The Maltese Herring by L.C. Tyler - review

If there's one thing more difficult than writing a successful humorous crime novel, it's writing a successful series of humorous crime novels. Not too many people over the years have managed to achieve this. In Britain one thinks of Colin Watson, possibly George Bellairs, and more recently Simon Brett. Over the last decade, Len Tyler has joined the list (and, more than that, become a leading exponent of the form) with his series about the hapless crime writer Ethelred Tressider and his ravenous agent Elsie Thirkettle.

The latest entry in the series is The Maltese Herring, recently published by Allison & Busby. As you might guess from the title, Len has this time decided to doff his cap not to Agatha Christie but to Dashiell Hammett. Casper Gutman, Joel Cairo and company give way here to an assortment of Oxford dons who descend on Sussex in a hunt for a fabled golden statue.

As with Hammett (and Chandler, who is referenced several times), the discursive plot isn't the thing; it's the characters and the set-piece scenes that we remember. There is, for instance, a splendid opening at an Oxford college dinner (I hadn't actually realised, or else I'd forgotten, that Ethelred is, like his creator, an Oxford man), swiftly followed by a very funny encounter between Elsie and a fellow train passenger. And there are some great lines, several of which draw, as usual with this author, on experience of the crime writing life.

Thus we learn that Ethelred has recently joined the committee of the CWA (which Len himself chaired not long ago) and among the crime writing jokes and references there's mention of Ann Cleeves and a self-deprecating passage that alludes cleverly to one of Len Tyler's recent novels and captures his wry sense of humour perfectly:

"Well, that was a bit of an anticlimax. Not a Chandler or Christie plot, then. Who was good at anticlimax?
'L.C. Tyler,' I said to Ethelred, with a sudden flash of insight.
'Who?' he said.
'Don't worry, he's not that well known.'"

But of course he is well known, and deservedly so.

Forgotten Book - The Crack in the Teacup

Michael Gilbert's The Crack in the Teacup, first published in 1966, was a book I borrowed from the library when I was about thirteen or so, and discovering what an entertaining writer he was. In those days, of course, he also seemed very contemporary in comparison to Christie and Sayers, for instance, and this element of his writing also appealed to the young Martin Edwards. I remember really enjoying this book in my youth, and wondered how it would hold up now that I'm so much older. To my delight, it gripped me from start to finish. And because I've now had a lifetime in the legal profession, I appreciated Gilbert's wry observations about legal life much more than I could have done all those years ago.

And that is despite the fact that this is in many ways a low-key book, quite close (as was The Dust and the Heat) in style to a mainstream novel, and not quite what you'd expect from a conventional thriller or detective story. Anthony Brydon, the hero, is a young solicitor. He's 23, and already a partner in his firm (blimey; wouldn't happen today) and has no experience with women (blimey again) despite his eagerness to put that right - something he achieves over the course of the story.

The setting is a pleasant, well-heeled coastal town. The place seems almost idyllic, but something unpleasant is going on beneath the surface. Anthony becomes convinced of the existence of some form of corrupt conspiracy, and delves into local politics and planning law in the course of his unlikely investigation. And along the way, The Crack in the Teacup turns into a sort of genteel British counterpart to Dashiell Hammett's Red Harvest, but with much less bloodshed, as Gilbert presents a compelling picture of the way that a society that can be ruined by corruption. And, Gilbert being a pragmatist with a cynical turn of mind, the result of Anthony's investigations is not quite what one might expect.

A book as under-stated as this won't appeal to everyone. There isn't even a killing until very near the end. But if you like cool, exceptionally readable and slyly humorous writing, and if you're interested in a picture of English provincial life in the 60s, you'll find a lot to please you in The Crack in the Teacup. It's one of the best books Gilbert ever wrote. The title, by the way, comes from W.H. Auden.

The Glass Key - 1942 film review

The Glass Key is a well-regarded film from 1942, based on the novel by Dashiell Hammett, first published in 1931 (it appeared in serial form the previous year). The screenplay was written by Jonathan Latimer, himself a crime novelist of distinction, Latimer's later film scripts included the masterly The Big Clock, based on Kenneth Fearing's equally fine novel, and Night Has a Thousand Eyes, based on a characteristically compelling Cornell Woolrich story.

The central character is Ed Beaumont, played by Alan Ladd. He's the right hand man of Paul Madvig (Brian Donlevy), a rascally political fixer who throws his weight behind the election campaign of Ralph Henry after falling for Henry's daughter (Veronica Lake). She, however, is more interested in Beaumont, who does the decent thing and rebuffs her advances.

When Beaumont finds the body of Henry's son, who has been playing around with Madvig's sister, Madvig is the prime suspect. Madvig has earned the enmity of a local gang boss, who has Beaumont badly beaten up, but although Madvig behaves ungratefully, Beaumont continues to show considerably loyalty. Commendable as this is, I could have done with more insight into the reasons for Beaumont's devotion, given that he's not a closet gay character.

The plot continues to thicken, and the film is watchable from start to finish. Beaumont isn't a private eye, but he plays the detective and solves the mystery to everyone's satisfaction. He even gets the girl. I find it rather sad to reflect that both Ladd and Lake, two charismatic actors, died relatively young. This is a good film which deserves its reputation,,although the book is even better, and so are The Big Clock and, arguably, Night Has a Thousand Eyes. To say nothing of The Maltese Falcon.



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The Maltese Falcon

It's been many years since I last watched John Huston's legendary private eye movie, The Maltese Falcon, so when I came across it again on TV recently, I thought it was worth giving it another go and see how it's standing up to scrutiny after all these years. The short answer is: very well.

