2013

Here we all are, blithely stepping into anno domini or, if you prefer, Common Era 2013. This number is very auspicious, because 13 is unusual in that it is associated with both good fortune and ill fortune. If you consider it a worrisome integer, think of the Munsters' home at 1313 Mockingbird Lane, Friday the thirteenth and the ill-fated Apollo 13 mission––although this last one seems "lucky" to me because the astronauts came home against great odds.

Apollo 13

On the other hand, the number 13 has special significance for many of the world's religions. The people of the Jewish faith are all descended from the 13 tribes of Israel. There were 13 people at the last supper of Christ. There are legends in Sikhism of a famed Guru who gave food to every thirteenth person. Early Tibetan kings were enthroned at the age of 13 and often ruled for a period of 13 years, to be succeeded by the next 13-year-old king. Perhaps I should also mention that there are 13 witches in a coven and that many of our ancient cultures lived with a 28-day lunar calendar of 13 months.

We can't pretend there is no 13––like hotels, hospitals and tall buildings such as the Empire State building in which there is no floor numbered 13. Many airports skip the 13th gate. Airplanes have no 13th aisle. Hospitals and hotels regularly have no room number 13. There are plenty of cities without a 13th Street or a 13th Avenue.

If you are a reader, number 13 can be a good thing. As a matter of fact, these days it seems like most of my reading comes from series and I have found that the thirteenth book can be one of the best.

This is true of Andrea Camilleri's excellent The Potter's Field, reviewed here. It was the recipient of the 2012 International Dagger Award. Kerry Greenwood's The Castlemaine Murders, which was her 13th Phrynne Fisher story, was a finalist for the Ned Kelly Award for best novel. Nemesis was Agatha Christie's thirteenth Jane Marple story. Just a Corpse at Twilight, by Janwillem van de Wetering, was a finalist for the Anthony Award for best mystery. This has to be my favorite of the series, and it is the thirteenth in the series––if you count a book of short stories.

The main characters, Amsterdam cops Henk Grijpstra and Rinus de Gier are back for the first book written after van de Wetering took a seven-year break. This was a time during which van de Wetering, who had become a heavy drinker, got his life in order. Grijpstra and de Gier have left the force, with de Gier moving to the Maine coast, while Grijpstra has become a PI who is quite selective about his cases.

Much of de Gier's appearance and behavior seem to be modeled after van de Wetering, so it is appropriate that the story begins with a frantic phone call from de Gier to his former partner, telling him that, while under the influence of an experimental mixture of drugs and alcohol, he may have killed his girlfriend by kicking her off a cliff. A pair of dubious friends took the body away and they are now blackmailing him. Both Grijpstra and his old boss, the Commisaris, believe that de Gier is essentially a good man and can be helped.

Grijpstra travels to Maine and, while the locals all think de Gier is from California, because of his dress and funny accent, Grijpstra is labeled as a Dutch man from Pennsylvania for the same reasons. The mystery is entertaining, but it is the little vignettes about the interactions of the Down-Easters and the Dutch that bring the story to life.

Another favorite 13 of mine is A Cold Touch of Ice, by Michael Pearce. It takes place in Egypt, during the year 1912, when rising nationalistic fervor is making the work of Gareth Owen more complicated. Owen is the Mamur Zapt, the British chief of the secret police in Cairo. Years ago, the British stepped into Egyptian affairs after a call for help from the Khedive, who was the Egyptian ruler and who was concerned about the financial stability of the area. The British have settled in very nicely now, thank you very much, and even though things are better they seem to have put down roots!

The current problems that are heating up an already very warm climate are stemming from a war that has broken out between the Ottoman Empire and Italy over the territories now known as Libya. The Ottoman Empire was the major controlling force in Egypt, and the Cairenes favored their position. While there are many Italians living in Cairo, anti-Italian feelings are growing. When an Italian man, Morelli, who had lived and worked in Egypt for decades is murdered, Gareth Owen and his friend Mahmoud of the Egyptian law enforcement want to solve this murder quickly, before the situation becomes more inflamed. Morelli had run an auction house in Cairo for a few generations and considered himself a Cairene. His friends were all Egyptian and he spent most evenings with them in a café, playing a board game. One day after work, he was strangled on his way to the game. Was the murder because of his nationality or because of something overheard in a back alley about guns?

A backdrop of the story reveals, in a subtle way, that integration into a society can be reversed in mere days, as rumors spread and nationalistic feelings surface, jeopardizing longstanding friendships and instilling suspicion that no one can be taken at face value. In A Cold Touch of Ice, the title primarily refers to the ice that is so hard to keep on hand in an early twentieth-century Cairo summer. It also alludes to the shaft of cold that can spread through a community, hardening better feelings. The problems are often generational. The older people in a community are more likely to keep a friend they have known since their youth, while the younger hotheads simply look for targets to vent their anger on.

