The Sealed Room Murder (1934) by James Ronald

I didn't expect the Moonstone Press reprint of James Ronald's The Sealed Room Murder (1934), originally as by "Michael Crombie," to be published before 2025, but Stories of Crime & Detection, vol. 11: The Sealed Room Murder (2024) dropped in December – which was a seasonally appropriate surprise. For me, anyway.

This volume comprises of Ronald's ultra rare, long out-of-print The Sealed Room Murder and the serialized novel The Secret of Hunters Keep (1931). The latter is a parody of the country house mystery, containing "enough secret passages and hidden doors to satisfy most readers for the rest of their lives," published in book form under the title The House of Horror. First I'll be taking a look at the former.

John Norris, of Pretty Sinister Books, reviewed The Sealed Room Murder in 2019 noting that from Ronald's seven "Michael Crombie" novels, only "a handful of copies of four titles turn up for sale at outrageous prices" with other three being "so absurdly rare that only one copy each is held in the British Library." So was really looking forward to this reprint, because The Sealed Room Murder was until recently among the rarest of locked room mysteries with promise and potential. However, it has to be mentioned the book title is a little misleading as the sealed room murder is tucked away in the last twenty, or so, pages. That said, The Sealed Room Murder is a blast and blazed through it in one sitting!

The Sealed Room Murder is pulp-style thriller presented as an inverted mystery playing on, and freshening up, the wicked uncle trope from a bygone era. Godfrey Winter, wicked uncle in a question, is "one of the three leading K.C.'s of the day" who "has saved more than one client who, in the hands of almost any other counsel, would have swung," but his passion for racehorses will keep him from a judge – not without reason. Winter's expenses on his hobby has become greater than his income at the bar and compelled his nephew, Eric Winter, to change his will. A short time later, Eric unexpectedly dies and the doctor is satisfied he died of typhoid fever, but his sister believed their uncle murdered him.

Patricia Winter is determined to upset Uncle Godfrey's perfect little murder. She spreads rumors in the village, writes letters to Scotland Yard and Eric's best friend, Alan Napier, who's on his voyage back to England when he receives her message. During his voyage, Alan befriended Larry Milner, a reporter for the Morning Echo, who turns sleuth to help bring Uncle Godfrey to heel. Hilariously, Milner decided to test a colleague's theory and introduces himself to the barrister by whispering "I know your secret" in his ear. And not without consequences!

After neatly disposing of his nephew, Winter finds himself on the constant defense from his niece, her friends and village gossip. Detective Sergeant Evans, of Scotland Yard, has even come down to the village to question the doctor and gossip mongers. So first tries to imprison Patricia, threaten her with an asylum and eventually makes a serious attempt to kill her, which only makes his position more precarious as now he also has to deal with a blackmailer among his servants ("er... no tricks, sir. I'll be armed"). However, while the suspicious incident and scandal mongering continue to pile on, they have nothing substantial to go on and Winter's standing gives him another layer of protection. Milner is dismissed from the Morning Echo after a complaint from the higher ups to his editor ("his esteemed Lordship was at school with Winter, or something"). So the fight against wicked Uncle Godfrey proves to be an uphill battle.

Towards the end, an apparent suicide is discovered inside a room with the door locked, and bolted, from the inside and the only window securely fastened with a burglar-proof catch – a chimney barely wide enough to allow "the passage of a full-grown cat" ("...far less a man"). Solving this locked room-puzzle could be the final nail in Winter's coffin, but Milner is stumped and consults various mystery writers, a magician and eventually a model scale of the crime scene. There is, of course, only so much you can do with less than twenty pages to go, but appreciated the attempt and spirit in which it was done. I would have loved to have known the solutions proposed by his mystery writing friends. What about the solution to the locked room murder? Well, I wouldn't go as far as calling the locked room-trick routine. No keys turned with pliers, bolts drawn with strings or any shenanigans with the burglar-proof catch after the door was broken down, but you probably have seen the trick before.

But once again, Ronald's didn't allow himself much space to do something really good with the murder giving the book it's title. What surprised me the most about the impossible murder is the choice of victim. Considering the difficulty in gathering evidence against him and the scene in which Winter defended himself, it would have also been quite fitting if he had died in that locked room (SPOILER/ROT13: gur qeht nqqvpgrq ahefr pbhyq unir havagragvbanyyl fgnoorq uvz, juvyr ybbxvat sbe zbecuvar. Naq gur qbpgbe evttrq hc gur ybpxrq ebbz gb znxr vg nccrne yvxr fhvpvqr gb cebgrpg uvzfrys).

So wish more could have been done with the locked room, which is not unreasonable as its titled The Sealed Room Murder, but in every other regard, it's a first-rate pulp mystery. The story never drags or becomes dull as its twists and turn from one chapter to another without becoming a disconnected mess with the characters merely acting on the latest plot developments. James Ronald may be one of the better, traditionally-styled mystery writers to come out of the pulps. Not just as a storyteller, but also someone who had better eye for character than most of his fellow pulpeteers. I don't think The Sealed Room Murder is quite as good as Murder in the Family (1936) and They Can't Hang Me (1938), but it's a good, solid third. Definitely worth a recommendation.

The Case of the Phantom Fingerprints (1945) by Ken Crossen

Kendell Foster Crossen was an American pulp writer of science-fiction, mysteries and a short stories during the 1940s before moving onto private eye and spy fiction in the '50s and '60s, which appeared under numerous different pennames – notably "M.E. Chaber," "Ken Crossen" and "Richard Foster." Just like other pulp writers covered on this blog, Crossen was a fan of impossible crime fiction and penned at least half a dozen of them.

Robert Adey's Locked Room Murders (1991) lists only four novels. Firstly, the two "Richard Foster" novels, The Laughing Buddha Murders (1944) and The Invisible Man Murders (1945), featuring the Tibetan-American detective, Chin Kwang Kham. Secondly, two of four "Ken Crossen" novels starring Jason Jones and Necessary Smith, but know the Milo March novel Wanted: Dead Men (1965) should have been included in Brian Skupin's Locked Room Murders: Supplement (2019). Crossen also penned an excellent science-fiction mystery hybrid short story, "The Closed Door" (1953). So who knows what more is buried in his catalog of obscure magazine fiction and out-of-print novels.

In 2020, Steeger Books started reprinting the Milo March series in addition to several volumes with the pulp adventures of the Green Lama, but Crossen's pulp mysteries, especially his impossible crime novel, annoyingly remain out-of-print. Like the subject of today's review.

The Case of the Phantom Fingerprints (1945), as by "Ken Crossen," is the second of only two novels, to my knowledge, starring Jason Jones and Necessary Smith – who first appeared together in The Case of the Curious Heel (1944). The book and particularly the two main characters read like a pulp-style send-up of Crossen's favorite mystery writers and fictional detectives. Detective Jason Jones, "fat beyond description," who has an agreement with the police department that they won't promote him as long as they hand him all the unusual cases. When he's not probing strange murder cases, Jones is growing geraniums in his rooftop hothouse. Smith calls him "the poor man's Nero Wolfe," but Jones can also be counted among Dr. Gideon Fell's literary relatives. Jones has a round, red face like Santa Claus that "rested comfortably upon three chins" and even launched into a locked room lecture of his own ("if Clayton Rawson, John Dickson Carr and H.H. Holmes can write long treatises on locked rooms, I guess I can say a few words on impossible situations"). The reason why Jones decides to do a poor man's version of Dr. Fell's locked room lecture is because this case presents the first time he came across a locked house mystery ("do you suppose it might start a whole new trend of methods in the impossible situation?").

