Review: The Perfect Murder

Having murdered my mother under circumstances of singular atrocity, I was arrested and put upon trial, which lasted seven years. In summing up, the judge of the Court of Acquittal remarked that it was one of the most ghastly crimes that he had ever been called upon to explain away.

At this my counsel rose and said:

“May it please your honor, crimes are ghastly or agreeable only by comparison. If you were familiar with the details of my client’s previous murder of his uncle, you would discern in his later offence something in the nature of tender forbearance and filial consideration for the feelings of the victim. The appalling ferocity of the former assassination was indeed inconsistent with any hypothesis but that of guilt; and had it not been for the fact that the honorable judge before whom he was tried was the president of a life insurance company which took risks on hanging, and in which my client held a policy, it is impossible to see how he could have been decently acquitted. If your honor would like to hear about it for the instruction and guidance of your honor’s mind, this unfortunate man, my client, will consent to give himself the pain of relating it under oath.”

From My Favorite Murder, by Ambrose Bierce

So.  You’re beginning to enjoy our correspondence, are you?  That may change, my friend.

Granted, I had understood from the outset that you were adding to your risk of exposure by consulting others as well as myself–yet another indication of your ambivalence toward the entire operation–but I had expected you would be forming a jury of at least my, if not your peers.  The latest Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy, say.  Dr. Hannibal Lector.  Pol Pot.  Imelda Marcos.  A member of the Senate’s Intelligence Oversight Committee.  An executive from Drexel-Burnham.  People, in other words, who had already gotten away with  murder.  I’d thought, quite naturally, you understood that my own…

Well.  Never mind.  The point is, I had no idea at the outset that you intended to insult me in this fashion; to cobble me together with these, these scriveners.  I had no thought that you expected me to hobnob, rub elbows, shuffle along with the likes of these makeweights, these cutpennies, these artificers.

Well, it’s not their fault.  I mustn’t blame them overly.  They’ve done their best, poor catchpoles, and I shall give them–not you, my friend, them–the decent respect of treating their humble offerings with sympathetic patience and a critical eye well tempered by compassion for human imperfectibility.

Donald E. Westlake, writing to ‘Tim.’

For an article in the September 1988 issue of Harper’s Magazine, journalist Jack Hitt convened a panel of distinguished experts in the fine art of literary murder, which was held at the Union Club in New York City.  The participants were Sarah Caudwell, Tony Hillerman, Peter Lovesey, Nancy Pickard, and Donald E. Westlake.

To these worthies Mr. Hitt posed a problem–suppose his name was Carl, and he wanted to murder his wife Linda, who was having an affair with someone bearing the Joycean name of Blazes Boylan, and intended to divorce Carl shortly, cutting him out of her large inheritance.  How could he do this in such a way as to 1)Avoid being caught, 2)Have Blazes take the blame, and 3)Make the murder memorable and stylish, not at all the usual sort of dull tasteless thing one reads about in the papers nowadays.  Something that would be talked about for generations to come. Lovesey seems to have made the suggestion that Carl could publish the details in his posthumous memoirs.

What followed was seven pages of enthused back and forth between the writers (with little in the way of interruption from their moderator, if that’s what you want to call him–nothing terribly moderate about that discussion, you ask me).  Feeling suitably encouraged by the results of his thought experiment in execution, the aptly-named Mr. Hitt decided to do it all again on a larger canvas, and the result can be seen above.

Lawrence Block was brought in to sub for Ms. Pickard.  I want everyone to know that the images of him and Mr. Westlake up top being larger is a formatting thing, and not me playing favorites, though they are in fact the only writers in that assembly I am well familiar with,  ‘cozies’ not being my usual thing.  I just wanted to make a suitably chilling rogue’s gallery, and of course only black and white photos would do for this macabre array of blood-boltered fiends.  Though Mr. Block looks good in sepia, I must say.

And instead of a convivial bloody discussion over Bloody Marys (I’m sure Westlake opted for bourbon), it became a round robin correspondence between Hitt–now taking the deceptively mild-mannered name of ‘Tim’–and the five avariciously adversarial authors, who have been promised much in the way of filthy lucre should Tim successfully employ one of their plans.  Tim proposes, they disposes.  Perhaps literally, in one case.   Hitt mentions in the preface that the correspondence took about a year to complete–meaning, I’d assume, that the authors were not merely dashing off their responses–they were taking the project seriously.  Though not somberly.

(I wish the original article was available free online, but Harper’s has opted to insist that you either subscribe or shell out $6.95 to read it on their website–that’s nearly a dollar a page!  Did they even pay Hitt that much?  However, working at a library has its perks, and one of them is a thing called Proquest.  I have a print-out of the piece on my desk as we speak, for which I paid precisely bupkus. I had hoped to be able to send it to my readers individually upon request, but that doesn’t seem to work, so I’ll post scans next week.)

‘Tim’ opens with a lament on the sadly diminished state of the fine art of murder (consciously echoing De Quincey, whose famous Blackwoods essay on this subject is referenced specifically in his introductory missive).  He lays out a specific set of circumstances–he married for money.  He studied to be a doctor before that.  His wife is betraying him with his best friend, still named Blazes Boylan, but no Leopold Bloom is Tim.  He wants revenge, and he wants to inherit his wife’s fortune, and he wants Blazes to be punished for the murder, and he wants the murder to be artistic enough so that when he posthumously reveals it in his memoirs, people will never stop talking about him in awed and reverent tones.

He’s just read in his morning paper about a man who murdered a neighbor for money, and then attempted to destroy all evidence of the crime by feeding the body into a woodchipper–the police, unfortunately (unfortunately?), found residues of the deceased on the leaves of a nearby oak tree.   Had he just moved the chipper a bit further away before proceeding, he probably would have gotten away with it.  And Tim then poses a truly diabolical question.

Can it be true?  That we wish him to get away with this crime?  Of course, it’s true!  Because what really attracts us to this story–whether we are sitting in our housecoats after breakfast, or catching a paragraph or two at a red light on the way to work, or absorbing the details as we roar along in the common carrier–is the novelty of that damned woodchipper.  In some strange way, we wish to reward this man, privately, each to ourselves, with our regret over his loss of liberty for taking an act so wretchedly common these days and endowing it with a certain freshness.  I belive there is an entire school of thought that considers such cleverness to be the very soul of genius.

Mr. Westlake is the first of the consultants to respond, and he applauds Tim for his sagacity in seeking informed advice.   So many people just blunder their way into murder, as if just anyone can do it.

What your story demonstrates initially is that it is never too late to begin acting sensibly.  You yourself will, I think, admit that your choices till now have been less than satisfactory.   Let us begin by recapping the erroneous steps that that have led you to this impasse; an impasse which, happily, you seem to at least have delved deep within yourself to tap some previous unsuspected lode of wit and make the right move for a change, by turning to experts for their guidance and counsel. Would you install your own plumbing?  Take out your own adenoids?   Prepare your own tax return? Park your own car at a better restaurant?  Of course not.  In the very nick of time, at the ultimate brink of fate, you have suddenly realized what we all must sooner or later acknowledge: You need help.

