Son of Gun in Cheek Read online

  SON OF

  GUN IN CHEEK

  BILL PRONZINI

  An Affectionate Guide to More of the “WORST” in Mystery Fiction

  DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC.

  MINEOLA, NEW YORK

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1987 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust

  All rights reserved.

  Bibliographical Note

  This Dover edition, first published in 2018, is an unabridged republication of the work originally published by The Mysterious Press, New York and London, in 1987.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Pronzini, Bill, author.

  Title: Son of Gun in cheek : an affectionate guide to more of the “worst” in mystery fiction / Bill Pronzini.

  Description: Dover edition. | Mineola, New York : Dover Publications, Inc., 2018. | “This Dover edition, first published in 2018, is an unabridged republication of the work originally published by The Mysterious Press, New York and London, in 1987.”—ECIP galley | Includes bibliographical references.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017045115| ISBN 9780486817989 | ISBN 0486817989

  Subjects: LCSH: Detective and mystery stories, American—History and criticism. | Detective and mystery stories, English—History and criticism. | Popular literature—English-speaking countries—History and criticism. | Crime in literature.

  Classification: LCC PS374.D4 P73 2018 | DDC 813/.087209—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017045115

  Manufactured in the United States by LSC Communications

  81798901 2018

  www.doverpublications.com

  Acknowledgments

  The author would like to thank the following individuals, whose help and encouragement were instrumental in making this book a reality: Otto Penzler, Sara Ann Freed, William Malloy, Marcia Muller, John Nieminski, Arthur H. Parson, Robert Sampson, William F. Deeck, Angelo Panagos, Ellen Nehr, Jeffrey M. Wallmann, Steve Stilwell, Julie Smith, Francis M. Nevins, Jr., Douglas Greene, Bill Crider, Jeffrey Meyerson.

  Once again,

  for all those who love a mystery.

  Contents

  Modus Operandi

  1The Alternative Hall Of Fame, Part I; Or, “Justice Isn’t Functioning Very Shipshape”

  2Of Talking Skeletons, Noseless Monsters, And Boomalacka Browne

  3Gold Is Where You Find It

  4The Amazing Adventures Of The Kracked King of Keelerland

  5The Shame Of Black Mask, And Other Pulp Paydirt

  6“Loaded To The Gunwale With Superpowered Quake-Stuff To Make Your Withers Quiver”

  7Sex, Sex, And More Sex!

  8Big Brother Is Watching

  9Confessions Of A B-Movie Junkie

  10Titles, Anyone?

  11Hail To The Chief!

  12The Alternative Hall Of Fame, Part II; Or, “Inspiration Splattered Me In the Face Like A Custard Pie”

  Post-Mortem

  Bibliography

  Index

  Modus Operandi

  A few years ago I wrote a book called Gun in Cheek. The original publisher’s dust jacket blurb said that it was “an affectionate post-mortem of those unsung heroes and heroines of crime fiction.” In various places throughout the text I referred to it as a “study of the ‘alternative classics’ of mysterydom.” In fact, the book is a general history of (critically) inferior crime fiction published during this century, i.e., of bad writers and bad writing.

  The purpose of Gun in Cheek, as I said in its prefatory chapter, was threefold:

  First, to rectify the neglect of these writers and their works, to give them the critical attention they deserve; second, to provide a different . . . perspective on crime fiction—its detectives, its subgenres, its publishers—and on the social attitudes it reflects (which are often more pronounced in the bad mystery than in the good one); and third, to add a few chuckles—perhaps even a guffaw or two—to the heretofore sobersided field of mystery criticism. It is all well and good to take the genre seriously . . . but it is not hallowed ground, as some would have us believe. Nor should it be so snooty in its newfound position as a “legitimate” literary art form to want to bury its so-called black sheep or refuse to give itself an old-fashioned horse laugh now and then.

