Beds Are Burning: Death of a Lake (1954) by Arthur Upfield

Out where the river broke

The bloodword and desert oak

Holden wrecks and boiling diesels

Steam in forty-five degrees

--Beds Are Burning (1986), Midnight Oil

What did they expect, or dread or hope from the death of the lake?  

--Death of a Lake (1954), Arthur Upfield

In the 1980s the nation of Australia attained a certain quirky cachet in the United States as the country of Crocodile Dundee, Men at Work and vegemite sandwiches and Outback Steakhouse, with its Bloomin' Onion and its Shrimp on the Barbie.  Outback was a real big thing for a while here.  We still have an Outback about three minutes away from where I live. 

However, in 1986 there popped up in the US  Australian rock band, Midnight Oil, that, while it may have been, to US eyes, quirky, was emphatically not silly, cheesy or, um, vegemitey.  To the contrary, Midnight Oil was very serious indeed--and very angry, with songs, like "Beds Are Burning" and "The Dead Heart," about the abuses committed by British colonials against the smallest continents' indigenous, or aboriginal, people, those who carried in "our hearts the true country,"  as the lyrics of "The Dead Heart" ran.

Midnight Oil had actually been around in Australia for seven years before American radio picked them up in 1986.  "The Dead Heart," the first single from their album Diesel and Dust, charted at only #53 in the US, but the second single, "Beds Are Burning," made it up to #17 and remains their most iconic song, with nearly 300 million views on youtube.  I loved these two songs and I bought the Diesel and Dust CD (I had just gotten a CD player), but I have to admit I only remember one other song on the album, "Put Down That Weapon."  I'm listening to it now on youtube (and yes they just aired an Outback Steakhouse ad between songs) to see if I recall others.  (Okay "Dreamworld," which I'm listening to now, sounds familiar.)  

Immediately memorable about Midnight Oil are the raspy, sometimes menacing vocals of frontman Peter Garrett, the horn parts and the driving percussion of Rob Hirst, who at age seventy died three weeks ago.  BOOM, BOOM, CRASH, BOOM!  On my stereo system these percussive bits sounded literally earth shattering, especially on "Beds Are Burning."  

Australian ephemeral lake

Rob Hirst's death got me thinking again about Australia and that naturally got me thinking about Anglo-Australian crime writer Arthur Upfield (1890-1964), who had a similar interest in indigenous culture and a famed "half-caste" series detective, Napoleon "Bony" Bonaparte.  Upfield maintains a following today but lies somewhat in the shadow, in the land of vintage mystery, of American hard-boiled and British classic mystery writers.  He portrayed a world all his own, with a great many (most?) of his Bony tales taking place in the great Australian outback, which comprises most of Australia's' physical space but little of its population (though the smallest continent, Australia is larger than the continental United States).

Although it abounds in isolated locations, Bony's world is not that posh country houses, gentry and quaint villagers, nor of mean urban streets, nightclubs and gangsters. With my long-standing preference, now somewhat discarded, for classic country house and village mysteries I had a somewhat equivocal relationship with Upfield's crime novels.  Their strongest feature, I think it's generally agreed, is their strong settings, but those settings often throw classic detection into the background.  Moreover, for hard-boiled fans, the books may be a bit slow-moving and lacking in such rapid-fire action trappings as beatings and beddings.  Although he was of the generation of Chandler and Hammett, Upfield was not really a hard-boiled writer.  Still one can see affinity to both American and British mystery in his writing.  

Although Upfield commenced the Bony detective series in 1936 the series was not actually published in the United States until 1943; but then he was received there with great fanfare.  Here's Anthony Boucher welcoming Murder Down Under (aka Mr. Jelly's Business), the first Bony book published in the US: "Unusual and timely setting, good puzzle, and unique setting.  Long and slow but richly rewarding."  Three years later, he wrote in a notice of The Devil's Steps that Bony was "one of the greatest figures of modern detection."  

death of a lake

A significant faction of American mystery addicts agreed with Boucher.  In an article published about Upfield in the Sydney Morning Herald in 1954, the year he published his 18th Bony mystery, Death of a Lake, the features writer claimed that while "the average American mystery novel sells 3500 copies, Napoleon Bonaparte sells between 30,000 and 40,000."  This was easily enough to make Upfield one of the most popular crime writers in America.  

What was the great appeal of Bony mysteries for the American mystery reading public?  Again, setting.  As for the author himself, "setting, not the puzzle, was his first concern."  Of Death of a Lake specifically, Upfield declared: "My primary objective was to describe the death of a lake.  I've purposefully soft-pedalled the mystery to emphasize the background."  And with that title the book does sound more like some sort of catastrophizing Rachel Carson-esque environmental tome.  

Upfield divulged that he spent five months writing, then rewriting, a book, after which he would "have a loaf for a couple of months before I get down down to the next one."  Unlike many mystery writers Upfield made enough from his worldwide book sales to make a good living from crime fiction.  

New south Wales map showing the towns of Menindee and Broken Hill,
also mentioned in Death of a Lake, in the northwest

Upfield genuinely knew his settings.  He based Death of a Lake on time he spent in the early Twenties at the Albemarle sheep station on the Darling River above the town of Menindee in western New South Wales.  In the novel he reimagines this station as Porchester Station, a vast area which comprises "sixty thousand sheep in the care of some twenty wage plugs."  Most of the action in the novel takes place specifically at an outstation at Lake Otway, the dying ephemeral lake of the title. From the Lake Otway outstation a lone telephone line spans fifty miles to Porchester Station--how's that for an isolated location?

Lake Otway fills with water only once in a generation and then it stays filled for about only three years.  The novel takes place in January and February at the peak of an Australian summer heatwave, when the temp hits over 100 in the shade; and the lake is sure the evaporate in a mere matter of weeks.  And there's something in the lake which seems particularly to interest seven whites--five men and two women--at the outstation.  (There are two full blooded indigenous Australians as well on the scene for a time, but they do not figure in any real sense in the tale.) 

abandoned Holden vehicle rusting in an unforgiving Australian climate

After laying out the setting (a map would have been nice), Upfield in chapter two lays out a procedural chronology of a possible cold case:

Ray Gillen, a debonair, devil-may-care stockman and Korean War veteran, had a half-share in a winning lottery ticket, netting him 12,500 dollars, or over half a million today (about $400,000 USD).  He left the city of Toowoomba in Queensland on a motorbike, declaring his intent to see Australia (he "never cared a hoot for money"), and arrived on September 3 (1952?) at Lake Otway, where he decided to stay and work for a time.  Nine weeks later on November 7, Gillen, a strong swimmer, went for a late-night swim in Lake Otway and was never seen again; presumably he cramped and drowned in the lake.  