Westlake makes a rather detailed analysis of what he perceives to be the crucial defects in Tim’s character, his mistakes in life, deduced from the slight biographical data provided.  Each writer is free to a certain extent to improvise upon the basic scenario provided them, to add certain crucial details to the tapestry being woven. This does, in fact, lead to some minor contradictions in the unfolding improvised narrative, because everybody is just making it up as s(he) goes along.  Did Tim provide a correct return address with his letters?  You would think not, but some correspondents behave as if they don’t know where and who he really is, and others claim to know literally everything about him. Westlake starts out by just taking Tim’s story as a given, and working from there.

His plan is, all admit, ingenious.  Tim must create and then assume a false identity, using methods any Westlake reader is familiar with–Tim is amazed to find that Westlake is correct in saying that you can claim the identity of a child that died shortly after birth, and through that ruse get a social security number, and a bank account under that name.  Tim must also get Blazes to join a local shooting club with him (this assumes there is one, but we know it’s a well-off community, so that’s not pushing things).  This will lead to Blazes’ fingers testing positive for gunpowder residue.

Basically, Tim is to use his false identity as his alibi.  He will go on a business trip to meet with his double, and then fly back again, going to the hotel room Blazes and Linda habitually use.  He will kill Linda right in front of Blazes, in mid-assignation.  He will hand the terrified (and naked) Blazes the gun and spray him with mace.  He will then fly to another city, where he will supposedly be meeting with his other self, establishing the alibi.   He will have to work at creating an alternate persona, so that the police interrogating both him and his alias won’t suspect anything.  Blazes will know who framed him, but the police will have him red-handed, and will not believe his ridiculous story.

Personally, I see some flaws in the scheme–which I half-think are put in there on purpose–Westlake could create the perfect crime if he wants to, but like the Navajo weavers, puts an intentional flaw in the pattern so as not to anger the gods (for which one of our authors might accuse him of poaching on his domain). But still–with some variations–I think you could actually do this (be easier if you didn’t have to leave a witness alive).

In truth, Tim has set his experts a nigh-impossible task.  He wants to kill his wife, frame his best friend, get off scot-free, live a long prosperous life, and then brag after his death about the artful and original murder he committed, so that his name will rank with the immortals like Jack the Ripper or Gilles de Rais. Each writer will have to err in one direction or the other–to make the murder more practical, believable–or to make it more colorful.  Our next writer chooses the second alternative.

Peter Lovesey comes up with a scenario he entitles “The Jellyfish in the Jacuzzi.” It contains some of the same elements as Mr. Westlake’s scenario–obtaining a pass key to the lovers’ hotel room, traveling back and forth by air to develop an alibi, but it’s far more complicated and baroque (and the more complex a scheme, the more things that can go wrong with it, but Mr. Lovesey can rightly claim to have come up with the most unorthodox method for dispatching the unfortunate Linda, perhaps cribbed just a wee bit from A. Conan Doyle).

Basically, Tim is to spend some time creating the suspicion that Blazes is playing elaborate practical jokes involving marine life on Tim and Linda.  Then he is to obtain a Sea Wasp (a particularly lethal species of box jellyfish) from a local research laboratory in Tim’s community that just conveniently happens to stock them, and where they are left completely unguarded in an unlocked room most of the time (I must sniff a bit at this threadbare contrivance, but we’re supposed to be having fun here, right?).

Then, at a time when he can establish he was somewhere else, he leaves the jellyfish in the jacuzzi (an ideally warm environment for the tropical creature), where Linda can be expected to encounter it, and Blazes to be blamed for it.   In fact, people do often survive encounters with the Sea Wasp, which has caused only 63 documented fatalities since 1884–it depends on the size of the victim, and the amount of venom administered.  But if she’s by herself when stung, death is certainly the most likely scenario by far.

She could die from a non-lethal dose, simply by drowning after losing consciousness.   That happened to an uncle of mine–it’s happened to lots of people.  The drowning in a hot tub thing, not the stung by a jellyfish improbably resident within the hot tub thing.  I don’t believe.   The question never came up in my uncle’s post-mortem, to my knowledge.  A lovely man, but a drinker.  He slipped and hit his head.  Isn’t it grand, boys?   And wouldn’t you know, I inherited a fair sum of money from him.  Why are you all looking at me that way? I was nowhere nearby when it happened.  Let’s move on.

Tony Hillerman, author of many a best-selling multicultural murder mystery, who died only a few weeks before Donald Westlake, offers a western perspective, and heartily concurs with Tim’s opinions on the degraded state of modern murder.

Crime in our republic has indeed suffered a serious decline.  If you have noticed it in the effete East, consider how much more galling this condition must be to us Rocky Mountain Westerners.  Lacking ballet, literacy, major league baseball, and the other daintier pastimes, we had to build our culture principally on larceny and homicide, stealing all the states west of the eighty-third meridian from their previous owners, shooting the inhabitants thereof, and then, when that supply was exhausted, shooting one another.  Our bandits–from Black Jack Ketchum to Butch Cassidy–were giants in the land. Even our lawmen, I point to Wyatt Earp and the infamous Sheriff Brady of the Lincoln County War as notable examples, were often criminal enough to warrant hanging.

Alas, that was yesterday.  Today, as your complaint notes, we can boast only of quantity.  My own smallish city, Albuquerque, tallied fifty-two bank robberies last year–so many that the gunmen were reduced to robbing the same places two or three times.  Not one of these felonies showed the slightest sign of originality or imagination.  Nor were any of those elements applied by the polce.  The only arrests made recently were of a robber who used a bicycle as his escape vehicle and wasn’t very good at it and another who parked at the drive-up window, handed the teller his note demanding money, and waited patiently until the police came to lead him away.  The once proud Federal Bureau of Investigation, formed in large part to protect our banks back in the halcyon days of John Dillinger and Pretty Boy Floyd, was finally stirred from its lethargy.  To what end?  It issued a press statement criticizing bank security systems, then went back to investigating librarians whom it suspects of checking out subversive books to Democrats.

His scheme in many ways is the simplest–but also the riskiest.  Tim is to confess to drowning his wife in her bathtub in a fit of rage.   The police, upon investigation, will find that she had no water in her lungs.  She was, in fact, a victim of mushroom poisoning.  As were many others, who happened to shop at something called the Yummie Yuppie Deli, where somebody–various hints will point to Blazes–put a handful of poisonous mushrooms on a mixed display of fancy fungi.  The natural suspicion of the police towards the husband of a dead wife will then naturally be diverted to Blazes.  Tim’s desire to confess to his crime will convince them he committed no crime at all.  When in fact he’s slaughtered half the community.

