Tuesday, January 17, 2017

"He'd Been Shot, Twice, at Point-Blank Range, and the Bullets Had Flattened Against His Skin"

"The Invincible Crime-Buster."
By Henry Gade (Raymond A. Palmer, 1910-77).
First appearance: Amazing Stories, July 1941.
Novelette (26 pages).
Online at Archive.org (HERE).
"It's a pretty rotten break to be thrust into the role of superman when your invincibility is only skin deep."
Chapter I: "Why—that would mean—oh heavens! Battleships plated with such a metal would be indestructible!"
Chapter II: "Marie Gets an Idea"
Chapter III: "John Doe, Enemy of Crime"
Chapter IV: "The Crime-Buster in Action"
Chapter V: "Trouble for Marie"
Chapter VI: "Hands Off!"

When the Bard penned these words—"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them"—he certainly didn't have Daniel Ovid Ellsworth in mind; but thanks to a freaky laboratory accident and a fireball female reporter, Daniel Ovid Ellsworth is going to be great whether he wants it or not. Move over, Lamont Cranston; 
stand aside, Doc Savage; here comes John Doe, The Crime-Buster, fearsome Scourge of 
the Underworld—as long as he doesn't get a tummy ache . . .

Major characters:
~ Dr. Edgar Cramer, a research scientist:
   "I've simply got to find a solution to that boy's difficulty! That girl's going to be too much for him!"
~ Marie Gerling, reporter for the Herald and Lois Lane wannabe:
   "The great Dr. Edgar Cramer wouldn't really send a poor little reporter-girl away without a science story, would he? Just one teeny-weeny Sunday Supplement article . . ."
~ Daniel Ovid Ellsworth, reluctant hero:
   "I told you I wasn't a scientist. It's been that way every time I tried to do something. Even my own experiments go wrong because I'm so clumsy."
~ Dawson, editor of the Herald:
   "It's a contract. And it's also a release. We contract to buy your stories, and give you a by-line, at a stipulated salary. You release us from any responsibility for personal damage to your pretty physique—which you'll no doubt get, monkeying around with the crime ring in this city!"
~ Burke, Dawson's assistant:
   "I was one of the victims. Mr. John Doe, the Enemy of Crime, saved my weekly stipend for me."
~ Mrs. Schaeffer, the landlady:
   "Oh, Mr. Ellsworth! I'm so proud of you. It was simply wonderful. To think that one of my boarders is famous!"
~ Kelly, a cop:
   "Mike, you clean up this mess. I wanta rest. I been reading too many of them fantastic adventures!"

Comment: If a screwball comedy should mate with an off-the-wall science fantasy, the result might bear a strong resemblance to this story.
- "Henry Gade" was one of the aliases used by Ray Palmer (not the TV character), who we think was serious when he championed the idea that flying saucers originated in an under-ground civilization—but with Palmer, who could tell? See Wikipedia (HERE), the SFE (HERE), and the ISFDb (HERE) for the scoop on him.

The bottom line: "The police officer who puts their life on the line with no superpowers, no X-ray vision, no super-strength, no ability to fly, and above all no invulnerability to bullets, reveals far greater virtue than Superman—who is only a mere superhero."
Eliezer Yudkowsky

Monday, January 16, 2017

"If He Didn't Take the Life of—a Woman—He Took Mine—and He's Got What Was Coming to Him"

Just the other day we highlighted a story (HERE), a true one according to the author, about 
a terrible miscarriage of justice in which an innocent man was executed based purely on circumstantial evidence. In those days, of course, systematic scientific fingerprint analysis still lay in the distant future, but it's just possible it could have cleared the poor man. There has always been a persistent skepticism about fingerprints, however, one which today's author, a popular playwright in his day, exploits to the fullest in a melodrama entitled . . .