So what happened to the lottery money?  Could Gillen have been murdered for it?  In late January (1954?), fifteen months after Gillen's original arrival at Lake Otway, D. I. Napoleon Bonaparte, having come across the official records of the Gillen affair in the police Case File, comes to the Lake Otway outstation in the guise of a humble horsebreaker to investigate matters. (Many of Bony's cases fall into this pattern of having him appear in disguise to investigate criminous events at remote locales) 

the real life Albemarle sheep station
where the author himself once worked
in the early 1920s, before he began his
life as an author

The majority of Death of a Lake is devoted to Bony sounding out the handful of inhabitants of this remote outstation about past events there.  The local men, headed by Overseer Richard Martyr, are sufficiently but not especially memorably characterized, while the women, a mother and daughter from Broken Hill by the surname of Fowler, are more memorable.  "These two quarreling women gave [the outstation] life."

Like two true daughters of Eve, however, the mother and daughter, while they have come to this homosocial environment and domesticated it with feminine cookery and cleaning, have also infested it with the vipers of sexual provocation and designing womanly wiles.  

Bony knows, we are informed, "that to be a wanton a woman needed no training." Warns a trucker darkly of Lake Otway: "Women! You go careful with the women at Lake Otway!...Ruddy termites, both of 'em.  They eats into a man's dough from the inside out."

a man's world, passing wary of women
workmen at a sheep station

One bitten hand bitterly predicts:

"There's going to be crackers and volcanoes before long.  Them two women are schemers all right.  Proper trollops.  Take a mug's advice and go easy, Bony.  Better spit at 'em than smile."

Another hand tells Bony misogynistically of the distaff side of humanity: 

All they thinks about is what they can get out of a bloke.  Only the blacks get their women in a corner and keeps 'em there....They gives their women a beltin' every Sunday morning regular, and there's never no arguing or ruddy funny business during the week.

Who says Australian whites didn't respect aboriginal culture?  I can see modern readers now proclaiming this novel grievously dated, on account of such sentiments, when it's really nothing of the sort, as we should have learned by now in the Age of MAGA and the manosphere.  So-called "woke" culture didn't extinguish such "dated" beliefs; it merely suppressed them until the advent of social media and its conservative influencers.  

Personally, I've never believed overmuch in the myth of the dated mystery novel.  Usually we just like to imagine they are dated in their sentiments.  Certainly this one I suspect is an accurate enough depiction of many men in rough working environments.  At least the bossman, Martyr, is more sophisticated, even writing poetry, but he is drawn to the women too--what straight man wouldn't be in such a place?

Indeed, though Lake Outway may be dying, the outstation perched above it is positively awash in sexual cross currents.  The men pursue and buy gifts from Sydney and Adelaide for mother or daughter or both as the case may be, while the woman--the girl, Joan, but 21, and her mother, barely past forty--compete with each other for favors from the men.  Ray Gillen himself stayed on at the outstation, it seems, merely to dally with bewitchingly lovely young Joan.  Bony's task for much of the novel is navigate these dangerous crosscurrents and discover just who was plotting what with whom.  

Meanwhile the lake is dying and Upfield's descriptions of the fight for survival as the water supply literally dries up among the local feathered and furred creatures--the various birds, the rabbits (millions evidently), the roos, the foxes, etc.--is gripping.  Eventually the water in the lake will completely evaporate and Gillen's drowned body presumably will thereby be revealed, along with the gold locket which he wore around his neck--and then what?  

Well, I won't spoil that for you of course.  But there is, also near the end of the novel, a deadly house fire and another death.  Finally Bony gets down to brass tacks and conducts a brief though genuine investigation of these events, discovering in the process the sordid truths surrounding Gillen's demise and other later events.  

It's a slow-moving tale yet somehow a compelling one.  Upfield excels at nature writing and the idea of people having to await the "death" of a lake to uncover the body that lies beneath the diminishing water and its secret is an intriguing one.  

It feels rather like some sort of Somerset Maugham or Ernest Hemingway humans in the wilds story, like "Rain" or "The Snows of Kilimanjaro." For a while the situation with the unforgiving natural elements turns so dire that it starts to resemble what I call a "survival mystery"--that tiny detective fiction subgenre where the characters fight for their very survival as they grapple as well with the nominal murder problem.  

Upfield's scenic writing is superb and while the characters are stock they move the tale along.  At times I was reminded rather of an American hard-boiled novel with its femmes fatales, potentially more deadly than the male.  People may deem to novel anti-woman, but on the other hand it seems of a time and place where women had to use what weapons nature endowed them with, as the purported "weaker sex," in order successfully to manipulate men.  Sisters couldn't quite do it for themselves then, especially in the Australian outback; rather, they often had to work behind a man to accomplish their ends.  Blame not the women, but the male-dominated society which cast the sexes into these performative roles, what MAGA lovingly terms "trad."

All in all, I think Death of a Lake is a fascinating mystery novel of an unusual time and place and it remains, in my view, one of Upfield's finest efforts in the crime vein.  Had Agatha Christie written this book I can see her having riddled the tiny outstation with an ingenious if unlikely welter of obscure motivations and false identities; but Upfield was not Christie and we can live with that surely.  Different knife strokes for different crime folks, say I.  Pick your own poison.  

See also my 2012 review of Upfield's earlier detective novel Venom House (1952), an account of a Bony case which is mentioned in Death of a Lake.  I think that's the author's closest take on a classic English country house mystery.  

New Years Eve Post 2025 America's Favorite Vintage Mysteries: The Top Selling Mysteries in the United States, 1900-1940

What were the most popular mystery novels in the first forty years of the twentieth century, encompassing both the brief Edwardian era and the between-the-wars period of the Jazz Age and the Depression?  Well, there were eight mystery novels and thrillers which made the annual yearly top ten bestseller lists between 1900 and 1940.  What do you think they were?  Never fear, I won't keep you in suspense!

The eight books are the world of five individuals, three men and two women, Arthur Conan Doyle, E. Phillips Oppenheim, S. S. Van Dine, Mary Roberts Rinehart and Daphne du Maurier.  And here the books:

"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a 
gigantic hound!" The first top ten yearly mystery 
bestseller of the 20th century.