More than one other contributor points out a critical failing here–how many police detectives, faced with a confession of murder from a cuckolded husband, are going to look a gift perp in the mouth?   There is quite a bit of skepticism regarding the efficiency of police departments in this book–from people whose livelihoods often depended on depicting policemen as relentless seekers of truth, armed with the latest developments in forensic science.

(Hillerman brought up this scenario at the original gathering, but in embryonic form–merely the spore of an idea, you might say.  Westlake responded by mentioning a large coffee table book he had at home, composed entirely of photographs of beautiful mushrooms, which included a  loose errata sheet shoved unceremoniously into the back of the book, which mentioned all the highly poisonous mushrooms the author had erroneously identified as edible.   Bon appetit, gourmets.)

The late Sarah Caudwell (born Sarah Cockburn) hailed from a family of some renown–I used to read her uncle Alexander’s columns in the Village Voice (back when that publication was still worth reading) and even occasionally rubbed elbows with her niece Laura Flanders at various seditious gatherings in times long-gone, but I have not read her four highly regarded mystery novels, a situation I fully intend to remedy in the near future, because she was clearly brilliant, and the books sound intriguing as hell.

Still, she was a barrister by trade, not a writer.  That may be why in the original Harper’s article, she was one of the dominant voices–far more than Westlake, who was fairly reticent by comparison, offering only a few scattered (though telling) comments.  Her knowledge of criminal law and crime itself stands her in good stead there.  She is on familiar ground.

By contrast, I would say she’s a bit self-effacing (and quite brief) in her contributions to the book–perhaps just a mite overawed by the distinguished company she’s in, and while a trained legal mouthpiece (and a Brit to boot) may rightly feel she can out-talk anybody, particularly in a club that serves alcohol, she knew she couldn’t out-write the assembled company once they’d set about seriously to business (a few more books to her credit, she might well have done). She still comes up with a very engaging response to Tim’s query, that is not quite as impractical as her countryman Lovesey’s, but rivals it for vividity.

She says right off the bat that Tim must not even think of committing a murder in the United States.  It’s so–common.  Statistically, I’m afraid that is still true. No, she insists, he must somehow spirit Linda away to Europe–and after a quick overview of the grisly heritages of France, Italy, Greece, and foggy London Town, being of Scots heritage, she settles on a locale for the crime.   Again, terra cognita.

No country to compare with Scotland, and no city to compare with Edinburgh.

A city one might almost think designed with deliberate purpose to symbolize the dichotomy between reason and passion, the light and dark aspects of the human psyche.  Through it runs the long, deep cleft of Princes Street Gardens; on one side is the orderly decorum of the eighteenth century, wide streets and elegant squares, the quintessence of rationality; on the other the tenebrous wynds and narrow stairways of the old medieval town; and dominating all, the dark, majestic outline of the Castle and Cathedral.


She’s going into some depth about the long treacherous sanguinary history of Bonnie Scotland, and she’s making me feel more like visiting than anything ever produced by either Hollywood or their tourist board ever did (or Westlake’s one novel set there, for that matter).   She’s damned good, our Ms. Caudwell.   I find myself already lamenting how quickly I’ll get through her oeuvre.

But it’s very hard to see how her murder could be made to work.  It involves the Edinburgh Festival, a splendid affair held each summer, which I could see Linda agreeing to attend with Tim and Blazes tagging along just for fun, but already we’re pushing hard at the limits of plausibility here.  Now everybody has to be in traditional attire, and both Tim and Blazes are in full Highland regalia, kilts and all (the shameless feminine preoccupation with masculine limbs on full display here, pure objectification I calls it), and each ensemble comes with this little ceremonial dagger, the Sgian dhubh  (she uses the anglicized spelling, for which I am subtracting points from her final score).  Tim will arrange to get Blazes’ implement away from him without his knowing it.

You see where this is going.   Tim will immolate Blazes’ dirk in the blood of his bride, but through a very elaborate chain of events involving a tape recorder and a grand banquet with candelebras and all, Blazes will end up being the one caught red-handed, while Tim tenderly cradles Linda’s encrimsoned corpse, murmering broken endearments, and asking Blazes how he could have possibly done such a thing.  It’s very romantic, isn’t it?  Bring the life back into a marriage, while taking it out of one of the partners, but nothing’s perfect.   I suppose you’d prefer they took a weaving class together, or learned to do the cha-cha.

Finally Mr. Block has his say, and while none of the writers have been entirely complimentary to poor cuckolded Tim, he’s flat-out derogatory and dismissive.

You think this is funny, don’t you?

That’s what’s galling about this whole unhappy enterprise.  You think it’s amusing, with all your brittle patter, your happy horseshit about murder as an art form.  Murder is never artistic and it is rarely formal.  It is a means to an end.  Almost invariably, it is a bad means to a bad end.  An unamusing means, if you will, to an unamusing end.

Life, we are told, is a comedy to those who think, a tragedy to those who feel. You, sir, reveal yourself as one who does neither.  You seem to crave applause for the artistry of your efforts at homicide while at once wanting to escape detection.  If your crime should be perfect, if your wife should perish and your friend Blazes be blamed for your death, whatever artistry you would purport to have displayed would in fact remain forever undisplayed.  It is as if you would feed to the woodchipper not a human corpse but the good Bishop Berkeley’s tree, the one that falls unheard, the one that makes no sound.

And having said all that, he provides the most ghoulish plan of all.   Tim shall set about becoming a full-fledged serial killer, who makes appointments with ill-starred sex workers (the preferred prey of Jack the Ripper, you’ll recall), has coitus with them, then kills and dismembers them, and arranges their body parts in various imaginative ways, to get the attention of the police.   He shall obtain physical evidence in the form of male pubic hairs from the adulterous sheets of Blazes and Linda, with which to implicate Blazes (while making sure none of Tim’s pubes are ever found at the crime scenes–okay, already I’m shaking my head a bit).

Mr. Block seems to think the one objection to his plan is that Tim may find out that he enjoys killing strangers so much that he no longer will wish to pursue his original plan.  He also says killing Linda, much as he hates her, might prove harder for Tim to stomach than murdering some anonymous whore.  Well, serial killers rarely go after people close to them, that’s true.  That’s actually a major recommendation for Block’s plan.  Except isn’t Blazes close to her as well?   So really, this is a variation on Christie’s The ABC Murders–somebody pretending to be a serial killer, in order to kill someone who has become inconvenient, and pin the blame on someone else.  You can’t get away from Dame Agatha in this area of endeavor, can you?   For sheer inventiveness, she topped the bill.