By Augustus Thomas (1857-1934).
First appearance: Everybody's Magazine, July 1921.
Play (greatly condensed to 6 pages). First performed on Broadway: April-May 1921, 56 performances. Producer: George M. Cohan.
Online at Hathi Trust (HERE).
"Would You Take a Man's Life on Finger-Print Evidence?"
The editor of Everybody's Magazine explains the raison d'être for "Nemesis":
ACCORDING to the police, the finger-print system is invaluable in the detection and identification of criminals and for years the public has looked upon it as being well-nigh infallible. But is it? Augustus Thomas, the playwright, thinks not, and he has written a play called "Nemesis" to prove his point.
The play opens in the library of the Kallans, Ben and Marcia. There has been a dinner party and cards are to follow. . . .
- The Broadway League's Internet Broadway Database has the basic data about "Nemesis" (HERE). Britannica (HERE), Wikipedia (HERE), and the IMDb (HERE) have much more about Augustus Thomas; we encountered George M. Cohan a couple of years ago (HERE) in regard to his production of Seven Keys to Baldpate.
- Some theater-goers weren't too enchanted with this play, including this critic who seems to have it in for Sigmund Freud:
"For two interminable acts, 'Nemesis' rumbles slowly along amid a jargon of half-baked Freudian chatter. . . In the third act, the husband [does something that is] theatrically ingenious, and the audience comes to life. The next act shows the sculptor being tried for the crime; and for some time Mr. Thomas forgets his dignity of automat erudition and gives us a murder-trial with all the realism of a careful reporter. . . After all, Pudd'nhead Wilson knew something about finger-prints, but nothing at all about Dr. Freud. We rather liked him so."
— Walter Prichard Eaton, "The Theatre: Mr. Thomas Discovers Dr. Freud," The Freeman, 20 April 1921 (go HERE for full review).

The bottom line:
   "Must everybody tell everything?"
   "Oh, yes—everybody does somehow—somewhere—everybody."
   — Marcia and Dr. Simpson

Saturday, January 14, 2017

"One Fact Was Linked to Another in Curious Coincidence, Until the Chain of Corroborating Circumstances Seemed Irresistibly Conclusive"

"Cirumstantial Evidence: A Tale Founded on Fact."
By Emillion (?-?).
First appearance: The Southern Literary Messenger, December 1834.
Short short story (7 pages).
Online (HERE) or you can read it (BELOW).
"I am a plain man, but I know what's right. It 'aint fair to hang no man on suspicion . . ."
When the time comes for the state to execute a prisoner, it should be very, very, VERY sure that it has proven his guilt—beyond a reasonable doubt . . .

~ ~ ~


The circumstances which I am about to relate, are familiar to many now living. In some particulars I have varied from the truth; but if in the relation of an event which excited 
intense interest, at the time of its occurrence, I shall succeed in impressing upon any 
one, the delusive character of circumstantial evidence, my object will be attained.

Beneath the magnificent sycamores which bordered a lovely stream in the southwest part of Kentucky, a company of emigrants had pitched their encampment, for the night. The tents were set up, the night-fire threw its gleam upon the water, the weary horses were feeding, the evening repast was over, and preparations were made for repose. The party consisted of three brothers, with their families, who were wending their way to the new lands of the distant Missouri. On their visages, where the ague had left the sallow traces of its touch, few of the nobler traits of the human character were visible. Accustomed to reside upon the outskirts of society, little versed in its forms, and as little accustomed to the restraints of law, or the duties of morality, they were the fit pioneers of civilization, because their frames were prepared for the utmost endurance of fatigue, and society was purified by their removal. Theirs were not the fearless independence, and frank demeanor which marks the honest backwoodsman of our country; but the untamed license, and the wiley deportment of violent men, who loved not the salutary influence of the law, nor mingled of choice with the virtuous of their own species.

As they stirred the expiring fires, the column of light, mingled with the smoke and cinder, that rose towards the clear sky of the mild May night, revealed two travellers of a different appearance, who had encamped on the margin of the same stream. One was a man of thirty. Several years passed in the laborious practice of medicine, in a southern climate, had destroyed his constitution, and he had come to breathe the bracing air of a higher latitude. The wing of health had fanned into new vigor the waning fires of life, and he was now returning to the home of his adoption with a renovated frame. The young man who sat by him, was a friend, to whom he had paid a visit, and who was now attending him, a short distance, on his journey. They had missed their way, and reluctantly accepted a sullen permission of the emigrants to share their coarse fare, rather than wander in the dark, through unknown forests. Hamilton, the younger of the two, was, perhaps, twenty-seven years of age—and was a young gentleman of prepossessing appearance, of cultivated mind, and of a chivalrous and sensitive disposition. His parents were indigent, and he had, by the energy of his own talents and industry, redeemed them from poverty, and placed them in easy circumstances. In one of his commercial expeditions down the Mississippi, he had met with Saunders, the physician. An intimacy ensued, which though brief, had already ripened into mature friendship.

