Monday, July 14, 2025

Bled on the Bayou: Papa La-bas (1968) and The Ghosts' High Noon (1969), by John Dickson Carr

"...he's being deliberately mysterious."

"Well, so are you."


"It's sex, Leo....Sex! The unbreakable taboo!"


"...he wants no traffic with sweeping reform."

"Good for him!"

"I am glad to hear you say so."


"Crime and the sensational!...We have a sufficiency of both in New Orleans."


"How the hell...can a man be shot through the head at the wheel of an automobile when there's nobody there to do it?"


--From The Ghosts' High Noon, by John Dickson Carr


I.

Mystery Girls

Inspired by some recent sites I saw in Memphis I decided to take a look at one of the last mysteries John Dickson Carr ever wrote: The Ghosts' High Noon, which is set in New Orleans in 1912.  

Memphis you may know is about 400 miles up the Mississippi River from New Orleans and is the biggest city on the river between the Crescent City and St. Louis. A few weeks ago in Midtown I came across a short street called Carr Avenue.  I like to imagine it was named for John Dickson Carr, even though sadly that is not the case.  However most of the homes on it were built around 1912, many of them New Orleans style shotgun houses for streetcar workers.  Walking down it, it's like being back in 1912.  You can imagine you are in a period Carr miracle mystery, with an automobile incredibly entering the avenue, then disappearing before reaching the end of it.

As Carr fans will know the locked room maestro in his writing turned increasingly to historical mysteries with the publication of The Bride of Newgate in 1950, when he was 44 years old.  Over the next 22 years he published only five contemporary Dr. Fell detective novels, these in two brief spurts over 1958-60 and 1965-67, while his Sir Henry Merrivale detective novels petered out with a trio of volumes published over 1950-53.  Compared to these eight books, he published fully a dozen historical mystery novels over this two decade period.  

Carr suffered a significantly debilitating stroke in 1962 after publishing the historical mystery The Demoniacs, and, while his books had already suffered something of a decline in the 1950s, their quality "fell" more afterward.  Like Agatha Christie an annual producer of a mystery tome (a Carr for Christmas), Carr could only put together a collection of previously published short stories for his 1963 outing and in 1964 he revised an older obscure historical mystery from the Thirties for publication.  It was not until 1965, three years after the publication of The Demoniacs, that he was able to produce an original volume, The House at Satan's Elbow, in 1965.

While in my opinion Elbow, a Dr. Fell mystery, is the best of the seven mysteries Carr published between 1965 and 1972, the drop-off in writing quality from earlier Fell tales, even In Spite of Thunder (1960), is definitely discernible.  Anyone who reads my review of Thunder will see I didn't like it much at all, and the truth is I actually enjoyed Elbow more for perhaps sentimental reasons of my own; but I'll readily concede it's a more lumbering, listless narrative than what is found in his earlier tales.  However, compared to the final pair of Fell mysteries, Panic in Box C and Dark of the Moon, which followed over the next two years, it almost seems like a masterpiece.

Panic and Moon share the general problems from which Carr's mysteries had been suffering for some time, elevated to the nth degree: too much talk, too much mysteriousness, irritating, adolescent characters who frequently act like idiots.  Despite his insistence that he was one of the pillars of the true, simon-pure detective novel, Carr for some time had been littering his mysteries with as much irrelevant incident as any hard-boiled detective novel.  Raymond Chandler may have advised mystery writers that when stumped they should have have a man come through the door with a gun, but with Carr it is more a maddening woman with a silly, overblown secret or a load of some supernatural folderal.  

In his heyday, Carr was able effectively to incorporate such business into a mystery: novels like The Burning Court (1937), The Crooked Hinge (1938) and He Who Whispers (1946) are compelling and atmospheric genre masterpieces.  But even before his stroke Carr was fumbling the ball, as it were.  I'll quote myself in my review of In Spite of Thunder:

Again, for someone who professed to hate hard-boiled mysteries, Carr evidently felt that in his story he had to pile on incident (shouting and screaming if not actual fisticuffs and sex).  If "Humdrum" mysteries can err on the side of being too cerebral, Carr's books at this time can err on the side of being too emotional.  Carr is always telling us, as if we can't tell for ourselves from all the exclamation points, that the emotional temperature in the room is going through the roof, etc.  Yes, there's a very heavy use of exclamation points (!), what with characters shouting and roaring and crying "Yes!" and "No!"  You just want everyone to calm the f--- down already.

One of Carr's most irritating quirks is to introduce the woman who is acting mysteriously for what turns out to be a remarkably insufficient reason.  The worst of these women is actually Audrey Page in In Spite of Thunder:

Audrey is a stock character too, and not just because she's a young and sexually attractive "heroine" and love interest.  There is nothing else to her personality besides that she's a maddening ditz.  She's there simply to bewitch and frustrate, to tantalize and tease, the hero, Brian, through a series of annoyingly capricious actions.  This sort of thing became a given in Carr novels, but the problem here is that Audrey really is exceptionally irksome even by Carr's standard of irksome women.  "I've been very silly, you know, and I've behaved about as stupidly as anyone could behave," she admits to Brian.  Yes, indeed you have, Audrey!  But does that stop her from continuing to behave that way?  As a Carr character would say: "No, no, a thousand times no!"

We learn that Audrey came to Geneva simply to get Brian Innes to chase after her, because, you know, she simply couldn't tell Brian she loved him, I guess.  It's interesting that Carr expressed hatred for hard-boiled crime fiction, because characters like Audrey behave a lot like femmes fatales in those books, existing solely to bedevil the hero, though ultimately Carr's young "charmers" usually prove to be good girls after all, just rather maddeningly flighty and childish.  She "began to slap at the table like a woman in a frenzy or a child in a tantrum," writes Carr of Audrey at one point, mentally likening women to children in an unflattering comparison. 

All Brian and Audrey do the whole book (until the very end) is bicker.  This "battle of the sexes" motif is a prominent feature in later Carr (indeed it features in earlier Carr too), but it's so damn obtrusive in this novel.  It's hard to understand just why these two love each other--they certainly don't seem to like each other,  What they really need is not a murder investigation but a relationship counselor:

"But can't you s-say you love me," Audrey cried out at him, "without swearing at me and looking as though you wanted to strangle me?" 
"No I can't.  That's how you affect people."
"All right.  I don't mind; I love it."

Brian tells Audrey, in the anachronistically stilted language characters in which male characters speak in this book, "You're a female devil, a succubus of near-thirty masquerading as nineteen....I've been looking for you my whole life."  What a charmer!  I guess Audrey, who seems to have masochistic tendencies, loved that endearment as well.

Audrey is the most tiresome of these she-witch Carr characters, but they pop up over and over again.  We'll get to more in the books I'm going to talk about below.  

