A collection of short stories about Mr Reginald ("Reggie") Fortune. Reggie is a surgeon, hence "Mr" Fortune in British usage, and also a semi-amateur detective. In the first two stories he is a practicing physician whose patients are murdered, but in the other four he is more of a police consulting surgeon. Historically, leading critics like Ellery Queen, Howard Haycraft, and Julian Symons have considered him important in the development of the detective story. Hence, when I was looking for a 1920 ebook I landed here.

The thing is, Reggie and his colleagues talk in a sort of slangy manner that's hard to get 100 years later. They actually call each other "old thing" and the like. The narration overall is a little elliptical and hard to follow. And I'm sorry, but fair play was not really in evidence. Inevitably, Reggie throws out some facts when explaining the solution that were withheld from the reader.

On the other hand, I actually found myself growing fond of Reggie as I read on. Some past reviewers have found him conceited or unlikeable; I think this may be the British classism of 100 years irritating modern readers. ( )

Exceedingly pleasant tales, despite some bloody content, of a wealthy British physican-turned-detective, Reggie Fortune, who solves cases pretty much for his own amusement, while usually working with the police. The stories often have similarities that detract from them, such as too-obvious efforts to frame someone for a crime. They also seem to rely on coincidence and the fact that Reggie Fortune knows a little about everything--and usually more than a little. But it is his manner, as he drifts semi-detached throughout the proceedings, always doing more than it appears he is on the surface, that makes these stories entertaining and very readable. There is usually a neat twist near the end that lifts the whodunit at the center of each tale a bit above the ordinary. ( )

In his day, H. C. Bailey (1878-1961) was highly regarded - considered, apparently, one of the half-dozen best practitioners of the Golden Age of English mystery writing. He still has admirers. I am not among them. This is not for want of trying - I have frequently tried to enjoy his books - but because I find his hero Reggie Fortune so unlikable I just don't want to spend any time in his company. If you want to know why that is, just read mmyoung's excellent review from December 2010: it sums up my feelings exactly!
NB. The dust jacket on my copy is one of the most hideous - but undeniable eye-catching - I have ever seen; I assume it is contemporary with this edition.

Before the reader opens an H. C. Bailey book they may wonder why his name is not well remembered even by those who have a particular liking for English fiction written in the “golden era” of murder mysteries. After reading just a few pages this puzzle is solved. Bailey’s writing style is pedestrian, his characters caricatures and his plotting nonsensical. Coming across writers of this ilk helps the reader to understand the treatment book reviewers gave Christie, Allingham and Sayers.

In addition to infelicities of style, structure and plotting, this particular volume reads as though it was at best cursorily edited with sentences of various tenses packed together into the same paragraph. Although not every character is imbued with the same voice there are fewer voices than there are characters. Fortune, the surgeon/private detective, is obnoxiously self important without, apparently, Bailey being aware of that fact. Fortune is able to solve cases because the police are incompetent: Fortune is aware of information he does not share with them and occasionally he simply intuits the truth. Yes, Bailey indeed uses the oldest trick in the book to make his protagonist outwit the police by have the police having little wit to better. In the occasional case, such as “The Business Minister” Fortune is actually shown in some detail inspecting the possible scene of the crime. And it is here that one can see, lain bare, the method by which Bailey had his amateur detective outdo the professional police. The police, one sees, are barely able to fulfill the most basic aspects of their jobs. They do not even call upon their own coroner to inspect the corpse. They follow Fortune about as he inspects the likely scene of the murder. Having looked in the living room and the bedroom Fortune suggests they move on to the bathroom “‘We haven’t seen the bathroom,’ said Reggie. Bell looked and him and shrugged. ‘Not likely to be much there, sir,’ said the Inspector. ‘There could be,’ said Reggie gravely, and led the way.” Yet, in comparison to such incompetence Fortune is still able to shine only dimly given Bailey’s leaden prose and incoherent plotting. ( )