'Affection knoweth nought of time,
     It riseth like the vernal flowers;
 The heart pulse is its only chime,
     And feelings are its hours.'

Together they had hunted over the flowery barrens, and through the majestic forests of their native state—had scaled the precipice, and swam the torrent—had explored the cavern, and visited whatever was wonderful or curious in the region around them; and both looked forward, with painful feelings, to the termination of an intercourse which had been pleasing and instructive.—As they were to separate in the morning, the evening was spent in conver-sation—in that copious and involuntary flow of kindness and confidence which the heart pours out at the moment when friends are about to sever, when the past is recalled and the future anticipated, and friendship no longer silent, nor motionless, displays itself like the beauty of the ocean wave, which is most obvious at the moment of its dissolution.

Early in the morning, the two friends prepared to pursue their journey. As they were about to depart, one of the emigrants advanced towards them, and remarked:

'I reckon, strangers, you allow to encamp at Scottville to-night?'

'Yes,' said Saunders, 'I do.'

'Well, then, I can tell you a chute, that's a heap shorter than the road you talk of taking—and at the forks of Rushing river, there's a smart chance of blue clay, that's miry like, and it's right scary crossing at times.'

Supposing they had found a nearer and better road, and one by which a dangerous ford would be avoided, they thanked their informant, and proceeded on their journey.

In some previous conversations, Saunders had learned, that his friend had recently experi-enced some heavy losses, and was at this time much pressed for money, and wishing to offer him assistance, had from time to time deferred it, from the difficulty of approaching so delicate a subject. As the time of parting approached, however, he drew the conversation to that point, and was informed that the sum of five hundred dollars, would relieve his friend from embarrassment. Having a large sum in his possession, he generously tendered him the amount required, and Hamilton, after some hesitation, accepted the loan, and proposed to give his note for its repayment, which Saunders declined, under the plea that the whole transaction was a matter of friendship, and that no such formality was requisite. When they were about to part, Hamilton unclasped his breast-pin, and presented it to his friend. 'Let this,' said he, 'remind you sometimes of Kentucky—I trust, that when I visit you next year, I shall not see it adorning the person of some favored fair one.' 'I have not so much confi-dence in you,' laughingly returned the other; and, handing him a silver-hafted penknife curiously embossed, 'I am told that knives and scissors are not acceptable presents to the fair, as they are supposed to cut love, so I have no fear that Almira will get this—and I know that no other human being would cause you to forget your friend.' They then parted.

As Hamilton was riding slowly homeward, engaged in thought, and holding his bridle loosely, a deer sprang suddenly from a thicket, and fell in the road, before his horse, 
who started and threw him to the ground. In examining the deer, which had been mortally wounded, and was still struggling, some of the blood was sprinkled on his dress, which had been otherwise soiled by his fall. Paying little attention to these circumstances, he returned home.

Though his absence had been brief, many hands grasped his in cordial welcome, many eyes met his own in love, for few of the young men of the county were so universally beloved, and so much respected as Hamilton. But to none was his return so acceptable as to Almira ——. She had been his playmate in infancy, his schoolmate in childhood, in maturer years their intimacy had ripened into love, and they were soon to be united in the holiest and dearest of ties. But the visions of hope were soon to pass from before them, as the mirage of the desert, that mocks the eye of the thirsty traveller, and then leaves him a death-devoted wanderer on the arid waste.