But Carr has all sorts of tiresome quirks in the later books, all of which have been noted by Douglas G. Greene in his masterful Carr biography, The Man Who Explained Miracles, published thirty years ago this year.  There are the radio-script style stage directions, a carry-over from his work in that field in the Forties and Fifties.  Carr was probably the greatest radio mystery writer who ever lived, even better than Ellery Queen and Anthony Boucher, but what worked in radio doesn't work in novels.  

In his narrative Carr will include these long descriptions of house layouts which read like radio stage directions; whether put in his characters' mouths or in the third person narrative, it's tedious writing indeed.  Then he will stop a chapter with some sort of contrived climax and then open the next chapter several hours later with characters talking about what happened in the intervening period, promptly deflating his climax.  

But there is so much talk generally it's hard ever for Carr to sustain the excitement he is going for.  It doesn't help that the characters speak so anachronistically and floridly and oracularly.  Carr does a thing I call "dashing," where he has a character about to tell something pertinent to the mystery, only promptly to interrupt him or herself with some sidetrack, like this:

"But you simply must hear this minute what I finally have come to realize, the precious golden key to the mystery that we all in our varying fumbling ways have been striving so desperately to grasp in order to unlock this devilish puzzle box of a conundrum!  The reason no footprints were left in the dust in the armaments room room of the castle was--"

"Is that the tea kettle I hear whistling?"

Then five chapters later, if we're lucky, this person, if they aren't aren't murdered in the meantime, may get around to telling what they know.

All of these faults are present in the earlier Fell mysteries In Spite of Thunder and The Dead Man's Knock, but Panic in Box C and Dark of the Moon (and The House at Satan's Elbow to a lesser extent) take these and add some more.  At least in the earlier books Carr was able to generate a sort of synthetic excitement, even if he was trying much too hard.  These later books are just dull, the characters tiresomely verbose and silly, the narratives prolix, the climaxes duds. The characters behave like juveniles (or immature college students), even calling each other by silly nicknames.  In Dark of the Moon Dr. Fell gets called magister, maestro, gargantua, Torquemada and other terms I can't recall.  It just makes me want to tear my hair out.

Part of the problem was Carr just could not believably portray the contemporary scene, with which he himself was completely out of sorts.  Increasingly he put his heroes' ages in their thirties or even forties, while making his heroines shy of thirty (though they usually "look nineteen"); yet none of them, however old, sound like actual people who could have lived in the mod era.  

Happily Carr finally dropped Dr. Fell and the modern world after Moon and his last four novels--Papa La-bas, The Ghosts' High Noon, Deadly Hall and The Hungry Goblin--were set in the past, two in the Victorian era and two in 1912 and 1927 respectively.  Are they any better?  I haven't read The Hungry Goblin, which the estate oddly has repressed from republication, apparently on the grounds that it is such a terrible book (could it really be worse than Dark of the Moon?), but I would say that the New Orleans trilogy of novels is at least a little better than the final two Fells.


II.

The first of these novels, Papa La-bas, launched Carr's New Orleans trilogy of mystery novels.  It's an improvement over Panic and Moon, but it's still not actually good.  It exhibits all of the problems of his later books, if somewhat less conspicuously than the previous two.  

Delphine LaLaurie
(colorized)

There was actually material here to make a good book, had the younger Carr written it.  Set in 1858, shortly before the outbreak of the American Civil War (or War Between the States as Carr, like Raymond Chandler, always called it), the novel draws on the notorious real life case of Delphine LaLaurie, a New Orleans socialite believed to have tortured and murdered many of her slaves.  

An infuriated city mob actually invaded and razed her mansion in 1834, forcing her to flee the state and the country and settle in Paris, where she died fifteen years later.  In Carr's novel it appears fairly early on that LaLaurie's adopted son--a character invented by the author--has returned to New Orleans to avenge himself on the mob's ringleaders, all of whom are socially prominent men (in Carr's handling).  

As stated, this is good material for a mystery melodrama, but sadly none of it ever really takes flight, being held down by the prolix, tedious narrative.  Carr introduces voodoo--or more accurately rumors of voodoo--but this never really goes anywhere, despite much mention being made of real life New Orleans "Voodoo Queen" Marie Laveau.  

Very quickly the book descends into characters dully orating at each other, including the book's nominal amateur detective, historically prominent real-life southern politician Judah Benjamin (nicknamed "Benjie" in the book).  The fictional character Isabelle de Sancerre, a wealthy slave owning matron, goes on and on to similarly fictional English (actually Scottish) consul Richard "Dick" Macrae about various New Orleans legends.  Even Carr refers to this lady in the book's Notes for the Curious as "that tireless talker."  

Then as love interests there are two young women--Margot de Sancerre, Isabelle's willful southern belle daughter, and Ursula Ede, her steadfast second banana friend (what I call in Carr's books the brunette one and the blonde one)--both of whom are behaving maddeningly mysteriously.  

There's not much nicknaming in this one, though Ursula insists on calling Dick "Quentin" for some reason.  There are a couple of stock English comic cockney characters who vexsomely speak in ponderously overdrawn dialect.  The murder method in the killing of Judge Rutherford (a cameo character who exists only to be killed) Carr presumably cribbed from a Dorothy L. Sayers novel, while the central concealment device for the murderer he probably derived from a certain opus by Cornell Woolrich, an author with whom he had qualities in common.  I think it becomes screamingly obvious who the murderer is around page 100, yet unrelentingly the book goes on.  

All in all it's another tired work by Carr.  One thing this time around I noticed (it's my second read) that I thought was kind of funny, however: Dick has two pals, Tom Clayton and Harry Ludlow, whom he goes to a "quadroon ball" with; and it finally occurred to me this time that together they are "Tom, Dick and Harry."

Speaking of quadroons (people one-fourth black), Carr basically seems to view slavery as more or less on par with the old English class system of masters and servants.  (It's how southern slave-holding "aristocrats" liked to view themselves, however self-deceivingly.)  This doesn't add one bit to the charm of the book, to say the least.  When a character casually mentions having won himself a slave in a card game, no one bats an eyelash.  The fundamental inhumanity of it all Carr doesn't seem to get.  

At one point our good English consul, the "hero" of the story, so lectures his underling Harry when he thinks (wrongly) that Harry is about to object to the morality of quadroon balls, which are attended by comely free "mulatto" women in hopes of finding wealthy white men to make mistresses of them: 

"The situation exists, and must be faced; let's have no moralizing or cant!"  