Dashiell Hammett's novel, on which the film is based, first appeared in 1930. The film came out eleven years later, and was, in fact, by then the third movie version. It was nominated for three Academy Awards, and I suppose it's best remembered for the performance of Humphrey Bogart as shamus Sam Spade. But there are equally splendid performances from Sydney Greenstreet, as Kasper Guttmann, and Peter Lorre as Joel Cairo - two of the most distinctive villains to have appeared on the big screen, it's safe to say.

The story begins, as so many private eye stories do, with an attractive woman (played by Mary Astor in this case) coming to the P.I.'s office and seeking his help. As usual, the woman in question - who calls herself Miss Wonderly - has something to hide. She wants a man called Thursby followed, for trumped-up reasons, but when Spade's partner Miles Archer goes out to do the job that night, he is shot. For good measure, Thursby is killed too.

The pace doesn't slacken as Spade finds himself caught up in a tangle that involves Archer's wife (with whom he's having an affair) and a small group of bad guys who are in search of the legendary Maltese Falcon. Miss Wonderly, whose real name is Brigid O'Shaughnessy, is evidently also mixed up in the business, somehow. Even if you're not a paid-up member of the Bogart Fan Club, there's enough here to keep you entertained on more than one viewing. Great stuff.

Dashiell Hammett

I like this blog to range widely in the crime genre, and to cover ‘forgotten’ books and authors as well as the big names. One of the stars whose name I’ve rarely mentioned is Dashiell Hammett, but that isn’t because I don’t admire his work. On the contrary.

I’ve read, I think, all his books, and I have to say that one I definitely enjoyed was The Dain Curse, which is sometimes dismissed by critics as a bit of a mess (perhaps the reason for this is that it was originally written for ‘The Black Mask’ as a series of novelettes, before being put together as a single novel)

I’ve just acquired, from an excellent Yorkshire bookseller, Mark Sutcliffe, a book edited by Christopher Metress, The Criticial Response to Dashiell Hammett. There is a lot of stuff in here that is rather interesting (including reviews of The Dain Curse from when it first came out, in 1929) and even where one doesn’t agree with the critics’ opinions, they are generally worth considering.

I also bought from Mark a shorter book about Hammett, written by Julian Symons, who much admired the American author. Acerbic as ever, Symons is dismissive of The Dain Curse (and says that Hammett himself described it as ‘silly’). But by and large he gives an extremely positive set of insights into Hammett’s craft, whilst providing a sober account of the man’s life, which ended with a spell in prison, illness, and an inability to write. Very sad.

Strangers on a Train

I’ve watched Hitchcock’s classic movie Strangers on a Train more than once, as well as reading the book by Patricia Highsmith on which it was based, but this is a film which is so masterful that it was good to see it again the other day. And as I watched, I reflected that, after almost half a century, it has lost little of its power.

The story-line of the ‘exchange of murders’ is now very familiar, and it has been referenced countless times subsequently (my favourite is the Peter Lovesey story called ‘Strangers on a Bus’). As with many of Highsmith’s plot ideas, the material is melodramatic, but the story is developed brilliantly, and although Hitchcock made some changes for the film, he was able to capture, in his own way, the chilling, obsessive atmosphere of the literary source. Apparently he approached Dashiell Hammett to write the screenplay at first, then gave the job to Raymond Chandler, but the pair did not get on, and little of Chandler’s writing survived in the final version. Famously, Highsmith was only paid $7,500 for the rights - not much for one of the classics, really.

Farley Grainger plays Guy, the likeable tennis player with a faithless wife, and Robert Walker is the superficially charming but sociopathic Bruno, who wants his own father dead. Ruth Roman does a decent job as Guy’s girlfriend, and her younger sister is played by Hitchcock’s own daughter, Pat. I was sorry to learn that Walker, whose performance is quite brilliantly spooky, died not long after the film was screened; he suffered serious psychiatric problems. Grainger, however, is still alive.

There are lots of wonderful touches in this film, and the climactic scene on a merry-go-round is superb. This is one of the best Hitchcock films, which means, quite simply, that it is one of the best crime films ever made.

The Economy and Crime Fiction

To what extent is there a link between prevailing economic conditions and the type of crime fiction that people want to write and to read? It’s an interesting question, although I’m not confident that I know the answer.

The 1920s, for instance, was a time of great economic difficulty, and it coincided – certainly in Great Britain – with the rise of escapist puzzle-fiction, the whodunits of Agatha Christie, Freeman Wills Crofts, Dorothy L. Sayers, Anthony Berkeley and so on. One might argue that the light, entertaining mysteries offered people an escape from often grim personal circumstances, as well as the aftermath of war. There were similar books written in the US, by the likes of S.S. Van Dine and Ellery Queen, but this period also saw the growth of the pulps and the arrival on the scene of writers like Dashiell Hammett.

We have, in recent years, had a period of economic prosperity on both sides of the Atlantic, and perhaps this (in part) supplies an answer to the question I posed a while back, as to why modern crime fiction has, in many cases, become so much more gruesome. Possibly, a prosperous society that feels relatively safe looks to fiction to provide it with danger and excitement.

But things are changing for the worse in economic terms, certainly in the UK, and if the forecasters are to be believed, once the general election is out of the way, the next few years are going to be tough for many people, though of course there will be exceptions to the general rule, as there always are. Does this mean that there will be a renewed appetite for lighter, escapist fiction? I’m unsure, but I’d be interested to learn the views of others.