Showing posts with label Virgil Markham. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Virgil Markham. Show all posts

7/10/20

The Devil Drives (1932) by Virgil Markham

Virgil Markham was a strange mystery writer who eschewed the common tropes and conventions in his detective novels, eight in total published between 1928 and 1932, which have been practically forgotten today and Curt Evans wrote, in a 2012 blog-post, that the books may have been "victims of their own originality" – or "to say strangeness." A writer who steered his "narratives over worn-out ruts" to find "different and exciting ways of working with the form." And it's not easy to decide whether, or not, he succeeded in cutting new pathways through the genre.

Curt referred to one of my reviews of Markham's first and most well-known mystery novel, Death in the Dusk (1928), which I described as rivaling Joel Townsley Rogers' The Red Right Hand (1945) and Fredric Brown's Night of the Jabberwock (1950) in the race for most outlandish detective story ever contrived. The outlandish plot and story-telling is also the reason why I didn't break my neck to get all of Markham's detective novels.

Death in the Dusk is a massive, nearly 400-page long, detective novel posing as a grim, blood-soaked fairy tale with bleeding portraits, levitating bones, immortal cats and an enchanted duel between medieval sorcerers, but turgid narrative makes it a slow, plodding read – requiring your undivided attention. A book that is hard to warm to and only can be appreciated for what's it trying to and not how. So was brought Markham back under my attention?

Back in 2018, The Invisible Event and The Green Capsule posted glowing reviews of Markham's third mystery novel, The Devil Drives (1932).

JJ began his review with "someone who venerates plot to the extent I do should not have enjoyed this book as much as I did," while GC praised Markham for coming up with "a completely unique solution to a locked room murder." What I gleaned of the erratic plot from their reviews, I expected something along the lines of R.H.W. Dillard's The Book of Changes (1974), but with more lucidity and substance in the writing and plotting. My expectations were exceeded, because The Devil Drives had no right to be this good and entertaining! A story that's not easily described, or defined, but absolutely wonderful to read.

The Devil Drives is narrated by the "sinfully young" warden of New Jersey's Franklin Penitentiary, George Peters, who receives a visit in the opening chapter from a representative of the Woman's Press Association, Miss Louisa Matthews Carmody – who wishes to inspect all of the parts of the prison. Peters has the unshakable feeling that Miss Carmody's primary interest was in the prisoners rather than the conditions of the prison. In the second chapter, Peters goes down to the death house to have one final talk with "a gunman with a long New York record," named Frank Holborn, who claims to have been framed. And tries to ask the warden a favor. Peters turns him down and the story really begins after the, more or less, successful execution of Frank Holborn. This is the point where the narrative becomes jittery and episodic.

Peters receives a packet of old, undated love letters written by a 13-year-old girl, "Pat," to an obviously older man, "Dubrosky," which are full of references to "the loveliest doll's house" with a pigmy tribe inside and a buried treasure that no one will ever find – except "by earth, air and water." Someone wants to give Peters the job to find that treasure, but, in order to do so, he has to burn all his bridges behind him. And descend into the criminal underworld.

Fascinatingly, Peters assumes a false-identity and uses it to set himself up as a fixer. The underworld equivalent of a private investigator and can't remember having ever come across a character who had to play detective in that role.

What comes his way is a notorious murder trial that has taken the place of the Hall-Mills and Gray-Snyder affairs in the newspaper headlines and its unfortunate aftermath. A flamboyant gangster with fresh flowers in his buttonhole, an eccentric blackmailer, a gun-wielding countess and a long-missing, Raffles-like house thief. Everything is all over the place and it takes until the last quarter of the story to follow the twisting, winding path of the plot down to a small, lakeside cabin that looked like "a pumpkin-house in fairy tale" with its sides and back bulging "a bit like the pumpkin." When Peters looks through the window, he sees the body of man laying a puddle of water surrounded by muddy footprints, but the solid, pinewood door and windows are locked, bolted or hooked on the inside. So how did a man drown, on dry land, while locked inside a cabin?

I've to agree with JJ that the locked room-trick is not wholly original and hinges on a principle that's not exactly popular among puzzle-purists (burn the heretics!), but Markham came up with an entirely new and satisfying variation on the trick – a solution that was audaciously clued and hinted at. So have to side with GC's enthusiasm over the locked room-trick, even if it's not an outright classic.

On a side note, when the body was found and it came to light he had a non-fatal head wound, I began to suspect the pumpkin-like cabin somehow had been flooded with water and drained again, which could have been done through the chimney or those suspicious weatherstrips that helped seal the place (could they have been removed to let the water in or out?). And he had sustained the wound when he bumped his head to the ceiling when he floated to the top. But what killed him was not ordinary drowning, but delayed drowning, which would explain the muddy footprints inside (he walked around before collapsing). A hypothesis I had to abandon because it didn't fit the timeline of the story, but still wanted to share that pulp-style locked room possibility with you.