"The Quadroon"
1911 poem by black reformer W.E.B Du Bois

Well, isn't that special?  Actually it's quite clear that all three men are rather sexually titillated by these balls.  Of course they are all sexists as well, thinking spanking is a great way of disciplining willful, headstrong women like Margot, who shockingly shows up at the ball too, even though she is not of mixed race. Conversely, little problem apparently is seen with beautiful women having essentially to sell themselves sexually because they have in them some drops of "black blood." The situation, according to Dick, must be faced, but it need not be faced and corrected, apparently.  Tell that to W.E.B. Du Bois.  (See pic to left.)

Reformers, after all, are just a bunch of self-righteous sermonizers, right?  Nothing more than a sourfaced pack of puritanical blue noses and spoilsports.  

Did Carr see all moral stances as cant (i.e., sanctimonious lecturing), or just the ones he himself didn't care about personally?  What about, say, concern over genocide or pedophilia?  (On the latter matter see below.)  Elsewhere Dick Macrae sneeringly refers to objecting to slavery as singing "pious hymns" and Harry Ludlow announces: "I can't be as shocked by slavery as people at home think I ought to be.

Judah Benjamin
a proslavery Jewish US senator from Louisiana
at the time Papa La-bas takes place

Doug Greene in his Carr bio says social systems per se didn't trouble Carr, though he did think one had an obligation to behave honorably within them: i.e., masters should not mistreat servants, freed or enslaved, like Delphine LaLaurie allegedly did.  There's a gambler character who behaves badly to Dick's free black servants and is upbraided by Dick for doing so.  

Yet sometimes social systems are so bad they ought to be reformed, surely; individual acts of kindness don't do nearly enough to mitigate the overall evil of the system in place.  But Carr and the characters with whom he sympathizes in his books are all self-proclaimed "conservatives" who instinctively oppose social reform.  

Carr himself, like his dearest enemy Raymond Chandler, professed to take the part of the Confederacy in the American Civil War, likening southerners to his beloved English cavaliers; and in his later years he left England to settle in Greenville, South Carolina, of all places, where he praised the southern states as bedrocks of conservatism and sarcastically dismissed concerns about civil rights as lurid exaggerations.  (My family moved to Alabama the same year but my parents never deluded themselves like Carr about the reality of the region's endemic racism.)  

III.

Compared to Papa La-bas, The Ghosts' High Noon is actually something of an improvement, and not just because we aren't having slavery thrown in our faces.  (In slavery's place we get something else odious and objectionable thrown in our faces; see below.)  Carr actually repeats some of the plot points from Papa, but he at least comes up, this time around, with a pretty good and apparently original "impossible" murder.  

homes along Bayou Saint John, scene of crime in The Ghosts' High Noon

It's 1912 and our hero, James "Jim" Blake, is an admired journalist turned successful spy novelist.  His recently published debut novel, a bestseller, is The Count of Monte Carlo.  Carr here alludes, accurately enough, to the English crime writer E. Phillips Oppenheim, who had already become a hugely popular author in the United States with his tales of international intrigue in Monte Carlo and other swanky European locales.  

In New York Jim is asked by George Brinton McClellan Harvey, a real life prominent conservative Democrat (soon to become a Republican) and editor of Harper's Weekly, to report on rumors of political intrigue in a congressional race in New Orleans concerning Democratic nominee Jim Clayton "Clay" Blake.  "The underground wire has it that some enemy is out to ruin him,"  Harvey explains.  

Carr's kind of guy
prominent anti-progressive 
George Harvey

Clay, Harvey tells Jim, is "like most southerners...as conservative as you are."  (Harvey means white southerners of course.)  Jim himself confirms, without explanation: "I'm a conservative, even a reactionary...I distrust progressives and hate reformers."  

113 years ago near the height of the Progressive Era, there was much, one might believe, that needed reforming, such as the franchise (women could not vote) and racist Jim Crow laws, but not so to our Jim Blake, who, conveniently for himself, doesn't actually like talking about politics.  If he did, he might have to articulate defenses of some of his heinous positions!

But anyway off goes Jim by train to New Orleans, with a stop at Washington, D.C., which allows Carr to indulge himself in some nostalgia about streetcars and such.  (He lived in DC as a small boy when his father briefly served as a US congressman--a Democrat!)  

Chunks of exposition have already been served up to Jim and the reader by George Harvey; and in DC yet more is ladled out by Charley Emerson, an old bachelor whose interests, sounding a lot like Carr, are "old books and toy trains."  Then it's off to New Orleans!

Along the way on his New York trip Jim literally twice runs into fetching, fair-haired Jill Matthews, for whom in Carr tradition he immediately falls emotionally.  Yes, it's another one of Carr's age-mismatched romances, Jim being thirty-five and "not ill-looking in a strongly Anglo-Saxon way [?]" and Jill being twenty-seven and "very pretty" with "admirable body proportions" and "a sense of humor struggling through" her delectable "pink mouth."  Very soon Jim is rather familiarly calling Jill "my sugar-candy witch," one of those weird anachronistic endearments (even for 1912 I suspect) for which Carr had a penchant. Indeed, this phrase seems unique to Carr.  Women also get called "wench" a lot in his books.

suffragist Aimee Hutchinson was fired from her teaching job at a Catholic school for attending a 
suffrage parade in 1912, the same year as The Ghost' High Noon. (See here.)
Carr's hero in that novel is a self-described reactionary who firmly opposes sweeping social reform.

Jill, however, justifies the endearment (?) when she maddeningly keeps running away throughout much of the book.  When she explains her behavior much later on, her explanation hardly seems sufficient.  Unfortunately this not very compelling subsidiary mystery around vanishing Jill swallows much of this book, like the proverbial gnat swallowing the whale. 

There is eventually a "miracle" murder but it's not until around page 200 in a 300 page book that Carr really gets serious with it. There's also the supposed "miracle" mystery of the person who knocked on the door of the train compartment where Jim, Jill, and a New Orleans bon vivant friend of Jim's, Leo Shepley, are discussing the Clay Blake matter and then vanished, but this little mystery, never very compelling in the first place, fizzles miserably.  At least it doesn't take up as much of the book as the matter of Jill's Jilting Behavior.

Jim finally gets to New Orleans on page 84 and the murder of Leo Shepley takes place about fifty pages later.  Witnesses, including Jim and Jill, see him drive down the Bayou St. John road in his snazzy red Mercer Raceabout into a barn-like shed on the grounds of a mansion and then hear him apparently shoot himself.  But, wait, where's the gun?!  Could it be murder?!  

I still like miracle problems (Carr at his best is an abiding delight in this regard) and this was an enjoyable one, much better than the shenanigans in Papa La-bas, where there are also a surfeit of mysteries, including Margot's vanishing from a moving carriage, and not a single one of them compelling.