  A corollary to this threefold purpose is implied in the title of the preface: “Without Malice, a Forethought.” The fun I poked in Gun in Cheek was done with gentle and loving fingers. If it were not for “alternative” writers and the fruits of their labors, my world would be a much less sunny place than it is. I bear none of these lads and lasses any ill will; on the contrary, I respect them mightily for their accomplishments—fiction that stands well above the average and the mundane, that is every bit as pleasurable in its own skewed way as any perpetrated by those working at the opposite end of the mystery spectrum.

  All of which—purposes and corollary—is true of this companion volume, and of those whose efforts are discussed herein.

  I say companion volume rather than sequel because it does not follow the same structured format of its predecessor, in which each chapter examined, historically, a particular aspect or type of crime fiction: the amateur detective, the private eye, the spy story, the Gothic, and so forth. In truth, Son of Gun in Cheek follows no pattern at all. It contains (1) everything I couldn’t fit into Gun in Cheek because of space limitations; and (2) everything of a classically alternative nature that has come to my attention since GIC was completed and packed off to its publisher in 1981. There are a couple of chapters of genre history (sex in mystery fiction, for one); others on alternative giants Michael Avallone and Harry Stephen Keeler; still others on such esoteric subjects as titles, publishers’ dust jacket blurbs, and old crime films (the Charlie Chan series in particular). I’ve even included, in its entirety, an impressively awful short-short detective story from a 1930 pulp magazine. In a word, this book is a hodgepodge. In a phrase, it is a sort of whimsical hugger-mugger.

  That being the case, some critics will no doubt claim that this is a technically inferior book. Undisciplined, they will say. Fragmentary. Totally lacking in cohesion and continuity.

  Ah, but what I say is that this is a book about bad writing, and what is bad writing but that which is undisciplined, fragmentary, and totally lacking in (conventional) cohesion and continuity? Therefore, I submit that Son of Gun in Cheek is not imperfect; that in fact it is that rara avis: a book perfectly suited in every respect to its subject matter!

  You can’t argue with that sort of logic, folks—at least not with me, you can’t. Don’t even try. Just sit back, relax, and proceed. What follows may be hugger-mugger, but I think I can guarantee that it is funny hugger-mugger. And that is the whole point of the thing, after all.

  To hell with discipline and continuity. To hell with technically perfect construction. I’ll take chuckles and belly laughs every time, no matter what kind of bundle they come in.

  Et tu?

  Sonoma, California

  August 1986

  1

  The Alternative Hall Of Fame, Part I; Or, “Justice Isn’t Functioning Very Shipshape”

  The air was surcharged with an invisible something which seemed to surround the house. Even that phlegmatic, nerve-proof group were not immune to the tuning in of the premonitory cross-currents.

  —Florence M. Pettee,

  The Palgrave Mummy, 1929

  There was no activity about any of the dozen outbuildings which hovered at a respectful distance from the big house.

  —Martin J. Freeman,

  The Scarf on the Scarecrow, 1938

  In crime fiction, as in all other areas of literature, there are great bad novels as well as great good novels. It may
be the machinations (not to mention loose ends) of its plot that elevates a particular book to classic status. Or it may be the author’s eloquence of style, the manner in which he or she turns a phrase (or stands one on its head), unleashes a runaway metaphor, or demonstrates an especially tinny ear for dialogue. Or it may be a combination of these and other elements. The important fact is that everything has come together—a perfect chemical balance—to produce a work of true genius.

  Genius, as we all know, is a rare commodity in literature and therefore should not go unrecognized or unappreciated. That is why I have established an Alternative Hall of Fame for those novels whose brilliance, as one of their authors might say, shines like a balefire in the dark forest of mediocre mystery, dull deduction, and static suspense.

  Early inductees into the Alternative Hall of Fame were discussed at some length in Gun in Cheek—such heroic efforts as Michael Morgan’s Decoy, Eric Heath’s Murder of a Mystery Writer, Milton M. Raison’s Murder in a Lighter Vein, Sydney Horler’s Dark Danger, James O’Hanlon’s Murder at Horsethief, and Mary Roberts Rinehart’s and Avery Hopwood’s The Bat. A number of others have come to light since; those published between 1910 and 1940 will be inducted in this chapter, and those published between 1945 and 1985 will have their moment of glory in Chapter 12. Certain additional titles by Michael Avallone, Harry Stephen Keeler, and Anthony M. Rud, among others, will be inducted along the way.