1902: The Hound of the Baskervilles, Arthur Conan Doyle (No. 7)

1909: The Man in Lower Ten, Mary Roberts Rinehart (No. 4)

1910: The Window at the White Cat, Mary Roberts Rinehart (No. 8)

1920: The Great Impersonation, E. Phillips Oppenheim (No. 8)

1928: The Greene Murder Case, S. S. Van Dine (No. 4)

1929: The Bishop Murder Case, S. S. Van Dine (No. 4)

1930: The Door, Mary Roberts Rinehart (No. 6)

1938: Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier (No. 4)

1939: Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier (No. 3)

How many of these books have you read?  I have actually read them all, though it has been quite a while in some cases.  All of them, I believe, are still in print today, which is more than you can say for a great deal of vintage bestselling fiction.  What distinguished these particular mysteries, we may ask, and made them so popular?  

There were two books by male Britishers from the Victorian/Edwardian eras, Conan Doyle and Oppenheim. Hound of the Baskervilles is one of the most famous mystery novels of all time and was published when Sherlock Holmes fiction was at its popular peak, when people were panting for new Holmes tales.  They got a good one with Hound!

The Oppenheim book, Great Impersonation, is by far his most famous tale, but probably today even a lot of vintage crime fiction fans  have not read it.  It's an espionage story, a tale of a German spy up to no good in England, which I think owes its success to its being topical with the Great War.

This was a time when Germany was not exactly held in high esteem in much of the western world.  E. Phillips Oppenheim was an extremely popular writer on both sides of the Atlantic for much of the 1910-40 period, though he is mostly forgotten today.  

And then we have two Americans, Mary Roberts Rinehart and S. S. Van Dine.  Rinehart's first two top novels come from the Edwardian era, when she was just starting her writing career.  

Rinehart had hit it big in 1908 with The Circular Staircase, the novel which is widely considered to have started the so-called HIBK (Had-I-But-Known) school of feminine suspense, which has proven popular right to this day with books like Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train (both 21st century bestsellers).  

With The Door Rinehart was back in the top ten
with a mystery after two decades.

I think Lower Ten and White Cat, which are rather more backward-looking books, benefitted from the rolling success of Circular Staircase, which did not actually making the yearly top ten bestseller list.  In 1930 Rinehart returned to the foreboding female narrator style with The Door.  It should be noted that Rinehart also made the yearly bestseller lists as well in nine additional years, but with mainstream fiction titles.  She was a tremendously popular author in general.  

Then we have something of an anomaly, S. S. Van Dine, who for about a decade with his novels and the films adapted from them personally incarnated for Americans the "pure" detective novel of ratiocination.  

All of the other books above elevated atmosphere, character and writing to a great extent, even Hound of the Baskervilles, which is a true detective novel also.  They are, in short, novels of considerable suspense, i.e., pageturners.  The Van Dines are rather drier affairs, though Greene and Bishop are his most outre tales (about multiple killers) and represented the peak of his popularity in the United States.

a cover as dry as detection

Finally we have Daphne du Maurier, the youngest writer of this select group, by a full generation or more.  (Conan Doyle was born in 1859, Oppenheim 1866, Rinehart 1876, Van Dine 1888, du Maurier 1907).  Her classic Rebecca, which was so popular that it made the yearly bestseller lists for two years in a row, was a full-scale Gothic novel, rather a return in style to the sensation novels of the Victorian era.  Along with Conan Doyle's Hound, it remains the most widely known of these books today.  Du Maurier would continue to make the yearly bestseller lists into the Swinging Seventies.  

Ture detective fiction, popular as it was, tended not to produce yearly bestsellers.  Even Agatha Christie had only two top ten bestsellers, in 1975 and 1976 at literally the end of her life, with the much-publicized Curtain and Sleeping Murder.  Christie made her fortune in paperbacks sold around the world in drugstores, railway stations and airport stalls.

Now I'm off to dream again of Manderley.  Happy New Year's!  

Night of the Non-Dead: The Burning Court (1937), by John Dickson Carr

"Most people say ghosts....Then there's another class, the vampires, that in mythological lore are called the undead.  But the 'non-dead'!...I've come across only one other person who ever used that term."

"They were not ordinary women.  They will be restless."

"This is April, not Halloween.  Women on broomsticks are a little out of my line."

--The Burning Court, John Dickson Carr

suspected multiple poisoner Marie-Madeleine d'Aubray, Marquise de Brinvilliers
undergoing the "water cure" torture in 1676 before her subsequent beheading and immolation
this event provided the inspiration for both Arthur Conan Doyle's 1902 horror story 
"The Leather Funnel" and John Dickson Carr's 1937 detective novel The Burning Court
for more on the outre "Affair of the Poisons" in the 1670s see Atlas Obscura
1878 painting by Jean-Baptiste Cariven

John Dickson Carr's 1937 non series detective novel The Burning Court, which was reprinted this year I understand, was the first Carr puzzler I ever read, thirty-six years ago last summer in June 1989, a  few weeks after the infamy at Tiananmen Square in Beijing.  I bought three IPL (International Polygonics, Ltd.) Carr paperbacks from their Library of Crime Classics series at Powell's Books in Chicago, where I and a friend were visiting another friend.  

Powell's Books in Chicago
I was not in the theology section but 
theology may not be inappropriate
in the case of The Burning Court

The others were Hag's Nook and The Judas Window, respectively headlining Carr's greatest series detectives Dr. Fell and Sir Henry Merrivale, but The Burning Court was the one that looked especially intriguing; so I started that first, while still in Chicago.  I remember actually reading it at my friend's apartment, which he was renting with two or three other people, in a beaux arts building of some sort.  I remember sitting out in the dusk on a balcony reading Court--great atmosphere for an atmospheric novel.  

I hadn't read the novel since until just recently, but I remembered it very favorably.  Carr of course loved not merely murder mysteries and miracle problems, but Gothic supernatural trappings--and he did not hold back with such devices in Court.  

I had forgotten a lot of the book's details, but I remembered the opening and closing pages of the novel quite well, I can assure you.  Court represents Carr at the height of his creative powers, making the book a contrast with his later rather tired and jejune efforts from the Fifties and Sixties which I have often reviewed here over the years.

The 1937 book is all about Ted Stevens, a young (or so 32 seems to me now) editor at a Philadelphia publishing firm, and the incredible situation into which he is plunged over an April weekend in 1929.  (The book is back set, for some reason, eight years, a year before Carr, who was 30 in 1937, published his first detective novel.)  Ted's on his way back, via the Pennsylvania Railroad, to Crispen, the affluent tiny Main Line village where he resides with his lovely angelically feminine Canadian wife Marie.  (Could Crispen have suggested the adopted surname of mystery writer Edmund Crispin, a great Carr admirer?) 