The locked house in question a big, three-story private house in upper Manhattan belonging to a famous theatrical producer, Morris Block, who has set up a great and profitable racket. Block blackmails the best people in the theatrical world into working on his productions at "a reasonable salary," which guarantees money and success. But also a ton of enemies.

So it comes as no surprise to the guests when their backstabbing, blackmailing host is stabbed to death during a house party. Fortunately, the murderer left his bloody fingerprints all over the place and the police identity the prints as belonging to Max Thale. A publicity man, for the Mailer Studios out in Hollywood, who came to do publicity work for Block, but Thale has impossibly disappeared from the house when every door was guarded by policemen and the windows couldn't have been used as a exit without disturbing the snow on the outside ledge. There "a good four inches of snow on the ground all around the house without so much as a bird track in it." How could their prime suspect have vanished from the house?

Jason Jones is joined by Necessary Smith, a private investigator, who's hired by Thornton Rockwood, the drama critic of the Morning Star, to investigate the murder because everyone involved are Broadway people – intends to cover the case in his column. So wants someone on the inside of the investigation and promises a five-thousand dollar bonus, on top of his five-hundred dollar retainer, if he can beat the police to the solution. Unfortunately, that possible bone of contention between Jones and Smith is not developed to its full potential.

What follows, plot-wise, is fairly typical fare for a second-string, pulp-style mystery as more bodies and bloody hand prints turn up, which only proves the murderer is a prize idiot. More on that in a moment. The Case of the Phantom Fingerprints still has its moments. Firstly, Crossen indulges in a shameless, but forgivable, piece of self-promotion barely disguised as a plot-thread. One of the clues figuring in the story is a missing mystery novel, Richard Foster's The Laughing Buddha Murders, which is about to be published in the story with only a few advanced copies floating around. So they get to ask the suspects if they like detective stories and have they read The Laughing Buddha Murders. They even find someone, beside the murderer, who loves "the locked room mysteries of John Dickson Carr" and has read an advanced copy. And explains it's about "a Buddha, weighing a ton, which apparently vanished from a locked room." Vulcan Publications even gets in on the action! Secondly, the plot-thread of the missing mystery novel and its significant on the murders is not solved by Jones nor Smith, but by Smith's sharp secretary, Elsie Poll. She solves the whole problem from her office chair in the fine tradition of the great armchair detectives.

There are one, or two, other bits and pieces I enjoyed, but if you're looking for a good piece of impossible crime fiction with preferable a flicker of originality, The Case of the Phantom Fingerprints is not for you. The fingerprint-trick on which the murderer balanced his whole evil scheme was lifted from a Carr novel and Carr got the trick from Hans Gross' criminology handbook. And he was not the only one to use it. I strongly suspect Crossen learned the trick from Carr and think most readers will immediately recognize the trick, especially impossible crime fans, which also exposes how the Max Thale character vanished from the guarded house surrounded by virgin snow. I did like the idea behind the motive for the murder of Morris Block. That's one way to do crime, I suppose. :D But even as a pulp-style impossible crime novel, there's not much to recommend. Very much to my regret.

I liked The Case of the Phantom Fingerprints like a guilty pleasure. I know it's a second-string pulp and not even the best kind of second-string pulp. There's something infectious about Crossen fanboying over his favorite mystery writers, promoting one of his books inside one of his books and doing it without taking itself too seriously. It gives the story the kind of charm making you almost want to overlook the ramshackle, less than original, plotting and one of the dumbest murderer's I have come across in a while.

So The Case of the Phantom Fingerprints is not a great piece of impossible crime fiction, but it's at least entertaining and will be on the look out for The Case of the Curious Heel and the pair of Chin Kwang Kham locked room mysteries.

Note for the curious: Crossen references Nero Wolfe and John Dickson Carr in The Case of the Phantom Fingerprints. Funnily enough, the fingerprint-trick used here can be linked to both writers. I already mentioned Crossen likely got the idea from Carr, but there's an episode of The Adventures of Nero Wolfe radio show, "The Case of the Phantom Fingers" (1951), employing exactly the same trick. Considering how self-referential Crossen is, he might also have made a reference to one of his short stories, "The Case of the Fugitive Fingerprints," published in the June, 1941, issue of Double Detective – as by "Richard Foster." Jones makes a reference to a criminal in California who, years ago, had come up with a fingerprint-trick of his own.

Murder Reeks: "John Archer's Nose" (1935) by Rudolph Fisher

Last year, I reviewed The Conjure-Man Dies (1932), "A Harlem Mystery," by African-American physician, radiologist and budding author, Rudolph Fisher, who died in 1934 at the age of 37 from abdominal cancer – assumed to have been caused by his x-ray experiments. Fisher's untimely death ended, what could have been, a fascinating detective series after only one novel.

The Conjure-Man Dies, as to be expected from a first try, is not without its flaws and particular the second-half betrays Fisher was new to the game. During the second-half, the characters, story and plot became increasingly more pulpy, culminating with a heavy-handed, labored ending and solution. So still an experienced writer trying to find his voice and footing in the genre, which would have made it interesting to see how he would developed and improved as a writer/plotter. Fisher was working on two sequels, one provisionally titled Thus Spake the Prophet, but the only glimpse we got of what could have been is a posthumously published short story.

"John Archer's Nose" was originally published in the January, 1935, issue of The Metropolitan, reprinted in Otto Penzler's Black Noir (2009) and included in the Collins Crime Club 2017 reprint of The Conjure-Man Dies – which reunites Detective Perry Dart and Dr. John Archer. I can already tell you I liked "John Archer's Nose" more than The Conjure-Man Dies.

Perry Dart, "weary of the foibles and follies of his Harlem," decides to drop in on his friend, Dr. John Archer, to provoke a good natured, friendly argument between pals. Dart begins with stating Harlemites are "the most superstitious idiots on the face of the earth," but, to his surprise and disbelieve, Archer agrees. Archer had an example in his medical practice of superstition, "of a very dark hue," which didn't end very well. And the day is not over yet. Dr. Archer is called to an apartment building where a young man, Sonny, has been stabbed. When they arrive, they find Sonny on his bed with the black-pearl handle of a knife sticking out of his chest and small, tightly-knit circle of suspects.

There's the victim's grieving mother, Ma Dewey, his sister, Petal, and his brother and sister-in-law, Ben and Letty. And their housemate, Red Brown ("all in the family, eh?"). Dart and Archer have to contend with a case throwing up multiple possibilities that include both an obvious and not so obvious solution. One "person is obviously guilty because everything points to him," while "another is obviously guilty because nothing points to him." And then there's the strange smell Archer noticed around the body. Dart and Archer eventually weed out, what appears to be, the least-likely-suspect and tragic motive from the cast of characters. Only to knock it down as a false-solution to reveal another well-hidden murderer and equally tragic motive. That's where the short story shows a noticeable improvement over the novel that was published two years previously.

One noted problem with The Conjure-Man Dies is that the solution comes out of nowhere. This is true of "John Archer's Nose," sort of, because the reader is not entirely left unprepared for the out-of-nowhere solution. In fact, I think most people will have a hunch from which direction the wind is blowing, but that leaves open the intriguing question how Fisher is going to make that leap... without horrendously crashing and burning. And he didn't! Fisher basically pulled a (SPOILER/ROT13) cynthr pbheg zheqref and just about made it work. So a small technical achievement, plot-wise, showing growing potential lamentably cut short. It would have been interesting to see if Fisher's plotting had improved or was simply better fitted for the short story format. Why does cancer have to ruin everything?

So, all in all, "John Archer's Nose" is a tighter, better written and plotted detective story than the novel-length The Conjure-Man Dies and well worth seeking out.