"The Mercer Raceabout is considered the most prized original American sports car.  
Known for its enhanced design, magnificent handling and high speed, these cars won five of
six races they entered in 1911.  Mercers came with the unheard of guarantee that each Raceabout
would achieve a minimum of seventy miles per hour without modification on public roads.
"
See Heritage Museum and Gardens  

I found the period atmosphere in Noon enjoyable enough, though many of the characters in the book sound more like callow 1920s college students (like Carr, now 63, had been four decades earlier) rather than Edwardian adults.  This is how Jim and Leo greet each other on the train:

New Orleans' Hotel Grunewald 
setting for a late tete-a-tete
between Jim and Jill 

"Leo, you old bastard, how are you?"

"Jim, you unregenerate son-of-a-bitch, have you visited any good whorehouses recently?"

Later this boyish pair sits down in a compartment with Jill, have drinks and chat about whores and homosexuals.  Jill is Carr's perfect type of girl, the kind that looks prim and proper on the outside, but is really way into sex underneath (even wanton), pally with the boys and sympathetic to all of her beau's charmingly masculine foibles.  

She's the kind of girl you can throw up on at the college football game when you're drunk out of your mind and she will gamely smile and wipe your vomit off her dress with a handkerchief (or more likely several of them).  

"I want you to do mad things," Jill admiringly tells Jim.  "I love it!"  Remembering that she's living in the Edwardian era, she won't smoke in public, however, at least until late in the book. 

Jim and Jill share a romantic rendezvous at The Cave,
a fanciful grotto-like dining room in the Grunewald Hotel
IV.

In a good number of later Carrs, illicit sex between older men and younger women (or "girls" as they are called) is a central interest.  And of course in the case of Ghosts' High Noon the setting is New Orleans, which had an infamous red-light district known as Storyville, so Carr has come to the right place!  I don't know of any reviews explicitly mentioning this (or Doug's bio either) but the illicit sex in this one takes place between adult men and what Carr refers to as "pubescent girls" around the ages of 12 or 13, which raises the "ick" factor considerably.  

Worse yet, Carr adopts the same attitude to child prostitution that he does to the quadroon balls: judiciously neutral, if one wants to be generous, though one might more accurately say pruriently interested.  Despite dwelling on this subject at considerable length in his novel, in his Notes for the Curious Carr himself completely avoids the subject of Storyville child prostitution.  Did the subject spring entirely from his own mind?

Storyville prostitute
photographed by E. J. Bellocq

The Green Capsule in its review of the novel very delicately and disapprovingly approaches this matter: "There is a particularly vile subject needlessly included in the story, and I'm not even going to mention what it is.  That Carr treats it with a "men will be men" attitude is beyond me, and I could imagine some readers just shutting the book."  

Well, I'm going to dare to discuss this "vile subject" in depth below, so take heed.  You can draw your own conclusions as to what it says about the author.  Carr seems to intimate that a sexual predilection for young girls, at least when the girls are ostensibly "willing" participants, is rather less aberrant than homosexuality.  

This take first comes up when Dick, Leo and Jill are discussing the Clay Blake affair.  The rumors about Clay Blake concern "something abnormal or unnatural," speculates Jim.  "The slightest suggestion of homosexuality, for example...."  This speculation provokes an infuriated Leo to smite his fist on the table, rattling the glasses and china. 

 "What kind of friends do you think I have, for God's sake?" Leo roars.  "No, Jim, I won't hear that for a minute!  It's nothing at all abnormal or unnatural, at least in the way you mean."

So Leo objects to Jim suggesting he might have gay friends, but pedophiles (or near-pedophiles) are a-ok, apparently.  Later on in New Orleans Jim discusses with a couple of Crescent City pressmen the criminal case of Etienne Deschamps, a New Orleans dentist who in 1892 was tried and executed at the age of 62 for the murder three years earlier, when he was 59, of 13-year-old Juliette Deitsh.  (She was actually, contra Jim/Carr, 12.)  Dr. Deschamps had a habit of chloroforming and sexually assaulting Julia, but one day he administered too much chloroform to her and she died.  

Jerry Lee Lewis and his 
"half-grown nymph" Myra

Jim declares of young Juliette that Deschamps "made the girl his mistress" and that "she seems to have entered heartily into the affair and had all the essential attributes of a woman."  Pardon the canting and pious hymning here, but isn't this stance rather on the grotesque side?  

Okay, I'll allow that in Mississippi in 1957 22-year-old rock singer Jerry Lee Lewis married a 13-year-old cousin and that under the English common law of rape the age of consent was set at twelve or even ten, meaning that if a man had sex with a twelve-year-old, the girl was compelled to prove that she had not consented to her physical violation in order for the act to be deemed rape.  So Carr's attitude is actually a traditional one and we all know Carr loved tradition.

Still Carr was writing in 1969 not 1669, for God's sake.  Back in the 1950s Jerry Lee Lewis' career suffered a significant setback over his marriage.  (It didn't help that the couple were cousins as well.)  

On Carr goes about this subject throughout this book.  Later Jim visits Flossie Yates, a New Orleans madam who specializes in procuring young girls for her clients, what Carr calls "pubescent girls," presumably meaning they have "all the essential attributes of a woman."  Flossie talks of two such girls, Sue, who is 14, and Billie Jean (had Michael Jackson read this book?), who is not much over 12.  Billie Jean, she declares, "is exceptionally mature for her years."  She calls her charming girls "half-grown nymphs."  

Other characters, when this topic comes up (which it does frequently), call them "the near nubile" and refer to Flossie's "stable of underage ones" and "the joys of the pubescent" and "men with a passion for half-formed bodies and the caresses of the immature."  Clay Blake explains that he was "accused of spending my nights in orgies with girls twelve or thirteen years old.  Don't look so shocked, any of you."  He adds this even though, Carr pointedly tells us, "in fact nobody did look shocked; the women merely looked thoughtful."  Women in Carr's books strive hard to look proper, but under the skin, they are, like the colonel's lady one imagines, greatly interested, perhaps even more than men, in sex of all stripes.

Storyville
V.

I'm not suggesting that Carr was, like occasional mystery writer Eden Phillpotts. a secret pedophile.  (Actually, I have discovered, the technically accurate term for what Carr is describing, a person attracted to pubescent children, is hebephile).  Yet a lot of the notions expressed in Carr's books about sex to me come off as juvenile, sexist,  prurient and occasionally disgusting.  

Others have agreed.  "Sex amateurish and repulsive at the same time," wrote Humdrum mystery devotee Jacques Barzun in his and Wendell Hertig Taylor's tome A Catalogue of Crime of Carr's 1949 detective novel Below Suspicion, though ironically The Ghosts' High Noon was one of the few Carrs Barzun actually liked.  "One of his sober and sustained efforts," he declares.  (Barzun doesn't mention the child prostitution either.)  Of Noon specifically a nonplussed Keith Boynton at Goodreads avowed, "the story's cavalier attitude towards pedophilia is pretty damn jarring."