  The Mummy Moves, MARY GAUNT (1910)

  The Mummy Moves is one of those rare published novels that reads as if it had been composed by (1) a functional illiterate; (2) a poorly programmed computer; or (3) a reasonably intelligent chimpanzee. Sentences do not make sense. Paragraphs do not make sense. Whole pages of narrative and dialogue do not make sense. The amazing thing is not that the book was written, but that it was published twice in the English language (originally in England by T. Werner Laurie, and here in 1925 by E. J. Clode) with no editorial guidance and no attempt to correct and/or make uniform such minor matters as grammar, syntax, and punctuation.

  Mary Gaunt does appear to have been a human being, at least, and a British subject at that. Perhaps she was born somewhere other than in England or one of its colonies; that would explain why her prose reads as though English were a third or fourth language. The redoubtable Mrs. Gaunt (she had three names, the middle one being Bakewell, so one assumes she was married) published a minimum of one other novel, a nonmystery entitled The Uncounted Cost. If this novel is of the same chimplike virtuosity of The Mummy Moves, I would dearly love to read and attempt to decipher it.

  Behold Mary Gaunt:

  The girl’s voice rose to a scream, and Langlands caught the detective’s smile at feminine credulity, but bending forward he looked closely, and he saw that not only had the girl spoken the truth, the shrivelled bony talon-like hand of the mummy was covered with blood, but also inside the case was a handle as if the occupant were indeed living flesh and blood, and might perchance wish to let herself out, and this handle was stained and smeared with blood as if those fleshless hands had grasped it and left their impress there.

  “[The room to let] isn’t for us,” said Dolson glibly. “A most respectable young man, a native of India, his father’s in the fruit trade, and he’s thinking of going for a waiter to learn languages, is coming to me, and I want to get him some place respectable, where he won’t be too lonely, a poor lone man, you know, madam, is as bad as a poor lone woman, especially when he’s but a boy.”

  Miss Morton was clutching the table cloth, the colour had gone from her face, and in spite of himself he wanted to help her, “but it was from West Africa that most of his specimens came,” he said turning the conversation, and he saw with pleasure that she sighed a sigh of evident relief and a little colour crept back into her cheeks.

  “Tut, tut, it is very trying, very trying indeed,” he said looking up sympathetically. “You are over-wrought. I get my brain over-wrought sometimes labouring at a plot that will not evolve itself as it ought [the speaker is a writer], and I doubt not Mr. Langlands does often. There is nothing for but rest, perfect rest. I should advise you to go home and take some of nature’s sweet restorer, though it is so early, balmy sleep.”

  The staring eyes were wide open, the jaw had fallen, and pillow sheets and pyjamas were soaked in blood, and at his throat, the two women and Fabian Eastman shrank back, and Langlands, bending over, felt impelled to do likewise, for the collar of the pyjama coat was unbuttoned and the manner of death was plain to see.

  “Hold hard,” said Eastman taking the dagger from Langlands; “why, that belongs to me. Now it’s no good you’re protesting,” he turned on the Hindoo, who was doing nothing of the sort, “that knife is unique. It comes from West Africa. My uncle,” he turned to Langlands, “told me there wasn’t another to match it in the world.”

  “I positively assuring you most honourable gentlemen,” said the Hindoo holding out his hand, “it is the capture of my bow and spear, it is the purchased of my shekels.”

  Christabel looked frightened. “It isn’t canny,” she said.

  “Well, the party is slow no longer,” said Virginia with a sigh of satisfaction.

  “There’s that beggar again, Emily. Sing, he can’t sing for nuts, as my poor husband used to say. Here, take him out this penny, and tell him to go away at once.”

  “Kiss me strite on the brow and part,” wailed the mournful wreck in the street, and Emily tossed her scornful head.