The Riddle of the Ravens (2024) by J.S. Savage

J.S. Savage debuted two years ago with The Mystery of Treefall Manor (2023), a historical locked room mystery, which introduced his two series-characters, Inspector Graves and Constable Carver – an experienced, older detective and his young protege. A debut full of a promise and an outstanding homage to the great detective stories and writers of yesteryear. I wasn't as enthusiastic about the debut of Savage's contemporary mystery series, Sun, Sea and Murder (2024), introducing the ex-Secret Service agent Penny Haylestone, but I'm confident the next one will improve on the first. I already enjoy the idea of Savage alternating between a historical and contemporary series of locked room mysteries and impossible crimes.

That brings us to the second entry in the Graves and Carver series, The Riddle of the Ravens (2024), which is set in November 1926 during the run-up to Guy Fawkes Night.

Graves and Carver are sent to the Tower of London on a not quite routine assignment. Peter Standford, Constable of the Tower of London, turned to Scotland Yard when three of the six ravens died. All three ravens died over the span of a week under mysterious circumstances. There's an old legend "which says that if there are no ravens at the Tower of London, the kingdom will fall," but the ravens also happen to be the property of the King. Graves and Carver have to find out if someone's targeting the feathered custodians of the Tower.

When they arrive, Graves and Carver find the closed community residing within the high, thick walls and battlements of the Tower "practically a ghost town" as everyone else is up in Scotland to attend a funeral – leaving behind a small, tidy and tight-knit group of people. Firstly, there's Peter Standford, his devoted wife Joyce and their rebellious daughter, Emma. Dr. Colin Gibson, Tower doctor, who's an amateur historian greatly interested in the Tower's history and the hidden treasure of John Barkstead ("this is no bedtime fairytale, gentlemen"). Nurse Bess Trent assists him at the hospital block. Sergeant Madan Gurung, a Gurkha, is their only patient recovering from the lingering effects of scarlet fever. Further more, there's the Tower's schoolteacher, Anna Bower, and the one-armed Ravenmaster, Len Kittle. In addition to three Beefeaters (Yeoman Warders), James Burroughs, Bob Cooper and Philip Davies. So, "if there is foul play going on," the mostly deserted Tower provides Graves and Carver with neat, trimmed down list of potential suspects.

Before they can give the riddle of the ravens their full attention, Warder James Burroughs is shot and killed, while tied to a chair, at the Tower's firing range. So the two detectives have to extend their stay at the Tower to hunt for a murderer who gone from killing ravens to shooting warders. More bodies, cadavers, clues and red herrings will litter the grounds of the Tower of London before they're done. Another murder brings an impossible element to the case, but I'll get back to the plot in a moment. There are a few other things other than the puzzle.

Except for the morning briefing at Scotland Yard, The Riddle of the Ravens entirely takes place within the walls of the Tower ("...holding them prisoner") with it ancient traditions and a bloody, thousand year history "where queens and spies were executed, where a king was murdered and princes disappeared" – "where treasure is still buried, hidden to this day." So the book read like a "modern" rendition of one of Paul Doherty's historical locked room mystery novels like The House of the Red Slayer (1992), which also takes place at the Tower of London in December, 1377. I personally enjoyed that unintended effect. Needless to say, the historical setting, color and atmosphere was not wasted on The Riddle of the Ravens. Something I can always appreciate. What's perhaps more important than my personal enjoyment, storywise, is how the classic detectives were subtly updated for this retro-GAD series. Savage evidently wants Graves and Carver to have some depth and backstory, which carefully intertwined into the story when and where it was needed or mattered. So no needlessly long mini-biographies taking big chunks out of the story to dwell on the character's depressing back stories. I really like Graves is actually mentoring the younger, green-as-grass Carver to become the best detective he can be. That might prove an interesting investment into the future of the series. Back to the plot.

The Riddle of the Ravens is, as to be expected even after only two previous novels, an impossible crime and centers on the murder weapon: how can the gun have been used when Graves and Carver observed it hanging on the wall at the time it fired the fatal shots? A murder weapon under lock and key or observation is a rarity of the impossible crime with a pleasingly elaborate solution to match, but the impossibility is not central focus of the investigation. Just another part of an increasingly complicated puzzle for Graves and Carver. There are "many people with secrets" that need to be pried loose, movements to be tracked, alibis to be scrutinized, motives to be found and a piece of doggerel to be deciphered. And not to be forgotten the riddle of the dead ravens. Best of all, Savage appears to be determined to restore the fair play principles of the Golden Age detective story and planted a fair amount of clues among the red herrings and potential suspects. Sometimes the clues were a little too subtle, but that's really looking for faults where none exist. It's just nice to see properly clued, cleverly plotted detective fiction being written and published again.

Savage's The Riddle of the Ravens is a pleasingly elaborate, well-constructed and fairly clued detective novel representing another step towards that second Golden Age. It's coming! So look forward to the third title in the series, which, if I correctly interpreted the foreshadowing, is going to be set during Christmas, but expect the second Penny Haylestone novel to be next. Until then, The Riddle of the Ravens comes recommended as a solid retro-GAD novel.

From This Dark Stairway (1931) by Mignon G. Eberhart

Mignon G. Eberhart was an American mystery writer whose life and career covered the better part of the previous century, publishing her first novel in 1929 and last one in 1988, before retiring and passing away in 1996 – aged 97. So she can be counted with Michael Innes and Aster Berkhof as the last and longest lived of the Golden Age mystery writers.

During her long, lucrative career, Eberhart became one of the top selling American crime writers and reportedly the first to be labeled "America's Agatha Christie." However, Eberhart was a very different kind of novelist closely linked to Mary Roberts Rinehart and the often dismissed "Had-I-But-Known" School of romantic mystery, domestic suspense and creepily atmospheric backdrops. Rinehart and her followers don't particularly interest me, but also think they're too easily dismissed as they've produced some first-rate detective fiction. For example, Mabel Seeley's The Listening House (1938), Anita Blackmon's Murder à la Richelieu (1938) and the works of Dorothy Cameron Disney and Lenore Glen Offord. Fine specimens of the American detective story.

Eberhart mostly wrote standalone mysteries and suspense novels, but she started her career with two series-characters, Nurse Sarah Keate and policeman Lance O'Leary – who appeared together in seven novels. These earlier works reportedly are true detective novels with their characters, plots and storytelling enhanced by an eerie mood and creeping atmosphere of doom. And the occasional impossible crime also helped putting the series on my radar.

The Mystery of Hunting's End (1930), listed in Robert Adey's Locked Room Murders (1991), is an obvious choice, but it's From This Dark Stairway (1931) that has been on my wishlist for ages. John Norris, of Pretty Sinister Books, reviewed it years ago and identified it as "one of the uncommon examples of a Golden Age detective novel in the murderer's name is not revealed until the final sentence," which "is well worth seeking out for that tour de force bit of mystery writing alone." From This Dark Stairway somehow never got further than being jotted down on that big, messy pile on known as my wishlist, until last year, when it got reprinted by MysteriousPress/Open Road. So on the big pile it went!

The backdrop of From This Dark Stairway is Melady Memorial Hospital during "the worst of a few days of extreme heat in July" and begins following a day of stifling humidity, which filled the beds with heat stroke and putting nurses on edge – only things are about to get worse. And a lot stranger. Peter Melady, head of the Melady Drug Company, grandson of the hospital's founder and chairman of its board, is currently a patient of Dr. Leo Harrigan. Melady is scheduled for surgery and they've been trying to get his weak heart in shape for the operation, but, after years of friendship, Melady and Dr. Harrigan unaccountably became "the most determined of enemies." So why would Melady allow Dr. Harrigan to operate on him? That's the situation when Dr. Harrigan decides to go ahead with the surgery earlier than intended and wheels Melady on a gurney into the elevator to the operating theater. Somewhere along the way, the elevator gets stuck. And when it gets back to work, Nurse Keate finds an empty gurney and the body of Dr. Harrigan with an amputation knife in his chest!