Over and over Carr's later novels feature older men attracted to much younger women, often women who "look about nineteen."  Then there's this very sexualized and smitten description of Lady Brace in the The Cavalier's Cup (1953), who enticingly looks for all the world like jailbait, though she actually isn't.  Evidently a real dream girl fantasy in high heels:

Actress and "small girl"
Shirley Temple receiving a corsage
on her fifteenth birthday in 1943.
Like Carr's Lady Brace, her hair 
"fell to her shoulders and curled out 
a little in artless, young-girl fashion.
"
Six years earlier, when Temple
was only nine years old, author
Graham Greene had scandalously
asserted in a film review that
Temple's "admirers" consisted of
"middle-aged men and clergymen"
who were attracted to her
"well-shaped and desirable little body."

The very pretty girl who entered [Chief Inspector Masters'] office, he would have sworn at a first quick glance, could not have been more than fifteen years old, despite her modish clothes.  

First of all, even wearing her heels she was only five feet tall. Her soft and silky light-brown hair fell to her shoulders and curled out a little in artless, young-girl fashion....

[...]

"I'm awfully sorry to intrude, Chief Inspector said the small girl, in a warm and sweet voice as feminine as herself.  "But do you mind if I sit down?"

[...]

....her figure...was a fine one....for all its innocent and demure appearance, her expression held a quality of the impish.  The small girl...used her rather heavy-lidded gray eyes and pink lips in a way which would have inspired speculation in any man who had been married for fewer years than Chief Inspector Humphrey Masters. 

1953 was the time, I have speculated, that Carr, a happily married yet perpetually dissatisfied man who engaged in a number of extra-marital affairs or assignations, was having a midlife crisis.  (He was 47.)  

In his books and his life in his later years he seems to have been obsessed with recovering the unrecoverable past, the world's and his own, wanting desperately to relive the joys of his lost youth, when life had more zest.

All the essential attributes of a woman?
Brooke Shields as a child prostitute
in the 1978 film Pretty Baby

Back to The Ghosts' High Noon, late in the novel police detective Zack Trowbridge, who calls Jim Franz Joseph (don't ask), admits that the police know all about Flossie Yates and her underage girl harem.  Why isn't she prosecuted?  It seems that "if the girls are proved professionals [!] it's hard to touch anybody."  So these decidedly pro young girls remain readily available to to gratify the lusts of "anybody who's got the dough."  Storyville, it seems, is a perfect island of depravity, rather like the late Mr. Epstein's literal one.  

(The red light district was finally shut down in 1917 when the US entered World War One and established a military base in New Orleans.  The government emphatically did not want the troops dallying with Storyville whores. My then twenty-one-year-old paternal grandfather, incidentally, was stationed down there at the time.)

Interestingly five years after the appearance of The Ghosts' High Noon, Louisiana writer Al Rose published Storyville, a history of New Orleans' red light district which included an account of a young girl who was forced into prostitution by her own mother. The account in turn served as the inspiration for the 1978 movie Pretty Baby, which starred actual twelve-year-old model and actress Brooke Shields as the titular child prostitute.  Carr died the year before the release of this flick at age 71, so he never got see how his then forgotten novel anticipated one of the most controversial films of the Seventies. To me all this adds unexpected piquancy to The Ghosts' High Noon, however problematic Carr's take on the subject of child prostitution is.

Friday, June 13, 2025

Telephone Line: Twenty Plus Two (1961), by Frank Gruber and its 1961 film adaptation

Frank Gruber was a successful and above all else extremely prolific pulps writer of the Thirties who like Cornell Woolrich and other pulps writers transitioned into publishing crime novels in the 1940s.  He produced several series, the most significant of which was the fourteen-book series about loveable scam artists and incidental murder solvers Johnny Fletcher and Sam Cragg.  Twelve of the Fletcher and Cragg books appeared over the Forties, followed by a couple of more, one in 1954 and another a decade later in 1964.  There were two other series as well, one with Otis Beagle and Joe Peel, and the other with Simon Lash and Eddie Slocum, both numbering three books apiece.  

All of these books are light and and slick and they tend rather to resemble each other, but Gruber also published some non-series mysteries which are more original.  One of these was the noirish crime novel The Lock and the Key (1948), filmed as The Man in the Vault in 1956, which is being republished this year by Stark House, with an introduction by me.  Another was Twenty Plus Two (1961), filmed the same year it was published under the same title.  

In the early 1940s Gruber moved out to Los Angeles with his wife and son Robert to work in the film industry.  Among other things, he wrote the screenplay for the film adaptation of Eric Ambler's The Mask of Dimitrios, co-wrote with Steve Fisher the script for Johnny Angel, and worked on scripts for films in the Sherlock Holmes and Bulldog Drummond series.  In 1960 he wrote Twenty Plus Two with a film adaptation expressly in mine.  The novel was published in March 1961 and the film opened seven months later in October.  It must have gone into production about the time the novel was published. 

the Bantam pb ed

Gruber not only wrote the film's screenplay, but he produced the film as well.  It was directed by Joseph Newman, whose greatest accomplishment to my mind was directing the 1965 adaptation of Ethel Lina White's shuddery (shuttery?) short story "An Unlocked Window" on the television series The Alfred Hitchcock Hour. (It's the one about the nurse and the serial killer.)  Newman also directed the series' earlier adaptation of Margaret Millar's Beast in View.  But let's leave off the film for a bit and get back to the novel.  

The novel, which is set in 1960, is about the the investigation by 41-year-old WWII veteran Tom Alder, who is not a PI exactly but rather a professional finder of missing heirs, into the murder of Julia Joliet, a dowdy, middle-aged fan mail secretary to film stars, including 34-year-old WWII hero and screen heartthrob Leroy Dane.  

Tom thinks Joliet's death may have had something to do with the famous unsolved Doris Delaney kidnapping case--fifteen-year-old heiress Doris disappeared in New York in 1938 while cutting school to go to a malt shop--and he is soon looking into that affair, which is much more promising.  Doris' grief-stricken father is now dead, but her mother, a recluse, is still around, still very rich and utterly convinced that her daughter, who would be 37 now, is very much alive.  

Who killed dreamy war vet film star
Leroy Dane's fan mail secretary?
(actor Guy Madison, 1922-1996)

Tom spends the novel flying back and forth across the United States, with stops in New York, Chicago, and, of all places, Bismarck, North Dakota, mostly spending his time making long distance phone calls to get people to dig up information for him.  The phone bills must have been horrendous!

Along the way he's pursued across the country by his sexy twice-married, twice-divorced, gold-digging, long-ago fiancée Linda Foster, who heartlessly Dear John'ed him way back in '42 when he was fighting in the Pacific.  Now Linda, it seems, brazenly wants him back.  

