'm delighted to host a guest blog by Peter about a book which I can strongly recommend. 

"Once upon a time I was commissioned by Continuum Publishing in New York to write a book about Eric Ambler, with the emphasis on his literary achievement, originality and influence. Not, then, a conventional  biography. This arose after I was awarded an Edgar (Edgar Allan Poe Award) by the Mystery Writers of America for the best non-fiction mystery title of the year published in the US: my book about John le Carré.

Eric Ambler was very much alive at this time and back in London after many years in Hollywood and Switzerland, so I approached him via his literary agent in the hope that he would be willing to discuss the proposed book. In reply, he cautiously expressed interest in it and suggested that we meet to see how he could help. That successful first meeting set the pattern for quite a few more in the late 1980s: an extremely leisurely lunch in Mayfair, always involving an excellent Chablis. Because of his reputation as a writer of that supposedly lowest of  literary forms, the thriller, he hadn’t attracted much in the way of academic interest, and was obviously keen to discover what an academic like myself was making of his oeuvre, especially his eighteen novels. My book about him, published as a hardback in 1990, was to be the first full-length critical evaluation of his fiction. I wrote it on an Amstrad, which still lurks in a corner of the attic. A museum piece. I didn’t have the advantage of the internet when working on the 1990 book, whereas I benefited enormously from it in preparing the new version.

Eric was not writing a great deal in his later years, and his final novel, The Care of Time, came out in 1981. Even so, he lived for almost a decade after my book was published, and it could hardly be described as a definitive study. It was bound to seem incomplete. I thought about revising and updating it, but didn’t get round to it until Endeavour Press expressed an interest in publishing the original version as an eBook. I wasn’t in favour of simply reissuing  it as it stood, and persuaded Endeavour to publish a revised and slightly expanded version to complete what seemed incomplete. Still a work in progress.

I continued to see Eric in London occasionally after my book was published, but neither he nor his wife, Joan Harrison, was in good health in the 1990s, and Joan died in August 1994 after a long illness. The most surprising thing that happened in that decade was the first American publication in 1990 of his debut novel, The Dark Frontier, more than fifty years after its British publication in 1936. Early on, Eric had lost the US copyright. It was thanks to Mysterious Press in New York that the novel finally surfaced in the US, and Mysterious Press soon followed this in 1991 with Waiting for Orders, subtitled The Complete Short Stories of Eric Ambler. This contains the eight stories he had published in a writing career of almost sixty years, indicating that he was much less at home with the short form than with the novel. Eric was to write one more story: ‘The One Who Did for Blagden Cole’. This longish narrative was commissioned for a fiction Festschrift, The Man Who . . . , to honor the distinguished English literary scholar, critic and writer Julian Symons on his eightieth birthday in 1992. The book, containing thirteen stories by prominent crime and thriller writers was edited by H.R.F. Keating on behalf of the British Detection Club and published in London by Macmillan.

After The Care of Time, Eric’s London publishers Weidenfeld and Nicolson encouraged him to write his autobiography in the 1980s, and in 1985 he published one volume covering the years up to the late 1940s, Here Lies,  with its teasing title printed above his name on the jacket to produce the startlingly ambiguous HERE LIES ERIC AMBLER. A second volume was expected in the 1990s but did not appear. Eric’s final book with another teasing title, The Story So Far: Memories & Other Fictions, was published in 1993 and is an unusual medley. It contains all nine of his published stories, the eight collected in Waiting for Orders plus the new one he wrote for The Man Who . . . in a slightly modified form, but these are interwoven with four sections of autobiography, ‘Beginning’, ‘End of the Beginning’, ‘Middle’, and ‘To Be Continued’. It is typical of Ambler’s fondness for irony that the fourth and final section  is not called ‘End’ but ‘To Be Continued’, although it seems clear that he had no intention of continuing with his autobiography. By the time of his death on 22 October 1998 aged eighty-nine Eric was at last receiving the serious academic attention he deserves for his major literary achievement. Books by the American scholars Ronald Ambrosetti, Peter Wolfe and Robert Lance Snyder followed in the wake of mine. It is a pity that Eric did not live long enough to see the Swiss scholar Stefan Howald’s monumental and magisterial Eric Ambler: Eine Biographie (2002). At long last Eric was being celebrated as a major novelist."

The Riddle of the Sands and the birth of the spy novel

The Riddle of the Sands is a classic novel of 1903 by Erskine Childers which is widely regarded as one of the first notable spy novels. I saw the 1979 film version a long time ago, but despite a starry cast, including Michael York and the always watchable Jenny Agutter, it found it a bit flat. Perhaps partly because of that, it has taken me a long time to get round to reading the novel itself, but I recently read the Atlatntic Books edition, which includes an excellent afterword by Professor Robert Giddings.