The Devil Drives is a strange animal and a bundle of contradictions. A simplistically complicated story with a loose, episodic plot tried together with a string of coincidences, some harder to swallow than others, but somehow, it worked – punctuated with an ending that gave everyone involved déjà vu. There's no logical reason why it worked, but, somehow, it did and the result was very pleasing. One of the most unorthodox and curious (locked room) mysteries I've read in a long time!

7/21/11

The Grim Fairy-Tale of Parson Lolly

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.
"Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."
"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."
- Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (1865).
Before we plummet into today's review, I want to express my gratitude to everyone who turned this blog spot in one of his or her regular haunts on the web. Yesterday, I checked up on the statistics of this digital mausoleum and was aghast to find that the page-view counter had left the 10.000 mark behind it! I wasn't entirely sure what to expect when I began posting these sketchy, rambling commentaries, a little over six months ago now, but none of mine previsions included garnering thousands of views and hundreds of comments over such a short period. So once again, thanks to everyone who has been reading these scribbles, posting responses or linked to this place.

But enough with these nauseating acknowledgements and lets zero in on the latest book that soared from the snow-covered mountain tops of my to-be-read pile, Virgil Markham's Death in the Dusk (1928) – which turned out to be a rival for Joel Townsley Rogers' The Red Right Hand (1945) and Fredric Brown's Night of the Jabberwock (1950) in the race for the title of most outlandish detective story ever contrived. This epic mystery story has a grim, fairytale-like flavor and its plot involves such phantasmagorical elements as an imperishable arm, a bone floating in mid-air, an enchanted duel between mediaeval sorcerers, a bleeding portrait and a cat that is impervious to gunfire.

The opening chapters, in which Alfred Bannerlee, antiquarian and narrator, roams a fog-enwrapped scenery, and the characters he encounters along the way, possesses all the dreamlike quality of a painting from the Romantic Era – effectively setting the mood for the rest of the story. It also conjures up a perfect atmosphere for his arrival at Highglen House, a hostelry whose master turns out to be an old acquaintance and he's subsequently absorbed into an engagement party, of sorts, but the incarnate form of a local fable has been casting a darkening shadow over the festivities.

Parson Lolly, The Arch-Lord of Disorder, has been making himself known at the old house, located near the spot where in ancient times he fought a magical duel with a rivaling necromancer, but, oddly enough, he leaves behind tangible evidence of his presence by dropping notes that bear dire warnings – which isn't the usual visiting card of otherworldly beings. Nevertheless, this sets tongues wagging with localized legends and superstitions, regarding the wind-born Parson, who, at times, can still be seen streaking through the sky with his ink-black cape bellowing behind him and the deathless arm of his antagonist, both of whom continue to plague the region, and consequently turn what began as a benevolent fable into a grim fairy-tale with a body count.

For the most part, the story is best described as a lucid account of the experiences one can have when you enter the state between wakefulness and sleep – placing this book in the same, but indefinable, category as The Red Right Hand and Night of the Jabberwock. The occurrences in these tales tend to give the impression of moving through a dream or nightmare and only you are aware that everything that is happening is just a figment of your imagination. This is an interesting and potentially satisfying approach to the detective story, but also one in which you can easily slip-up if you go full-out. I'm part of the crowd who doesn't think too highly of The Red Right Hand, but absolutely loved and adored Night of the Jabberwock – and it's somewhat fittingly that I place Death in the Dusk in between them.

I found this to be a fascinating and engrossing story, but I don't share the astonishment and disbelief, professed by another mystery fan, at how this book could've gone on so long without receiving numerous reprints or reviews. I think I understand why this book fell by the wayside.

First off, the solution is an early example of one of the classic ploys in the genre, but not one that started with this book nor is the execution as perfect or indelible as the archetype of this trick and thus has nothing really new to offer as a detective story. The second problem is the length of the narrative, which is ten pages shy of 400, and the antiquated writing style will probably make this a chore to go through for most contemporary readers who are used to short, clipped sentences and its plot is one that commends your full and undivided attention. As fascinating as it is, it's not a story that you read for the fun of it. I also understand now why nobody else took a stab at critiquing this story in the past few years or so... it's nearly impossible to coherently sum-up such a variegated plot as this one. 

This goes to show how bizarre this blood-soaked fairy-tale really is. Basically, it has everything that I like in a detective story, from a well-enough constructed plot to apparently supernatural incidents, often bordering on the impossible, but, somehow, I find it hard to warm up to the story as a whole.

In short, supply yourself with a copy and decide for yourself. Don't worry, despite the limited print-run of the book it's still easily available second-hand without triple-digit price-tags attached to them.