A vague report was brought to the village, that the body of a murdered man was found near Scottville. It was first mentioned by a traveller, in a company where Hamilton was present; and he instantly exclaimed, 'no doubt it is Saunders—how unfortunate that I left him!' and then retired under great excitement. His manner and expressions awakened suspicion, which was unhappily corroborated by a variety of circumstances, that were cautiously whispered by those, who dared not openly arraign a person whose whole conduct through life had been honest, frank, and manly. He had ridden away with Saunders, who was known to have been in possession of a large sum of money. Since his return, he had paid off debts to a consider-able amount. The penknife of Saunders was recognized in his hands—yet none were willing, on mere surmise, to hazard a direct accusation.

The effect of the intelligence upon Hamilton was marked. The sudden death of a dear friend is hard to be supported—but when one who is loved and esteemed, is cut off by the dastardly hand of the assassin, the pang of bereavement becomes doubly great, and in this instance, the feelings of deep gratitude which Hamilton felt towards his benefactor, caused him to mourn over the catastrophe, with a melancholy anguish. He would sit for hours in a state of abstraction, from which even the smile of love could not awaken him.

The elections were at hand; and Hamilton was a candidate for the legislature. In the progress of the canvass, the foul charge was openly made, and propagated with the remorseless spirit of party animosity. Yet he heard it not, until one evening as he sate with Almira, in her father's house. They were conversing in low accents, when the sound of an approaching footstep interrupted them, and the father of Almira entered the room. 'Mr. Hamilton,' said he, 'I am a frank man—I consented to your union with my daughter, believing your character to be unstained—but I regret to hear that a charge has been made against you, which, if true, must render you amenable to the laws of your country. I believe it to be a fabrication of your enemies—but, until it shall be disproved, and your character as a man of honor, placed above suspicion, you must be sensible that the proposed union cannot take place, and that your visits to my house must be discontinued.'

'What does my father mean?' inquired the young lady, anxiously, as her indignant parent retired.

'I do not know,' replied the lover, 'it is some electioneering story, no doubt, which I can easily explain. I only regret that it should give him, or you, a moment's uneasiness.'

'It shall cause me none,' replied the confiding girl: 'I cannot believe any evil of you.'

He retired—sought out the nature of the charge, and to his inexpressible astonishment and horror, learned that he was accused of the murder and robbery of his friend! In a state little short of distraction, he retired to his room, recalled with painful minuteness all the circum-stances connected with the melancholy catastrophe, and for the first time, saw the dangerous ground on which he stood. But proud in conscious innocence, he felt that to withdraw at that stage of the canvass, might be construed into a confession of guilt. He remained a candidate, and was beaten. Now, for the first time, did he feel the wretchedness of a condemned and degraded man. The tribunal of public opinion had pronounced against him the sentence of conviction; and even his friends, as the excitement of the party struggle subsided, became cold in his defence, and wavering in their belief of his innocence. Conscious that the eye of suspicion was open, and satisfied that nothing short of a public investigation could restore him to honor, the unhappy young man surrendered himself to the civil authority, and demanded a trial. Ah! little did he know the malignity of man, or the fatal energy of popular delusion! He reflected not that when the public mind is imbued with prejudice, even truth itself ceases to be mighty. Many believed him guilty, and those who, during the canvass, had industriously circulated the report, now labored with untiring diligence to collect and accumulate the evidence which should sustain their previous assertions. But arrayed in the panoply of innocence, he stood firm, and confident of acquittal. The best counsel had been engaged—and on the day of trial, Hamilton stood before the assembled county—an arraigned culprit in the presence of those before whom he had walked in honor from childhood.

