Rediscovered: PKD, 30 Years After

For the thirtieth anniversary of the passing of Philip K. Dick, today, my occasional Guest Blogger Brian Leno has put up a post about how he’s finally getting around to reading that titan of science fiction — and, yes, better late than never.

I never met PKD, though I know many people who did — I’ve even met some of his cousins. Just before I hit the Bay Area, PKD moved south to Orange County, so our paths never crossed.

If he’d stayed around here, I’m sure I would have met him, since I have encountered — at least casually — almost every local fantasy and sf writer of that era. Offhand, Peter S. Beagle is the only name as yet unmet, and Dick Lupoff was offering to take me over to his house only a year or so back. Jack Vance. Robert Silverberg. Terry Carr. Fritz Leiber. Marion Zimmer Bradley. Avram Davidson. And more. I met them all.

In Brian’s post you’ll find a blurb for one of the six volumes of the Selected Letters of PKD I edited. I was chatting with Brian and asked him if he knew exactly why that set appeared in six volumes. New to PKD, he had no idea — but then neither do most people. I decided on six volumes so there’d be one more than the standard five volume set of letters by H.P. Lovecraft released by Arkham House.

We had the material. Why not show it off?

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Sinister Cinema: Oscar Aftermath

So, I got to see my movie — which is to say the only movie I had seen — win bigtime during the 84th annual Oscar ceremonies. Really liked Dejardin’s tribute to Doug Sr. in his acceptance speech.

I even got interested enough in the Oscars to fact-check something I’ve been telling people — that I almost never see any of the films up for Best Picture, and that the last one I probably saw was Amadeus, which won for the 57th Oscars in 1985. A kernel of truth in there. Other than The Artist, I had not seen, and still have not seen, any of the movies up for Best Picture in the last eight years. But I see I also caught Best Picture winners Platoon, Rain Man, Dances with Wolves, Unforgiven, Schindler’s List, Forrest Gump, Braveheart, Gladiator, and Return of the King between Amadeus and today — ten out of twenty-seven. And I saw a little under half of the other nominees in the theatre. (I’ll probably have to change my standards sooner than later, but I don’t count movies for Oscars unless I see them in the theatre before the ceremonies — and the recent ones that I didn’t see on screen I still haven’t seen on TV or DVD.)

Plus I noticed that none other than Jack Benny hosted the 16th annual awards ceremonies, where Paul Lukas won the Best Actor trophy (beating out Bogie as Rick in Casablanca!there’s one that’ll make you skeptical of the whole process). My Jack Benny research team tells me that Jackson made a running joke on his radio show that he, despite not being nominated, should have won Best Actor, not Lukas. And later Lukas is one of the people Jack wants to borrow an Oscar from after he looses the statue he’s taken from Ronald Colman, in one of the absolute classic story arcs. I still can’t stand Lukas’ acting, but I’ve got to think he probably was a fun guy in person, to go along with the joke.

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Sinister Cinema: It Could Have Been Worse

I keep thinking about how clunky Roadhouse Nights was — how maybe I’d have been better off never seeing it.

Yeah, sure, I get to check it off the list of Hammett-related movies. I have most of those checked off, and the majority of Hitchcock, huge chunks out of lists for noir, swashbucklers, and Hong Kong action film. And when I get near the end, I tend to save one or two for a rainy day — a couple of Peckinpahs, some Louis Malle — if I know you can get them. A few years back the Pacific Film Archive screened something like fourteen out of the seventeen or so total movies by Wojciech Haas, and I went to everything, because I suspected I’d never get to see most of them again. No showings. No DVD. No streaming.

No one I chatted with in the Castro seemed to like Nights. I remember saying to one guy, “Well, it could have been worse.”

“How could it have been worse?”

“It didn’t have Seth Rogan in it.”

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Hammett: Oscar Nominee

During the Hammett-fest for Noir City I was struck by something Eddie Muller didn’t mention in the little intro for City Streets from 1931. I believe I saw that movie circa twenty years ago, and it didn’t leave much of an impression.

