Headed for a Hearse
The Bill Crane Mysteries
Jonathan Latimer
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
SCREWBALL TRAGEDY
an introduction by Max Allan Collins
When I discovered hardboiled detective fiction in the early 1960s, I was a wide-eyed junior-high kid, on a voyage of discovery. There were no books of criticism about “tough-guy” fiction yet; there was no Armchair Detective or Mystery Scene or other fanzines to help chart my passage—at least none that I knew about.
All I knew was that certain paperbacks on the rack at Cohn’s Newsland looked very interesting; they bore images that promised sex and violence, and, I discovered gratefully, they for the most part delivered.
These grand gaudy covers conspired with the late ’50s/early ’60s TV private-eye boom to entice and incite my interest in what Jonathan Latimer once described as fiction devoted to “booze, babes and bullets.” I had no signposts, no critics to guide me. I read Richard S. Prather and Michael Avallone alongside Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammet and there was no one to explain the difference.
However. Four writers of private-eye fiction (based solely on my own adolescent response to them) rose to my personal pantheon of Tough Private Eye-dom. Two of them were the aforementioned Chandler and Hammett, and another was Mickey Spillane, the covers of whose books had been among the most persuasive in interesting me in the genre in the first place.
Gradually, through library research and the New York Times columns of Anthony Boucher, I began to realize that Hammett and Chandler were critically recognized in a field that was generally held in disrepute. I also learned, to my shock and dismay, that Spillane (particularly in articles circa the early ’50s) was viewed unkindly. Often, in fact, he was discussed more in terms of being a communicable disease than a spellbinding author.
This unhappy discovery has led to decades of defense, on my part, of one of the world’s most popular writers (God help me if Mickey ever heard me refer to him as an “author”). It continues to this day, although the critical response has begun to shift in my (which is to say, Spillane’s) direction.
Almost as unhappy a discovery was the absence of mention of the fourth writer in my Private Eye Pantheon—a writer who I considered to be of an importance equal to Hammett, Chandler and Spillane.
Jonathan Latimer wasn’t discussed much at all.
And, while there has been a reassuring resurgence of interest in Latimer’s work in the last several years, as evidenced by the book you’re holding in your hands, this unique practitioner of the hardboiled art remains woefully underappreciated.
If, in my childish enthusiasm (a quality I retain decades past adolescence, incidentally), I elevated Latimer to a position he didn’t quite deserve, I would still unhesitatingly rank him just after Hammett and Chandler, among the pioneers in the field.
And, with the exception of Spillane and Ross MacDonald, I would have difficulty coming up with other names that would push him off the pedestal I’ve provided him.
When you read this book, you should understand why, though in truth Latimer has “dated” somewhat; he is not as timeless as Hammett and Chandler. But just as Spillane’s early Mike Hammer novels remain a vivid if noir-ishly blurred snapshot of the ’50s, Latimer’s Bill Crane novels endure as a bleary-eyed yet sharp-edged photo study of the ’30s.
I mentioned above that Latimer and his Bill Crane books are unique, and that was not hyperbole: for one thing, the Crane novels are probably the most successful melding of the hardboiled novel and the classic drawing-room mystery. Latimer’s only rivals in writing the hardboiled drawing-room mystery are the much celebrated Rex Stout and Erle Stanley Gardner.
But the Nero Wolfe yarns—despite Archie Goodwin’s tough presence and crisp delivery—have always seemed to me more cozy than tough; armchair detective Wolfe, with his beer and orchids and attitude, is more precious than the hardboiled field would tolerate. And Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason stories—with their crackling realistic dialogue, overwhelming interest in American business, and greed- and/or adultery-driven murderers—have more in common with James M. Cain than Agatha Christie. (No coincidence that Latimer’s extensive work on the Perry Mason TV series included both the best adaptations of Gardner stories and the most successful Mason pastiches, an opinion shared by no less authority that Gardner himself.)