On the train Ted's looking over a book being published by his firm, the latest  true crime tome, this one about women poisoners, from author Gaudan Cross, when he makes a startling, chapter-ending discovery: his wife bears an astonishing resemblance to a notorious French poisoner, guillotined for murder in 1861!  This startling revelation may not be quite up there with, "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!" but it's pretty close.

1985 IPL pb edition

When Ted arrives home to his loving wife Marie, things get very weird quite quickly.  Marie is acting rather strangely, and soon his neighbor Mark Despard shows up with a friend from England, a certain Partington, to divulge that he, Mark, knows that his wealthy, lately deceased uncle, who died from gastroenteritis supposedly, was actually fatally poisoned with arsenic!  

Mark wants to disinter Uncle Miles from the crypt to see--without involving the police, mind you.  Ted being the kind of Carr hero who thinks obedience to mere norms of the law is but a whimsical trifle, he agrees.  But when they open the crypt they discover that the corpse of Uncle Miles has vanished! 

Did a non-dead Miles get up to take a stroll around Crispen?!

Then when Mark returns home, Marie has disappeared, leaving him only an enigmatic note!  (You'll notice I'm using a lot of emphatic italics and exclamation marks; the novel seems to call for them.)

Incredibly (once again), I think everything is wrapped up--or seems to be--the next day, when Gaudan Cross himself shows up. very late in the book, to solve the case in the grand manner, Dr. Fell being over in England one imagines.  Of course there is an epilogue as well, which offers something of a new perspective on things....

Though controversial The Burning Court has traditionally been deemed one of Carr's finest detective novels--justifiably so, I think.  There are two miracle problems--how a woman could poison a man and then vanish through a door which no longer exists and how the dead man's body could be removed from a crypt--which, while perhaps not in the upper tier of Carr's catalogue of impossibilities, are still nicely contrived. 

In the tale there are tantalizing suggestions of the supernatural, that the non-dead might be afoot and cruelly bedeviling the few inhabitants of little Crispen.  There is a bravura mystery plot in which two (or really three*) different explanations seem plausible, or at least possible-- the kind of narrative switcheroo which vintage crime writers Ellery Queen and Anthony Berkeley so loved to contrive.  

All in all it's a fine, accomplished detective novel; my only complaint might be a general one, that the detective element and the seeming supernatural element are somewhat at war with each other.  Like his "humdrum" friend John Street, Carr was a lover of true, systematic detection but he also adored suspense and sensation.  Sometimes the narrative in Court seems to bog down in detective details, alibis and room furnishings and such mechanics.  (Floor plans of both Miles' bedroom and the Despard family crypt are desperately called for, I believe.)

Much of the novel is retrospective; so much time is spent with the principals discussing Miles Despard's murder in the recent past.  There isn't much forward movement or much actual action, just a great deal of chitchat about the recent past and the poisoning career of a certain long-dead Frenchwoman (or should that be certain long-dead Frenchwomen).  

As a suspense tale Court might have been better served opening with the situation at the Despard mansion and moving forward from there.  But the novel's impressive final (?) elucidation, with footnotes, and its rug-pulling postscript redeem the earlier fiddly parts, or so it seems to me.

I had forgotten all the characters in the book aside from Ted and Marie Stevens and the great Gaudan Cross, for the simple reason, I see now, that the other characters are entirely forgettable.  I was interested, however, to see Carr indulge himself a bit in some racy, for the day, sexual details.  

Of another French murder case, this a real one concerning the Marquise de Brinvilliers, who was beheaded and burned for her manifold evil deeds in 1676, we are told salaciously that the good lady's confession included "some remarkable sexual statements."  We learn that the character Partington, who is not negatively portrayed, had to flee the country for performing an illegal abortion on a woman, supposedly his mistress.  A woman is said to have appeared, during a discussion of past murders, as if she were aroused to a state of "sexual excitement."  

Carr always had interesting, shall we say, notions about women and sexuality, including some ideas that admittedly are rather offputting today.  

One isn't used to mysteries from that era that are quite so explicit about things like abortion and women's sadistic sexual titillation, especially when the implication is that seeming "good girls" might be like their erring sisters under the skin.  Daughters of Eve all, it would seem.  This went against the norm in popular lit of the day, which was to divide women into clearly demarcated good and bad girl camps.  Ambiguous girls, like ambiguus boys, make better suspects!

When I saw the recent Knives Out mystery film, Wake Up Dead Man, in which Benoit Blanc mentions Carr by name several times, I had to wonder whether the portion of the mystery concerning the dead man in his crypt was inspired by The Burning Court. Having reread the novel, I think so more than ever.  If so director/screenwriter Rian Johnson has chalked up another good source of inspiration.  

*SPOILER BELOW

I agree with the suggestion of my friend Carr biographer Doug Greene's brother, David, that the thoughts of a certain character at the end of the novel may reflect that character's mental derangement and are not necessarily to be taken literally.  (See appendix 3 of The Man Who Explained Miracles). That's my preferred solution to the mystery!  Ted would still be well-advised to stay wary, however.  

Come Together: Wake Up Dead Man (2025), a Knives Out film by Rian Johnson

"He got juju eyeball, he one holy roller

He got hair down to his knee

Got to be a joker, he just do what he please."

--"Come Together," The Beatles 

our detectives, victim and suspects
at front: adversarial priests Jefferson Wicks (Josh Brolin) and Jud Duplenticy (Josh O'Connor)
and Great Detective Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig)

poster art resembling that for Agatha Christie
mystery film of the 1970s and 1980s

The film Knives Out came out six years ago in 2019 and has since played a major role in the classic mystery revival of the last fifteen years or so.  A classic sleeper hit, it made about $165 million in the United States and $313 million worldwide, all on a $40 million budget; and it scored director and scripter Rian Johnson an Oscar nomination for his screenplay.  

Knives Out has since spawned two "sequels," or rather two additional installments in the Benoit Blanc mystery series, Glass Onion (2022), apparently inspired by the Swinging Seventies mystery flick The Last of Sheila (1973), and now Wake Up Dead Man (2025), which is seeing a limited, mostly arthouse release for two weeks before its Netflix premiere on the 12th of December.  

