Son of Gun in Cheek: An Affectionate Guide to More of the "Worst" in Mystery Fiction - Softcover

Pronzini, Bill

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0486817989 ISBN 13: 9780486817989

Publisher: Dover Publications, 2018

Synopsis

"I could hardly wait to begin the investigation. Somehow, I firmly believed that (at last!) we were following a course that would clearly reveal — something!" — from The Stingaree Murders
"The [police] men saluted in the darkness and stole away with furtive tread. They knew the anticlimax was at hand, and their satisfaction was unbounded." — from The Merrivale Mystery
"It beats the devil. It's diabolical. It's fiendish. It's just not right." — from The Palgrave Mummy
A humorous and good-natured study of alternative crime fiction, the Edgar Award-nominated Gun in Cheek celebrated the neglected classics of substandard mystery writing. After years of additional research into comically awful literature, author Bill Pronzini returns with Son of Gun in Cheek, a compendium of even more twisted treasures for connoisseurs of hideous prose. Pronzini's lively commentary offers background on each of the stories he cites, providing an informative survey of the genre and its writers, crowned with hilarious excerpts. His lighthearted look at the best of the worst in crime fiction will amuse not only mystery buffs but also anyone with a taste for ham-handed drama.

About this title

About the Author

American author and anthologist Bill Pronzini has written scores of short stories and novels, including Snowbound, which was awarded the Grand Prix de la Littérature Policière as France's best crime novel of 1988. His numerous other honors include the "Grand Master" designation from the Mystery Writers of America; six Edgar nominations; and three Shamus awards.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Son of Gun in Cheek

An Affectionate Guide to More of the "Worst" in Mystery Fiction

By Bill Pronzini

Dover Publications, Inc.

Copyright © 1987 Pronzini-Muller Family Trust
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-486-81798-9

Contents

Modus Operandi, 1, 
1 The Alternative Hall Of Fame, Part I; Or, "Justice Isn't Functioning Very Shipshape", 4, 
2 Of Talking Skeletons, Noseless Monsters, And Boomalacka Browne, 29, 
3 Gold Is Where You Find It, 52, 
4 The Amazing Adventures Of The Kracked King of Keelerland, 65, 
5 The Shame Of Black Mask, And Other Pulp Paydirt, 84, 
6 "Loaded To The Gunwale With Superpowered Quake-Stuff To Make Your Withers Quiver", 104, 
7 Sex, Sex, And More Sex!, 114, 
8 Big Brother Is Watching, 136, 
9 Confessions Of A B-Movie Junkie, 148, 
10 Titles, Anyone?, 163, 
11 Hail To The Chief!, 169, 
12 The Alternative Hall Of Fame, Part II; Or, "Inspiration Splattered Me In the Face Like A Custard Pie" Post-Mortem, 212, 
Bibliography, 214, 
Index, 222, 

CHAPTER 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 bom 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, for 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 Pal grave 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.

Digby is only too happy to oblige. Along with Sergeant Allenby, he ventures to the island, where he meets the other experts, Palgrave's wife and daughter, and a woman mystery writer who gave the world "that ripsnorting, odd thing, The Shrunken Arm." No sooner do Gresham and Allenby arrive than More Strange Things Happen. An escaped convict from a nearby prison is on the loose and perhaps has made his way to the island. The Palgrave Diamond is stolen. Amon-Ya's mummy case is likewise purloined. Murder most foul is committed in the mummy room, and an investigation of the mummy reveals that it is "bleeding." It looks as though the terrible curse has claimed another victim.

Ah, but what is the significance of the freshly baked biscuit? Why does Digby Gresham mutter "Holy kettlefish!" to himself while skulking around the grounds that night? Why does Allenby exclaim, "Holy catfish! Wouldn't that rattle your wisdom teeth?"? Is something fishy going on? And can it be that part of the answer is the Hindoo microbe, the one that produces a red fluid that looks so exactly like blood you can't tell the difference except under a microscope?