Headed for a Hearse (1935) is one of the best Bill Cranes (although every one of them is good, with only Red Gardenias, 1939, falling off somewhat), and demonstrates handily why Latimer is the master of the hardboiled drawing-room mystery.
It includes a locked room puzzle right out of John Dickson Carr; but it also includes scenes of vivid if understated violence of the Hammett variety. There are gut-wrenching scenes of daily life on death row, with convincing human portraits of both the wrongly convicted stock broker and a homicidal labor racketeer—scenes that, if not quite realistic, make for gritty melodrama. There is also much drinking and dining (food is described as lovingly and sensually as the numerous beautiful women), and an air of partying, moving from one bar, one restaurant, one penthouse, to another.
Along the way, as well, are drive-by shootings, gangland slayings and stops at police headquarters; and, in the latter quarter of the novel, when Bill Crane decides to sober up and put his mind to the case, some frantic and hardnosed detecting—one part inspired drawing-room methodology (wait till you see how Crane locates a missing gun), one part methodical gumshoeing (Crane tracking down the seller of another gun).
What is most remarkable about Latimer is his ability to merge a (superficially, at least) realistic crime story with the more overt fantasy of the drawing-room school, as evidenced by the Charlie Chan device of having all of the suspects gathered in one room (at both the beginning and end of the novel). For much of the way, Latimer has the suspects all serve as detectives; unlikely as this might seem, it suits the “ticking clock” of the structure: in only a few days, the innocent stock broker will be executed.
While the cast is large and, in drawing-room fashion, is largely made up of types, Latimer fills each of them in with realistic touches and human quirks. The women characters are particularly attractive, and not just physically; in particular, the relationship between Crane and a seeming throw-away character—a showgirl/gold-digger squatting in the framed stock broker’s apartment—takes on unexpected life.
All of this is delivered with casual brilliance—snappy dialogue and sharp (pre-Chandler) imagery: a cup of coffee (food again!) is “excellent, as black as tar, as pungent as garlic, as clear as dry sherry, as hot as Bisbee, Arizona.” Latimer has it both ways: he masters the style he mocks.
Like an early ’30s screwball movie comedy, only more overtly nasty and racy, Headed for a Hearse is a wild, funny ride. But the cynicism of Bill Crane and his ingenuously shady sidekick Doc Williams give this screwball comedy a dark underside. So does the drinking, which is not presented as revelry, but results in collapse and hangover. The despair of the depression is ever-present, though never directly stated. The starkness of the death-row scenes, and the ultimate misfortune of the resolution of the wronged stock broker’s situation, add to a sense of sadness under the brittle, sometimes absurd humor. This gives Headed for a Hearse life and resonance, making it a screwball tragedy, and none the less entertaining for that.
Why Latimer wrote a mere handful of these popular Bill Crane mysteries is a mystery itself, although perhaps not as much of one as the similar question about Dashiell Hammett and his five novels. Latimer, like Bill Crane, is first-rate about what he does for a living, but is just cynical enough to not take himself or the world or life itself very seriously. Perhaps, that’s why, when Hollywood reared its well-p
aying head, Latimer sauntered West to make his fortune and, in a sense, abandon much of his posterity.
One can see Bill Crane doing much the same thing; but it’s typical of Latimer that in this novel, we rarely get into Bill Crane’s point of view. Often, in fact, he’s referred to with tongue-in-check formality (and distancing) as “William Crane.” We rarely know what he’s thinking, or feeling; like the audience of a film, we witness the screwy spectacle from without. Perhaps significantly, the only extended passage within Crane’s thoughts is when the detective wakes up with a particularly bad hangover—which immediately precedes Crane getting down to business.