Mr. Block claims to have satisfied here both the need for getting away with it, implicating Blazes, and attracting the attention of the media to the murders, so that Tim may achieve the notoriety he so desires.   Block does not seem to have fully processed that Tim plans to reveal all the bloody details of his crime and/or crimes after he’s shuffled off the coil himself.  Maybe read the opening letter a bit too quickly, and of course he wasn’t at the original meeting at the Union Club.  (I was a bit worried about what Block might have done to Nancy Pickard to get her slot, but she’s still alive and presumably in one piece.)

Taken simply as pieces of writing, Block’s contributions are superbly enjoyable–he’s in rare form.  You don’t often get to see him play the curmudgeon in his fiction, and he’s deuced good at it.

So Tim, delighted by the malevolent machinations he has inspired, writes back to each author, enclosing copies of all the other scenarios, and explaining that as he received each new missive in the mail, he would be so taken with it that he’d immediately set about executing it–only to receive the next one, and he’d be so taken with that he’d start carrying it out, and so on, and so forth.

He’s just mixing and matching after a while, never carrying any one writer’s scenario out to the letter because he wants to be creative about it (maybe he should try making movies), and it sounds like a bloody shambles, only without any actual blood.  He’s done much of what they recommended in terms of set-up. He’s even created (elaborating on Westlake’s plan), a female identity for himself, named Diana Clement, and seems to greatly enjoy being a girl.  But he hasn’t actually killed anybody yet.  And since he hasn’t used any of their ideas to dispatch Linda thus far, obviously he doesn’t owe any of them a check.  It’s not like he signed a contract.   Maybe he should have just taken one out on Linda.

Is there anything in God’s own creation that so infuriates a professional writer as accepting a commission, and then not receiving full payment?  Or any?   If there is, it’s probably seeing another author vying to nab that paycheck away from you. Professional jealousy rears its verdant head.  Each will strive to excoriate Tim and eviscerate each rival’s scheme, while still insisting on the sheer perfection of his/her own.

Mr. Hillerman begins this round of recrimination (heh), purporting to be surprised to learn the original letter was a mere ‘fishing expedition’, without any commitment.  In fact, most of the respondents claim not to have realized this, even though it was made pretty clear (just not precisely who the other conspirators would be).  His analytical mind finds serious flaws in all the other schemes, predicated mainly on what he refers to headscratchingly as the Peter Principle, though he clearly means Murphy’s Law.

Caudwell’s tape recorded scream will malfunction, leading people to believe there are ducks in the house.  Lovesey’s complex advance scenario, which is supposed to draw the media’s attention to the events coming before the murder, will be pushed aside in favor of the Queen’s second cousin developing hangnails–or alternatively, some American equivalent of aristocracy, such as Donald Trump (okay, full marks there, Mr. H–just as well you didn’t live to see how right you were).  Lovesey’s scenario depends far too much on planes in America departing and arriving on their scheduled times (he’s English, he couldn’t know).

He accuses Lawrence Block of the high crime of being an intellectual, who holds Tim in contempt.  He says Block is trying to set Tim up to take the fall, not Blazes Boylan.  Honestly, I’m not sure he’s wrong about that, not that Block would ever admit it.  He also cunningly exposes Block’s inspiration, by mentioning The ABC Murders, and thus insinuating that if Block’s scheme were used, the check would be properly payable to Agatha Christie’s estate (not-so-veiled accusations of plagiarism are rife in this part of the book, and you’d expect nothing less when the ire of authors has been aroused).

He can’t find too much wrong with Westlake’s plan, but he does score one palpable hit–Westlake said Tim could get a copy of the key to the lovers’ room by making an imprint in soft putty.  Imprint of what, pray tell?

Mr. Westlake’s fame among mystery readers is long established.  For him the day has since passed when his publisher’s marketing people bundle him up and send him off on those awful tests of stamina known as book tours.  Thus, while Westlake remembers that a hotel with a room  number as high as 1507 must be a big hotel, he seems not to know what has happened to hotel keys in such monstrous places.  We who must still endure these mind-numbing journeys from one hotel to another know that Room 1507 isn’t opened by a key these days.   The hotel key is another victim of America’s progress in crime and technology.  The door to Room 1507 these days is opened by a little rectangular strip of stiff plastic.

To which I’d respond that I was just staying in a very small hotel that uses that same type of ‘key’, and the cleaning woman had one that opened all doors in the place, and how hard could it be, really, to get one of those?   Harder than planting poisonous mushrooms in a busy delicatessen?  Mr. Westlake’s tradecraft does need some updates, but I call that quibbling.  I’m far from convinced Westlake didn’t already know all that, since I doubt very much he was outselling Tony Hillerman in the early 90’s, and his love of Travel is well known.

But I do perceive the outlines of a professional compliment there, all the same.   Each writer is trying to say, at the very same time, to each of his/her colleagues, both “You are an adornment to our shared profession who inspires my deepest admiration” and “You are a shameless hack.”  And I have no doubt they are deeply sincere in both sentiments.  It’s a writer thing.

On the whole, Lovesey’s second response is the weakest of the bunch, if only because he knows as well as anyone that his murder scheme is the least practical of the bunch.   He also expresses great admiration for Westlake’s scenario, and then pokes holes in it, along with everyone else’s.  But mainly he’s just saying that his jellyfish is so much more memorable than anyone else’s weapon of choice that it would be criminal not to employ it and send him a check forthwith. Practicality be damned, this is art!

Caudwell, as I already said, is a bit too deferential here (as she was decidedly not in person at the club, when she met all the authors other than Block), and all the more once she’s read the other proposed murders.  She seems somehow more offended on Westlake’s behalf than on her own–she says “he has devised for you, at considerable personal sacrifice–he might have used it for his own next novel–a plan of great beauty and artistic elegance, and that you, by your rash and self-indulgent action, have rendered it entirely useless.”  I think she may spend more time defending Westlake’s plan than her own!   She doesn’t like the bit about changing the alternate identity to a woman, either.  Her generosity is breath-taking–but a bit out of keeping with the general tone of the book.

(Caudwell raises a valid point, though–she was probably wishing Westlake would write a novel about a murderer who painstakingly creates an alternate persona to serve as his own alibi–that actually would have been amazing, and much in keeping with Westlake’s usual obsession with identity.  Probably he had considered just such a book, and had discarded the idea for one reason or another. We’ll never know just how many Westlake books we missed out on.)

Still and all, she concludes by saying, as Lovesey before her, that her plan is the most aesthetically pleasing, and therefore the best.  She says she has enclosed a copy of the program for the Edinburgh Festival.   She wants to see those bekilted male legs.   But Lawrence Block suggests another motive for her.

Block is even more enraged with Tim now.   His vituperative bile fairly leaps from the page.   It’s always a pleasure to watch him work, but never more than when he is angry (or pretending to be).  He says he doesn’t know how he missed the implication that he was not the only writer being consulted, and has many a disparaging thing to say about his competitors, Mr. Westlake not least among them.