So, apparently, Melady had killed Dr. Harrigan and made himself scarce, however, it was "physically impossible" for the frail, sickly Melady to have stabbed the bigger, heavier and more powerful Dr. Harrigan. But his disappearance also presents something of an impossibility. The hospital is locked for the night, "not much chance of an outsider getting into the hospital," but also keeps everyone inside. When the place is searched, Melady is not found anywhere. That's not the only puzzling aspect of, what the newspapers would call, the "Mad Mystery at Melady Memorial."

Melady was a collector of objects of art and had ask for a Chinese snuff bottle from his collection to be brought to his bedside ("something pretty to look at"), but the antique bottle is stolen following the murderer. Another puzzling aspect is the whereabouts of the formula for a new anesthetic, Slæpan, which Melady was about to market. Than there's the lump of chewing gum found on Dr. Harrigan's sleeve, possible fingerprints wiped from the knife handle and a surprising set of fingerprints found on the light bulb inside the elevator. Not to mention a surprising number of viable suspects wandering around the night-locked hospital. Melady and Dr. Harrigan have respectively their daughter, Dione, and wife, Ina, as fellow patients in the same hospital wing with Dione's husband, Court, wandering between rooms. And so much more!

From This Dark Stairway has a plot and setup that would been perfect for a Dell mapback edition. From the hospital setting that would have made for a splendid map on the back cover to the "What this MYSTERY is about" (an impossible disappearance, a stolen snuff bottle, a missing formula...) and "Wouldn't You Like to Know..." (why there wouldn't have been a murder if the patient in the charity ward hadn't died or why O'Leary thought the solution is "a plain as the nose on your face"). So despite its Had-I-But-Known trappings, Eberhart delivered a detective novel very much in the tradition of her then emerging contemporaries of the American Golden Age mystery, especially close to Ellery Queen's The French Powder Mystery (1930) and The Dutch Shoe Mystery (1931). The French Powder Mystery is one of the first detective stories to not reveal the murderer's name until the final sentence of the book and The Dutch Shoe Mystery takes place in a hospital, but there's also the thorough search of the crime scene and, when O'Leary makes his belated entry, rapidly leads the hapless Sergeant Lamb and Nurse Keate to the only correct solution and a very well hidden murderer.

So not necessarily a detective story pulling a grand surprise or a mind blowing trick, like Agatha Christie and John Dickson Carr, but bringing order and logic to a complicated tangle of apparently illogical incidents – revealing the only person who could have done it. And it does it very well. Well, mostly. If there's anything to complain about, plot-wise, it's that the motive is a bit impenetrable and next to impossible to arrive at the murderer's identity from the direction of motive, but other than that, it stands as a fine example of the American detective story from the early 1930s.

However, I would be amiss if I were only to highlight the plot and ignored Eberhart's excellently handling of the hospital setting and atmosphere. From This Dark Stairway takes place during Nurse Keate's various night shifts during an oppressive, sweltering heat wave with flies buzzing around desk lamps, thuds of late June bugs against the windows screens and the police ransacking the place for clues, while "the routine of caring for the sick" continued as usual. Even better is how the conclusion to case comes as a big storm is about to break to chase away the oppressive heat. It created a true moment of relief for the characters followed by O'Leary unraveling of the whole knotted, tangled affair with the name of the murderer being the final punctuation to the book. Bravo! Very much worth a look for fans of Golden Age detective fiction.

The Indian Rope Trick and Other Violent Entertainments (2024) by Tom Mead

I mentioned in my review of the third Joseph Spector novel, Cabaret Macabre (2024), Tom Mead has been a busy bee with not only working on the fourth title in the series, The House at Devil's Neck (2025), but branching out in translating French detective short stories and novels – starting with Pierre Véry's Les veillées de la Tour Pointue (The Secret of the Pointed Tower, 1937). Mead has been commissioned by Bedford Square Publishers to translate Paul Halter's impossible crime novels. Fingers crossed for a translation of Le voyageur du passé (The Traveler from the Past, 2012). But wait... there's more!

Last November, Crippen & Landru published a short story collection with a selection of Mead's own work. The Indian Rope Trick and Other Violent Entertainments (2024), introduced by Martin Edwards, containing eleven short stories. Three of which appearing in print for the first time. I thought it would make for a perfect follow up to the previous review of John Dickson Carr's collection of short stories The Men Who Explained Miracles (1963). So let's dig in!

"The Indian Rope Trick," originally published in the July/August, 2020, issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, finds Joseph Spector refereeing a challenge between two magicians, Ferdinand le Sueur and Doctor Gupta, who have been arguing about the Indian Rope Trick – former claims to have come up with "a perfect mechanism for working the trick." Something entirely new and revolutionary. Doctor Gupta performs the trick under traditional circumstances, inside a theater, but Le Sueur demonstrates his version of the trick under an open sky! Even more, he pulls off the trick and that alone should earn the story a spot in a future locked room anthology. But murder interrupts the challenge when one of the magicians is strangled without leaving behind a single footprint on the muddy driveway. Spector is the impartial witness to the cast-iron alibi of both suspects.

The solution to the impossible murder is not bad. Just a bit skeptical about one part of the trick, because I don't think doing that, so casually, is as easy as the story suggests. Even with that to help. Still a pretty good impossible crime story, overall, succeeding where John Basye Price's abysmal "Death and the Rope Trick" (1954) failed all those decades ago.

I can only imagine "The Octagonal Room," originally published in the anthology Millhaven Tales (2018), came about after Mead read the shin honkaku mysteries by Soji Shimada, Yukito Ayatsuji, Takemaru Abiko and saying, "I'll give it the old college try." Spector is drawn to the home of Simon Eldridge, an American writer, who moved to England and took residence of a reputedly haunted house, Black Mill. Beside stories of robed figures, satanic rites and "bonfires blazing in unoccupied rooms," Black Mill has an architectural mystery. The place has a strange, octagonal room not any of the original architectural plans and sketches, but nobody knows who or when it was added to the house. Some malevolent, otherworldly force or eldritch horror appears to reside in the octagonal room and has taken possession of Eldridge. Spector is not the only one who came to Black Mill to investigate, but the magician-detective eventually has to solve another impossible crime when Eldridge's decapitated body is found lying inside a pentagram in the locked octagonal room.

I figured out for the most part how the trick was pulled off and who was behind it, but nothing to the detriment of this fantastic and original locked room mystery, nor my immense enjoyment. "The Octagonal Room" is the best short story in this collection and now my favorite Mead locked room mystery.

"Incident at Widow's Perch," originally published in the September/October, 2019, issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, has a great backdrop for a detective story with impossible crime to match taking place at a house built into peak – known as Widow's Perch. A desolate summit so remote "it was accessible only by cable car." Giles Latimer's body was found by his wife, Margot, sprawled on the rocks at the foot of the cliff. The police wrote it off as an unfortunate accident, but Margot has good reasons to believe he was murdered and now murderer is out to get her. So she turns to the magician-detective, Joseph Spector, who quickly loses his client under seemingly impossible circumstances. Spector is one of the people who sees Margot enter the cable car alone, pulled the glass door shut and began its descent downwards from the peak, but mid-way through, Margot burst into flames. So another rock solid impossible crime story, curiously more reminiscent of Arthur Porges than Clayton Rawson.