Linda's modern menage includes her pet stockbroker fiance, Harris Toomey, and her filthy rich friends Walter and Nikki Collinson.  Before he leaves LA Tom spends the night with amorous Linda.  On his flight to New York the next day, however, Tom encounters beautiful Nikki, who like Linda is a few years younger than he, and becomes rather smitten with her.  

Nikki alights in Chicago, but Tom finds plenty to do when he gets to NYC.  There's a drunken newspaper reporter who covered the Delaney case to be located, for example, not to mention a call to be made upon reclusive Mrs. Delaney.  Then there's the big fat man named Jacques Pleshette who has his own case for Alder--he wants him to find his long lost brother Auguste--and just won't let him alone.  

Late in the novel Gruber manages a moving wartime flashback to Honolulu and an exciting, violent climax somewhere in the sticks in North Dakota. You might even be reminded of the great Nineties crime film Fargo. No wood chippers are involved though!

Fully a dozen years ago at this blog in happier days I reviewed a non-series Gruber novel which I hardly remember now but I quite evidently enjoyed; and I similarly enjoyed Gruber's Twenty Plus Two.  It has a complex plot (people's ages matter), some interesting characters and a good resolution.  I believe it will be the next Gruber reprinted by Stark House.

It's interesting to compare the film with the book in this case, because rarely does a crime writer have his fingerprints all over the film adaptation like Gruber did.  The film is not terrible, but on the whole I have sadly to conclude that Gruber somewhat mucked up his own adaptation.  

Of course the production values of the film were low--at one point on a supposed small plane flight you can see an insect crawling in front of the front window of the "plane"--and it looks like an episode in a TV crime series, but that does not in itself make for a bad film.  The biggest problems stem from the casting and the changes which it prompted in the time frame of the book.  Gruber just blew it here.

David Janssen and Dina Merrill chat with fifty-six-year-old Frank Gruber on the set of
Twenty Plus Two.  Oddly Merrill looked younger here than she did in the film, as did Janssen.
Both he and Gruber, who definitely looked his age and died nine years later at 65, have cigarettes.
A hard drinker as well as a smoker, Janssen died of a heart attack at the age of 48 in 1980.

Thirty-year-old David Janssen of TV series The Fugitive fame plays Tom Alder and gives a creditable "tough" detective performance of the sort we would have seen in Forties hard-boiled detective films.  He's actually over a decade younger than his book character but arguably could have passed for closer to forty.  However the script chooses to make him a veteran of the Korean War, rather than World War Two, and moved the Doris Delaney case up a full decade to 1948.  Gruber, in short, makes a hash of his own novel's crucial timeline.  I can't go into full detail, but it's a definite plotting problem.

Janssen's female co-stars Jeanne Crain and Dina Merrill were both older than he, respectively 35 and 37.  This is actually around the age of their characters in the book, but the discrepancy with Janssen's age, particularly in  Merrill's case, is noticeable.  The script would have us believe that Dina Merrill is fully a decade younger, younger than Janssen, and it's just not plausible--even less so when she appears in a flashback scene in Korea, where she's supposed to be around twenty.  There is no conceivable way that Merrill could be a near teenager.

Aside from her age, the somewhat matronly Merrill just doesn't have the chops for this complex character, or the raw sex appeal.  Crane on the other hand is a better fit as the alluring yet perpetually artificial Linda.

David Janssen and Jeanne Crane 

David Jansen and Dina Merrill
looking like matronly Donna Reed of The Donna Reed Show (or maybe even her mother)

The worst (indeed incomprehensible) case of miscasting, however, belongs to Brad Dexter as Leroy Dane.  There is no way this beefy, 43-year-old westerns actor is credible for a minute as a teenybopper film idol. (Think someone like pretty boy Guy Madison.)  There's an unintentionally hilarious scene where Dexter as Dane is pursued by a pack of smitten young girls at a hotel--I can't imagine what Gruber was thinking, particularly as he created the book character.  

"And I'm telling you, bud, them teenyboppers love me!"

William Demarest and Agnes Morehead are in the film too, but both of them are only in one scene apiece (as the alcoholic reporter and Mrs. Delaney respectively). The novel ends appropriately with Mrs. Delaney being crucially referenced, but the film ends frivolously instead with a throwaway bit of humor concerning Jacques Pleshette.  

About frere Jacques, he's a great character in the novel, though Gruber obviously cribbed him from Caspar Gutman in The Maltese Falcon.  (There are elements of Mask of Dimitrios too.)  In the film actor Jacques Aubuchon, in decided contrast with Brad Dexter, is technically right for the part (though too young by two decades), but I was aching to see Sidney Greenstreet, sadly dead and gone for seven years when the film was made.  When you read the novel you will none other than him.  What zest he would have given to this role!  Aubuchon I found a little too understated.

One piece of casting that Gruber got right was his own twenty-year-old son, Robert, or Bobby as he was familiarly known, in the twelfth-billed position as "bellboy."  Perhaps unsurprisingly given his father's connections Bobby was an aspiring actor, but in IMDB he has only has this role and "sergeant" in a 1975 episode of M*A*S*H to his credit.  He also published a single known mystery short story, quite credible, which I expect to see reprinted with Twenty Plus Two.  He died unmarried in Los Angeles in 1982 at the age of 41.  There's a tragic story there, I suspect.  Was Bobby Gruber an early casualty of the AIDS plague?

The studio desperately tries to sex up the film and make sense of its title.
If there are twenty clues in this film, I missed them and the "beautiful victims"
both make it out of the film alive.  The stilettoed blonde dish apparently is
supposed to be Dina Merrill, who never exhibits a-tenth of that raw sex appeal.

The most egregious part about Gruber monkeying with his own timeline in the film adaptation of his novel is that the title, which was kept, now makes absolutely no sense!  It's been not 22 years since the Doris Delaney kidnapping, but 12.  Did no one involved in this film ever point that out to Gruber?  I guess Ten Plus Two didn't sound as good, though Ed McBain two years later would publish the crime novel Ten Plus One.  

Gruber evidently adhered to the pulp fiction ethos "Don't ask questions, just get it down!"  A little more care in casting would have made a better film, however.  It also must be admitted that watching a guy make a series of phone calls from hotel rooms is not necessarily thrilling viewing.  Some extra effort might have turned a fine little crime novel into a truly effective, cinematic film.  For example, would it not have been more interesting to open the film with the Doris Delaney disappearance, then flash forward to the murder of Julia Joliet?  

My advice on this one: read the novel when it's reprinted, don't see the film first.  Currently, although the novel was reprinted in paperback and published in the US and UK, it's extremely rare; but that problem should soon be rectified.