As the trial proceeded, the confidence of his friends diminished, and those who had doubted, became confirmed in the belief of the prisoner's guilt. Trifles light as air became confirma-tions strong as proofs of Holy Writ to the jealous minds of the audience, and one fact was linked to another in curious coincidence, until the chain of corroborating circumstances seemed irresistibly conclusive. His recent intimacy with the deceased, and even the atten-tions which friendship and hospitality had dictated, were ingeniously insisted upon as evidences of a deliberate plan of wickedness—long formed and gradually developed. The facts, that he had accompanied the deceased on his way—that he had lost the path in a country with which he was supposed to be familiar—his conduct on hearing of the death of his friend—the money—the knife—caused the most incredulous to tremble for his fate. But when the breast-pin of Hamilton, found near the body of the murdered man, was produced—and a pistol, known to have been that of the prisoner, was proved to have been picked up near the same spot—but little room was left, even for charity to indulge a benevolent doubt. Nor was this all—the prosecution had still another witness—the pale girl who sate by him, clasping his hand in hers, was unexpectedly called upon to rise and give testimony. She shrunk from the unfeeling call, and buried her face in her brother's bosom. That blow was not anticipated—for none but the cunning myrmidons of party vengeance, who had even violated the sanctuary of family confidence, in search of evidence, dreamed that any criminating circumstance was in the possession of this young lady. At the mandate of the court, she arose, laid aside her veil, and disclosed a face haggard with anxiety and terror. In low tremulous accents, broken with sobs, she reluctantly deposed, that the clothes worn by her brother, on his return from that fatal journey, were torn, soiled with earth, and bloody! An audible murmur ran through the crowd, who were listening in breathless silence—the prison-er bowed his head in mute despair—the witness was borne away insensible—the argument proceeded, and after an eloquent, but vain defence, the jury brought in a verdict of guilty! The sentence of death was passed.
              *               *               *               *               *
The summer had passed away. The hand of autumn had begun to tinge with mellow hues the magnificent scenery of the forest. It was evening, and the clear moonbeams were shining through the grates of the prisoner's cell. The unhappy man, haggard, attenuated, and heart-broken, was lying upon his wretched pallet, reflecting alternately upon the early wreck of his bright hopes, the hour of ignominy that was just approaching, and the dread futurity into which he should soon be plunged. It was the season at which his marriage with Almira was to have been solemnized. With what pride and joy had he looked forward to this hour! And now, instead of the wedding festivities, the lovely bride, and the train of congratulating friends, so often pictured in fancy, he realized fetters, a dungeon, and a disgraceful death! The well-known tread of the jailer interrupted the bitter train of thought. The door opened, and as the light streamed from a lantern across the cell, he saw a female form timidly approaching. In a moment Almira had sunk on her knees beside him, and their hands were silently clasped together. There are occasions when the heart spurns all constraint, and acts up to its own dictates, careless of public opinion, or prescribed forms—when love becomes the absorbing and overruling passion—and when that which under other circumstances would be mere unlicensed impulse, becomes a hallowed and imperious duty. That noble-hearted girl had believed to the last, that her lover would be honorably acquitted. The intelligence of his condemnation, while it blighted her hopes, and withered her health, never disturbed for one moment her conviction of his innocence. There is an union of hearts which is indestructible, which marriage may sanction, and nourish, and hallow, but which separa-tion cannot destroy—a love that endures while life remains, or until its object shall prove faithless or unworthy. Such was the affection of Almira; and she held her promise to love and honor him, whose fidelity to her was unspotted, and whose character she considered honor-able, to be as sacred, as if they had been united in marriage. When all others forsook, she resolved never to forsake him. She had come to visit him in his desolation, and to risk all, to save one who was dear and innocent in her estimation, though guilty in the eyes of the world.

The jailer, a blunt, though humane man, briefly disclosed a plan, which he, with Almira, had devised, for the escape of Hamilton. He had consented to allow the prisoner to escape, in female dress, while she was to remain in his stead, so that the whole contrivance should seem to be her own. 'I am a plain man,' concluded the jailer, 'but I know what's right. It 'aint fair to hang no man on suspicion—and more than that, I am not agoing to stand in no man's way—especially a friend who has done me favors, as you have. I go in for giving every fellow a fair chance. The track's clear, Mr. Hamilton, and the quicker you put out, the better.'

To his surprise, the prisoner peremptorily refused the offer.

'I am innocent,' said he; 'but I would suffer a thousand deaths rather than injure the fair fame of this confiding girl.'

'Go, Dudley—my dear Dudley,' she sobbed: 'for my sake, for the sake of your broken-hearted father and sister—'

'Do not tempt me—my dear Almira. I will not do that which would expose you to disgrace.'

'Oh, who would blame me?'