This story covers the time when the famous Lord Kitchener became the British consul in Cairo, and when T. E. Lawrence, the archaeologist, was settling into the early part of his fame. The sights and scenes of Cairo, the heightened tensions of war times, gunrunning, spying, secret brotherhoods, all combine to make this an interesting and exciting story.

I always take home a great deal more than a mystery's resolution when I read Michael Pearce. It is a trip to a different time and place that is enlightening.

There are a few more number 13s that I look forward to reading. Steven F. Havill's A Discount for Death is on the top of my TBR list, as is Donna Leon's Doctored Evidence. So I stand by the hope that the coming year will be lucky 2013.

2013 fun

Going Dutch

A few weeks ago, I was tempted to try a mystery that was billed as humorous and took place in Holland. The title beckoned also. It was Dutch Me Deadly, by Maddy Hunter, part of the Passport to Peril series. I wouldn’t put it in into the category of geezer lit, because the seniors were all curmudgeons or ditzes and dimwits. The humor went under my head as if I were looking for Edam, and what I got was American cheese. Now, I know people who won’t eat anything else––members of my extended family no less––but if you are looking for some Gouda reading I do have a few favorite Dutch authors who have brought me hours of pleasure. The ones that get translated are certainly prolific and they are well worth your time.

A. C. Baantjer has written about 70 books, with only about two-thirds having been translated. DeKok and the Disillusioned Corpse is a good example of his work. On a windy, damp March day in Amsterdam, a body is fished out of a canal. There is no identification on the person and the only clue to his identity is the way he is dressed, in black turtleneck, black jeans and new Keds. Detective Inspector DeKok (Baantjer's de Cock is DeKok in U.S. publications) and his partner, Vledder, are quite surprised when, the next day, a beautiful young woman comes into the police station, claiming she knows the victim and they were, in fact, lovers. Unfortunately, the little she knows about him doesn't include his real name.

Amsterdam is a city of canals, in a system that is even more extensive than that of Venice, a little-known fact that the citizens of the city are proud of. They are also proud of the fact that murder is somewhat of a rare happening in this beautiful city. Death, on the other hand, is common because of widespread drug addiction and alcoholism. In fact, DeKok wants to consider an accidental death in the current matter at hand but the postmortem reveals the fatal wound on the young man's face. These two detectives have only one cryptic clue to start them on their search. The dead man was heard to ask "Can a dead person commit murder?" a day or so before his death.

The story is gripping and beautifully complex, with DeKok's character a subtle mix of psychology, history and intuition that make him a sleuth many compare to Maigret. I like him a bit more than Maigret, though. He is a maverick, a Luddite and, most of all, a compassionate man.

Nicolas Freeling has some 37 books to his credit, and my favorite is Gun Before Butter. This book won the Grand Prix du roman de l'Académie française and was shortlisted for the Gold Dagger from the British Crime Writers' Association. It is perhaps one of Freeling’s best known. The title paraphrases an old 1960s slogan "guns and butter" that echoes back to WWII and refers to the economy and governmental choices about which product to produce more of, especially during a time of war. Hermann Goering said that guns would make the Germans powerful, while butter would make them fat. (And who would know that better than the man often called Fat Hermann?)

Inspector Piet Van der Valk of the Amsterdam police would rather be in Amsterdam than anywhere else. He had just come back from the country and had his fill of fresh air. The first case he is told about is that of a young girl involved in a public fracas. Her name was Lucienne Englebert. It came to his attention because Van der Valk was known to be a character who was sometimes quite rude about Dutch provincialism and isolationism. He was a nonconformist, but because he was good at his job, he had license to be a maverick at times. In revenge, his co-workers treated him like a buffoon. He was given the odd jobs; anybody with a funny name or a funny business came to him to be straightened out.

The affair of “The Diamond Cutters," which was his private name for the case, was at its base a romance, because he fell for the beautiful Lucienne. Years later, as he pondered the mystery while he relaxed with a good meal, he remembered every time he saw Lucienne. He said the case was like a diamond, which while able to cut others into facets, could throw out light and sparks and strange fire.

Critics have also compared Van der Valk to Maigret, partially based on the fact that he liked to think and eat. Well, so do I.

One series that I have read in totality is Janwillem van de Wetering's. Outsider in Amsterdam, the first, is based on the characters of Adjutant-Detective Henk Grijpstra, and Detective-Sergeant Rinus de Gier. Grijpstra is heavy, middle-aged, and not happily married. He is the senior partner of the team. He is a Frisian who, in his youth, dreamed of being a jazz musician or a painter, and when a set of drums mysteriously appeared in police headquarters, he appropriated them.