Yeah, yeah, Gary Cooper has star presence, no question, but nothing much was done with it other than to put his image up on the screen (after all the trick shooting in the carnival, some slick Chow Yun Fat-style gunplay in the actual gangster world would have been very nice). Rouben Mamoulian’s direction was, as Eddie mentioned, a huge step forward cinematically from Roadhouse Nights in 1930 (but nothing compared to Mamoulian’s sleek remake of The Mark of Zorro with Tyrone Power in 1940). Overall, I didn’t mind seeing it again, as a refresher course on Hammett-in-film.

And I had forgotten that the Hungarian actor Paul Lukas appears as the gang leader Big Fellow Maskal. He walks woodenly into the frame, and all I’m thinking is, hey, why didn’t Eddie drop the dope that twelve years later, for the 16th Annual Academy Awards ceremony, Lukas would win the Best Actor Oscar for his performance in Watch on the Rhine? Screenplay by Hammett (not just the screen story, but the full screenplay) from the stage play by his flame Lillian Hellman.

And Hammett’s script was nominated for best adapted screenplay, though it didn’t win.

Today the 84th annual Oscar extravaganza plays out. Usually, I wouldn’t have seen any of the movies up for Best Picture, but since I caught The Artist, this time I have a dog named Uggie in the race.

While the Oscars have been around since 1929, it is only in recent years that I noticed that Hollywood has been more actively promoting the winners, especially in trailers. Featuring Oscar Winner blah-blah, Oscar Nominee blah-blah. You’ve seen it.

We can do it, too — on a blog that features Oscar Nominee Dashiell Hammett. Too bad he didn’t win.

And as for Lukas copping the statue, his performance in Rhine is about as wooden as his gangster in City Streets. Nothing much is more dated than what Hollywood thought passed for award-winning drama a few years ago. Or today, for that matter.

At least Casablanca nabbed Best Picture in 1943. Who would argue with that?

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Rediscovered: Roadhouse Benny

One of the major reasons I went to the Hammett-fest the last day of Noir City is that I figured I might as well, finally, catch a showing of Roadhouse Nights from 1930. I don’t recall it ever showing in a theatre any time in the last thirty-five years or so, although I had a chance to see a 16mm print of it a local movie collector unrolled in a private screening some years back. Can’t remember exactly what was going on, but I missed that opportunity — the fact is, I figured the movie would stink, and if I never saw it, no great loss.

Now I’ve seen it, and my suspicions were gold.

Pretty much all I knew about it came from a capsule summary, from Bruce Taylor of the original San Francisco Mystery Bookstore, I believe it was, who said the action featured Charlie Ruggles as a detective hitting someone, Jimmy Durante doing a song, Ruggles hitting someone else, Durante doing another song.

Now that I’ve seen it, I can say that Ruggles doesn’t hit anyone, but Durante — in his film debut — does do a few songs, and steals every scene he’s in with his mugging. Durante and the movie camera were made for each other.

Ruggles doesn’t play a gumshoe — he’s a newspaper reporter. Makes sense. The screenplay is in part by Ben Hecht, now famous for the play and various film versions of The Front Page. The fast-paced banter is very much in that line, if not as slick. Other than being populated with some bootlegging gangsters in a roadhouse, the movie bears no resemblance to Hammett’s Red Harvest — instead of being set in Montana, the roadhouse is located in Michigan, Ruggles is reporting for a Chicago sheet. Really, if Hammett didn’t get a screen credit, you’d never suspect his writing came within a mile of this job.

But at least I got one pleasant jolt out of sitting through yet another clunky movie. Helen Morgan, as the moll Lola Fagan, knew the Ruggles’ character, Willie Bindbugel, from childhood.

At one point Lola asks something like, “You wanted to be a telegraph operator when you grew up, didn’t you, Willie?”

Willie replies: “No — a wireless hero — like Jack Benny.”

I heard it. Rick Layman heard it. Hammett’s granddaughter heard it. Other people heard it.

Jack Benny.

Cool. An allusion to Benny on radio.

Problem is, in his autobio Sunday Nights at Seven Benny reports that he made his radio debut March 29, 1932 on Ed Sullivan’s program. Other sources agree. He was famous from Vaudeville, and hit Hollywood in 1929 in the Hollywood Revue of 1929 — his next film, Chasing Rainbows came out in 1930 about the same time as Roadhouse Nights.

