Illustrated Crimes 1

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In the mid to late 30s, "Illustrated Crimes" was a regular feature in Detective Fiction Weekly. A couple of samples:

 

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The Art of Raymond Chandler: Tom Adams 5

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On This Day in 1836 . . .

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Yep, today is the 174th anniversary of the Battle of the Alamo. So here are four of my favorite Alamo tunes. The first two have been recorded many times, but I like these versions best (so far).

I have to ask your help on the last one. I took the required semester of French in college, and hated it so much I kicked my textbook back and forth from class. Therefore, I don't have a clue what Johnny Madsen is singing (other than invoking the name of Davy Crockett). Can anyone enlighten me?

"Remember the Alamo" by Willie Nelson

"Ballad of the Alamo" by Brian Burns

"Alamo" by Lorne Greene

"Alamo" by Johnny Madsen

FORGOTTEN BOOKS: No Love Lost by Robert Reeves

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After last week's Dead and Done For, the first book in the Cellini Smith series, I couldn't resist moving right on to book 2. So here it is.

No Love Lost began life as the three-part serial "Dog Eat Dog", starting in the September, 1940 Black Mask. The cover says "Introducing Cellini Smith" because that was his first appearance in the magazine (or any magazine) despite the fact Dead and Done For had been published in hardcover a year earlier. Ain't this a great cover? The title spreads for Parts 1 and 2 of the serial are shown below.

The copyright page of No Love Lost, published in 1941, says "a condensed and different version" appeared in Black Mask. Was that really so, or was No Love Lost actually an expanded and different version of the serial? We'll likely never know. We can be pretty sure, though, that the book's third and final incarnation, the Mercury digest Come Out Killing, was a slightly abridged version of the hardcover.

Why three titles? Beats me. Any one of them would have served. None of the three is particularly germane to the plot, while all three are general enough to be slapped onto to any number of mysteries.

After the split with his New York gangster friend/boss, Cellini is managing a detective agency in Los Angeles, and has yet to land a case. Lucky for him, his office is across the street from a bar run by a retired boxing champ, and that champ gets himself murdered in Chapter 1. The champ's pals are convinced the killer is his arch-rival, retired wrestler The Terrible Turk (seen below eating oysters) and hire Cellini to prove it. Of course the case is not that simple, and Cellini needs all his wits and wiles to solve the puzzle.

Reeves kicked the humor up a notch for this one. While Cellini is still plenty tough, the book delivers more laughs. I got the feeling the author was feeling his oats and daring to be put more of himself into this book. There's even a bar scene where we meet a drink-mooching bald man who may be Reeves. The guy is feeling sorry for himself because he doesn't know short hand. If he did, he moans, he could have been a writer.

One sample of the humor. While a master of ceremonies is welcoming the crowd to a nightclub, a customer gets up and goes into the can.  "Tell that guy in the can to come out," the emcee says, "because the floor show's starting." Comes the answer: "The guy in the can left because he couldn't stand the smell from the kitchen."

Cellini displays a bit less of his education in this one, focusing more on the three Ds: drinking, dames and detecting. His sidekick Duck-Eye Ryan, a loyal but dumb punchdrunk bruiser, provides additional comic relief and plenty muscle.

Another book that badly needs reprinting.

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Click on over to pattinase for Patti Abbott's weekly list of Forgotten Books.

The Art of Raymond Chandler: Tom Adams 4

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Tomorrow: Friday's Forgotten Book. And on Saturday, a musical tribute to the Battle of the Alamo. The last two covers in this series will appear here on Sunday.

The Art of Raymond Chanlder: Tom Adams 3

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The Art of Raymond Chandler: Tom Adams 2

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FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE: Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Smiled at Death

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“The widow spoke the truth,” Skyler Hobbs said. “That fellow looks positively gleeful.”

The subject of Hobbs’ remark sat to our right and one pew ahead, beaming like he’d won the Megabucks lottery. His eyes glowed a brilliant blue behind his thick spectacles, and gold-capped teeth glinted through his bristling white beard. The other funeral goers had cleared a wide space around him, focusing their attention in other directions.

“He looks happier than SpongeBob SquarePants,” I said. “Maybe he’s just nuts.”

“A distinct possibility, Watson, but I sense deeper waters here.”

“Wilder,” I said. “Jason Wilder, Computer Doctor.” But I knew it was pointless to correct him. Skyler Hobbs, you see, thinks he’s the second coming of Sherlock Holmes, and that I’m his Dr. Watson.