If one were to compare the three Knives Out films to what for many years was (and should have remained) the Indiana Jones trilogy--Raiders of the Lost Ark, Temple of Doom, Last Crusade--Glass Onion would be the problematic middle child in the series, the one which doesn't quite fit in.  Wake Up Dead Man strikes one, like The Last Crusade did, as more of a return to the milieu of the original film, Knives Out.  

Rian Johnson directing the film's stars, Daniel Craig and Josh O'Connor

Knives Out is a classic dysfunctional family mystery in which children and grandchildren of a classic domineering wealthy patriarch--Harlan Thrombey, characteristically charmingly played, in one of his last acting performances, by a nearly nonagenarian Christopher Plummer--all become suspects when the old man is found murdered in his great mansion.  

It's a tale that, excepting the topical undocumented immigrant storyline, could have easily taken place in between the first and second world wars during the Golden Age of detective fiction.  I have read that in writing the screenplay Johnson was inspired by Agatha Christie stories he had read as a child in the late Seventies or Eighties; and that would not surprise me at all.  Any vintage mystery fan watching Knives Out could tell immediately that its maker is a "fellow traveller," as it were.  

While Knives Out was set in the Boston area at a fabulous real life Victorian Gothic mansion, Dead Man takes place in upstate New York at a lovely old Victorian Gothic church (in actuality Holy Innocents Church in Greater London's Epping Forest).  This time around the murder victim is the truly horrendous villain Jefferson Wicks (Josh Brolin), Monsignor at the Church of Perpetual Fortitude, where a young priest, Reverend Jud Duplenticy (Josh O'Connor), a former boxer turned Catholic priest, is sent after losing his temper and punching out another priest.  

Though Wicks, a shaggy charismatic monster who resembles a satyr rather than a shepherd, has a cult like following among a tiny number of his parishioners, his hellfire sermons drive most people away and he makes life very difficult for young Jud.  (In the film's almost only bit of raunchy humor Wicks makes a point of confessing to Jud in great detail about his frequent masturbation--Rian Johnson had some masturbation humor in Knives Out too, come to think of it.)

Father Jud (Josh O'Connor) getting metaphorically jerked around
by Monsignor Wicks (Josh Brolin)

Wicks is a "father" too in a way, like Christopher Plummer's character in Knives Out; but he's a much worse one, supremely arrogant and selfish and genuinely cruel.  His cult-like following at the Church of Perpetual Fortitude numbers all of six, plus the church caretaker/handyman, Samson Holt (Thomas Haden Church), who is doggedly loyal to the most devoted and pious old "church lady" Martha Delcroix (Glenn Close).  

To be blunt, it seems prim, upright, elderly Martha is shagging the younger handyman, who evidently remains rather handy even well into his sixties.  She and Sam are both well-observed characters.  

a devilish problem for
Benoit Blanc

The other faithful congregants, all of whom will serve as our additional suspects in the murder, are drunken town doctor Nat Sharp (Jeremy Renner); formerly bestselling sci-fi author Lee Ross (Andrew Scott); chain-smoking attorney Vera Draven (Kerry Washington), daughter of Wicks' late best friend and attorney; Simone Vivane, an ailing, wealthy young concert cellist, who has been promised hope of healing from Wicks (Cailee Spaeny) (she resembles a character out of PD James' 1976 detective novel The Black Tower, not to mention real-life Jacqueline Du Pre); and Cy Draven (Daryl McCormack), Vera's viperish adopted son and a failed MAGAish aspirant to political office, now turned would-be MAGAsphere social influencer.  

It's a very classic setting--an imposing smalltown church--that is reminiscent not only of Golden Age English detective writers, but to their later Silver Age follower P. D. James; and it's definitely a throwback to the first Knives Out film.  The  modern fillip of topical political content dealing with baneful internet social influencing--really crassly cynical political exploitation--is reminiscent of the first film too, which brought the subject of illegal immigration to the fore. 

The film also stresses the crisis of faith of the main character, Father Jud.  Make no mistake, Josh O'Connor is the star of this film, dominating it rather more than the character of the undocumented alien caregiver (Ana de Armas) did in Knives Out.  Even Benoit Blanc takes rather the back seat to Father Jud in terms of screen time, though Daniel Craig as Blanc, just helping the local police out don't you know, is now wearing this role like a comfortable old shoe and the two make a most enjoyable investigative pair, with Jud as both lead suspect (of the local police) and Blanc's assistant "Watson," in the manner of old mysteries, where they don't go strictly by the book as far as police procedure goes.  

murder in a cathedral
this Father Jud closeup is probably the film's most iconic image

I have to admit that the bulk of the suspects this go round are more pallid than those in Knives Out.  The earlier film had genuinely memorable turns from Jamie Lee Curtis, Michael Shannon, Don Johnson, Toni Collette, and Chris Evans as patriarch Harlan's Thrombey's parasitic, essentially infantilized in-laws.  All of them were given pretty good bits of characterization actually to work with in the script.  

In Dead Man, on the other hand, none of the suspects leave as much of an impression, with the exception of the histrionic Martha (Close) (her recurrent crying and screaming is amusing) and her Chatterleyish senior beau, the weathered, hirsute handyman Samson (Haden Church)--and perhaps the repulsive blogger (Heavens!) Cy (McCormack).  Cy's rapid-fire speech about his failed MAGA political career--he tried everything and nothing worked!--is funny and genuinely incisive about today's insidious social media slop.   

Cry Baby Cry
Martha (Glenn Close) breaks down to Samson (Thomas Haden Church) 
after Monsignor Wicks is found impossibly stabbed in the closet

The wonderfully sardonic Andrew Scott gets off some good one-liners and disgusted sneers and Kerry Washington has a few fine moments of emoting, but basically the script is not really calling on the preponderance of these people to be anything much more than pieces on a chess board.  (Jeremy Renner, a fine, Oscar-nominated actor, mostly appears one note semi-drunk throughout the film as the alcoholic Dr. Nat.)  

In the lead, however, Josh O'Connor as Father Jud is a strong, charismatic presence throughout, as is Josh Brolin as his nasty opposite number, the false prophet Wicks.  Mila Kunis also appears, after Wicks' murder, as the local police chief and she is fine, though she is called on to do very little other than serve as a sort of obtuse, flailing foil for Blanc, as is customary in classic crime fiction.  