Finally, a word about racism. Latimer’s characters, as befits the times, often reveal racist attitudes at an alarming rate, by modern standards anyway. I think it’s clear, when Latimer’s union thug makes such remarks, that the author is reporting social attitudes, not approving of them. At the same time, there is a moment in the novel when Latimer the stingy omniscient narrator refers to a black character, repeatedly, as a “nigger.” Those who find this offensive, and that should be most of us, must cut Latimer some slack, here. The use of rough slang, even in narration, is obviously Latimer working at maintaining a hardboiled edge. It is style, not racism. In retrospect, it might be an unfortunate artistic choice. But that is all it is. Looking past the offensiveness of ethnic-slur slang, we can see Latimer effectively invoking the melting-pot that America so overtly still was in 1935. And Chicago—which former Herald-Examiner reporter Latimer so colorfully portrays—was a prime example of that not entirely yet blended ethnic stew.
I would suggest readers grasp the context of when this story was written, and accept seeming racist moments as bitter elements in this bleary-eyed, sharp-edged photo study of the Windy City in the ’30s just another part of an exceptionally rich, entertaining novel.
Max Allan Collins
February 27, 1990
MAX ALLAN COLLINS is the author of thirty novels in the suspense field, including the Shamus award-winning True Detective, which introduced 1930s Chicago private-eye Nate Heller, who has appeared in several equally well-received sequels. Collins has been the writer of the internationally syndicated comic strip Dick Tracy since 1977.
CHAPTER I
Saturday Evening
In the cell to the right, a man was still crying. It was past sundown now, and he had been crying since noon. He cried softly and persistently and querulously, without hope and without conviction, as does a small dispirited child at night.
Robert Westland, from the dim cavern of his own cell in the death house, listened to him. Except for the noise, the silken twilight was pleasant. The gloom thickened fast, as though someone were folding layers of muslin over a magic lantern, and semidarkness had already obscured the steel bars of the cell and cloaked the lewd white porcelain of the uncovered toilet. Swinging down the long jail corridor, cool air, moist and fragrant, pressed Westland’s face, and he drew a breath through his nose and tightened his fingers on the steel bottom of his bed. From the jail kitchen came the odors of fresh bread and stewing beef and the sounds of cooks preparing supper: the clatter of pans and tableware, the clinking of china, the rush of water, heavy footsteps.…
After a time the man in the next cell ceased crying and sniffed the air anxiously and wetly like a hound dog with a cold. There was a moment of fragile silence and then he muttered:
“I don’ wanta die. Jesus Christ! I don’ wanta die.”
He began to cry again, querulously and without hope. The jail lights came on, flooding the corridor and pitching shadows, angular and grotesque, into Westland’s cell. The light was harsh, and Westland rubbed his eyes and yawned. Bare feet slapped the floor of the cell to the left, and the man named Dave Connors thrust his blond head against the bars to the right of his cell’s front and peered at an angle into Westland’s cell.
“What the hell time is it?” he demanded.
He had a six-inch scar over his left eye, and he wore a pair of gray trousers without a belt. Muscles crossed his bare chest and bunched on his shoulders. He was a labor racketeer and he spoke out the corner of his mouth without moving his lips.
“I think supper’s about ready.” Westland swung off his bed and walked to the front of his cell, blinking at the corridor lights. “I hope it’s good.”
“This ain’t the Blackstone.” Three gold teeth shone in Connors’ mouth. “But they ought to give us plenty of grub seein’ we only got a week to eat it.”
“A week is not so long,” said Westland.
Blue eyes under frayed hemp brows came electrically alive. “You said it! A week’s only seven days.” Connors grinned again.
“Six days.” Westland leaned against the hard bars. “The kindly State of Illinois says we shall be placed in the electric chair at 12:01 Saturday morning and as this is Saturday night, there are left only Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. That’s six.”
Sharply, a bell rang in the distance, and then silence cut it off. The man in the cell to the right continued to moan softly. There was a distant noise of steel grating against steel, and a confused sound of voices.
“Supper,” said Westland.
“The State says we gotta die on Saturday.” Connors’ fingers, on the bars, were brown and unyielding, as though a woodcarver had made them out of oak. “Why don’t they wait until 11:59 Saturday night, or at least until sunrise like they do in books? The State don’t seem to like us at all.”
“No,” said Westland, “it doesn’t.”