Benny was from Chicago. Hecht was a big figure in the so-called Chicago Renaissance. While the movie was still rolling on, I was thinking that Hecht probably knew Benny, tossed in a little in-joke, a local reference.

But my research team can’t find any reference to Jack being on Chicago radio prior to 1932 — or any radio.

So. We all misheard the name Jack Benny, one of the most recognisable names in pop culture.

Or Jack was doing radio before 1932 and we wouldn’t even suspect, if not for Roadhouse Nights.

Or, some other explanation that hasn’t occurred to me yet.

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Rediscovered: Tad Dorgan for Tuxedo

Cartoonist Tad Dorgan, local San Francisco boy, seems to have been about as well known as anyone could be in the days before radio kicked in in 1925, decades before TV became standard in the American home. Check out this ad from 1914, which puts Tad at the top of the heap.

Yeah, the odds that Hammett’s “Tad’s blind man” comes from this Tad are looking better and better.

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Frisco Beat: Tad Dorgan at Poly

Cartoonist Tad Dorgan’s name continues gumshoeing Up and Down These Mean Streets. San Francisco native. Pal of black heavyweight champ Jack Johnson. Credited with coining the term “hot-dog”  in 1906— though I see that claim has been debunked (if I learn next that Tad didn’t coin “Yes, We Have No Bananas” I’m going to be bummed, I’m telling you now).

I got a note from Kathy Compagno of the HailPoly website, devoted to the old Polytechnic High School, which says, “I greatly enjoyed reading your posting about Tad Dorgan, written by Brian Leno. There appears to have been a Golden Age of cartooning with Poly Graduates during the early 1900s, many of whom cite Maria Van Vleck as their art teacher at Poly: Herbert Igoe, Paul Terry (of Loony Tunes), and now TAD Dorgan are the most visible. I wonder if your readers know of any other Poly High connections?”

Poly flourished from 1884-1972, and I seem to recall when it finally was being torn down circa 1983 — in the last days of The Suicide Club, before that daring urban adventurer group transitioned over to the less-adventuresome Cacophony Society, various explorations were made into the abandoned buildings. Nothing earth-shaking, no great events with a cast of hundreds, just the usual.

Kathy writes that her alumi group is “grateful that the gymnasiums have survived the wrecking ball and continue with athletic uses across the street from the site of the old Kezar Stadium, now Bob St. Clair field.” St. Clair was another Poly alumnus, a 49er who made it into the Football Hall of Fame. You can find the gyms on the south side of the street in the 700 block of Frederick, and the revamped sunken playing field today looks more like it did in the glory years of Poly. Me, I kind of miss the demolished Kezar Stadium, which everyone knows as the place where Clint Eastwood runs down the psycho (played by the great Andy Robinson, one of the best movie psychos of all time) and tortures info out of him in the first Dirty Harry film.

The Poly guys are also interested in tracking down “the 1950s sports cartoon called Swineskin Gulch, penned by Jimmy Hatlo, which included many strips featuring the local high school sports teams and their mascots. One recent offering online prices original panels at $300! We would love to find other examples of this series, which
encapsulates the history of our high school rivalries long ago.” Hatlo, in his successful years a resident of Carmel, got his big early career boost by taking over the position occupied by Tad before his death in 1929. Small world.

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Hammett: More Book Reviewing

And Terry Zobeck is back, with more on Hammett’s history as a book reviewer:

A couple of weeks back I told you about a new web site containing scans of the book reviews Hammett wrote for The Forum and the Saturday Review of Literature in the 1920s. That exercise reminded me of a site — FultonHistory — that our friend John D.
Squires
brought to our attention a few months ago — providing thousands of
scans of New York newspapers, several of which contain reprints of Hammett’s
short stories.

I finally got around to checking the site to see whether it contained scans of The New York Evening Post from 1930—the year that Hammett produced a regular review column called The Crime Wave. Lo and behold, it does!

These reviews are far more uncommon than his earlier efforts, since they appeared in disposable newspapers rather than the more durable journals. A few years ago I tried locating the Evening Post at the Library of Congress, and while they had some of them, the microfilm copies were of such poor quality, they were essentially unreadable.