There is more to the plot, much more, but these are the highlights. What also towers gigantically throughout are the lofty peaks and crags of Florence Mae's prose. Unlike Mary Gaunt, she possessed a ready command of the English language — a too ready command, in fact. Her problem can be traced to the obvious facts that she did not own nor had she ever studied a grammar textbook, and that she did own and was forever consulting both a dictionary and a Roget's Thesaurus. Unfortunately for her, she never quite grasped the proper usage of either Webster's or Roget's. Shades and nuances of meaning escaped her. Exact definitions of words seemed to befuddle her. She seemed to believe that all the words listed under a particular entry in Roget's were exact synonyms, to be used interchangeably with that entry. She also seemed to believe that substituting big words for little words, and/or colorfully offbeat words for common ones, was the key to Good Writing.

Consider, first of all, her blithe experimentation with verbs, nouns, and adjectives:

For Digby Gresham's diggings were salted away in a side street where traffic didn't boil over much, especially on climatically indisposed evenings.

The guard squinted at each in turn. Then his gaze volleyed to the locked rear deck of the roadster.

"Justice isn't functioning very shipshape."

Olive's hands went to her head. She held the coppery locks tight as if either to stem the dull ache or to force her ideas back to their original jumping-off place. ...

Tragedy is seldom to be seen all labeled and carefully pigeonholed. It's a matter of atmosphere, requiring a barometric nature to divine it.

Nowhere else, in those dainty rooms, was there a sign of any lurking, impish face, spying on the antics she had been maneuvering.

Instinctively Allenby's eager, boyish glance romped to the girl's left wrist.

From the percolator in the recessed window, the housekeeper turned out another steaming cup, which she tempered deftly.

Out of the unknown, the hinterland of the inexplicable, he divined the potency of what he had seen.

Similes and metaphors were one of Florence Mae's specialties: Gresham's steel-gray glance crossed Allenby's like swords suddenly freed of their scabbards.

Again he blew pale amulets of [cigarette] smoke quite soberly.

[The letter] drooped from his fingers like a limp chewed cigarette butt.

[The wide piazza] was smothered in a riot of climbing roses, a pale patch of white, pink, and blood red, like the varied corpuscles in human veins.

The siren was broadcasting, with all the strength of its metal lungs, the news that a man had escaped, a living link from the chain of human beings bound together in durance by the law. The siren started again, bellowing discordant yelps, signally out of tune on that peaceful, purple landscape.

The two faced each other in that house of subtle double deaths. The soundlessness of the place was funereal, pent-up to the bursting point. It crashed about them in the utter absence of all movement.

Her descriptions of people and places were another of her long suits:

His face was brown, almost leathery tinted.

His hands were extraordinarily delicate, out of proportion to his big, burly frame. The strength of his body seemed to have petered out also in his head.

Delilah's soft knock tapped on the door. It was like the woman's cattish tread; like, too, the low swish of her gray uniform, which clung to her gaunt figure like a bit of fabric as bleached and flabby as if drained of all vitality.

They ran along through tiny, tucked-in villages clinging to the rock-bound coast like barnacles, intershot with neatly tufted evergreens. A thousand-thousand Christmas trees reared emerald pompoms on the landscape.

A half-dozen guards sprang up here and there on the rocks. The purple of twilight glazed the sea; a patch of contorted seaweed, matted and clumped like some aboriginal seine, bobbed between the accidental catamaran made by a couple of logs lashed together with driftstuff.

The guards began a systematic peppering of weeds, logs, and all suspicious flotsam.

Fog swathed the sea in thick bandages, coffin-cloth windings from out of the dusk. The house stood out, a patch of black, rent by placques of light. The fog sloughed away, like amorphous flesh, from the sloped sides of the bungalow.

Florence Mae was no slouch when it came to dialogue, either, especially when either slang (Allenby) or pontification (Gresham) was involved:

"Now," appealed Allenby, with a long sigh that freedom of speech was his again, "what kind of a nut would light out with a mummy-case and go to such pains to snitch it? What under the cartouche of Amon-Ya would a guy want with such a thing? Unless he was a 'cuckoo' on ancient Egyptian stuff, bitten by a scientific bug or some great idea that he had lamped out something to startle the world with."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Son of Gun in Cheek by Bill Pronzini. Copyright © 1987 Pronzini-Muller Family Trust. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Publication date: 2018
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0486817989
• ISBN 13: 9780486817989
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 240