Joel Townsley Rogers (1896–1984)

This was a difficult read for me because there are no chapter breaks, and the only POV is that of Dr. Riddle, and I was never sure how much to trust him. The story jumps backward and forward in time, adding another complication. I think the reader could perhaps figure out the solution; it seems mostly fair play, but it would take more attention than I had to piece together the clues.

In the introduction to my edition, written by Joe R. Lansdale, this book is described as "stream of consciousness" and name-checks William Faulkner as a similar s-o-c author. I personally do not care for Faulkner's work, but I'd agree with that assessment of the book, certainly in what I'd describe as its swampy menacing vibe.

For my overall reading experience, I'd rate this a 2.5. The writing is occasionally repetitive and the initial sections were so ornate that I nearly bailed. But at the same time I found it interesting to see how Rogers revealed the solution. So a tricky one to rate and trickier to recommend. I wouldn't make it your first American Mystery Classic, that's for sure.… (meer)

This acclaimed crime novel was less satisfying to me than it apparently is to a lot of people. The search for a murder victim and a twisted dwarf of a murderer depends far too much on coincidence and characters guessing right for me, and the author's almost faux poetic style irritated me. The story is complicated by jumps back and forth in time (not necessarily a bad thing, but one that could leave a reader confused), and the first person narrator (a brain surgeon supposedly coincidentally involved in the case) tells the story in a rather arch and deliberately obscure manner. I'm sure this was author Rogers's intent, but it, along with the weird character names, made it a bit of a slog for me. All eventually makes sense, including the names, in a manically contrived but relatively satisfying wrap-up, but it's one of those stories where one wonders at all the mechanics and is left with the question, why doesn't anyone do anything the easy way? It's a great favorite novel of several people I respect, so other readers may love it as well. I found it entertaining but overwrought.… (meer)

You wouldn’t think a book from 1945 could out-weird many a modern thriller, but The Red Right Hand does. And handily.

Sorry.

Not only is the crime itself weird, but also the murderer and especially the way the author constructs the tale. The narrator is a man who was on the scene during the murder hour, but didn’t see either the murderer or the car he drove by in. Later he meets a girl who escaped the killer’s clutches, but doesn’t add much to the story other than he was a tramp her fiance decided to pick up and that he can recite Latin. That and he has short, twisted legs, pointed teeth and red eyes. Then there’s the retired professor of criminology whose claim to fame is the defacto reference book on psychopathic killers. And let’s not forget our victim who is missing his right hand.

One of the most amusing devices is the names the author gave his characters. Our narrator (unreliable is too generous a word) is Dr. Riddle. The killer is Corkscrew. The handless victim is St. Erme. The site of the slaying is Dead Bridegroom’s Pond. The local handyman is Flail while the mechanic back in New York is Dexter. Delicious.

More or less it’s an impossible crime story (cousin to the locked room mystery), but don’t expect a conventional murder plot. There are clues that can point you in the right direction, if you can spot them (one is a word play). The whole thing is choked with coincidences, cover-ups and red herrings. Not to mention the language itself which can be muddled and difficult to parse at times. I think it was deliberate; to fog the reader’s brain as badly as Dr. Riddle’s. To wit -

“A nightmare road. I might have dreamed it, from the time that I had turned off onto it at sunset, with a splitting headache. Phantasms and eyeless houses and a red-eyed rattlesnake and a crazy hat of mine; and old Adam MacComerou staring at me through the garden dusk as I appeared, as if he couldn’t believe that I was real; and then a dead man in a ditch whose last breath I had heard. And skittering surrealistic lunatics and a terrified father clutching his children as if I might eat them, and now this damned slavering dog that would tear out my throat if he could.

All down to the nightmare road. But the road was real. I didn’t dream it. And I knew that I was real. I’ll stick to that.”

At first, readers might have a bit of trouble connecting with the situation and the characters with prose like that, but once the story takes hold of you it’s a difficult book to ignore and one I’m pleased is back in publication.… (meer)