My first impulse, I must admit, was to toss out their contributions unread.  I have for years been doing just that with their novels, which their publishers persist in sending me in the hope of eliciting promotional blurbs.  A word from me, evidently, goes a long way in establishing a lesser writer’s reputation, and I’m continuously besieged with galleys from hopeful editors.  I have thus long formed my opinion of the work of Westlake, Lovesey, Hillerman, and Caudwell, and could well imagine what sort of a murder they would lay out for you.

Westlake would enlist the aid of some bumbling criminals, and he’d have all of them try to kill your wife, and they’d all fail, until she died laughing. Lovesey would have her slain in the ring by a bare-knuckled pugilist. Hillerman would dress you up in a feather headdress and have you make a sand painting, calling down the Great Spirit to crush your wife to death in a buffalo stampede.  And Caudwell would shuttle you between Lincoln’s Inn and the Isles of Greece, in the company of people named Ragweed and Catnip.

He then professes surprise that their actual plans are not so bad as all that.  He finds little things to admire about each of them.   Then, as all the others before him (with the partial exception of Caudwell vis a vis Westlake) rips them to shreds.  Like Lovesey (the artfulness of whose proposal he admires, while attacking its efficaciousness), he drips disdain for Westlake’s means of killing Linda–a gun.  So boring.  He rips into his closest friend more than anyone else here, even Tim–no doubt anticipating a similar fusilade from Mr. Westlake, aimed in his direction.  Well, that’s what friends are for, right?

But I particularly like what he did to Caudwell–which is to point out that Caudwell is, after all, a woman.  Of the unhappy coupling of Linda and Tim, who is more likely to hold her sympathy?   Who will really end up dead, or carted off by the bobbies, when her Scottish Play (Lovesey’s term for it) has concluded?   She’s luring Tim into a trap!  I can imagine Caudwell roaring with laughter at this.   Unless she just smiled slowly in a sinister secret sort of way….

Mr. Block then claims to have made private investigations (well, he is the progenitor of Matthew Scudder, and the back dust jacket informs us his most recent book was A Dance at the Slaughterhouse).  He says he’s found proof that Tim is in fact carrying out his plan (ie, murdering a series of unrelated women).

I don’t know, that seems almost like cheating to me–claiming victory over his peers on the basis of killings he’s made up himself (I would assume).

But he probably knows by now who’s going to follow him, and I think I’ve mentioned he and Westlake had a lifelong rivalry that went along with their lifelong camraderie.  A competition he probably misses as much as anything else in that friendship.

As he was the first to respond to Tim’s original letter, Mr. Westlake gets the last word in the second.  And the best.  I’m biased, that goes without saying.  But here is where we really do see that even in such a literally cutthroat environment as this, there was only one Donald E. Westlake.   And there is an air of cool practiced deadliness about him we have not seen in some time.  Not since 1974, to be precise.

Westlake has, as Block probably feared, done him one better.  He hasn’t just made discreet inquiries over the phone.  He’s tracked Tim to his (we are informed) tastelessly appointed McMansion, and he’s been inside of it.  He’s planted certain things in it.  He’s watching Tim, as Tim is reading his letter.   He’s not getting mad.  He’s getting even.   Certain promises were made to him, as he sees it.  Those promises were not kept.   What does Parker do when somebody makes a professional arrangement with him, then fails to keep his end of the bargain?  That’s right.

So here’s the deal.   Tim will carry out Westlake’s plan to the letter–the innovation of making the alternate identity female Westlake applauds as a worthy embellishment to the plan, that he wishes he’d thought of himself.  But Tim will, in all other respects, carry out Westlake’s plan as detailed.  He must show that he is proceeding with it–Westake will know if he does not.  Westlake will see.  Westlake sees all.  And after all is completed, Tim will be given some time to bask in the glory of his achievement.  And then—.

And just imagine, if you were to be found dead somewhere–oh, say, a stroke, an auto accident, you know the kind of thing–in Diana’s fig.  The police arrive, the medical personnel, the folk from the mortician.  Such surprise! Such confusion!  There’s art, if you want.  The laughter of the gods o’erlying a minor everyday human drama.

But there I go again, getting ahead of myself.

He is, of course, equally merciless and efficient in eliminating all his rivals’ proposals, one by one.  I doubt he’d read Caudwell’s admiring description of his own plan before penning his of hers–which he describes as having ‘a certain je de paume which would no doubt have a certain appeal for frivolous minds; the sort of people who can never guess the ending of a “Columbo” episode.’   Ouch.   Though he admits it probably will work in terms of Tim getting off with the help of good lawyers, if only because Scottish courts uniquely have a third possible verdict–“Not Proven.” Which he says means “You didn’t do it, and don’t do it again.”

He dismisses Hillerman’s proposal as impossible–Tim studied to be a doctor. Which means he will be automatically suspected of a poisoning.  Not to mention that all those grieving yuppie family members will hire private detectives to find ‘the real killer’, and while private detectives may be stupid, they also have no scruples, and they will be all over Tim like the cheap suits they typically wear. He says the same objection–as well as the tawdry repetitive aspects of it–eliminate Mr. Block.  If Tim was lucky enough to make Lovesey’s bizarre and complex plan work, he wouldn’t need to kill Linda–she’d drop dead of natural causes before he ever got around to slaying her.

(Block’s best salvo against Westlake also involved private detectives–hired by the wealthy Blazes Boylan to expose Tim’s alibi as a fraud.   Westlake has no defense to offer in this regard, and given that Tim’s life is reportedly in his hands, does he really need one?  In the comments section, we might be moved, I think, to try and plug the holes in Westlake’s scheme–or any others that take our fancy.   That would be highly diverting, I believe.)

Westlake’s entire response is a small masterpiece of chillingly methodical mastery–turning the tables on Tim, and establishing his dominance over the situation.  Others in the group have tried this gambit, but none half so well.

And Hitt, writing as Tim, seems just a tad unnerved to me as he concludes the book with a letter that amounts to a polite complimentary brush-off.  He tries to make it seem that Block must be lurking about his house as well, and Westlake should be watching his own back, and all the writers should be worried about each other instead of him, but that doesn’t hold water.   Block has made no such claim to proximity.  The others are mainly just concerned with getting their pay.

After Westlake’s final word, Hitt, a very fine writer whose three chapters in this book are all a delight to read, can’t quite avoid a sense of anticlimax.  He can’t follow Donald Westlake in top form.  Who ever could?

But in saying he still intends to go ahead with the murder, and that none of his consultants have any purchase over him at all (since they would be implicated in his crime were he found out, and then instead of being remembered as great mystery authors, they’d be remembered as his accomplices), ‘Tim’ does have one very interesting thing to say about all contrived murder scenarios that we scoff at in books–but don’t some of them actually work in reality?  Isn’t there always an element of luck in any plan?