"The Sleeper in Coldwreath," originally published in the March/April, 2023, issue of EQMM, wonderfully plays on that old, hoary trope from the pulps. Hypnosis! Something that makes most of us shudder whenever it turns up in a proper detective story or locked room mystery, but Mead found a good use for it in this short story.

Forty years earlier, in 1893, the house known as Coldwreath was the property of a psychic researcher, Dr. Peberby, who specialized in "sleep, dreams and hypnosis" ("a cocktail of mysticism and blasphemy"). One day, Peberby locked horns with a skeptic, Lester Brownlow, who challenged him to demonstrate and prove his hypnotic powers. What happened next has haunted Coldwreath ever since. Peberby invited Brownlow to Coldwreath to be placed in a hypnotic trance, while witnesses were present, before being guided to an upstairs bedroom – commands him to lock and bolt the door behind him. Thirty minutes later, the house is rocked by an unearthly scream and three men had to break down the bedroom door, but the room was empty without a trace of Brownlow. Ever since, the place has been haunted by an apparition with half-lidded eyes as though in a trance ("a phantom sleepwalker, wandering between the worlds"). Spector comes to investigate and naturally is present when somebody else impossibly vanishes from a locked room and a body turns up under equally impossible circumstances of the no-footprints variety. This story would have made for a great Jonathan Creek episode and enjoyed the solution to the disappearance from the locked bedroom. A trick based on a locked room idea, or concept, that always amuses me (ROT13: qbbef gung nccrne gb or ybpxrq, obygrq naq frnyrq).

"The Footless Phantom," originally published in the March/April, 2022, issue of EQMM, brings Spector to the dying mining village of Greeley in the Cotswolds of western England. A village that had been dealt a fatal wound when a mining accident killed numerous miners and workers moved to others mines in the region, which left behind a dwindling population who stuck around. So the village has problem of its own and more problem is added to the list when the troublesome Danny Snape is found dead with the back of his head caved in at the foot of a cliff. There's only a single track of footprints going from Snape's van to his body and if the weapon was dropped from the top of the cliff, then what happened to it? So it appears the murder could have only been committed by "a weightless, invisible assassin."

Not a bad premise for an impossible crime story, nor is the backdrop of a dying mining village, but plot-wise, it felt ropy – especially how the whole impossibility was rigged up. So not the best impossible crime story to be found in this collection.

"What Happened to Mathwig," first published in the anthology Wrong Turn (2018), is Mead's take on Herbert Brean's The Traces of Brillhart (1961). A Harley Street psychiatrist begins a relationship with one of his patients, Claire Mathwig, who ends up agreeing to kill her husband, Chester Mathwig. And how! Chester Mathwig ends up with three bullets ("...final bullet hit him in the skull...") before disappearing into the waters of the Thames. So imagine the murderer's shock when his victim turns up, alive and well, with nary a scratch or flesh wound. Enough to run to Spector to confess and ask him to explain how Mathwig pulled a Rasputin. The solution is as grim as that historical, hard-to-kill figure. One of the better and stronger plotted stories in the collection with a tantalizing premise that has barely been scratched by impossible crime and locked room specialists, past and present.

The next non-series short story, "Invisible Death" (2018), but already reviewed it a few years ago together with Mead's "The Walnut Creek Vampire" (2020).

"The Three-Minute Miracle," first of the three previously unpublished short stories, which combines the problem of the unbreakable alibi with the head scratching phenomena of bi-location. Spector is consulted by his old friend, Inspector George Flint, who's investigating the murder of a rich philanthropist, Mrs. Anthea Wheeldon. She was shot and killed by her no good, criminally charged nephew, Alec Mellors, whose little blackmailing enterprise is possibly going to land him in prison. And his aunt is determined to cut him out the will. Alec not only has a motive, but he was seen entering the house and pulling the trigger by an impartial witness. There is, however, another equally credible witness swearing he was fifty miles away, three minutes before he was seen firing the fatal shots!

I'm in two minds whether, or not, the story qualifies as an impossible crime. I think most of you are aware of my hesitation to qualify unbreakable alibis as impossible crime, unless the alibi hinges on the murderer appearing to have been physically incapable of having carried out the crime. Not when the alibi turns on witnesses or paperwork. On the other hand, the murder committed in front of a witness in combination with the alibi gives it the appearance of bi-location. Either way, Spector finds a way to break his cast-iron alibi down with the only smudge on his ingenious solution is that one, not unimportant, detail is impossible to anticipate. Other than than, "The Three-Minute Miracle" will please fans of Christopher Bush and Tetsuya Ayukawa.

"The Problem of the Velvet Mask," second previously unpublished short story, takes place during Christmas, 1931, which begins when Juliette Lapine comes to Joseph Spector on behalf of her father, Lucien Lapine – a retired French diplomat. She believes her father is in danger from their new next door neighbor, Eustace Dauger, who arrived in a funeral car ("like the grim reaper himself") and always wears a velvet black mask. Lucien Lapine reacted to his arrival "as though he had been expecting him for many years." Eustace Dauger possibly is Felix Duchesne. One of the two main players in the "the Duchesne Affair," an espionage case from some twenty-five years ago, whose downfall came at the hands of Lapine. Felix Duchesne, "accused spy," reportedly died as a prisoner on Devil's Island. Or did he?

Lucien Lapine is shot and killed in "an impenetrable room" with the windows locked from the inside, the door locked with the key inside the lock and the two detectives were standing outside the door. Not the mention that the snow outside is unmarked. Interestingly, there's a good amount of "the blinkin' cussedness of things in general" going on, but not used to create the locked room murder. A route Carr would have taken. Here it takes place all around the locked room murder, which has a somewhat prosaic solution, but also a good example a touch of cleverness and ingenuity can be applied to a simple idea. I was entertained!

"Lethal Symmetry," third and last of the previously unpublished stories, is one of the shortest works in the collection and an unexpected gem. Inspector Flint calls upon Spector to help him out with the strange murder of Conrad Darnoe. A man who "prized symmetry above all things" and got himself impossibly poisoned in a locked room. The brilliant solution is a clever and even original variation on a impossible poisoning situation/trick I've seen only once before. No idea if Mead has read that particularly story, but this is a good, new way to use that trick.

There's one last story, "Jack Magg's Jaw" (2022), but reviewed it last year as part of "Locked and Loaded, Part 4." The Indian Rope Trick and Other Violent Entertainments ended on a high note for me with the strong, short and excellent "Lethal Symmetry."

Strong, short and (mostly) excellent perfectly sums up The Indian Rope Trick and Other Violent Entertainments. A collection of a short impossible crime stories representing another fresh and promising page in the budding locked room revival and should entertain fans of the Joseph Spector novels until The House at Devil's Neck is released.

Speaking of the locked room revival, I've accumulated a small pile of modern impossible crime novels over the past two months and holidays. So I'll begin decimating it presently, but first, back to the Golden Age!

The Men Who Explained Miracles (1963) by John Dickson Carr

John Dickson Carr's The Men Who Explained Miracles (1963) is a short story collection, comprising of half a dozen short stories and a novella, featuring his "famous 'tec trio" of Dr. Gideon Fell, Sir Henry Merrivale and Colonel March – who specialize in explaining so-called "miracles." Or, as they're known around these parts, impossible crimes and locked room mysteries. Additionally, the collection has two standalone short stories in which "espionage and assassins spark two tales of international intrigue." One of these "Secret Service Stories" is a historical mystery-thriller akin to Carr's stage-play "She Slept Lightly" (1945) and the novel Captain Cut-Throat (1955). So a bit of an eclectic melange of crime fiction, but a treat for fans of Carr and detective fiction in general.