Briefly, the story is narrated by a rather irritating civil servant called Carruthers, who is invited by an old university friend, Davies, to join him on a yachting trip. Carruthers' behaviour and attitudes in the early pages are boorish, although he recognises this later, and develops into a more likeable character. The relationship between him and the eager, obsessive Davies, is one of the strengths of the book. As they sail around the Frisian Islands, they have to figure out whether a mysterious man called Dollmann is all that he seems.

This is an important book for two reasons. First, in the short term, it drew people's attention to the threat to international peace posed by the Kaiser's Germany. Second, it set a standard for the spy story, and paved the way for the work of the likes of Eric Ambler and, much later, John Le Carre. Ambler and Le Carre, like Childers, were men who were prepared to question the status quo, but the story of how in real life, Childers eventually finished up paying the ultimate price for his attitudes is fascinating as well as upsetting.

There is a huge amount about sailing in this story, and - despite my admiration for the book - I felt this was a mistake. At one point Carruthers says of a train journey "the pace was execrable" and to be brutally honest, by that point. I felt much the same about The Riddle of the Sands. I suppose this is because endless details about how to sail a boat don't really interest me, yet Childers went overboard on them (sorry, couldn't resist that!)

Not a perfect novel, then, and I don't think Childers really was a committed novelist. He was more interested in ideas and actions and politics, and he was evidently as brave, stubborn and obsessive as Davies. But there's no doubt that he made a lasting contribution to espionage fiction. Giddings says the book has never been out of print, so I have not called it a Forgotten Book. And despite my reservations, it certainly does deserve to continue to be remembered.

The Third Man

Watching Carol Reed’s superb 1949 film The Third Man again, not long after reading Eric Ambler’s novel of ten years earlier, The Mask of  Dimitrios, I was struck by the similarities between the novel and Graham Greene’s screenplay. Both feature an apparently dead villain whose story is sought after by a rather naive popular novelist, and the two story-lines develop (despite many differences) in a broadly comparable way.

There can be little doubting Ambler’s influence on Greene, yet The Third Man remains a distinctive and enjoyable piece of work, and it is, I think, a very good example of how one story-teller can properly borrow from another, and yet still make his work very much his own. 

The setting in post-war Vienna is highly atmospheric, and of course the famous sewer sequence, as well as the scenes shot near to the Wiener Reisenrad, which long pre-dates The Millennium Wheel, are intensely memorable. The cinematography is complemented by Anton Karas’ zither music, and “The Harry Lime Theme” became an international hit.

Greene’s narrative has plenty of pleasing twists and turns, as well as a downbeat ending, and he and director Carol Reed are extremely well served by the cast. This includes those British stalwarts Trevor Howard, Bernard Lee and Wilfred Hyde-White, as well as Joseph Cotten and, best of all, Orson Welles. It is, at heart, a story about friendship and betrayal, and is a first rate example of how a tale that is very much of its time can nevertheless stand the test of time.

Forgotten Book: The Mask of Dimitrios

It seems odd to class Eric Ambler’s The Mask of Dimitrios as a Forgotten Book. It is widely acknowledged as one of the great espionage thrillers of the 20th century, and it was the basis for a film (which I haven’t seen) as well as influencing writers of a subsequent generation such as John Le Carre. Yet I’ve not seen much discussion of it in recent years.

I read it in youth, because Michael Gilbert, a super judge, said it was a masterpiece, but when I was 13 or 14, the subtleties of the story eluded me. I appreciated it much more on a recent re-reading while on holiday. And I loved Amber’s device of taking a writer of Golden Age fiction, Charles Latimer, and making him come face to face with real villainy.

Latimer’s quest for the mysterious Dimitrios is a strange one. He’s become fascinated with the man after being shown his dead body in a morgue in Istanbul. He wants to find out what made him tick, and Ambler tells much of the story in flashback. Yet somehow he maintains pace and suspense throughout – a remarkable feat of writing. All the more remarkable because he produced this book when he was just 30.

I think it’s fair to say that there is a widespread consensus that, despite his later successes, Ambler never wrote a more powerful or more atmospheric book. (Though I haven’t read many of the later books, and two did win CWA Gold Daggers.) He lived another 60 years, and the left wing views that gave this book such energy faded as he became disillusioned first with Russia and then with the domestic politics. In due course, he became a tax exile in Switzerland, along with his second wife, who co-wrote the screenplay for Rebecca. But he deserves not just to be remembered, but to be celebrated, as a master of his craft. If you haven’t read The Mask of Dimitrios, you have a treat in store.