One, I think, simply has to believe that it will work–that the planes will leave on time that day, that the damned cassette recorder will click on when the button is pressed, that Blazes will join the club on cue, that the detective will sense a contradiction in the neat confession, and that the tiny evidence when magnified by forensic technology will appear to be a milewide swath leading to Blazes.  One could make a case that the forensics of murder are the aesthetics of contingency–the beauty of luck.  It is only fitting that an art form that aspires to such high ideals must raise itself above the aesthetics of craft associated with other pursuits.  Who wants an art whose beauty is under the complete control of the artist?  Who could care for a beauty that would undoubtedly be atomized and sifted into categories of technique and become the subject of soporific seminars at the annual PMLA meeting?  Rather, let us have an aesthetics built upon the exacting hand of the artist and the palsied hand of fate, upon talent and faith.  I like it.

And I like this book, very much.  Which is why I’ve typed over 7,000 words about it, and I could probably manage 7,000 more without trouble.  I’ve left many an intended observation by the wayside here, and hopefully I can get to some of them in the comments section, or some of you will beat me to them.  But one last observation I must make.

Westlake, in his brief contributions to this work, seems, I must say, almost Godlike in his perceptions and abilities.  In the quote up top, he is putting himself in the same category as those who have destroyed untold numbers of human lives.   Why is that?  Probably because  of his work on our next book in the queue, mentioned as forthcoming on the back dust jacket for this book.  A novel in which God Himself sets about to destroy all life on earth. And chooses as His means of accomplishing His will, a rather odd assembly of players, human and otherwise. A very elaborate murder scheme indeed, and His intended victim is Earth. Hey, that’s our job!

And as I’ve said elsewhere, I think this could have potentially been one of Westlake’s very best books.  He sometimes referred to it as one of his favorites. And sadly, it’s not one of mine.  I consider it a failure.   But I’ll take an inspired failure over a safe success any day.  Because Hitt was right.   An art that is fully under the control of the artist is not art.  And a God that can be fully understood by mortals is not God.  As He remarked to Job once.


Filed under Donald Westlake, Donald Westlake novels

23 responses to “Review: The Perfect Murder

  1. Richard

    Such fun. Now I have to find the book but, in the meantime, would you send the original article my way?

    • I just tried it–had to log into Proquest at home, but it seemed to work. Let me know if you got the email, and if you could access the article. You’re the test subject. If it works for you, should work for everybody.

      • Richard

        Sadness, it didn’t work (links pop up and all but everything requires a password). Worth the try, though, wasn’t it?

        • Yeah. Hmmm. I shouldn’t do this–particularly in the context of this particular book, but–

          Check your email, and give it another go. I hate failure. At least of the uninspired variety.

          • If all else fails, I can risk the wrath of Harper’s and post scans of the article here. Which is probably illegal. Which is very apropos.

            • Actually, that’s what I’m going to do. Caution has prevailed–I’m not giving a bunch of virtual strangers (virtual being the operative term) my work log-in. Sorry, you’ll all have to wait until next week. But it’ll be easier in the long run, and if somebody in authority says take it down, I’ll take it down. By that time, my regulars will all have it. Or irregulars, if you prefer.

  2. rinaldo302

    I bought the book when the paperback first came out, but I didn’t know about the article. May I request the link to it? (As the blogmaster, do you know my email without my posting it here?)

    You must definitely make the acquaintance of Sarah Caudwell’s wonderful books. (I will, if forced to it, admit that the third one is a bit too self-consciously a “romp,” and that the long-delayed and posthumously published fourth one reveals, I think, why she worked on it so long — problems not of plot or style but of character empathy.) The first two are near-perfect of their kind, and the first one is one of the most gleamingly polished pieces of comic writing that I know — equal to the best pages of Wodehouse or Wilde or Beerbohm; every sentence glitters, and it’s sustained through the whole book.

    • As you can see from my increasingly confused exchange with myself, I’m just going to post scans. Better edit the article to reflect that. It seemed like it would work, but I guess you can only send article links to other people who can use Proquest. Which seems horribly unfair. And entirely predictable, in retrospect.

      Caudwell struck me as possessing a truly first-rate talent that simply hadn’t had the time to fully develop itself due to other pressing concerns–the practice of law, in her case–maybe other things as well. (this is one reason Westlake liked to say that he’d avoided honest work all his life–it really does get in the way of one’s writing).

      I liked her more and more as I went on. Since to me, the greatest pleasure in reading any author is to make direct contact with another mind, with a unique sensibility, I immediately felt like I had to know more about her. We have three of her books at the library, so I won’t be long about it.

      One of my favorite writers is Shirley Jackson, and it’s her novels I love, much more than her highly admired short stories–she only completed six novels before she died suddenly, of imperfectly explained causes. Each is a small masterpiece, that serves up yet another piece of her soul. She was a mother to a band of children (and dogs), and wife to a college professor who like all men of his generation, expected dinner on the table promptly, even though he knew his wife was a genius.

      Virginia Woolf had a point about a woman writer needing a room of her own. But I don’t like her writing much at all. You also need something going on outside the room. Oh well.

  3. I knew Jack Hitt primarily (or exclusively, rather) from his contributions to This American Life, which are very compelling, often funny, sometimes riveting. Here he seems to be channeling Hermann Karlovich, the protagonist of Nabokov’s “Despair,” an arrogant and self-aggrandizing fool (with an unfaithful wife) who plans what he believes to be the perfect murder, which he repeatedly describes as a work of art rather than a grubby scheme for money. Yes, I’d say Mr. Hitt was definitely brushing up on his Nabokov before he wrote this.

    But let’s get back to Westlake. His contributions are breathtaking in their brutal impatience. This is easy to say now knowing what was soon to come, but you can almost feel Parker stirring within him, demanding to be let out. Not in the language, which isn’t nearly spare enough, but in the ruthlessness and cold efficiency. Is that ruthless voice whispering in Burke Devore’s ear as he sleeps the restless sleep of the unemployed? Maybe so.

    • Westlake is writing this as if he’s an old hand at crafting premeditated elaborate murder plans carried out by amateurs. He’s not. Name one, out of all the previous books, including the Coes. Lots of bodies dropping, but he wasn’t really in that line–the Christie line. His best amateur murderer protagonist is probably Art Dodge, and he always kills at the spur of the moment, not even knowing what he’s going to do until he does it. He improvises, which is what Westlake thinks amateurs are best at–and gets away with it—at a truly horrifying cost.

      When he got too close to the type of murder story he and his four colleagues are supposed to be coming up with here–as in the third Holt novel–the results were interesting, but not terribly satisfying. Because he couldn’t really believe in it–he could write a perfectly engaging ‘cozy’, but without characters that made sense to him, it was a purely intellectual exercise, with no feeling to it. That’s not what murder is. That’s not how murder happens. That’s precisely why that sort of literary murder is so entertaining, so popular–because it’s an escape from reality, from ourselves, from what we really are. That’s why they call them ‘cozies.’ They have their own virtues, to be sure–but where they tend to fall short is in terms of character, motivation.