The Evening Post’s Saturday edition carried a few pages of book reviews. Hammett’s first appearance in these pages was on April 5, 1930, but it was not under the Crime Wave heading. Rather it was simply a guest review of Mary Roberts Rinehart’s The Door. The
following week Hammett was added to the paper’s “Literary Review” with this
announcement: “Dashiell Hammett — Author of The Maltese Falcon and Red Harvest and regular reviewer of mystery stories for the Literary Review beginning with this
Issue.” Over the next 7 months Hammett contributed 13 Crime Wave columns, reviewing 84 books, mostly novels, but including some story collections and true crime volumes.

A few excerpts of the column have been reprinted: Richard Layman’s Discovering the Maltese Falcon and Sam Spade contains seven of the reviews and the Library of America’s Crime Stories & Other Writings presents “Suggestions to Detective Story Writers,” excerpts from the June 7 and July 5 issues. In introducing the suggestions Hammett notes:

 A fellow who takes detective stories seriously, I am annoyed by the stupid recurrence of these same blunders in book after book. It would be silly to insist that nobody who has not been a detective should write detective stories, but it is certainly not unreasonable to ask any one who is going to write a book of any sort to make some effort at least to learn something about his subject.

To this day, many writers continue to ignore his practical advice. One of my favorites is: “When an automatic pistol is fired the empty cartridge-shell flies out the right-hand side. The empty cartridge-case remains in a revolver until ejected by hand.” I still come across this error repeatedly in books by even top-notch, experienced writers.

Very little of the fiction Hammett reviewed was of the hardboiled style; rather his reviews were dominated by Golden Age amateur sleuths and British detectives. A notable exception was Green Ice, by his friend and Black Mask colleague, Raoul Whitfield: “two hundred and eighty pages of naked action pounded into tough compactness by staccato hammerlike writing.”

Hammett obviously didn’t take the reviewer’s job too seriously. Many of the books are dismissed with a sentence or two (e.g., “The Mystery at Newton Ferry is a naive
fable of murder, abduction, imprisonment, pursuit and all that in rural England. There does not seem to be anything to say about it”). In one case, he admits he lost one of the three books he was to review either in a taxicab or on the train between New York and Baltimore. He requests the “finder please read and review, or at least review”. One gets the impression he frequently did the latter rather than read some of the more awful books assigned to him.

Many of his reviews were of books by the leading authors of the day, including Philip MacDonald, Edgar Wallace, the extraordinarily prolific J. S. Fletcher, E. Phillips Oppenheim, Sax Rohmer, Sydney Horler, Van Wyck Mason, and Earl Derr Biggers, but most are of books and authors that are long forgotten. Somewhat surprisingly, Hammett
liked several of these traditional mysteries.

Of MacDonald’s The Noose he wrote: “[it] has the neatest plot I have seen in months. It is logical, it is simple and it is baffling.” He found William Almon Wolff’s Manhattan
Night
to be “a reasonable mystery story, planned and committed with due
exercise of the author’s — and respect for the reader’s — intelligence.” Sven
Eivestad’s The Case of Robert Robertson “is a nicely contrived unorthodox melodrama . . . [p]leasantly cold-blooded, smoothly written, it is easily one of the season’s best.” J. J. Connington’s Two Ticket Puzzle “is an excellent straight detective story, empty of love interest or other matters extraneous to the plot.” F. Van de Water was a “Literary Review” colleague, often appearing on the same page as Hammett’s column. Of his novel Alibi, Hammett wrote it “is an excellent tale of murder and associated deviltries in upper New York State, with a village copper doing most of the work and the famed State Troopers proving themselves not so good.”