The Men Who Explained Miracles begins with two short stories from "The Department of Queer Complaints" series, starring Colonel March, which weren't included in The Department of Queer Complaints (1940) collection. The first story hadn't been published yet and the second story possibly was left out because it used a similar murder method as a then recently published Sir Henry Merrivale novel. It would not be until March, Merrivale and Murder (1991) that the whole series appeared together in a single collection. Note that the Colonel March short stories and the H.M. novella were published under Carr's penname of "Carter Dickson."

"William Wilson's Racket," originally published in the February, 1941, issue of The Strand Magazine, brings Lady Patricia Mortlake, only daughter of the Earl of Cray, to Colonel March's Department D-3 of Scotland Yard. Lady Patricia has been baffled by the behavior of her fiancé, Right Hon. Francis Hale, who's "a man of almost painfully straitlaced life" with a spotless reputation, but lately, he has been acting out-of-character and obsessing over a newspaper add – simply stating "William and Wilhelmina Wilson, 250a, Piccadilly" ("nothing more"). Lady Patricia decided to investigate Mr. Wilson at his office, but what she found shocked her. Francis was sitting in Mr. Wilson's office with a redheaded woman sitting on his lap in a loving embrace. She turned around, left the room and, when she composed herself, returned to get answers, but Francis has disappeared. William and Wilhelmina Wilson claim they never heard of, or know, a Francis Hale. However, Lady Patricia spotted his coat and other personal items in the cloakroom. And he's still missing. So what happened?

Colonel March is seriously amused by what he has been told, but tells Lady Patricia to go home as he has a pretty shrewd idea about the true nature of "the profession of William and Wilhelmina Wilson." The splendidly clued answer lives up to its brilliantly presented premise. Admittedly, "Mr. Wilson's Racket" is relatively minor detective story, but a tremendously fun, cleverly crafted detective story hearkening back to the days of Conan Doyle and the best of Sherlock Holmes (e.g. "The Red-Headed League," 1891). So it's actually surprising Carr didn't rewrite it as "The Adventure of Mr. Wilson Racket" for The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (1954), co-written with Adrian Conan Doyle, because it would have been a perfect fit for that collection.

"The Empty Flat," first published in the May, 1939, issue of The Strand Magazine, is regrettably a marked stepped down from the previous story. Two rivaling academics, Douglas Chase and Miss Kathleen Mills, discover they live in the same building when the "detestable cacophony" of a radio going full blast distracts them from their studies. They discover the noise is coming from an empty flat, only one in the building, which Chase manages to enter through the service hatch. What he finds, beside a radio playing in a dark, empty flat, is the body of a man who had apparently died of fright. Colonel March is posed with two questions: why would a man afraid of the dark go ghost hunting after dark and how was he killed?

So a good, solid premise with enough intrigue abound to fill a novel, "find a way to kill someone by fright, and you can commit murder almost with impunity," which is exactly the problem. The short story form is simply too short for the plot to do the premise any justice and the disappointing combo of murderer/motive didn't help either. A rare miss by Carr.

"The Incautious Burglar," originally published in the October, 1940, issue of The Strand Magazine under the title "A Guest in the House," is the first of two short stories featuring Dr. Gideon Fell. This is a non-impossible crime short story, but therefore not any less brilliant. On the contrary, it's a gem of a Golden Age mystery and one of Carr's best short stories! The backdrop of the story is a house party at the home of Marcus Hunt, "the Colossus of Business," who has two Rembrandts and a Van Dyck "hanging in an unprotected downstairs room with French windows giving on a terrace." Hunt had even removed the burglar alarms as though he wanted the house to be burgled. That evening, a masked burglar enters Cranleigh Court, however, someone within the house caught him red handed and killed the burglar in the ensuing struggle – stabbing through the heart with a thin fruit knife. What looks like a botched burglary turns into a deep, contradictory mystery when the mask is removed from the body to reveal the face of Marcus Hunt. Why would a man burgle his own house to steal valuable paintings he refused to insure for even a penny? More importantly, who killed him?

Dr. Gideon Fell is asked to give the case a look and sees red hot, tell-tale clues where the police perceives only "negative evidence." Dr. Fell is not blinded by the central question why Hunt would try to steal his own, uninsured paintings ("don't become hypnotized by it") and focuses instead on finding the person who stabbed him. The perfectly reasoned solution Dr. Fell constructs out of the given clues is excellent demonstrating that the short story form is no excuse to forego fair play. A vintage whodunit from the master of the locked room mystery!

"Invisible Hands," originally published under the title "King Arthur's Chair" in the August, 1957, issue of Lilliput, is an odd impossible crime story of the no-footprints variety. Dan Fraser, "the luckiest man in London," is traveling to North Cornwall to see Brenda Lestrange ("...she had wanted him"), but is told upon arrival she had under tragic, inexplicable circumstances. She had gone down to the beach to swim and her strangled body was found later that morning lying in front of small, natural rock formation known as King Arthur's Chair. Impossibly, there weren't any footprints in the sand around the rock formation except Brenda's own!

A classic no-footprints situation, however, the trick employed is something most would probably associate or expect from the pulps or pulp-style mysteries – notably a particular item. It's something I have come across in the works of several, non-pulpy mystery writers and they got a lot of mileage and variety out of it. Carr used it before in one of his 1940s radio-plays to create an impossible disappearance and here it has a dual purpose (ROT13: n fvqr-rssrpg vf gung gur zheqrere hfrq gur fbhaq bs gur zheqre jrncba sbe na nyvov). So not exactly your standard no-footprints-in-the-sand puzzle and, plot-wise, it almost reads like a Paul Halter short story. Another thing making this a bit of an odd story in Carr's catalog is that the characterization is a tick sharper than the plotting. One more thing worth mentioning is Dr. Gideon Fell making one of his greatest entries into a case ever!

So, on a whole, "Invisible Hands" is a solid and logical detective story, despite its outre method, demonstrating that only one of the suspects could have done it.

"Strictly Diplomatic," originally published in the December, 1939, issue of The Strand Magazine, is the first of two standalone short stories of international intrigue. Andrew Dermot, an overworked barrister, is prescribed a holiday on the continent, "tension which tautened nerves in the rest of Europe did not exist in Ile St. Cathérine," where he promptly falls in love Betty Weatherill. She mysterious disappears from the arbor of their hotel. Dermot was standing at one end, watching her go inside, while a Dutch hotel guest was sitting at the other end. Dr. Henrik Vanderver, special diplomat for the Sylvanian Embassy, swears she didn't emerge from his end of the arbor. What's going on? A very minor espionage mystery with the reason for the disappearance being better and more interesting than how she vanished, which is a variation on a shopworn piece of misdirection. Still not a bad short story. Just not an especially memorable one.

"The Black Cabinet" first appeared 20 Great Tales of Murder (1951) and reprinted in the January, 1952, issue of Robert Arthur's The Mysterious Traveler Magazine. This story is a historical character piece full of adventure and revolution as a young woman, Nina, is determined to assassinate the French emperor Napoleon III. Aunt Maria, an ex-revolutionary, tries to change her mind and the story is largely a discussion between these two characters – until a mysterious gentleman appears on the scene. This mysterious man succeeds in foiling the assassination with his identity providing the story with an unexpected, but satisfying, historical twist. If you're not a fan of Carr's historical fiction, or historical fiction in general, "The Black Cabinet" is not going to do anything for you.

"All in a Maze," originally appeared under title "Ministry of Miracles" in the January, 1956, issue of The Housewife and reprinted in the March, 1956, issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine as "The Man Who Explained Miracles." It finally appeared under its generally accepted title, "All in a Maze," in this collection.

