AMERICAN SHERLOCKS : STORIES FROM THE GOLDEN AGE OF THE AMERICAN
DETECTIVE
Edited by Nick Rennison
No Exit Press. 333 pages. £9.99. ISBN 978-85730-439-1
Reviewed by Jim Burns
For those of us who delight in the discovery of old detective
stories, especially those from the Victorian and Edwardian periods,
the appearance of another anthology edited by Nick Rennison can only
be welcomed. Following on from
The Rivals of Sherlock Homes
(2008), Supernatural
Sherlocks (2017), More
Rivals of Sherlock Holmes (2019), and
Sherlock’s Sisters
(2020), his new collection,
American Sherlocks, provides another sampling of the adventures
of a variety of detectives investigating murders, mysterious
disappearances, robberies, and other misdemeanours.
As the title indicates, American authors of pulp fiction are on
display. As in Britain, there were numerous magazines catering for
readers who weren’t looking for high-grade literature and instead
wanted stories that were easy-to-read, tickled the imagination a
little, but didn’t demand too much in terms of complex characters
and situations. They often did require the reader to suspend
disbelief as the detectives unravelled sometimes bizarre methods of
committing crimes, and in doing so displayed powers of deduction
beyond the capacity of most people. It seemed a standard theme that
ordinary professional policemen fumbled in the dark while those
practising, in one way or another as amateur sleuths or private
detectives, could see the light at the end of the tunnel.
One of the earliest American detective series was built around Nick
Carter. a character created by John R Coryell for a serial in the
New York Weekly in 1886.
Rennison’s notes about how Nick Carter survived well into the
late-twentieth century are fascinating. As he says, “There have been
literally thousands of Nick Carter stories, nearly all of them the
work of the mostly unidentified writers who followed Coryell”. And
the portrait of Carter was altered to meet changing tastes as he
developed from “a dime novel hero to Sherlockian consulting
detective to hardboiled private eye…….and was even relaunched as a
James Bond-style secret agent” in the 1960s. The story that Rennison
uses was published in 1914 and involves an attractive actress, a mad
doctor, a prison breakout, hypnotism, and much rascally behaviour.
It’s notable for a conclusion which involves several pages revolving
around a detailed description of a fight between Carter, accompanied
by an assistant, and a gang of miscreants.
It might give an indication of the widespread fame of the Carter
stories, and the audience they catered for, if I mention that, in
another story, Clinton H Stagg’s “The Flying Death”, a young boy who
is a kind of protégé of the “problemist”, as the detective is
called, is said to see Carter as one of his fictional heroes.
Thornley Colton, the detective, is blind, a fact that, as with Max
Carados in the stories by the English author, Ernest Bramah,
heightens his other senses. Combined with his analytical
intelligence this enables him to come up with solutions to crimes
that have baffled other people. In “The Flying Death” he deduces how
a pistol can be fired without anyone being physically near it to
pull the trigger, or having attached a cord to do it.
I have to admit that my
disbelief really did kick in with this piece. It’s in this story,
too, that the sneering villain, explaining how he carried out his
crime, says that “there’s Indian blood in me, mixed with the Irish”,
as if it explains how he could be so clever and so devious. Racial
stereotypes were often a feature of writing at this time, and not
only in pulp fiction.
It’s possible to see them at work in the use of “wop” in more than
one story to refer to Italians. Jacques Futrelle’s “The Problem of
the Opera Box” sees an Italian exacting vengeance with a knife, a
weapon favoured by Latins and the like, but disdained by sturdy
Anglo-Saxons. Or in Rodrigues Ottolengui’s “Mr Barnes and Mr
Mitchel” where there is a reference to a “sneaking Mexican”. The
story concerns a rare jewel, the Montezuma Emerald, the theft of
such items being a fairly standard ploy in detective fiction. George
Barton’s “Adventure of the Cleopatra Necklace”, for example, has his
detective, Bromley Barnes, tracking down the item in question. I was
intrigued by Rennison’s notes about Ottolengui who “devoted most of
his energies to his career as a dentist”, but also wrote four novels
and a number of short stories. He pioneered “the use of x-rays in
orthodontics” and edited a dental journal, and when he died in 1937
the obituaries focused more on those facts than on his fiction.
Which is, perhaps, understandable. Unlike now, little serious
attention was then paid to crime fiction, especially of the popular
variety.
The racial stereotyping would upset people today, and certainly
incline publishers to persuade their authors to delete any signs of
it from their work. And what would be the reaction to some of the
scenes in Arthur B Reeves’
“The Azure Ring”, where his hero, Craig Kennedy, described as
“the scientific detective”, blithely uses a cat and a couple of
white mice in his experiments to determine the lethal nature of a
substance he suspects has been used to kill a young couple? To prove
his point the animals die. I suppose it’s only fair to say that
Kennedy, to reach his final conclusion regarding the quantity of the
material required to kill a human, is prepared to subject himself to
the test. He does so with a near-fatal result. But I can imagine
animal lovers being concerned about the cat and mice, and possibly
suggesting that the man had voluntarily used himself as a guinea
pig, knowing full well the risks involved, whereas the animals had
no choice in the matter.