Organ music swelled, and from a room behind the choir came Hobbs’ client, Mrs. Charles Winkleman, dressed in a slinky black shift. Though her face was drawn, she was remarkably good-looking for a woman on the plus side of sixty.

She’d come to us two days before, and Hobbs was instantly intrigued. Her husband had perished in a grease fire while working his burger wagon on the downtown bus mall. The police had found no sign of foul play, and the widow had just begun to grieve when the smiling man appeared. She saw him outside the funeral parlor, in the meat department at Zupan’s Market, and in Mt. Scott Park while walking her wiener dog. She even saw him standing outside her house, just watching and smiling like the devil. And each time she’d tried to approach him, the fellow simply scurried away.

There was something oddly familiar about him, Mrs. Winkleman declared, but could not put her finger on it. And she had come to fear for her safety.

Watching the old coot’s reaction to the eulogies, I couldn’t blame her. When the preacher declared the Lord had His own reasons for taking the deceased into His bosom, the guy beamed as if he’d just been named King of the World, and when Winkleman’s sister broke into tears over a poignant tale, the guy actually licked his lips and chortled.

When it was finally over, we followed Mr. Happy up the aisle and down the hall to the reception, where a somber crowd munched stale cookies and conversed in low tones.

Hobbs paid special attention to an easel displaying photos of the deceased. He’d been a smooth-faced fellow with close-cropped hair, and in the shots where he wasn’t wearing sunglasses, he displayed remarkably blue eyes.

Hobbs turned from the easel looking enormously pleased with himself.

“So,” I said, “you’ve got it figured. What’s the poop?”

As was his habit, Hobbs wasted no time with explanations. Crooking a finger, he weaved a path through the mourners and planted himself before the smiling man. “So,” he said, “I perceive you have been quite enjoying yourself today.”

The fellow nodded with enthusiasm. “Quite.”

“Liked the eulogies, did you? Reveled in the grief expressed by Winkleman’s friends and relatives.”

“I did.”

The widow, I saw, had now entered the room, and stopped to watch the confrontation.

“And I suppose you think I find that odd,” Hobbs said.

The fellow beamed. “Don’t you?”

“Not at all,” Hobbs said, “for I have discovered your secret. You, sir, are Mr. Charles Winkleman in disguise!” And with that, he grabbed the guy’s whiskers in both hands and yanked.

The man stopped smiling. His mouth formed a huge O as he let loose a scream.

Hobbs looked astonished to see the beard still attached to the guy’s face. Then he gave a howl of his own, as the man kicked him in the shins and began pummeling him about the head.

Releasing the whiskers, Hobbs thrust his right leg backwards and cocked an arm in a peculiar manner.

I jumped on Hobbs' back, pinning his arms. I’d recognized the stance of the exotic martial art he called baritsu, and was afraid the bearded man would be seriously injured. As Hobbs struggled, the old guy continued to rain blows upon him until the widow’s sharp cry blistered our ears.

“Enough!”

Hobbs stopped struggling, and the old man seemed to deflate. He folded up on himself, trying to avert his face.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Mrs. Winkleman snapped. “This man is not my husband!”

Hobbs seemed incapable of speech.

After a moment, the old man mumbled, “No Mabel, I’m not. But I’d like to be.”

She stared at him, a riot of emotions flitting across her face. At last she reached out, removed his thick spectacles, and brushed the scraggly hair aside. A small gasp escaped her lips.

“Harold?  Is that you?”

“Who else,” he said, “has waited forty years to claim your hand?”

“Just as I suspected!” Hobbs declared. “Madam, you may expect my bill in the post.”

And though Hobbs was eager to go, I refused to budge until I got the whole story. The two had been high school sweethearts and were parted when Harold was sent to Viet Nam. He’d returned to find Mabel married to Charles Winkleman, and pined for her ever since. On hearing she’d been widowed he could not contain his joy, but had feared to approach her directly.

He needn’t have. Mabel was clearly pleased to see him, and I had a feeling this same church would soon be ringing wedding bells.

“So,” I said later to Hobbs, “you had that figured, did you?”

“Indubitably, Doctor. But since there was no way to prove it, I had to trick him into a confession.”

“A pat answer,” I said. “But I was watching your face when that beard stayed put, and you were the most surprised man on earth.” 

It was Hobbs’ turn to smile. “You flatter me, Watson. But you are correct. The stage lost a fine actor when I turned to a career in crime detection.”

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© copyright 2010 by Evan Lewis

For more adventures of Skyler Hobbs and "Doctor" Wilder, click HERE.

Visit Dan O'Shea's Going Ballistic for links to more stories in today's "Mystery In Church" Flash Fiction Challenge.