Arg. This book started relatively well and then went quickly downhill.
I've realized that I have a thing for reading upper-class, Brit detectives-for-pleasure stories as a way of sort of detoxing between heavier reads or a spate of a certain type of book (i.e. 32 YA vampire novels). They are generally straightforward and pleasurably formulaic (I mean that in a good way), while being replete with wit and charm and colloquial phrases that make me giggle. A recent example of a book in this vein that I had success with was Charles Finch's A Beautiful Blue Death. I read that over a few rainy days in Maine and it was perfectly suited for that sort of moment.
I was hoping for the same sort of experience with Chris Ewan's A Good Thief's Guide to Amsterdam, particularly because the book's setting is that of my next big vacation. But alas, while this tale of a dashing thief who writes novels about a dashing thief started with the wit and charm and scenery detail that I was really hoping for, it kind of imploded at the end.
(For reference, there will be spoilers.)
I'll start with the positives:
-Ewan's narrator, Charlie Howard, is, as mentioned before, witty and charming. He also is the type of scallywag that you can enjoy without any major qualms. He's a thief who hides or disposes of guns when he finds them in people's houses because he thinks they are dangerous, and practices picking complicated locks for fun. When the book started, I imagined Carey Grant in Charade. Sure he's a thief, but who cares? He's so dashing and bemused!
-There is a lot of talk about specific places in Amsterdam--bars, streets, etc--and that's really what armchair travel is all about, isn't it? Actually getting a sense of that place that the book takes place in. Charlie robs a man who lives on a houseboat, struggles up five flights of precariously steep Dutch apartment building stairs, wanders through Vondelpark, and meanders over canals on his way to brown bars. I'll have to confirm the verisimilitude of all this when I get back from my trip, but at least comparing these descriptions with my travel guides, they seemed pretty accurate.
Where It Went Wrong:
-The whole plot hinges on Super Thief Charlie stealing three plaster monkey figurines (See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil). He spends an inordinate amount of the book trying to figure out why anyone would want to steal these figures, let alone kill for them. Audience: why would anyone possibly want these cheap monkey figures so badly? What's so special about these breakable, plaster figures? Did you guess nothing? Did you guess that there is something inside of these figures within ten pages? Of course you did. So why didn't the Super Thief? (The thing-in-plaster-figure scenario is, I'm told, a classic Sherlock Holmes plot. This only makes it worse. Yes, I need to catch up on my Holmes. But more importantly, in addition to it just being really obvious, anyone who had read that story would know immediately that there was something in those monkeys. So why do we spend half of the book working that out?)
-In a fit of colonial-era exoticism, Charlie wanders into a secret Chinese safe deposit facility. In itself, okay--this could work. Amsterdam does apparently have a Chinatown. But then the woman at the desk is dressed as a geisha, bows in the "oriental style," and is flanked by two "sumos" who could fold Charlie like "origami paper." But all of the writing in the building is in Chinese characters, he says. So apparently, China is mostly Japan, and both are "Oriental" (like carpet or ramen, yes). This is only one scene, I know, but it was awful. This is why you're supposed to have editors. So you don't conflate separate Asian cultures and then use horrible cliched indicators amounting to the entirety of your knowledge about them. The only thing that could have made it more cookie-cutter would be if the geisha had been eating sushi when Charlie came in.
-As the book progresses, Charlie will find things, tell you that they change everything, but not tell you what he's found until an "Ah-Ha!" moment several chapters later. This is obnoxious and serves no other purpose than to make for shocking reveal later on. Except they aren't shocking--they're annoying.
-You know how in Hercule Poirot novels, our favorite intrepid Belgian gets everybody together in the sitting room or the dining car and tells them whodunit? And characters gasp and deny and then are faced with some physical form of irrefutable proof and then crumble immediately? It's fun, right? You know how that passage is usually about five pages--ten pages max? Imagine if that passage were expanded to several chapters. Imagine if part of the reason that passage was so long was because the character/author was "rewriting" the scenario multiple times in a Clue-styled "It Could Have Happened Like This, But Really It Happened Like This" manner. Imagine how annoyed you'd be. Imagine that you'd fall asleep on several different trains trying to finish this awful passage.
Again...arg.