With all the pontificating I've done lately on the PI
conventions of 50 years ago, I've just stumbled on a 1952
novel that twists many of them. MURDER ON MONDAY by Robert
Patrick Wilmot was published by Lippincott in 1952 and Pocket
Books in 1954. It is the third (and I believe last) in a
series featuring private investigator Steve Considine, who
works for a New York agency. Wilmot also had stories
published in Manhunt and other magazines but I do not know if
they featured this detective.
Told in the first person, Steve Considine is a likable
character. But he is also a bit clumsy and, well, not the
brightest detective on this case. Considine's boss and his
wife have to help him through several tough spots. He knows
when he screws up and it bothers him alot. After one major
mistake, Considine's boss shrugs and says to him "I kind of
figured your batting average had been running a little bit
high."
The novel also features the classic rumpled-suited,
cigar-chomping police inspector. Everything about him is a
cliche except the fact that he is regularly one step ahead of
both Considine and his boss. Again and again, the PIs
discover information only to find out that the cops knew it
three days before but withheld it from them.
The story is told straight, not for laughs and I was
surprised at how much I enjoyed it. The writing is average or
a little better for early 50s private eye novels. It is
flawed with some terrible similies. The plot is unrealistic
but fun in a screwball way. It begins with a blackmail
attempt on a family of high social standing that results in a
murder. Routine stuff.
Ah, but the blackmailer is a recently released convict
who left prison carrying a cage of canaries and leading a
puppy on a string. Or is it someone impersonating the
convict? Hmmm. His next would-be blackmail victims are two
mobsters who hire Considine's firm to protect them. Alas, the
private dicks screw this up. After one of the mob leaders is
wounded, they turn to the police for protection and get it.
Grateful, they insist on providing the police with the money
for a sting payoff at Grand Central Station at rush
hour.
I've rattled on too much about a long out-of-print novel. But
it was fun to see all the cliches turned inside-out.
Richard Moore
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