In the corridor the draft was quite cool now, and it moved faster and purposefully. The man in the cell to the right sniveled, and moaned:
“Jesus Christ, I don’ wanta die! I don’ wanta——”
Connors showed the three gold teeth in a snarl. “Shut up, you sheeny,” he shouted. “Cut that out.” He shook a massive fist. “Cut it out, d’you hear?”
The man emitted a startled snort, returned to his crying.
“I can’t stand that guy,” Connors said. “I ate at the same table in jail with him before I was sentenced. He’s a dirty rat.”
“He’s been crying ever since they put us in these cells this morning.”
“He’s a rat.” Connors’ mouth curled contemptuously, drawing the right side of his face into vertical wrinkles. He looked at Westland. “Listen,” he said, “don’t get an idea I’m scared to die from the way I’m talking, see? I’m just joking, see?” He was a powerful man, and the flesh on his face was pale and firm.
“Sure, you’re just joking.”
“Y’understand, I don’t like the idea of dying more than anybody else, but I ain’t afraid.”
Westland saw with surprise that Connors’ lips were actually moving. “That’s more than I can say. I’m scared to death,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d mind, but I’m beginning to now.” The draft was cold on his arms and he rolled down the sleeves of his broadcloth shirt.
Connors said, “You’re different from me. I been expectin’ this for twenty years, and I’m used to the idea. I guess I got it comin’ to me anyway. I knocked off a lot of tough ones during the alky-runnin’ days, but you was raised to expect to die in bed with a lot of doctors hangin’ around.” He pushed blond hair off his square forehead. “I guess it’s tough when you don’t expect a rap like this.”
The man in the cell to the right blew his nose and coughed. Two questioning toots came from a switch engine in the railroad yards south of the jail.
“I didn’t expect it,” said Westland; “and I still don’t know what it’s all about.”
Connors’ blue eyes, expressive in his oak face, were questioning. Coiling muscles pulled his shoulders into a shrug. “To my way of thinking, they ought to pin a medal on me for fogging those Canzoneri brothers, instead of the hot seat. I never seen a tougher pair of Dagos.”
The corridor echoed uneven footsteps, magnified the clang of a steel door. It was the guard. His name was Percival Galt, and he walked unsteadily on stil
t-like legs. Steaming food cluttered a tray held gingerly in his smudged hands. He smiled with the professional insincerity of a physician, exposing banana-yellow teeth. Halting in front of Westland’s cell, he said:
“Come and get it.”
This was a joke. The guard’s protruding Adam’s apple jerked convulsively with his laughter. This was a good joke.
“Steak smothered with onions,” he added enticingly.
Connors shrugged his shoulders and disappeared into the rear of his cell, but the man in the cell to the right shuffled forward. He was a small man, and his face was pallid under a spotty growth of brown stubble. He had a broken nose, his button-black eyes were small and close together, his mouth twitched as though he were mumbling a prayer. His name was Isadore Varecha. He walked to the bars, thrust his hands, palms upward, through them in a gesture of supplication.
Guard Galt’s eyes, watching him, shone.
Isadore Varecha pleaded: “I am so hungry, mister.” His twisted face was appealing, he slobbered onto his receding chin. His voice was an off-key voice, shrill and uneven.
The guard looked at him.
The steel bars let Varecha’s hand pass through. “Please, mister,” he said.
The tray clanged as Guard Galt set it on the cement floor. “That’s the way to act.” He lifted a tin pan of stew, a chunk of bread, and a tin cup of beige coffee, handed them, with a spoon, to Varecha, who was making animal sounds with his mouth.
Guard Galt’s eyes were screened with yellow veins. He regarded Westland and said: “And you?”
“I’m grateful for anything I get,” said Westland.
“You should be.” Guard Galt handed him his food. “I don’t know why the State don’t starve you to death, anyway. It’d be cheaper.”
Westland retired to his bed with the hot plate of stew. It didn’t taste bad, and there were vegetables floating with the large chunks of beef. The bread was fresh, too, and he dipped a piece in the plate.
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