'The world—the uncharitable world—they who believe me a murderer, and have tortured the most innocent actions into proofs of deliberate villainy, will not hesitate to brand you as the victim of a cold-blooded felon. And why should I fly? to live a wretched wanderer, with the brand of Cain on my forehead, and a character stamped with infamy?'—

He would have said more—but the form, that during this brief dialogue, had sunk into his arms, was lying lifeless on his bosom. He kissed her cold lips, and passionately repeated her name—but she heard him not—her pure spirit had gently disengaged itself, and was flown forever. Her heart was broken. She had watched, and wept, and prayed, in hopeless grief, until the physical energies of a delicate frame were exhausted: and the excitement of the last scene had snapped the attenuated thread of life.

Hamilton did not survive her long. His health was already shattered by long confinement, 
and the chaffing of a proud spirit. Almira had died for him—and his own mother—oh! how cautiously did they whisper the sad truth, when he asked why she who loved him better than her own life, had forsaken him in the hour of affliction—she, too, had sunk under the dreadful blow. His father lived a withered, melancholy man, crushed in spirit; and as his sister hung like a guardian angel over his death-bed, and he gazed at her pale, emaciated, sorrow-stricken countenance, he saw that she, too, would soon be numbered among the victims of this melancholy persecution. When, with his last breath, he suggested that they would soon meet, she replied: 'I trust that God will spare me to see your innocence estab-lished, and then will I die contented.' And her confidence was rewarded—for God does not disappoint those who put their trust in him. About a year afterwards, a wretch, who was executed at Natchez, and who was one of the three persons named in the commencement of this narrative, confessed that he had murdered Saunders, with a pistol which he had found at the place where the two friends had slept. 'I knew it would be so,'—was the only reply of the fast declining sister—and soon after she was buried by the side of Dudley and Almira.—Reader, this is not fiction—nor are the decisions of God unjust—but his ways are above our comprehension.

- A true story, we're told, and because it's been known to happen in real life, we'll take the author's word for it. As for who "Emillion" was, we haven't a clue; could it have been Edgar Poe? Be careful: "In the absence of facts, myth rushes in, the kudzu of history." — Stacy Schiff

"Who Knows but That Some Human Beings, by Virtue of the Divine Spark Within Them, May Occasionally Be Able to Travel Backward Through Time?"

"The Time-Traveler."
By Ralph Milne Farley (Roger Sherman Hoar, 1887-1963).
First appearance: Weird Tales, August 1931.
Reprinted in Omnibus of Time (1950).
Short short short story (4 pages).
Online at SFFAudio (HERE) (PDF).
"What would you do if you were given a chance to influence events so that you could live the past over again?"
The poet tells us that "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood" and he "took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference."

At some point we all come to a fork in the road, take one path, and then years later, if we can find the time for reflection, think about what might have happened if we'd gone the other way, and perhaps feel a pang of regret. Professor John D. Smith comes to one of those forks and has reason to feel regret that he didn't let someone die when he had the chance, and now it's going to cost him his position, his prestige, and even put undue stress on his marriage. But then comes his chance to change things; it'll mean an old rival will die, but Smith's future will be secure.

It isn't long, however, before Professor Smith will come to another fork in the road, one where he must choose between a comfortable contentment and a crippled conscience . . .

- Our last meeting with Ralph Milne Farley was in his capacity as a co-author; see (HERE) for more.
- If you're interested in investigating temporal paradoxes, you can either hit yourself in the head with a hammer or you can go to Winchell Chung's page about "Time Travel" (HERE).

The bottom line: "Whenever I think of the past, it brings back so many memories."
Steven Wright

Friday, January 13, 2017

"A Detective New to Fiction"

Caveat: This post is only for readers who prefer seeing the first appearances of stories they like, especially those with illustrations (illos), including maps and diagrams, that seldom 
get reprinted in book publication.

Detective fiction aficionados (as well as Winnie the Pooh fans) should already be well acquainted with this particular book by its usual title, A. A. Milne's The Red House 
Mystery (1922; Wikipedia HERE), but a few might not know it was serialized as The Red House Murder. You can find the complete novel at Project Gutenberg (HERE).
By A. A. Milne (1882-1956).
First appearance: Everybody's Magazine, August-December 1921.
Serial novel (5 installments, 103 pages).
Online at Hathi Trust.
(Note: Some of the text and illos are faded but still legible.)