Sunday, April 27, 2025

Red Flag! Miss Brown of X.Y.O. (1927), by E. Phillips Oppenheim

"[W]e shall hear the Red Flag sung in Westminster Abbey within the next twelve months."

--Miss Brown of X. Y. O. (1927), by E. Phillips Oppenheim

Then raise the scarlet standard high

Beneath its shade we live and die.

Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer,

We'll keep the red flag flying here!

"The Red Flag" (1889) worldwide socialist hymn, sung to the tune of "O Tannenbaum"

Thriller writer E. Phillips Oppenheim is strikingly forgotten today, given that he was perhaps the single most popular English crime writer during the so-called Golden Age of detective fiction (essentially the decades of the Twenties and Thirties of the Twentieth Century).  Nope, it wasn't actually Agatha Christie.  

During the Depression-wracked years from 1930 to 1937, Oppenheim in modern value earned in America some twelve million dollars, two-thirds of this amount from American magazine serializations and a third from royalties on his fiction from his American publisher.  Royalties from his English publisher, Hodder & Stoughton, and from publishers in other countries accounted for about another million, comparative peanuts compared with the golden American fleece.  America made Oppenheim a multimillionaire who owned a country mansion in Norfolk and villas on the Isle of Guernsey and the Cote d'Azur.  

Serializations of Oppenheim crime fiction in the American slicks Collier's and the Saturday Evening Post earned Oppy, as he was nicknamed, as much as $400,0000 a pop.  His 1927 novel The Glenlitten Murder sold nearly forty thousand copies in hardcover in the US and was serialized in the Chicago Tribune, netting him around $420,000.  Honestly when it came to the big green, the slicks, as they were called after their paper they were printed on, crushed the pulps.

Between 1887 and 1943 Oppy published 115 novels and forty collections of short fiction, making one of the age's most prolific, as well as profitable, authors.  Yet today if he is remembered at all it tends to be for a single pioneering espionage novel, The Great Impersonation (1920), his most popular work, which sold a million hardcover copies alone through his American publisher, Little, Brown.  The novel was reprinted by the British Library over a decade ago, but if you look at it's Amazon sales ranking, it's around 5.6 million.  His novel The Ghosts of Society, which I introduced for Stark House, does better in its Kindle edition, having made it up to a rank of nearly three million.  We have another one coming out, a collection of the novella For the Queen and the novelette Blackman's Wood and some additional short stories: will it do better?  Check it out.  

It would be pretty to think so, anyway.  I feel Oppenheim is much underrated today.  (How could he not be?)  So, how came about this state of affairs?  I detect partly the misguided hand of the late academic scholar Leroy Lad Panek, who was openly contemptuous of Oppenheim, in rather a smug academic way, in his 1981 study of espionage fiction, The Special Branch.  

At the moment I don't know where my copy of Panek's book is, but I recall he writes about what a terrible writer Oppenheim is, which I think is flat wrong.  Panek was similarly contemptuous of most  Golden Age detective fiction writers in his egregiously misguided book Watteau's Shepherds (1979), one of the worse pieces of analysis ever done, in my opinion, of the Golden Age of detective fiction (see my explanation in my book Masters of the Humdrum Mystery).  

These early works of Panek's are typical of the rotten Seventies criticism that it took crime fiction decades to recover from.  (He wrote some good stuff later on his career.)  Today we have rescued a great many unjustly dismissed and egregiously neglected Golden Age detective fiction writers--but what about the thriller merchants like Oppenheim?

E. Phillips Oppenheim
Prince of Storytellers
1866-1946

Oppenheim was not a bad a writer.  Read The Great Impersonation and you will find it's a fine, if extremely improbable, story with considerable narrative drive and suspense.   And there are other books in his canon that are well worth reading.  To me, indeed, Oppenheim seems more relevant today than he has been since the Thirties.

Like F. Scott Fitzgerald, who also wrote about Gilded depression-era life on the French Riviera, Oppenheim in his crime fiction was one of the great chroniclers of life among the opulent supposed masters of an increasingly chaotic universe, the proud people who deigned to think that they could run the explosive world until it all completely blew up in their faces (sometimes literally) when Nazi Germany and the Marxist USSR invaded Poland in 1939.  

Like Scott Fitzgerald, Oppenheim was fascinated by the lifestyles of the rich and privileged and he wrote about them in book after book.  Today when I look around at the world (and particularly the United States), with it rising authoritarian, nationalistic, fascistic movements and cliques of contemptible kleptocrats and oligarchs, I feel like we could be back in the world of ninety years ago.  The only thing we are missing, MAGA hysteria notwithstanding, are the Communists.  

American first ed. with cover by
Bip Pares

The Communists--Russians no less--are decidedly present in what was celebrated as Oppenheim's 100th published book of fiction, Miss Brown of X. Y. O., in 1927.  The previous year The General Strike had convulsed the UK for nine days in May as a broad swath of British laborers attempted to succor striking mine workers.  The strike failed, but fears of militant, Marxist-influenced labor action remained.  

Agatha Christie--in many ways a complacent bourgeois despite what revisionists, including myself, have told you--had actually anticipated by four years the General Strike, which she most sinisterly appraised, in her thriller The Secret Adversary; and the possibility of a similarly General Strike looms large in Oppenheim's 1927 novel.

Relations between the UK and the USSR steadily worsened after the publication in the Daily Mail in October 1924, a few days before the general election, of the Zinoviev Letter, which purportedly was a missive from Grigory Zinoviev, Russian head of the Communist International (Comintern), which promoted the cause of world communism, to the British Communist Party of Great Britain, in which Zinoviev ordered the CPGB to engage in sedition against the British government.  (It is now believed to have been forged by so-called "White Russian" counter-revolutionaries, generally much beloved in Golden Age thrillers.) 

slightly different ill. on the 
Hodder & Stoughton first ed.

Britain had only recognized the USSR nine months earlier in February.  In the October 1924 election the Conservatives under Stanley Baldwin decisively defeated Ramsay MacDonald's Labour Party, in part it was believed because of the Zinoviev Letter.  Russian machinations were feared during the General Strike two years later; and in May 1927, a year after the General Strike, relations between the two countries were severed after British police under orders of the government raided the London offices of the All-Russian Co-operative Society in search of evidence of espionage activity.  

Evidently they didn't really find anything new, though the British government pretended that it did.  Relations between the two countries weren't restored until Labour got back in power two years later.  

This short history gives a notion of the poor state of affairs between the capitalist UK and communist USSR during the Twenties.  The British Communist Party also had a tough time of it.  The Labour Party expelled CP members and banned them from running for parliament under their banner.  During the General Strike, Labour disbanded constituencies it deemed too sympathetic to the CP.  Much of the CPGB leadership was convicted of seditious conspiracy and jailed on account of the Party's loyalty to the Comintern.  