Arguably, "All in a Maze" is the most important story in The Men Who Explained Miracles giving a proper sendoff to Sir Henry Merrivale after his less than stellar performance in The Cavalier's Cup (1953). H.M. is back in Britain following his shenanigans adventures abroad, "you wrecked the subway at Grand Central Station and nabbed the right murderer on the wrong evidence," which got him into trouble upon his return. Mostly on account of having spent more money than he can account for. And in order to atone and payback for his sins, H.M. is put back in charge of the Central Office Eight of the Metropolitan Police. A quasi-official department that gets handed all the strange, rummy cases the ordinary police can't be bothered with, however, H.M. promises "anybody who calls it The Ministry of Miracles is going to get a thick ear" ("they had enough fun, curse 'em, with the late Ministry of Information"). Tom Lockwood, a journalist, presents H.M. with one of those strange, rummy cases. Lockwood bumped into a young woman, Jenny Holden, on the steps of St. Paul's. Obviously in distressed mumbling something about a voice coming "where no voice could have spoken" and some trying to kill her the previous night "by some miracle no one can understand."

So he drags her to a tea shop and get the whole story out of her. Firstly, the previous night someone had entered her bedroom and turned on the gas-tap, but the door and windows were securely locked and double bolted on the inside. Secondly, she heard a disembodied voice in the Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's cathedral telling her she was going to die. Lockwood urges her to go to H.M. with her story, because explaining miracles is his specialty, but Lockwood and H.M. have more to contend with than a disembodied voice and an attempted murder in a locked bedroom – they have to contend with Jenny's formidable aunt. Aunt Hester is determined to take Jenny back to Paris and marry her off to a successful businessman, Armand de Senneville. But they find an unexpected ally in De Sennevilla's hired spy who witnessed these so-called miracles. And realizes how close Jenny came to dying. Not everyone in this story is lucky enough to escape a trip to the morgue. It all makes for a pleasantly busy, engaging locked room mystery.

Well, the solution to the disembodied voice is as obvious and simple as it sounds, but, plot-wise, it served its purpose. The attempted gassing of Jenny in her locked room bedroom, on the other hand, is a gem of brilliant simplicity in both presentation and solution. All very neatly clued, tightly-drawn together and comes to an end in the famous maze at Hampton Court Palace. Only thing you can say against "All in a Maze" is that it can't hold a candle to first of only two H.M. novellas, "The House in Goblin Wood" (1947), which is an undisputed masterpiece in a miniature. In every other way, it's a finely crafted impossible crime story and a better swan song for H.M. than his last three or four novel-length outings. Highly recommended!

The Men Who Explained Miracles is a splendid, nicely balanced collection of Carr's older and some of his then somewhat more recent work. "The Empty Flat" is the only dud in the collection and "Strictly Diplomatic" a little bland, but "William Wilson's Racket," "The Incautious Burglar" and "All in a Maze" are first-rate with "Invisible Hands" and "The Black Cabinet" not all that far behind. So, all in all, a lot to recommend here to fans of John Dickson Carr and Golden Age (locked room) mysteries.

The Black Swan Mystery (1960) by Tetsuya Ayukawa

I pontificated in "The Locked Room Mystery & Impossible Crime Story in the 21st Century" on how today's translation wave started when Keigo Higashino's 2011 translation of Yogisha X no kenshin (The Devotion of Suspect X, 2005) became an unexpected, international bestseller opening the door to invite future translation – which the late John Pugmire accepted in 2015. Locked Room International published the first-ever English edition of Yukito Ayatsuji's epochal Jakkakukan no satsujin (The Decagon House Murders, 1987) opening the floodgates to even more translations. And attracting other publishers to the joys of the Japanese shin honkaku mysteries.

Funnily enough, neither The Decagon House Murders nor The Devotion of Suspect X can be labeled as a locked room mystery or impossible crime, but the translation wave has been dominated by locked room novels and impossible crime stories. So the past ten years have been something of a locked room renaissance and the translation wave infused the form with some much needed fresh blood, which helped to revitalize it and even lead to a revival.

However, the locked room mystery is not the end-all of detective fiction, you don't always get that impression from reading this blog, but the impossible crime story is merely my favorite hobby horse – a hobby horse I enjoy riding into oblivion. I love and welcome good, craftily-plotted detective stories in any shape or form and wanted to see what the Japanese detective story can do outside a locked room or field of untrodden snow. This is one of the reasons why I've been so intrigued by their hybrid mysteries, tracked down Seimaru Amagi's Dennō sansō satsujin jiken (Murder On-Line, 1996) and jumped at the opportunity to sample Jun Kurachi's Hoshifuri sansou no satsujin (Murders in the Mountain Lodges Beneath the Shooting Stars, 1996). So was not dismayed at all when it became apparent Pushkin Vertigo was going to diversify their output of honkaku and shin honkaku translations.

This year, they're going to publish Yasuhiko Nishizawa's time-looping, hybrid mystery Nanakai shinda otoko (The Man Who Died Seven Times, 1995), Taku Ashibe's classically-styled whodunit Oomarike satsujin jiken (Murders in the House of Omari, 2021) and two strange novels by horror Youtuber "Uketsu." I'm not sure about Seishi Yokomizo's Kuroneko tei jiken (The Murder at the Black Cat Cafe, 1947), but it appears to be a whodunit without any impossible crimes. Don't worry. I'll be getting my Japanese impossible crime fix through Ayatsuji's Tokeikan no satsujin (The Clock Mansion Murders, 1991), MORI Hiroshi's Warawanai sugakusha (Mathematical Goodbye, 1996) and the various anime-and manga detective series. This move began last November with their publication of Tetsuya Ayukawa's Kuroi hakuchou (The Black Swan Mystery, 1960), translated by Bryan Karetnyk, whom readers will remember from the short story collection The Red Locked Room (2020).

Ayukawa's The Black Swan Mystery is best summed as a police procedural in the tradition of Seicho Matsumoto's Ten to sen (Points and Lines, 1958), but with the heart, soul and plot of the traditional, fair play detective novel – particularly Christopher Bush and Freeman Wills Crofts. Yes, the story largely hinges on the question of alibis, complete with time tables and railway schedules, but it's much more than simply retracing people's movement and breaking down alibis. It's also an excellent and absorbing police procedural/whodunit.

The investigation at the heart of The Black Swan Mystery is an involved one starting with the murder of Gosuke Nishinohata, director of Towa Textiles, whose body was found next to railway tracks near Kuki Station with a bullet in his back. Detective Inspector Sudo and Constable Seki get to take a crack at the case first and they get a lucky break as Nishinohata's body had been thrown from an overpass and landed on a train passing under the Ryodaishi Bridge. So the blood on the bridge and roof of the train gives the police an exact time and place to check everyone's alibis ("my, my, that's awfully precise, Inspector"). There are, of course, enough complications to make this everything but a routine murder investigation. This is a detective story, after all.

Firstly, the owners of the Towa Textiles Company are at "loggerheads" with the trade union who presented them with "a four-point list of demands and called a strike." One of the four demands is freedom of religious expression, because Nishinohata was a follower of the Shaman, a new sect of Shintoism, who tried to push his religion on the workers and that didn't sit well – neither with the workers nor the the Shaman. The Shaman have stranglehold on their followers, figuratively and literally, which is why they're not happy Towa Textiles is willing to give in on that specific demand. It would mean losing thousands of members at once. They employ an ex-secret serviceman, Hanpei Chita, who's job is to dissuade people from leaving the Shaman and considered to be capable of everything ("...even of killing a man"). Secondly, Nishinohata was a known philanderer coming with the usual complications and his position as director gets entangled with the personal lives of the people at the company. His private secretary, Takeshi Haibara, wants to marry the beautiful daughter of one of the directors, Atsuko, but she's in a secret relationship with the vice-chairman of the trade union, Narumi.