Part I: 19 pages. Online (HERE). A three dimensional diagram of the Red House is on page 22 (HERE).
   "All of us have the Sleuth-urge, the desire to solve crime mysteries. Mr. Milne confesses to it and that's why we have this novel. He thought, as he says, of a good way to commit a murder and there followed this story of mystery, thrills, humor and a detective new to fiction."
Part II: 21 pages. Online (HERE). A plan of the Red House and grounds is on page 77 (HERE).
   "An Unusual Mystery Novel with a Detective New to Fiction. Was the Killing an Accident and Did Mark Lose His Head and Run Away?"

Part III: 20 pages. Online (HERE). A diagram of the entrance to the secret passage is on page 75 (HERE).
   "While Cayley and the Inspector Drag the Pond, Antony, with Sinister Forebodings, Explores the Secret Passage."
Part IV: 24 pages. Online (HERE). Another plan of the Red House and its surroundings is on page 66 (HERE).
   "Antony and Bill Pursue Their Investigations and Arrive at One Definite Conclusion."

Part V: 19 pages. Online (HERE).
   "Antony Gillingham Does Some Very Shrewd Guessing and Solves the Red House Mystery."

"Three Minutes Later, the Laboratory No Longer Existed"

"The Rocket Pistol."
By Robert D. Sampson (1927-92).
First appearance: Science Fiction Adventures, May 1953.
Short story (15 pages).
Online at Archive.org (HERE).
"Hawk-Nose gave Bill a bright red Hyper Atomic Rocket Pistol, but warned him that telling where he got it meant death. Bill didn't tell, even when the whole police force wanted to know."
The most efficient and effective weapon is invisible and doesn't make any noise; it bores 
into the mind and paralyzes the will to resist, making conquest much easier and far less destructive. This weapon has a name: fear.
If you're planning an invasion, perhaps the best way in isn't smashing the front door—that always gets noticed—but from a completely unexpected direction, such as through the children . . .

- According to the ISFDb (HERE), Robert Sampson produced as much nonfiction as fiction, with seventeen SFF stories to his credit, most of them in the '80s and '90s.

The bottom line: "Guys never really get over their toys."
Michael Keaton

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Who Knew There Could Be So Many MOTIVES FOR MURDER?

MOTIVES FOR MURDER: A Celebration of Peter Lovesey on His 80th Birthday by Members of the Detection Club.
Edited and Introduction by Martin Edwards (born 1955). Foreword by Len Deighton (born 1929). Afterword by Peter Lovesey (born 1936).
317 pages. Short story anthology (19 stories + 1 poem, all original).
For sale (HERE).
Popular crime fiction writer Peter Lovesey recently turned eighty, a notable achievement in itself, and twenty of his friends at the Detection Club got together to produce this Festschrift in his honor. Editor Martin Edwards's choice of selections is worthy of commendation, while Douglas Greene at Crippen & Landru has done his usual fine job assembling it all into a coherent whole.

Some of the resulting stories knowingly reflect the milieus and characters that Lovesey 
has developed and explored over the years, the town of Bath and his historical mysteries especially so. Other tales by established authors, however, feature their own characters 
and settings, with sub-types running the gamut from domestic suspense to pure detection.

As varied as the stories are, though, there isn't a clunker in the bunch. As instances we 
can point to Catherine Aird's "The Walrus and the Spy," which involves espionage and the solution of a knotty cipher; L. C. Tyler's "The Trials of Margaret" is a black comedy pure and simple; Martin Edwards's "Murder and Its Motives" centers on bibliographical criminality; Michael Jecks's "Alive or Dead" plays with narrative time; John Malcolm's "The Marquis Wellington Jug" explores Lovejoy territory while Michael Ridpath's "The Super Recogniser 
of Vik" wanders poleward into Nordic Noir; Susan Moody's "A Village Affair" echoes Miss Marple, just as Kate Charles's "A Question of Identity" reflects Hitchcock.