  “Well, I call it encouragin’ of thieves an’ bad characters,” said she, virtuously, “considerin’ the things as have happened in the flat above, you ought to be special careful.”

  “Your ragged man isn’t a professional thief as a rule,” said her mistress, as if the argument had some weight.

  “Dear me, Dodson,” said Langlands . . . “what are you doing with newspaper cuttings? I thought you despised the modern in literature.”

  “Human nature’s the same all through the ages. My idea is to translate some wise saws and modern instances into medieval setting. But sometimes the divine afflatus is not there, Phoebus’ car won’t go, the wheels are clogged.”

  “So I should think,” said Langlands looking round.

  Hidden behind (or among or underneath) all this gibberish, like a separate puzzle for the dedicated mystery reader to piece together, is a plot of sorts. It has to do with a murdered English curio collector, a female Egyptian mummy who may or may not be capable of ambulatory evil, a West African juju knife, some Australian bank shares, a “Hindoo” peddler, a mysterious beggar, fetishes, secret societies, blood sacrifices, and canary birds—among other things. The “hero” is a Scotland Yard detective named Dodson, who does not behave like any Scotland Yard detective in fact or fiction and who may therefore be an unmasked impostor. He is somewhat bumbling, somewhat cracked, and has the respect of none of the other characters, including his friend Langlands. He has literary pretensions—“frustrated snob” might be a good term for him—and insists on quoting inappropriate Latin phrases, complete with translations, at the drop of a winding-sheet (“Homo solus aut deus aut demon, which being translated means that a lonely man is either a god or a devil, where is this mummy?”). He also insists on making all manner of cryptic statements, the most notable of which is: “Tut, tut, chaos is come again!”

  It certainly is. The Mummy Moves is a monument to it.

  The Palgrave Mummy, F. M. PETTEE (1929)

  As its title suggests, this novel also deals with an allegedly ambulatory and wicked mummy. That is, however, the only similarity it bears in style and content to the Mary Gaunt novel. (Well, it does have a Hindoo in it; but since the Hindoo here is a microbe, not a person, that doesn’t really count.) The Palgrave Mummy is written in a generally more intelligible version of English, has a simple plot (in more ways than one), and fairly bubbles with high melodrama. Which is no surprise, considering that F. M. (for Florence Mae) Pettee learned her “craft” in the pulp magazines of the teens and twenties, f
or which she created such series characters as the amazing Beau Quicksilver, criminologist Dr. Nancy Dayland, and “noted criminal investigator” Digby Gresham. Her pulp fiction seethes with silly situations, exotic murder methods, fractured prose, and any number of ridiculous pseudoscientific gimmicks—so much so that pulp historian Robert Sampson refers to her as “towering gigantically, an Everest of the inept.” We’ll take a close look at her pulp fiction in Chapter 5, where you’ll have the rare and heady privilege of examining the complete text of one of her Digby Gresham short stories.

  Florence Mae’s alternative talents are abundantly in evidence in The Palgrave Mummy, her only full-length novel. It begins when Paris Palgrave, a Very Rich Person, pays a call on Digby Gresham and his properly fawning Watson, Detective Sergeant Allenby. Strange Things Are Happening on the island estate of the Palgrave family, most of them connected with the mummy of “a little brown princess, Amon-Ya, daughter of one of the Pharaohs.” The mummy carries a curse that has already claimed the life of the man who found it and took it out of Egypt:

  Living blood shall flow, without the hint of wound, without the seeming disturbance of flesh by the sharp stone of priest or vandal. Blood shall flow—ghost-blood— from dead and from living flesh alike, without a sign, a symbol, or a scratch to explain the bursting of its veins, quick or dead. Blood shall burst its bonds— avenging blood as a sign that doom has fallen on desecrating hands. Beware the ko-blood of a Pharaoh’s daughter.

  But is the curse responsible for the Strange Things and the archeologist’s death? Could it be that some ancient and clever poison was secreted on the mummy or in its wrappings? Palgrave is determined to find out, which is why he has asked several experts in various fields to come to his island estate—a medical doctor, a toxicologist, an Egyptologist, and now a detective.