So enough to keep Sudo and Seki pleasantly occupied with trying to entangle this complicated knot of relationships, potential motives and those pesky, rock solid alibis, but then more bodies begin to turn up along the way – all curiously connected to the first murder. Sudo and Seki eventually hit a dead end and the top brass decides to assign the case to Inspector Onitsura to give it a second look.

Inspector Onitsura previously appeared in several short stories from The Red Locked Room, translated by Ho-Ling Wong, who described him "Ellery Queen wearing the face of Inspector French" and his short stories/novels are generally regarded as early police procedurals. But they're crammed with original tricks and EQ-style chain of logic/deduction. Tetsuya Ayukawa certainly allowed Onitsura to live up to his reputation in The Black Swan Mystery. Onitsura is as logical and methodical as French, but neither is above making the occasional mistake or overlooking a small detail. Once they got hold of something, they follow it to its logical conclusion. Whether there's a murderer waiting at the end of that specific trail or not. There's something really comfy about following Onitsura on those leisure train rides pass the small stations along the less frequent traveled lines. Or, to quote the story itself, "writer of children's stories with a fantastical mindset might have imagined that the train were a tortoise and that he were riding on its back towards the Palace of the Dragon King" ("...the inspector himself was too much of a realist to have such fairy tales in his mind"). So the first and second-half of The Black Swan Mystery already form an excellent, slightly classically-styled, police procedural published during the rise of the social school in Japanese crime fiction. The story definitely has a strong flavoring of the social school with a strike going on in the background and addressing certain issues of post-war Japan, but the overall plot and uncluttered, clear solution possesses all the ingenuity of the Golden Age detective stories of the West.

A solution that naturally turn on the question of alibis and opportunity, but those alibis don't come into play until Onitsura has identified the murderer with roughly a quarter of the story left to go, only to be stonewalled by a pair of cast-iron alibis – "unassailable from every angle." But the "very perfection" of those alibis makes him only more determined to tear them down. And tearing them down, he does! The tricks behind the two alibis honestly are something you would expect from a honkaku mystery novel rather than a police procedural with obvious ties to the Seicho Matsumoto's social school of crime fiction. Bush, Crofts and Queen could have hardly done better! That fact is also depressing as hell. Even when Japan moved away from the traditional, plot-oriented detective novels of Seishi Yokomizo and Akimitsu Takagi to make way for the social school, they continued to produce first-class detective fiction. Sure, it was often disguised as historical fiction or police procedurals, but they were still there. When the West abandoned the traditional detective stories of Agatha Christie and John Dickson Carr, the genre descended into a dark age.

So, to cut long story short, Tetsuya Ayukawa's The Black Swan Mystery comes heartily recommended as one of those rare mysteries that fans of the classic detective story and modern crime novel can enjoy, but the former have to keep in mind it's a little different from what most have come to expect from a Japanese detective novel. A little different, but just as good.

The Case of the Second Chance (1946) by Christopher Bush

Christopher Bush's The Case of the Second Chance (1946), 31st entry in the Ludovic Travers series, is best described as an "in-between" novel for more reasons than one.

The Case of the Second Chance is a post-WWII detective novel, a time of austerity, social malaise and imperial decay, during which Bush was in the process of transforming the series by turning Travers from an amateur detective with police credentials into an independent private investigator – a process that started in The Case of the Murdered Major (1941). A move partially inspired by the rise of the American hardboiled detective and partially in genuine admiration for writers like Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. The Case of the Corner Cottage (1951) reportedly reads like a homage to Hammett's The Maltese Falcon (1930) and one of the reasons why Travers had been dubbed the "English Marlowe" during the fifties.

The Case of the Second Chance takes place over a three-year period beginning when Travers returns to London on a fourteen day leave from the army in October 1942. During this time, Travers still fulfilled his role as special consultant to Scotland Yard's Superintendent George Wharton, "considered sufficiently useful to act as George's factotum," but, upon his return, was "feeling regretful that there was nothing doing in the murder line." A dangerous thing to say or even think in a detective story, because the next morning Wharton calls him with the news that Charles Manfrey has been killed.

Charles Manfrey was a holdover of "the great days of the actor-manager" and "not too nice a character, so we've gathered," who handed out motives like they were business cards and counted plenty of enemies among his acquaintances. So more than enough potential suspects and motives to go around, but there are complications and peculiar features to the case. Why was Manfrey wearing a thin summer coat in a stone cold room and what happened to his other coat? Who was the man the cook and secretary overheard having "a fine old row" with Manfrey in his room? Why does every promising suspect turn out to have a watertight alibi? And that's not all. Travers observes to Wharton they're dealing with actors, "people used to acting and playing parts," who are unlikely "to make any slips." Prophetic words as the fourteen days come and go without an arrest or even an idea who could have delivered the fatal blow. So the investigation comes to an end and the Manfrey case is filed as unsolved.

The story picks up again three years later, in 1945, when the war has ended and Travers finds himself in-between jobs. Travers retired from his position as special consultant to go into the private detective business with Wharton, but Wharton won't be freed up until the end of the years and is spending time at Bill Ellice's Broad Street Detective Agency – a discreet, highly regarded agency they want to buy. Ellice has just been handed a blackmail job and is more than glad to have Travers' expert opinion on his prospective client and her story, but, after eavesdropping on the interview, it comes to light the client was someone who figured in the Manfrey murder case. Travers suddenly realized they were "handling dynamite." But decides to keep that information from Ellice, until he has satisfied "the itch to know just a little bit more." And carefully approach a second chance to bring Manfrey's killer to justice. Not before another murder adds one last complication to their investigation.

The Case of the Second Chance is fascinating, not only as a transitional novel, but as a snapshot of that years-long process with Travers going from still being a special consultant in 1942 to making his first, tentative steps as an independent investigator once the war had ended. Bush had began to trim down his plots ("we've broken better alibis than his") and Americanizing his storytelling in earnest. For example, Travers has a scrap and takes one on the chin from someone Wharton refers to as his "pugilistic friend" or one of the female characters frankly telling she could have had an acting career had she taken one of the "short cuts" ("...she hadn't been prepared to take them"). I can't imagine a line like that cropping up in one of Bush's mysteries from the 1920s or '30s. On the other hand, Travers speaks several times directly to the reader in a-challenge-to-the-reader or had-i-but-known manner ("maybe by now you've satisfied yourself that you really do know both how Manfrey was killed and the one who killed him"). That would have been suited for earlier novels like The Perfect Murder Case (1929), Dead Man Twice (1930) or The Case of the April Fools (1933).

So it rather regrettably and disappointing that such an interesting novel depicting the turbulent upheavals in both the world and the series itself had to settle for an exceptionally uninspired plot. Not that the plot is actually bad or ghostly thin, but the plots feels tired, labored and ultimately hoary with the ending, or the moment when all the plot-strands get pulled together left me unimpressed. A shame as The Case of the Second Chance has everything to craft a good, old-fashioned and first-rate detective novel, but finished as one of Bush's second-tier mysteries. I still think it's a shade better than other second-tier novels, such as The Case of the Seven Bells (1949) or The Case of the Fourth Detective (1951), which will no doubt please fans of Bush, Travers and Wharton. But if you're new to the series and looking for a good detective yarn, I recommend starting at an earlier or later point in the series. I consider The Case of the Missing Minutes (1936) and The Case of the Green Felt Hat (1939) to be among Bush's Golden Age treasures and he rebounded in the fifties with novels like The Case of the Three Lost Letters (1954) and The Case of the Russian Cross (1957). More importantly, I recommend giving this still criminally underrated series a try. Even if this particular example doesn't make for a very convincing case.