For devotees of the Sage of Baker Street there's David Stuart Davies's featherweight "The Adventure of the Marie Antoinette Necklace: A Case for Sherlock Holmes"; while for fans 
of Peter Lovesey's Sergeant Cribb and Constable Thackeray there are David Roberts's inconclusive "Unfinished Business" and, better still, Kate Ellis's "The Mole Catcher's Daughter," with Thackeray's nephew performing some simple but effective sleuthing; and finally our favorite, Andrew Taylor's unpredictable "The False Inspector Lovesey," with its delightfully spunky narrator leading us down the garden path.
   "Introduction" by Martin Edwards
   "Foreword" by Len Deighton

   (1) "The Reckoning of Sins" by Alison Joseph:
       "It must have taken a minute, to grab her wrists, a struggle, a push. And she was gone."

   (2) "The False Inspector Lovesey" by Andrew Taylor:
       "I didn't bother to count the money. I just sat there, looking at the banknotes, enjoying them, and feeling the happiness rise up inside me like a warm, pink cloud."

   (3) "Dreaming of Rain and Peter Lovesey" by Ann Cleeves:
       "All this bloody fuss about a bit of rain."

   (4) "The Walrus and the Spy" by Catherine Aird:
       "What's the walrus got to do with it?"

   (5) "Unfinished Business" by David Roberts:
       "Blade on the feather, shade off the trees. Swing, swing together, with your bodies between your knees."

   (6) "The Adventure of the Marie Antoinette Necklace: A Case for Sherlock Holmes" by David Stuart Davies:
       "It seems I have been outwitted by the old fox."

   (7) "An End in Bath" by Janet Laurence:
       "I'm sure Rod wouldn't have harmed him. It was probably a fox."

   (8) "The Marquis Wellington Jug" by John Malcolm:
       "There'll be a dented car with forensics locked away somewhere."

   (9) "A Question of Identity" by Kate Charles:
       "But I would be . . . free. Free as a bird."

   (10) "The Mole Catcher's Daughter" by Kate Ellis:
        "Something strange is going on."

   (11) "The Trials of Margaret" by L. C. Tyler:
        "There were clearly things that she hadn't thought through as well as she might, including what to do with the body."

   (12) "Ghost Station" by Liza Cody:
        "The scarlet essence of a victim had slid, unresisting, into a gutter outside a bookshop in a tourist town where nothing happened."

   (13) "The Suffragette's Tale" by Marjorie Eccles:
        "You have a good aim, Miss Daventry, and good eyesight, I dare say, but not that good."

   (14) "Murder and Its Motives" by Martin Edwards:
        "If I were to save him, I needed to be more subtle. I would try to understand something about murder, and the psychology of people who committed it."

   (15) "Alive or Dead" by Michael Jecks:
        "The excitement, the adrenalin, they could make him miss his mark and screw up. No chance he could do that today. This must be absolutely perfect."

   (16) "The Right Thing" by Michael Z. Lewin:
        "I've spent far too much of my school career trying to live my family down. I'm going to embrace my inner detective."

   (17) "The Super Recognizer of Vik" by Michael Ridpath:
        "He needed to be taught a lesson, if we could only find him."

   (18) "Digging Deep" by Ruth Dudley Edwards:
        "It was what he would have wanted."

   (19) "A Sonnet for Peter Lovesey" by Simon Brett:
        "Praise? Praise for Peter Lovesey's always due."

   (20) "A Village Affair" by Susan Moody:
        "Why would you think one of your closest friends might be a murderer, for goodness sake?"

AFTERWORD: "Spies, Superheroes and Stolen Goods: Peter Lovesey's Memories of the Detection Club in the 1970s":
   "Despite the potential for discord, Detection Club evenings were friendly to a fault, even at the more formal dinners when we couldn't choose who we sat with."


- Another Detection Club anthology published by Crippen & Landru, this one edited by the birthday boy himself, is The Verdict of Us All (2006), in honor of H. R. F. Keating (1926-2011); go (HERE) for more.
- Martin Edwards's entertaining history of the Detection Club, The Golden Age of Murder (2015), is available in hardcover, paperback, or Kindle (HERE).