      That’s why Hitchcock loved to show nice good-hearted ordinary people imagining that sort of murder to amuse themselves–there’s a reference to that in this book, to Strangers on a Train, but a better example would be Shadow of a Doubt. And real murderers, successful murderers, we see in both stories, couldn’t care less about artistry. They just want to do it quickly and efficiently and not get caught. Even Highsmith’s Ripley, obsessed with art in all its myriad forms, never seems to worry about the artistry of his hastily improvised murders–most of his ingenuity is directed towards covering them up afterwards. And of course he never gets caught. Neither does Parker.

      Murder (the murders that actually happen, and the murders that flit through our minds and never become reality) is a part of humanity’s daily existence–including spouses murdering each other. But there’s no art in it. It’s not about art. That’s a lie. Trying to turn something ugly into something beautiful. He and Block were both, I think, slightly revolted by the exercise, though clearly also enjoying it. They were of similar mindsets in this, as they were in so many things.

      But in doing this–in contemplating the fully premeditated murder, and actually coming up with a scenario that would have made a fascinating book (which again, might actually be an idea he’d toyed with for a book, and couldn’t quite make it work)–Westlake must have thought it would be interesting–to tell a story from the POV of someone who, for very rooted materialistic identity-based reasons, must kill a number of people, and avoid detection. And the story will seem on the surface to be about how he figures out the means to accomplish these deaths. But it won’t be about that at all. And it won’t be even the slightest bit cozy.

      Since I didn’t like Lolita (couldn’t even finish it, bored me), I think I’ll try Despair, since you’ve brought it to my attention. Maybe that will tickle my fancy more. But of course self-involved self-deceiving murderers didn’t begin with Nabokov. They go back through Dostoevsky, Poe, Cain (and I don’t mean James M.)

      I truly enjoyed Hitt’s writing, but he is an amateur in this line–and he knows it. And that fits his character. So it works.

  4. Conversation having flagged, might I suggest a little mental exercise?

    Westlake’s plan for ‘Tim’–could it have been made to work?

    1)Create an alternate identity (male or female), well in advance of the crime, using the birth certificate of a deceased infant. Get into the role, make it real. Establish this person as living in a nearby city, perhaps an hour’s flight away.

    2)Get Blazes to join a shooting club, so there’ll be powder residue on his hands.

    3)Fly to a city where the alternate persona has been established as resident, ostensibly to meet with him/her for business purposes.

    4)Fly back (pay cash for ticket, do not check out of hotel, remember this is before 9/11), use passkey to enter the room the lovers habitually use, lie in wait for them, and when they are in flagrante delicto, shoot the wife, then hand the gun to the terrified lover, and spay him with a can of mace, which is then dropped at the feet of the wife, as if she had used it before dying. Westlake doesn’t mention this, but I think it would be prudent to hand Blazes an empty gun.

    5)Fly back to the other city, order a nice meal on a credit card, find police waiting at hotel, be interviewed, mention you’d been with your alternate self at the time of the murder. This is a crucial moment–they have to let Tim go. And Blazes is insisting he saw Tim shoot Linda. But he tells the cops he’s going back home. They would probably rather the police investigating Linda’s murder decide whether Tim should be arrested. So much more paperwork.

    6)Be interviewed as alternate self. This is all being done by police in the other city, remember. Tim will also have to talk to police back home, who will have no reason to talk to the alternate self unless Tim is charged with murder.

    7)Hope Blazes doesn’t hire private investigators to try and punch holes in Tim’s alibi.

    Here’s what I see as the major problems–and some potential solutions.

    The gun club thing is unnecessary. Those tests are inconclusive, anyway. If Blazes can be made to fire a gun just once, months before the crime, there’s no way the test can clear him, and Tim can wear gloves when he pulls the trigger–if they both test positive, it’s a wash, but of course if Tim is being tested at all, he’s under serious investigation, which means he’s probably screwed. I think Westlake was just having another little jab at the rich–there’s a lot of gun-related satire in this book, at America’s expense, and not just from him–Block and Hillerman are even more disparaging of our gun culture.

    You have to believe Tim can create a sufficiently believable alternate personality and appearance. To me, the single biggest problem is that the police in the other city will be talking to both him and Diana (let’s assume he goes with the gender-switching Diana Clement role, which Westlake greatly admired). Now–it’s not their city the murder happened in. How motivated will they be to dig deeper? Maybe not so much, but it’s still a problem. He has to be awfully good at playing Diana.

    I would recommend that Tim avoid this supreme test of his thespian prowess by checking out of his hotel before the police come to talk to him (but still well after the murder was committed), and flying to yet another city, for yet another pre-arranged business conference (this time with a real person), and wait there for the police to talk to him. Now you’ve got three different sets of investigators, none of whom have talked to both Tim and Diana.

    If Blazes does try to destroy Tim’s alibi, Diana Clement will have to go. This is the really tricky part. If only Tim wasn’t so vindictive–this plan would be perfect if Blazes didn’t have to know Tim killed Linda and framed him. I mean, just shoot the bugger, and put the gun in his hand. Or wear a mask, so Blazes can’t swear it was Tim. Or knock Blazes out from behind, then kill Linda. Hitt really did set up one hell of a problem here.

    But there is one ray of sunlight–Blazes knows Tim’s alibi is a fake. He does not know Diana herself is a fake. He’ll just assume she’s a real person who was paid off somehow. Or Tim’s secret lover (there’s one way to go fuck yourself). So Diana could mention to the police that she’s going to have to leave on an extended trip overseas–as long as Tim isn’t himself charged with murder, that should be permitted, right? It’s not really their case–what do they care? She flirts with them a bit–they say it’s fine, just leave a forwarding address. The private investigators will not enjoy a friendly relationship with the cops, who will not be cooperative with them. The forwarding address will lead to yet another, and another, and the trail goes cold. Diana Clement cannot possibly be found, because she does not exist.

    (I suppose you could take a page from Mr. Block’s book, and murder some anonymous sex worker who roughly resembles Diana, plant her in Diana’s apartment, and that would certainly distract the cops–but then Tim would be suspected of her murder, and they’d be looking too hard at Diana’s background then–it’s too busy.)

    Blazes’ attorney will of course make the case that Tim is the murderer, and that Diana Clement’s unavailability is proof that his alibi was bought. Tim will have to testify in the case–he’s the husband. If he’s that good an actor, he can sway the jury with his grief and horror, and the prosecution will paint a vivid picture of the crime scene, where Blazes was found naked, his fingerprints on the gun (it would obviously help if it was a gun registered to Blazes–any way Tim could manage that?). I could see a smart attorney telling Blazes to plead guilty to a lesser charge, a reduced sentence. Crime of passion. I mean, he’s a rich white guy. What are the odds he’s doing life, let alone getting the chair? But Tim might want to consider disappearing himself, once Blazes gets out.