More often than not, however, Hammett found the books he reviewed to be sub-par entertainments. His most common criticisms were that the plots were not exciting, the characters uninteresting, and the dialog stilted. His negative comments could provide
quite the stinger, as when he wrote of Ernest Souza’s Blue Rum: “The identity of ‘Ernest Souza’ seems to be no longer a secret. That is too bad. She was well advised when she put a pseudonym on Blue Rum’s title page.” (Ernest Souza was the pseudonym of Evelyn Scott.) Kay Cleaver Strahan’s Death Traps “would have been a pretty good short story. It attains book length by dint of a tedious opening, many irrelevancies and the rambling volubility of
the retired Yakima grocer through whom it is told.”  And how Basil King must have cringed if he read Hammett’s review of King’s The Break of Day. Hammett wrote that it

 . . . comes unluckily into my hands. In the first pace, Mr. King always succeeds in annoying me before I am two chapters into him. His primness annoys me. The priggishness of his characters annoys me. His too obviously soldered plot-incidents annoy me. And, most of all, his manner of always addressing himself to a spinster who has never in the sixty years of her life been out of Newton Abbot annoys me.

His greatest ire, however, is reserved for F-L-A-S-H D.13 by Victor K. Kaledin. As
he read the book Hammett noticed something odd about it:

My chief interest in the book lay in comparing certain of its sentences with certain sentences from my own opera. For instance, I had written in The Maltese Falcon: “Where Bush Street roofed Stockton before slipping downhill to Chinatown . . . night-fog, thin, clammy and penetrant, blurred the street . . .an automobile popped out of the tunnel beneath him with a roaring swish . . . His clothes had the limp unfreshness of too many hours’ consecutive wear.” Mr. Kaledin has written: “where Nijny Avenue joins Tchechov Street before slipping down hill to Nevsky Prospect” (page 59); “night fog, thin, clammy, penetrant, blurring the streets” (page 54); “popped out of the garage with a roaring swish” (page 59), and “his clothes had the limp unfreshness of too many consecutive hours of wear” (page
56).

Of particular interest, given Hammett’s experiences as a detective, are his reviews of a couple of true crime volumes. He provides some corrections to “facts” reported in Eng Ying Gong’s and Bruce Grants’ Tong War! about San Francisco’s Chinese gangs, including the fact that Fung Jing Doy (aka “Little Pete”) had organized a gang of “highbinders and was running a string of gambling clubs five or six years before” the authors claim he came to prominence. He praised Arthur A. Carey’s Memoirs of a Murder Man — the author was the Deputy Inspector in charge of the NYPD’s Homicide Bureau — as “an excellent picture of the American police-detective at work.”

The FultonHistory site is rather difficult to search and navigate. I have saved you the trouble of getting to the pages for The Evening Post. This link takes you to thousands of pages of scans of the paper. Each web page has about 300 individual scans of a page of the paper; each scan has a unique number.

The listing below presents the date of Hammett’s columns and the books he reviewed.
The numbers in parentheses are the web page number/scan number. At the top of
each web page are a set of arrows to navigate from page to page. The scans are not perfect — there are about a half dozen that contain some words that are illegible, but for the most part they can be made out. Hammett’s reviews are well worth the effort.

 

The New York Evening Post

April 5                                    “The
Door Won’t Shut Till Ended”—Review of The
Door
by Mary Roberts Rinehart (12/2250)

April 12                                  The Noose. By Philip MacDonald, Blue Rum, By Ernest Souza, The Black Door. By
Virgil Markham, and Following Footsteps. By J. Jefferson Farjeon
(12/2452)

April 26                                  The Wychford Poisoning Case. By Anthony
Berkeley, Death Traps. By Kay Cleaver
Strahan, Through the Eyes of the Judge.
By Bruce Graeme, Why Murder the Judge?
By Claude Stuart Hammock, Marked
‘Cancelled’
. By Natalie Summer Lincoln, Who
Moved the Stone?
By Frank Morrison, and Murder
in the State Department
. By “Diplomat.” (14/2852)

May 10                                    The Man of a Hundred Faces. By Gaston Leroux, The Yorkshire Moorland Murder. By J.S.
Fletcher, Ladies’ Man. By Rupert
Hughes, The Case of the Marsden Rubies.
By Leonard B. Gribble, and The Forgotten
Clue
. By H. Ashton-Wolfe (15/3262)