It's a miracle!
the monsignor is murdered in a "locked" room to the horror (?) of his congregation
from left to right: Nat (Renner), Lee (Scott), Simone (Spaeny), Vera (Washington), 
Martha (Close), Samson (Haden Church), Cy (McCormack)

To many this may sound like a criticism, but readers of the blog will probably guess that it's really not.  This is very much a plot-focused film and at nearly two-and-a-half hours (!)--I had strategically to pee before Blanc's final elucidation scene--there is spacious room to unfold the complex, dare I say baroque, plot, which like a Christmas stocking is stuffed with pleasing clues as to culpritude and ingenious narrative slights of hand for the unwary.  

There's also a very nice locked room problem, miracle of miracles.  The Monsignor is offed, apparently, in a closet where he retired in an unrighteous froth under observation of Jud in the pulpit and the seven congregants in the pews.  Throughout the film Benoit Blanc keeps referencing locked room maestro John Dickson Carr, whom most audiences probably will never have heard of even today, when his many books are mostly all back in print. 

Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig) detects

Blanc waves around a copy of Carr's 1935 detective novel The Three Coffins, aka The Hollow Man, which is famed among fans for its "locked room lecture" from detective Gideon Fell (who is mentioned by him too), like it's the Holy Grail.  The book was on the congregation's mystery reading list, most conveniently, along with, as I recall, Dorothy L. Sayers' Whose Body?, Agatha Christie's The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and The Murder at the Vicarage and one other title by someone else.  In this film Johnson definitely owes a debt to Carr, but also to Christie as well.  (I have a particular novel by her in mind and it's not necessarily one on the syllabus, actually.)

This definitely is a film for vintage mystery fans and as one I enjoyed it all immensely.  I hope Rian Johnson keeps on making these Benoit Blanc flicks--and that he considers trying a film version of John Dickson Carr's The Burning Court (1937), which has a similarly dark Gothic churchly setting to Wake Up Dead Man.  (Coffins in a crypt play a key role in Dead Man, like in Carr's Burning Court.)  It's long past time the maestro of miracles received his just due from filmmakers and it looks like Johnson might be just the person to accomplish that. 

NOTE: The title of the second Knives Out film, Glass Onion, evidently was derived from a Beatles tune on The White Album (1968).  The title Wake Up Dead Man seems to recalls the refrain Turn Me On, Dead Man that one supposedly hears when playing the Beatles' Revolution #9 (also from the White Album) backwards on an LP.  Of course the title of this piece quotes Come Together from the Beatles' succeeding 1969 album Abbey Road, plus there's another White Album tune, Cry Baby Cry, quoted in a picture caption.  All ditties by John Lennon--Rian Johnson seems to have a preference for the opaque lyrics of the "smart Beatle." Sure half of what Lennon says is meaningless, but which half?  

The Beatles themselves had a mystery back in the day: the "Paul is Dead" urban legend and conspiracy theory.  Check it out if you don't know it.  Google it if you dare!

From The Fletcher Files: The South Foreland Murder (1930), by J. S. Fletcher

If I had had the very slightest premonition when I took that bungalow that I was about to be mixed up in an affair such as that which developed from a certain night in June, I should probably have fled to the ends of the earth--or, at any rate, have remained in my old lodgings at Dover.

The third J. S. Fletcher mystery novel from 1930 that was published in the United States was The South Foreland Murder.  I like this book rather better than the first from that year, The Borgia Cabinet, mainly because it feels more "real world."  Cabinet was a generic artificial country house mystery but Foreland seems more like something that might really have taken place.  

The story is narrated by a Dover solicitor bachelor named Savvery, who has rented a bungalow near the village of St. Margaret at Cliffe, located between Dover and Deal, not far from the South Foreland Lighthouse.  It is set explicitly in 1911, three years before the outbreak of the Great War, though the book was published in 1930--a nineteen-year disparity!  The Fletcher mysteries from the later Twenties and the Thirties which I have read have all felt decidedly anachronistic to me; perhaps they are all meant to be set in the past, within a few years on either side of the war.  

Fletcher was only 57 in 1920, which is hardly, I would say (perhaps defensively), superannuated; but he doesn't seem to have been concerned with keeping up with modern times, making it surprising that he seems unquestionably to have been the most popular "modern" English mystery writer in the United States during the Roaring Twenties.

Perhaps the bulk of Fletcher's anglophiliac reading audience missed the "good old days" before the war, an ostensibly gentler time when autos were still a novelty, less forward women wore big hats and long dresses and gangland slayings seemingly were not a weekly occurrence in Chicago and other perilous urban American citadels. 

Another hugely popular English mystery writer during the Jazz Age was the similarly old-fashioned E. Phillips Oppenheim, not to mention the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose detective Sherlock Holmes made his "last bow" on the eve of the Great War, only to take the stage again to solve yet more murder cases, retrospectively set, between 1924 and 1927.  It took nothing less than the Grim Reaper Himself finally to put a full stop to the crime writing careers of these Victorian/Edwardian men.  

As a group Doyle's last Holmes stories are, truth be told, pretty weak broth compared to those from the glory days, though "The Problem of Thor Bridge" is generally beloved and there's much to be said for the final Holmes tale, "Shoscombe Old Place."  Fletcher's later works from the 1930s generally are shorter and weaker than the ones from the late teens and early Twenties.  I think Foreland is one of the better ones, however.  

To get back to this book (finally), lawyer Savvery's bungalow neighbors are:

Mr. Rennard, a friendly, obvious man of means, "always ready to pass the time of day and to invite you into his bungalow for a whiskey and soda and an uncommonly good cigar."

Mr. and Mrs. Thacker, a "grocer and Italian warehouseman" and his pretty, younger wife, who is "gay, vivacious and something of a chatterbox."

Mr. Chettle, in a cottage a little further away, "a quiet, moony-looking chap," one of those artists.  

This sunny setup is soon disturbed when Mr. Rennard one early morning is found shot to death at his bungalow--most efficiently, narratively-speaking, at the end of chapter one.  Savvery finds himself at the center of events (the ingenuous police are quite nice about frequently including him in their investigative efforts); there are vanished jewels, a favorite plot contrivance of Fletcher; and, much less typical of the author, at least in my experience, a rather shockingly bloody climax in Monte Carlo (tactfully told at second hand, but still....).  

It's the usual Fletcher formula in many ways, including the solution that comes to both the investigators and the readers by happenstance, but it's highly readable, the narrative going down like, one presumes, those whisky and sodas of Rennards.  I have to give Fletcher credit: he was good, and supremely efficient, at what he did.  As long as you don't expect by the book fair play detection, locked rooms and ingenious clues and  the like, you should enjoy it all if you like classic British mysteries.  