    Question–if it were not necessary to leave Blazes alive, languishing in a cell knowing that Tim has taken terrible revenge upon him, is there any reason at all this plan couldn’t be made to work? Even today? There are ways to get around the TSA thing. I mean, he’s created one fake ID–why not two?

    • I think your enhancements make it more workable. I’ve often wondered about the “create a fake ID” method Westlake often employs. It seems it’s so well known, there must be safeguards against it. But I’m not sure what those safeguards would be. The lack of social security number is an issue, I think. Westlake advises the explanation that the person has been out of the country. But after a certain age, it strains credulity that you wouldn’t have been issued one. My kids got SS#s at birth. Still, I don’t know of any measure that would prevent a thirty-something-year-old-man from applying for a social security number.

      If this were an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents or an old radio show like “Suspense” or “The Whistler,” Tim would get away with his wife’s murder but then be arrested for Diana’s murder. When police can’t find her, they conclude that Tim has done her in. Even without a body, they have enough evidence to suggest foul play. Tim is sent up for her murder, knowing that if he proves his innocence by demonstrating that Diana isn’t real, he’ll be destroying his alibi in his wife’s murder. The irony!

      • We have to distinguish, I think, between the basic idea (which is timeless), and the techniques used to implement it (which would have to be updated over time, as with the hotel passkey). Identity theft is so notoriously common these days, we can hardly scoff at it. Living people protest in vain to credit agencies that they did not make any of those purchases, these are not their debts, they have never even been to the places the charges were made. So much of each person’s public identity is now resident in The Cloud.

        If Tim were to try this now, he’d have both a simpler and a more complicated task at hand–more and more sophisticated techniques available, but also a lot more ducks to line up. For example–would Diana have a Facebook page? If Tim does, in fact, make a fairly attractive woman, as he rather interestingly claims (is there something he’s not telling us about himself?), he could probably develop quite an active social media profile, which could make Diana seem that much more real.

        But I don’t know–would it show that the page was being updated from Tim’s locale, not Diana’s? Would it be possible to prove that their emails to each other were emanating from the same computer? Instead of a paper trail, you have an electronic one–Blazes might be better off hiring hackers than PI’s. It goes without saying, in any era, a great deal depends on how much work the cops and prosecutors feel like putting into what seems like an open and shut case. But so much easier if Blazes was out of the picture. If there was just some way to make him believe he had killed Linda….put something in his drink?

        Westlake hates all this newfangled stuff, much as he may still make use of it. He expressed to some extent his dislike of it–the way it makes his job harder–in Firebreak. And of course the final Starkian Triptych (there’s that word again) is mainly asking the question–does Parker make any sense in the Post-9/11 world? And the answer is both “No” and “More than ever.”

        Something was itching the back of my brain when I wrote this review–I picked up on Block and to some extent Hillerman lifting an idea from The ABC Murders (no great feat, since it’s referenced several times in the book), but I knew there was something familiar about Westlake’s idea as well, and none of the other participants were making the connection.

        But I knew it reminded me of something–a movie I saw for the first time, some months back. I had to ask my significant other just now, and was reminded which movie it was–Witness for the Prosecution–my God–she really was an actress beyond compare, wasn’t she? Even looking for the twist, suspecting it, trying to see past the disguise, I wasn’t 100% sure. How could that possibly be her?

        She’s doing something quite different than Tim would be doing, of course. Very different context. Still, the same basic idea, without the need to talk to police, or falsify a birth certificate. And she would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for that meddling Laughton. Well, it wouldn’t have worked out for her in either case, because of that faithless–never mind. 😉

        • Yes, identity theft is rampant. And in some ways, there are advantages to adopting, if only temporarily, the identity of a real-life person. In a different context, that’s the strategy employed by Tom Ripley when he appropriates Dickie Greenleaf’s identity (and fortune). It has its own complications and shortcomings, of course, but a wholly created person with no history beyond a few weeks (or months) is apt to raise suspicion. That’s what trips up Parker in Flashfire. “I was out of the country,” he explains. “You’ve been off the planet,” is the skeptical response.

          (And getting ahead of myself, as I so often do, Burke Devore’s plan would have been complicated by the digital developments of the twenty-first century. His phony company would have to have a web site; its employees would each have to have a Linked In account. Where does it end?)

          • You do realize, of course, we’re lamenting the way digital technology is complicating the art of fictional murder. Actual murder doesn’t seem to have been inconvenienced very much at all.

            We’ll have a good time discussing Parker’s attempts to update his tradecraft–and whether they’d have been successful in the long term. But nothing in this world would have ever convinced him to have a Linked In account, let alone a Facebook page. Huh–The Man With the Getaway Facebook Page. I hate to say it, but Mr. Westlake didn’t pick a half-bad time to check out of this hotel. I hope his current identity is doing well. Wherever that may be.

  5. Ral3979

    great work! (as always) can you please send me the link thanks

    I have a print-out of the piece on my desk as we speak, for which I paid precisely bupkus. And if I understand its workings correctly, I can use my access to email anyone who requests it (in the comments section or via email) a free link to the full text. I believe the fact that you can post here at all means I can get your email without you exposing it to vile spambots, but we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.)

    • Unfortunately, it didn’t work that way (and the review doesn’t read that way anymore–why are you still seeing that text?). You would need to have access to Proquest as well.

      I’ll post scans of the Harpers piece this coming week.

  6. Fascinating. I must find the book, and also must pin this post to my task bar so I can read it at home (where I don’t have wifi–and our library closes in 20 minutes). Thanks for pulling this together!

  7. You know, it’s the little things you miss that really bug you. I don’t think that I’d read Block’s Lucky At Cards when I read and reviewed this book. When I did read it later, I didn’t make the connection, but I was rereading part of it just today, appendant to my having referenced it in my Harry Anderson obit.(A role he was born to play, so why didn’t he? Stupid Hollywood.)

    See, the plot of that book centers around a man being framed for a murder he didn’t commit (that didn’t even happen), but he figures out what’s been done to him. Being rich, he can hire detectives to prove it, and the framer is then in big trouble, though not with the law, revenge being a dish best served personally.

    This, you will recall, is Block’s most telling critique of Westlake’s murder scheme. Which makes even more sense here, since Blazes has seen Tim kill Linda. (All the plotters are to some extent stymied by Tim’s insistence that Blazes not only live, but be framed for his lover’s murder). But Block is no doubt flashing back to the failed frame-up of his own 1964 novel, published as Sheldon Lord.

    And wouldn’t Westlake have read that book himself, being a fast friend and fellow smut peddler of Block’s, who had used that very same pseudonym once or twice?

    So was he, in fact, feeding Mr. Block a straight line there?

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