May 24                                    The Scarab Murder Case. By S. S. Van Dine,
Manhattan Night. By William Almon
Wolff, The Man Who Was There. By N.A.
Temple-Ellis, The Death of Cosmo Revere.
By Christopher Bush, What Happened to
Forester
. By E. Phillips Oppenheim, and F-L-A-S-H  D.13. By Victor K. Kaledin (16/3665)

June 7                                      The Other Bullet. By Nancy Barr Mavity, The Valley of Creeping Men. By Rayburn Crawley, The Voice in the Closet. By Herman
Landon, and The Thirty-first Bullfinch.
By Helen Neilly (18/4033)

June 21                                    Tong War! By Eng Ying Gong and Bruce Grant, The Case of Robert Robertson. By Sven
Eivestad, The Rhododendron Man. By J.
Aubrey Tyson, The Square Mark. By
Grace M. White and H. L. Deakin, The
Owner Lies Dead
. By Tyline Perry, The
Green Ribbon
. By Edgar Wallace, The
Avenging Ray
. By Austin J. Small, One
of Us Is a Murderer
. By Alan LeMay, The
Stranglehold
. By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds, The
Hammersmith Murders
. By David Frome, and Memoirs of a Murder Man. By Arthur A. Carey in collaboration with
Howard McLellan (19/4423)

July 5                                      The Hand of Power. By Edgar Wallace and The Yellow Crystal. By Anthony Wynne (20/4758)

July 19                                    Green Ice. By Raoul Whitfield, Murder on the Bridge. By Lynn Brock, The Murder of Cecily Thayne. By H. Ashbrook, and The Break of Day. By Basil King
(21/5092)

August 2                                 The Link. By Philip MacDonald, The Day the World Ended. By Sax Rohmer, The Affair of the Gallows Tree. By Stephen Chelmers, Lady of the Night. By Sydney Horler, Seeds of Murder. By Van Wyck Mason, The House of Strange Victims. By Bertram
Atkey, Murder Through the Window. By
Francis Everton, The Mystery at Newton
Ferry
. By Lawrence Meynell (22/5412)

August 23                               The Marston Murder Case. By William Averill
Stowell, Is No One Innocent? By
Milton Herbert Gropper and Edna Sherry, The
Two Ticket Puzzle
. By J. J. Connington, The
Four Armourers
. By Francis Beeding, The
Actress
. By Arthur Applin, The Curse
of Doone
. By Sydney Horler, The
Silver King Mystery
. By Ian Grieg, Scalps.
By Murray Leinster, The Opium Murders.
By Peter Baron, The Redman Cave Murder.
By Elsa Barker, The Trial of Scotland
Yard
. By Stewart Martin, The Lion and
the Lamb
. By E. Phillips Oppenheimer, and The Thrill of Evil. By H. Ashton-Wolf (24/5894)

September 6                            The Strangler Fig. By John Stephen Strange, The Secret of the Bungalow. By Robert J.
Casey, Alibi. By F. Van de Water, Did She Fall? By Thorne Smith, The Back Bay Murder. By Roger Scarlett, The Man in the Red Hat. By Richard
Keverne, and I Like a Good Murder. By
Marcus Magill (25/6202)

September 20                          Private Life. By Paul Seiver, The Case of Anne Bickerton. By S. Fowler Wright, The Backstage Murder. By Octavus Roy
Cohen, The Blue Door. By Vincent
Starrett, The Saranoff Murder. By
Mark Lee Luther and Lillian C. Ford, The
South Foreland Murder
. By J. S. Fletcher, and The Splendid Crime. By George Goodchild (26/6547)

October 11                                The Garston Murder Case. By H. C. Bailey, The Swan Island Murders. By Victoria
Lincoln, The Murderer Returns. By
Edwin Dial Torgerson, I Met Murder.
By Selwyn Jepson, The Ghosts’ High Noon.
By Carolyn Wells, and Charlie Chan
Carries On
. By Earl Derr Biggers (28/7141)

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Hammett: If They Don’t Hang You

Eighty-two years ago today, Alfred A. Knopf released the hardcover first edition of The Maltese Falcon —- as I sometimes say as an aside on the tour, the sickest Valentine’s Day offering ever.

Yeah, there’s romance. Definitive murder-shadowed noir romance.