Was Fletcher really a sort of precursor of the police procedural?  Perhaps so, the more I think about it, though admittedly his depiction of police work makes old Freeman Crofts look like Jack Webb or Ed McBain. But, really, while we are revising everything else about there vintage era of  mystery, we really should think about beginning to reckon with the "Dean of Mystery Writers," Mr. J. S. Fletcher.

B is for Borgias: The Borgia Cabinet (1930), by J. S. Fletcher

Striking jacket design for Knopf's edition of
The Borgia Cabinet. JS Fletcher was one of
the publisher's most lucrative authors, though
Knopf had a shiny new pony in the stable
by the name of Hammett.

The Borgia Cabinet was the first of three mystery novels published in the United States in 1930 by veteran English mystery writer J. S. Fletcher.  Cabinet popped up in January of that year, followed by The Yorkshire Moorland Mystery in May and The South Foreland Murder in September.  1931 would see The Dressing Room Murder start up the Fletcher production line all over again in the following January.  Fletcher was, you might say, a prolific writer.  

And say it they certainly did at the time.  One newspaper wag speculated in 1930 that English thriller writer Edgar Wallace had actually "written all of England's literature," only to be corrected by J. S. Fletcher's publisher Knopf that Wallace works accounted merely for half of England's literature, the other half being supplied by their man Fletcher.  

One of the ways in which mystery genre history has gone wrong, as history, is to omit inclusion in studies of once hugely popular writers who have fallen out of print.  Fifteen years ago, mystery genre history, when it came to its so-called "Golden Age," was largely confined, in Britain, to the Crime Queens Christie, Sayers, Allingham and Marsh (and sometimes Tey), and, in America, to the tough guys Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler.  

Practically no one--there were a few exceptions--was studying Freeman Wills Crofts, R. Austin Freeman, Earl Derr Biggers or Erle Stanley Gardner, say, and they certainly weren't perusing Edgar Wallace or Carolyn Wells or J. S. Fletcher.  Yet the latter two authors, the first American and the second British, were during the 1920s and into the 1930s two of the most popular mystery (as opposed to thriller) writers in the United States--a fact which is still greatly lost on people today.

Unlike the also very popular Mary Roberts Rinehart, Wells and Fletcher were mass producers of mysteries, often publishing three or four (or more) crime novels in a single year.  Fletcher took off in the States after American president Woodrow Wilson famously praised his book The Middle Temple Murder (1919), which until this last decade remained the one and only Fletcher book that remained often in print.   In the United States in the Twenties Fletcher sold better than Christie or Sayers and to many American crime fans he most represented modern English mystery.

There was a great irony here, in that Fletcher--who was only four years younger than Arthur Conan Doyle and Fergus Hume, just a year younger than R. Austin Freeman, Eden Phillpotts and Carolyn Wells and three years older than venerable E. Phillips Oppenheim--was a very old-fashioned writer indeed.  His Twenties mysteries ostensibly took place during the Twenties, I suppose, but they really were products of the Victorian or at best Edwardian era.  And they weren't really tales of detection, or let us say deduction, either.  

Fletcher's mysteries have plenty of mystery to them, to be sure, but they tend to have very little genuine intelligent detection by the police detectives.  They investigate, vigorously follow leads, then usually get a surprise solution generously handed to them by the author in the last few pages of the novel, at least in my experience with reading Fletcher.  The man certainly had this formula down and his books are easy to read and often enjoyable, but it was really S. S. Van Dine and to some extent Earl Biggers who brought the art of detection home to American mystery readers in the second half of the Twenties (followed by Ellery Queen).  

I have a hardcover American first edition of another Fletcher mystery, False Scent (1925) that has some rather interesting marginalia in it on a couple of pages.  I wish I knew more of the book's provenance.  The letter "H" is stamped in it and there is a bookstore stamp on the front endpaper from Pomeroy's, a department store chain in eastern and central Pennsylvania (where my own mother is from--she may have been to a Pomeroy's in Harrisburg or Pottstown for all I know).  

Anyway, the presumably native Pennsylvanian buyer of this book was pretty dubious as to its merits, judging from the marginal comments.  He (?) complained that the detective figure in the novel, one Stevenage, was quite a dull dog indeed.  Fletcher tells us that "in spite of his comparative youth... [Stevenage was] already a man of achievement and of further promise in the Criminal Investigation Department....at eight-and-twenty....[he had] peculiarly acute instincts, stiletto-like perception, and a habit of cool procedure as dependable as chilled steel."  This particular reader, however, wasn't buying it.

On page 258, there's an inadvertently funny exchange between Stevenage and another man, a civilian named Featherstone, with whom Stevenage gets quite chummy.  The latter man informs Stevenage that a certain suspicious character was clean-shaven, leading Stevenage to lament that this man then could not be his suspect Whatmore, because that man is bearded.  To this Featherstone ingeniously suggests that Whatmore might "easily have shaved his beard off....Don't you think that's just what he would do?"  To this Stevenage assents: "Maybe!"

This exchange prompted the reader to scrawl testily in the margin: 

Who is the detective--Stevenage or Featherstone?  Query: Could a C.I.D. man be as stupid as Stevenage and still be C.I.D.?

On the final page of the book, 295, the reader frustratedly adds: 

Again--How can a detective be as stupid--and lucky--as Stevenage!  Answer: His brains were "abstracted."

Well, the truth is this sort of police detective is a stock character in Fletcher's books; we see him again and again.  And, yeah, he is rather ingenuous, to put it generously.  But he steadfastly sees it through to the end and gets his man (or woman), mainly due to some timely good luck late in the book.  

Let's see how it all works in The Borgia Cabinet.  

This book is a highly traditional, if not to say somewhat generic, country house murder mystery.  Fletcher came up with a more intriguing title than usual for this one, but it could easily have been called Murder at Aldersyke Manor.  What is the eponymous cabinet you may be wondering?  It's a repository of obscure deadly poisons which the eccentric murder victim, Sir Charles Stanmore, thought it amusing to keep, unlocked, in his study.  Of course Sir Charles has been bumped off with one of these criminally accessible poisons!  

Certainly it appears that there are plenty of people who might potentially have wanted to do away with Sir Charles, starting with Lady Stanmore, a younger woman who despised her husband and may have been seen in the woods kissing her cousin James Beck, a Wimpole Street physician.  Then there's Sir Charles' young secretary, Miss Fawdale, his nephew and heir, Guy Stanmore, and his sister-in-law, Guy's mother, the widowed Mrs. John Stanmore.  