So Oppenheim's Miss Brown of X.Y.O. is highly topical if nothing else.  Where Christie's novel The Secret Adversary is patently absurd--the Communists are not really ultimately behind the labour troubles, you see, because there's a single man, one of those criminal masterminds no less, behind the Communists (Golden Age British thrillers very much adhered to the Great Bad Man Theory of History--social upheaval couldn't simply be because there were genuinely grave social problems in the world, see Elon Musk on George Soros)--Oppenheim's novel actually has a more realistic background, even if the actual events in the novel aren't always logical.  

In her thriller Christie openly embraced sheer daft nuttery, where Oppenheim in his offers us a realistic background which sometimes is at war with the thrills.  Miss Brown we are told "had visions...of being abducted, of being tied hands and feet to her chair whilst bearded Russians applied inhuman tortures to induce her to part with what she remembered of the contents of her precious notebook," but she soon laughs this off as a "ridiculous" flight of fancy.  And in fact nothing like this ever comes close to happening, though it actually might have made sense for the Russians to try this tactic and it certainly would have been more thrilling.  (There is, however, a terrorist bombing in London which probably kills a score or more of people--the bad guys like to do things the hard way, it seems.)  

Let me finally go into it all.

Stranded on a doorstep in an enveloping London fog with her trusty typewriter case, secretary Edith Brown find herself called into the house to type notes for a dying British intelligence agent from X.Y.O., victim of an affray with one of those nasty Russian operatives.  (He potted the bloody Commie, however.)  Soon Miss Brown finds herself pursued by wicked agents of international Bolshevism, who are desperate to get their hands on those notes, which are sure to discredit the British Communist Party.  

You have to suspend a lot of disbelief here because it's hard to understand why the good guys simply can't manage to get the notes to Downing Street or Buckingham Palace or Scotland Yard or what have you.  But if you just go with it, the story is pretty entertaining.  Edith Brown has been denigrated--by academics again--as virtuously dull, which honestly she is, but her heroism is undeniable.  We are told that Edith like Agatha Christie thriller heroines "had suffered all her life from an untapped spirit of romance."  

Even her best friend Frances Austin calls Edith a prig, however.  Among other things she won't entertain a man in her bedsit and dislikes the notions of "spinsters" going on the prowl for cocktails and men.  At 26 she herself has never kissed a man on the lips.  Honestly I would have thought all that untapped romance in Edith would have caused her to explode by now.  Edith seems to have presaged filmdom's Doris Day as a perpetual virgin.  

In contrast with Christie's Tuppence in Secret Adversary, say, Edith is dull, there's no denying it, but there are compensations.  Best friend Frances is far more interesting, as is often the way in melodramas with grimly good girl protagonists.  The heroine is imagined perfection, as the moralists would have it, while the friend is lefty free to be more like a real person, more like the actual readers of the book, one presumes.  Frances, who runs a chicken farm in the country with another "girl," is always visiting Edith in London to get a taste of cocktails and and men.  Frances has even kissed men on the lips!

That Miss Brown has never kissed a
man on the lips is a little harder to believe
of this recent cheapo edition of the novel

She tells Edith despondently:

I'm nearly thirty years old [27], and half the good times I might have had in life I haven't had because there have been things connected with them which one shouldn't do, or isn't supposed to do.  I'm fed up with it, Edith.  You come and look after my chickens for a time and see how you'd feel.

When Communistic MP Noel Frankland, a coarse man of rough working class origins, starts making up to Frances in a bid to make her his mistress--he freely tells her he's unhappily married--pious Edith observes that the MP isn't  a"nice man," to which Frances tells chiding Edith exasperatedly:  

Nice?  Of course he isn't nice....I don't think that any men are nice nowadays.  He's coarse and he's domineering and he's almost humorously egotistical, but he has power, Edith, and a quaint impressive kind of virility.  He makes me realise all the time he's a man.  Some of them don't.  

Isn't this the age-old story of Caesar and Cleopatra or Hitler and Eva Braun?  Or Trump and Melania?  Or Putin and the former Russian ballerina mistress he collected and stashed in Switzerland with his bastards?  Or Elon Musk and his myriad MAGA influencer baby mamas?  Somethings never change.  

Frances allows that her morals, or scruples as she calls them, have decidedly lapsed with the passing of time and opportunities: "I honestly believe that they only scruples I have left are scruples of taste."  She's held off sleeping with Noel, in other words, not because it's "wrong," but because he has manners that repel her.  There you have the ethos of a lot of Golden Age detective fiction, like that of Ngaio Marsh, for example.  Women may have lost their morals, by and large (men never really had them); but the "good" ones still have their good taste to fall back on.  

This side plot is interesting because we have a woman character, someone presented as sympathetic and essentially good at heart, deliberately contemplating becoming the mistress of an utterly odious man (and a Communist to boot).  Will she or won't she?  "Men are really all pretty well alike," she pronounces jadedly, "only the Frankland type are too clumsy to conceal what they want."  

It turns out that Oppenheim himself was, like Noel, a great ladies' man, though you wouldn't have known it to look at him; and I think his worldly sophistication finds its way into his portrayal of the Frances-Noel relationship.  Oppy's long-suffering wife, whom he seems genuinely to have loved after his fashion (their marriage lasted over half a century), readily put up with her wayward spouse's seemingly endless trysts with women aboard his yacht off the Riviera.  

Fortunately for Frances though there's a Russian knight in white armor--one of those White Russians if you get me--who is pursuing her as well.  But, drat the luck, he's a poor waiter with parents and a sister to support, despite being, don't you know, an exiled prince.  If some authors loved a lord, Oppenheim had a mad pash for princes (and princesses of course).  You can always expect one or more to pop up in his books.  No mere baronets bludgeoned in the library for our Oppy!

This gets at a point about Oppenheim's crime writing that helps explain its onetime wide popularity, I think.  It somewhat "transcended the genre," in the sense that a lot of it is essentially romantic melodrama, albeit spiced with crime.  Oppenheim clearly was very popular with women readers, who made or broke the lucrative American slicks.  

Politically Oppenheim charts something of a middle course in the novel.  Even most of the British Communists seem not to be all bad fellows at heart; it's the internationalists and the Russian schemers who are the really bad aggs for the most part.  Oppenheim even portrays most Labour pols and Socialists sympathetically, which is more than we usually got from British crime writers of the period.  He even suggests that capitalists need to make compromises with workers, who have legitimate grievances. For someone who has the reputation of having been blinded and bedazed by the bejeweled rich in his writing, this was a more progressive pose than I expected.  Oppy seems to have been a sight less reactionary than our MAGAs of today.  Though, like Trump, he really hated the income tax!  It's why he left England for the Roviere--an ill-fated decision as things turned out.  More on that to come.