Just a little reminder. After all, The Dashiell Hammett Tour and environs aren’t Hallmark.

Posted in Dash, Lit, News, Tour | Tagged , |

Hammett: “Bodies Piled Up”

 

After a hiatus during which he obviously spent some safari time in the pulp jungle hunting down rare and elusive pulps, Terry Zobeck is back to let us know the extent of the editing done to yet another Op tale by good old Frederic Dannay. Terry began this coverage with “This King Business” last summer, followed by “Death and Company,” then “One Hour” and most recently “It.” And of course he has detailed the editing on six other non-Op Hammett stories and the three shorts featuring Sam Spade. You can mount your own expedition into the wilds of the blog archives and track them all down, if curious.

Here’s Terry:

Recently, I managed to snag another issue of Black Mask containing a Hammett story, the pure text of which has long been unavailable — the December 1, 1923 issue with the Op story “Bodies Piled Up.” Dannay reprinted this story under the title “House Dick” in the April 1947 issue of EQMM, and then collected it in Dead Yellow Women later that year.  More recently, the story was reprinted in Nightmare Town (1999) using Dannay’s text.

“Bodies Piled Up” doesn’t deserve to be among Hammett’s forgotten stories; it is an Op story after all and, while not among the very best, it is entertaining. The Op is hired by the Montgomery Hotel in San Francisco as the temporary hotel detective or “house dick.” All is quiet until the final day when the Op follows a blood trail in one of the rooms and discovers three bodies stuffed into a closet. They come falling out one after the other when the Op opens the door, shocking even our hardboiled hero. And while the Op doesn’t do much detecting, there is a terrific three-way shoot-out at the end in a speakeasy between the Op and two gangsters.

Beyond changing a perfectly good title, Dannay took a light pencil to “Bodies Piled Up,” but at least one of the edits was especially unfortunate. One of the pleasures of the Op stories is his frequent asides about the tradecraft of manhunting, like when he tells us the particulars of shadowing in “Zigzags of Treachery.”  In “Bodies Piled Up,” Dannay deleted the Op’s ruminations on the usefulness of knowing the motive to apprehending a murderer.

As usual the following list provides the page number, the line number and whether it is from the top or bottom of the page, and the affected text — Hammett’s original wording is underlined. The page numbers refer to the story as it appeared in 1947 in Dead Yellow Women.

Page    Line     Top/Bottom    Text

81        Title                            House Dick Bodies
Piled Up

81        8          top                   Then
things changed. [Should be a separate paragraph.]

81        9          top                   the
assistant manager on duty at the time

83        1          top                   next
door to Develyn’s office, in fact.

83        10        top                   of
the their persons

83        10        bottom            and
telephoned Stacy.  She had seen no one
in the corridor nearby as she entered the room.

85        9          bottom            to
the guilty one. It is on this account that murderers are, as a rule, more
easily apprehended than any other class of criminals.

But a knowledge of the motive isn’t indispensable—quite a few murder mysteries are
solved without its help.  And in a fair proportion—say, 10 to 20 percent—of cases of where men are convicted justly of murder, the motive isn’t clearly shown even at the last, and sometimes is hardly guessed at
.

87        13        top                   and—so
the talk went—
an occasional judge

88        11        top                   Then
I jumped out of bed.  [Should be a
separate paragraph.]

89        11        top                   whose
clothes are always soiled; and the management hasn’t yet verified the rumor
that the country has gone dry
.

91        11        top                   but
I didn’t try to solve it now. I kept away from the bullets that were flying
around as best I could and waited.

91        4          bottom            His
dying face twisted into a triumphant grin.

91        1          bottom            He
shuddered and died.  [Should be a separate
paragraph.]

With the addition of “Bodies Piled Up” to our collection of reclaimed pure texts, we now lack only the following seven stories; if anyone has any of these, please consider contributing to this project:

  • The Vicious Circle (reprinted as The Man
    Who Stood in the Way)
  • Night Shots
  • Afraid of a Gun
  • Who Killed Bob Teal?
  • Mike, Alice or Rufus (reprinted as Tom,
    Dick or Harry)
  • Corkscrew
  • The Nails in Mr. Cayterer
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