A baker's dozen of prime mystery stories from the pulps.
Surely I'm not the only reader to get John D MacDonald confused with his contemporary whose name was Kenneth Millar, but who used the pen name Ross MacDonald. I love Ross MacDonald's West Coast-based P.I. Lew Archer for his kind heart, his concern for children and young people, and for his creator's beautiful writing.
I've read a few of John D MacDonald's books about Florida-based P.I. Travis McGee, but they don't resonate with me like the Lew Archer books. Not every book is for every reader. Those stories pre-date Travis McGee and represent the years in the late 1940's and early 1950's when MacDonald was supporting his family by writing dozens of stories for various pulp magazines.
We owe thanks to professor and mystery story-lover Francis M Nevins, Jr. He persuaded Edward D Hoch and John D MacDonald (and maybe others) to collect some of their best stories from the pulp era and publish them in collections. This book and its sequel are a result of his efforts.
The author picked the stories himself. Believing that details (say, the price of a cup of coffee) that date a story are distractions, he changed some things. I think this was a mistake, particularly making some post-WWII stories about the aftermath of Vietnam. MacDonald served in WWII and knew the territory. He didn't know the Vietnam conflict from personal experience and it shows.
Ironically, the changes he made in 1982 are now dated themselves. I doubt he foresaw this problem or could have been persuaded against it. He was (by all accounts) a man with his own ideas.
His detectives are a widely varied lot - insurance investigators, FBI agents, DEA agents, city cops, country cops, former cops, and some rank amateurs who get involved in mysteries to save their own skins or for other reasons. Nor is there one setting that appears more often than another. You have to be prepared to change gears frequently, but I didn't mind.
When he writes of Florida, it's the post-WWII Florida that old folks (like me) remember from vacations - miles of two-lane roads lined with one-story cinderblock motels on the beach and lots of mom-and-pop tourist attractions. Growing fast, but far from skyscraper condos and theme parks and multi-million dollar homes. Still, people are greedy and what seems like a small profit today wasn't small then.
Some of the stories are the usual crimes with the usual motives and the usual suspects. Husbands want to be rid of wives and wives of husbands. Two are stories of men who plan murders meticulously, only to be ruined by a tiny, unexpected detail. The biter bit, as MacDonald says.
To my surprise, I enjoyed "They Let Me Live" - a long, violent story of the aftermath of WWII and espionage in Asia. I don't normally like spy thrillers, but this one is good, if very bloody. MacDonald served in the OSS (precursor to the CIA) in the China/Burma/ India theatre, so he was on familiar ground. Still, I can sympathize with the editor who warned him "The war's over. Come home."
My two least favorites feature a character named Park Falkner - a rich man who owns an island in the Gulf of Mexico and uses his money to punish those who've slipped under the wire of the justice system. A nasty idea which produces predictably nasty results. I liked "Murder in Mind" which concerns a clever murder solved by a shrewd country cop with unconventional ways of thinking. Much more to my tastes.
"Dead on the Pin" is a quirky story that appeals to me, even though I hated bowling the few times I tried it. "A Trap for the Careless" is about a middle-aged farmer caught in a racket that matches lonely men to beautiful women and relieves the men of their money even faster than fast women are said to do. Shay Pritchard is one of MacDonald's playboy detectives. Probably these characters were created for the male readers who supported the pulps. Today, they seem antiquated and unpleasant.
MacDonald will never be my favorite, but this selection of early stories is well worth the small price of admission. I've already bought the second volume.