Reeves is the one writer with two stories in the book, the other
story being “The Mystery of the Stolen Da Vinci”, with the female
detective, Clare Kendall, on the hunt for a painting said to be “the
companion piece to Mona Lisa,
painted about the same time”. The thieves turn out to be a couple of
foreigners, again Italians, which could cause some people to think
that, bearing in mind where the picture was painted, it was just
being removed from the possession of a vulgar millionaire, and
returned to its rightful home. But I doubt that the thieves were
patriots who had that in mind. Rennison points out that the story
was written around the time that the
Mona Lisa had been stolen
from the Louvre, so had some contemporary relevance. It’s also worth
noting that the detective makes use of a telegraphone, a device
which works along the lines of a tape recorder. It was an actual
machine, invented by Valdemar Poulsen, known as the “Danish Edison”.
The contemporary crops up in Anthony M Rud’s “The Affair at Steffen
Shoals”, which lets us see how Jigger Masters and his friend foil
some spies who are passing secrets
to the Germans. The story was presumably written during the
period – 1917/18 – when the United States was involved in the First
World War. The secrets are to do with plans for a new kind of gas
that can be used with terrifying effect and must not be allowed to
fall into enemy hands. Masters manages to outwit the spy and his
gang and help sink a German submarine into the bargain. It’s
interesting in the way that it relates to the fact that there were
numerous pro-German sympathisers in the United States owing to the
large numbers of immigrants from that country.
Rennison mentions that old, supposedly humorous detective tales tend
not to survive too well, but I did find Carolyn Wells’s
“Christabel’s Crystal” quite entertaining as a gentle send-up of the
Sherlock Homes–style story. Its female narrator, Elinor Frost,
admits to not being familiar with different brands of cigar ash
which, she says, are often key clues when attempting to identify who
has been present in a room.
There’s also an English aristocrat who, like Holmes, can
pinpoint someone’s background from a quick glance at his complexion
or his clothes. It’s mildly amusing, which is more than can be said
for the laboured humour of Ellis Parker Butler’s “Philo
Gubb’s Greatest Case”, where Philo, a paper-hanger by profession,
and a keen amateur detective, adopts a number of disguises that fool
no-one. It’s easy to see how it would have appealed at the time in
the context of a casually-read magazine, but it has dated badly.
Carolyn Wells is one of only two women writers in
American Sherlocks, the
other being Anna Katharine Green. Her detective, Violent Strange, is
a well-heeled young woman who moves in high society circles in New
York, but also accepts assignments from a detective agency, though
she’s fussy about which investigations she’ll accept. She’s
reluctant to take on the case of “The Second Bullet”, but eventually
agrees to meet the grieving widow whose husband and child have died
in a mysterious shooting incident. There’s a somewhat implausible
ending to the story, but Green’s writing is competent enough to keep
the narrative moving and perhaps persuade the reader that it could
have happened that way.
I think “competent writing” might well be the correct way to
describe the better-told stories. None attain the heights of great
literature, but they often have a drive and energy that moves the
narrative along in a convincing manner. Hugh Cosgrove Weir’s
“Cinderella’s Slipper” spotlights his engaging heroine, Madelyn
Mack, who is known to chew cola berries to stimulate her thinking
when the situation requires intense wakefulness and concentration. I
had come across this story earlier, in Hugh Greene’s
The American Rivals of
Sherlock Holmes (Penguin, 1978), but it’s good to have it in
print again. The writing is crisp and clean, with few wasted words.
A writer I’ve never encountered before is Samuel Gardenhire, “a
Missouri-born lawyer who turned to writing fiction in middle-age”.
He produced eight stories, one of which, “The Park Slope Mystery”,
has his sleuth, Ledroit Conners, looking into a bizarre shooting in
a highly-respectable household. I know that questions have sometimes
been raised about Sherlock Holmes’s attitude towards women, but what
are we to make of Conners who says, “I endeavour to avoid women”.
His friend says “I glanced again at his pictures, where sylph and
siren, Venus in nature with Venus à la mode showed every phase of
beauty to the eye”. Conners, noting his friend’s action, says:
“These do not count. You recall the temptation of St Anthony? I hold
discipline to be good for a man. These I may love – none other”.
Whatever their qualities in terms of the writing, the stories in
American Sherlocks always
have an entertainment value. And Rennison’s introduction and notes
add to the appeal of a book like this. Who can resist reading about
Charles Felton Pidgin, who created Quincy Adams Sawyer, “a
professional private investigator, clearly influenced by Sherlock
Holmes”. Pidgin himself turned his hand towards various activities –
a statistician, a writer of musical comedies for the stage, and an
inventor, plus writing “more than a dozen novels”. His story, “The
Affair of Lamson’s Cook”, has a neat twist in the tail.
Even if we only look at the late-Victorian and Edwardian years,
there must be hundreds of detective stories buried in now-forgotten
magazines and newspapers. Many of them may not deserve to be dug out
and reprinted. But some can still interest and intrigue as their
sleuths, both men and women, endeavour to hold the forces of evil at
bay. Let’s hope that Nick Rennison will come up with more examples.
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