Of course there's a solemn-faced butler, Bedford, in the wings, as well as a nosy overbearing housekeeper, Mrs. Protheroe, and a parlor maid, Purser.  There's Sir Charles' helpful law partner, Mr. Gilford, and a man by the name of Mapperson, who wanted to purchased a valuable diamond necklace, vanished since the murder, from Sir Charles.  (Whimsically there are also minor characters named Holmes and Watson.)

Detective-Sergeant Charlesworth of Scotland Yard goes investigating and eventually forms a theory, but it's knocked aheap in the last twenty pages of the novel.  

There's no brilliant Christie-like clueing or even the rigorous detection of a John Rhode or Freeman Crofts.  But it all reads pleasantly and smoothly right up to the very late solution of the crime (s); and there's nothing wrong with that. It turns out quite a few readers over the last century and more did not really want to have wrack their brains too hard when perusing a mystery.  

J. S. Fletcher

What's odd though is how Fletcher was presented to the public by American publishers.  "The Dean of Detective Story Writers," we are told on the back of the dust jacket of False Scent.  This follows:

The world is full of confirmed Fletcher addicts.  His mystery-detective stories of the puzzle variety have made him the favorite story teller of thousands.  The secret is that he plays fair with his readers in his stories.  All the facts that his detectives have to go on are there for his readers to see--and he tells a surprising story in a soothing, artless manner.

Does Fletcher pull surprises, on his detectives and readers?  Absolutely, yes.

Yet his mystery stories, at least the ones I have read, are not really puzzle stories, in the sense that they provide readers with a puzzle they can solve.  Fletcher only hands out key pieces of the puzzle to his detectives and readers right at the end of the story.  Neither the police nor the readers can really solve the crime; they merely are allowed to witness the revelation of the truth.  Inevitably this is disappointing to the more demanding puzzle fans, though it may be closer to the actuality of most crimes as they are really solved.  

The future in American mystery lay not with Fletcher, who would pass away, an anachronism at age 71, in 1935, but with Dashiell Hammett, the other major mystery writer in Knopf's stable.  Not only was Hammett a more exciting writer, he was actually a better deviser of puzzles.  And he influenced many more writers.  Yet there has always remained a fair flock of Fletcher fanciers.  I'll try to review a better one by him soon.  He did do better mysteries than this.  

Out Now! Nothing Darker Than The Night (2025), by Curtis Evans

I'm happy to say that the publisher Stark House has published Nothing Darker Than The Night a collection of essays from the last fifteen years by me (many of them revised and expanded) on hard-boiled and noir crime fiction.  48 (!) articles and essays, ranging from around 1300 words to nearly 18,000 words.  (Most follow in the middle of those two lengths.)  It's a big book, 424 pages.  Definitely a book to dip into at one's leisure and pleasure.  Also available as an ebook.

I hope some of my fellow bloggers will get around to reviewing the whole thing someday but in the meantime a Goodreads reviewer, "AC," gave the book five stars and commented: "A wonderful collection of essays by a rather cranky reviewer and critic that covers a great deal of interesting biographical information about Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald, as well as a host of lesser known books of crime fiction and noir, including many of the short stories of Cornell Woolrich.  Lots of interesting material to browse and to read in."  

I was pleased with this take and will even cop to "cranky"--though I might just say opinionated!  You definitely will get opinions in this book.  

It's also reviewed here in Steve Steinbock's The Jury Box column in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.

Night starts off with with a nine-page introduction on how I came to get interested in hard-boiled and noir crime fiction in the first place.  (Readers of this blog may recall how I started reading Agatha Christie at age eight and remained an exclusively Anglophile classic mystery reader for decades.)  The two sections, roughly equal in length, are devoted respectively to hard-boiled and noir crime fiction.  

'Hard-Boiled" has multiple essays on Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald, as well as pieces on Hammett's Thirties and Forties shadows (lesser known writers who followed him) and on Gore Vidal (his Edgar Box mysteries) and two women crime writers, Margaret Millar, Ross's amazing wife, and Mignon Eberhart (!).  Yes I look at hard-boiled influence in unexpected places, like work by Eberhart and traditionalist crime fiction guru S. S. Van Dine.   

Crime may or may not pay but it
certainly inspires some fascinating fiction

On Hammett there is original research on the mystery woman in his life, Elise De Viane (the girlfriend he likely drunkenly sexually assaulted), a new look as his short Continental Op stories which challenges received wisdom on them, and analyses of four of his novels.  With Chandler I analyze his attitude toward classic British crime fiction (something widely misunderstood), his bitter and rather stupid feud with Ross Macdonald, and his ironic epistolary relationship with crime writer James M. Fox.  With Macdonald I look largely at his attitude to crime writing and the evolution in his own work.  I greatly admire the "hard-boiled triumvirate" but I don't pull occasional punches when it comes to criticism either.  

I also look at some obscure right-wing and left-wing hard-boiled crime writers, as well as the depictions of Asians in American pulp fiction.  That latter piece was inspired by a letter written in the early Thirties by a Chinese immigrant in rural Arkansas to a pulp magazine, in which he politely complained about the way Asians were portrayed therein. 

down the boulevard of broken dreams

"Noir" starts off with a very long piece--if it were fiction it would almost be a novella--in which I revise the "tragic homosexual" legend which has grown up around Cornell Woolrich.  A great deal of new biographical information here.  I also look at his seminal noir novel The Bride Wore Black, and, as the goodreads reviewer stated, a good deal of his short fiction, including pieces which have been very little studied.  

Probably the second most significant piece in the collection is on the colorful, quizzical life of Fredric Brown, a great vintage crime writer similar to Woolrich in some ways.  Huge amount of new biographical details here.  There's also a look at Brown's novel The Screaming Mimi.  There are two articles apiece respectively on Jim Thompson, Patricia Highsmith and Elisabeth Sanxay Holding. 

The last sub-section collects nine introductions I have written to Stark House reprints of noir novels that were adapted to film, including James Gunn's rather amazing Deadlier Than The Male (filmed as Born to Kill), Theodore Strauss' rural noir Moonrise and Edna Sherry's spectacular Sudden Fear, adapted as an Oscar-nominated film starring Joan Crawford.

I'm pleased with this book and hope my readers will take a look.  If it does well enough, a collection of my vintage true crime essays (a score of those) will follow.  And then lastly, I hope, essays on classic crime fiction, which is where I started.

Sudden Fear