Janwillem van de Wetering

De Gier is younger and attractive, with brown eyes and curly hair, mustache and always wearing his denim suit, which appears to be the height of fashion. He is single, handsome, and very successful with women. He is a deep thinker, frequently pondering the meaning of life. He is, like Grijpstra, an amateur musician. He often carries a small flute, and in odd moments he and Grijpstra improvise together in their office. Pictures of van de Wetering make me think he modeled de Gier after himself.

The third character present in all the books is the elderly Commissaris, almost incapacitated by arthritis. He supervises the investigations, providing key insights into the cases. He is never named, except by his wife, who calls him Jan. He is fond of jenever (gin) and small cigars.

The cases are all very intriguing and unusual, but they play second fiddle to the relationships that develop and the interaction of people. Often, an interrogation between the detectives and their suspects wanders into philosophical or ethical ruminations. Van de Wetering himself studied Zen. At one point in his life, his alcoholism interfered with his work and he stopped writing until he sobered up. After that, in the books de Gier also gave up alcohol.

Most of these books by Freeling, van de Wetering and Baantjer were written in the '60s and '70s and they may appear dated to the modern reader, but I never found them so. Another excellent writer from the Netherlands is Robert van Gulik, who writes about Judge Dee, who lived during the Tang Dynasty in China in the 600s. If these writers are an example of what comes out of the area, I hope some readers can suggest more for me to look into. Perhaps something written in the recent decades.

Altered States

Recently I came across an interesting book entitled Booze and the Private Eye: Alcohol in the Hard-Boiled Novel by Rita Elizabeth Rippetoe. It did bring to mind some long-ago images that were almost constant: strong-jawed silent PIs who were pretty stoic, kept their emotions to themselves and sought their solace in a bottle. These were men like Philip Marlowe, Mike Hammer and Mike Shayne. Similarly tough policemen might spend their evenings in bars, since for most of these men family life had gone by the wayside. I don't recall the term "alcoholic" ever being used. Not even "drunk" very often, but I read those books so very long ago.

An essay by Stephen Budiansky in The Atlantic Monthly humorously compares the tough guys of the past with the modern detective who seemingly frets more about sissy stuff like high blood pressure. He points out that for Phillip Marlowe deep relaxation meant being knocked over the head with a tire iron and going to la-la land for a while and having a health problem might have meant being sapped with a blackjack, beaten with a gun, shackled to a bed post and shot up with heroin. In Strip Jack, John Rebus took a hot bath for deep relaxation for self-help. But here I must stand up for Ian Rankin's Rebus. What he went through in his SAS training was as bad as anything anyone went through–just read Knots and Crosses.

There is no doubt that the life of a crime fighter is tough and the pages of crime fiction are populated with protagonists who are described by the Teddy Thompson song "Altered State":

I like to live in an altered state
It makes me love all the things I hate
And I'm happy to be alive
I like to put on a happy face while I cry on the inside

The only question is, are there more detectives on the bottle these days or on the wagon? Some of my favorite sleuths who have alcohol problems are Harry Hole from the Jo Nesbø series, Ian Rankin's John Rebus, Simon Brett's Charles Paris and John Straley's Cecil Younger. In the female line, I like to follow the adventures of Faith Zanetti in stories with titles like Vodka Neat, Double Shot and My Favorite Poison written by Anna Blundy. These titles give a hint about her tippling and I highly recommend the books.

But at the top of my list, because he loves reading as much as he loves drinking is Ken Bruen's Jack Taylor, a PI who starts his day in his pub, which he calls his office, drinking coffee laced with whiskey to help him open his eyes. He makes no apologies for his love of the eau de vie or any other drug he can get his hands on, but he tries every so often to get straight. All of these detectives seem to solve their cases one way or another, no matter how impaired, and live to serve another day.

Very different from these, but likeable all the same, at the bottom of my list is none other than Leslie Thomas's Dangerous Davies: The Last Detective. Davies was given this moniker because he was said to be harmless and he was known by the London police as the "last detective" because he was never sent unless it was a very risky job or there was no one else. He was a drunk, frequently laughed at, often foolish but he never lost hope and always felt that one day he would redeem himself. Among his many shortcomings was that he was never suspicious or cautious and got beaten up on a regular basis. When interviewing a suspect most often he was the one answering all the questions. When he solved a case it was because he drank not despite it.

Much more common in crime fiction these days is the recovering alcoholic and drug addict. Joining these ranks are Lawrence Block's Matt Scudder, James Lee Burke's Dave Robicheaux, Lilian Jackson Braun's Jim Qwilleran, Nevada Barr's Anna Pigeon, J. A. Jance's J. P. "Beau" Beaumont and Rinus de Gier, a creation of Janwillem van de Wetering. This type of character is sometimes more interesting, because he or she is more open about his emotions and is more likely to have a life outside of the job.

Some of the help for the now-sober has come from AA, some from friends and, for some, a change in lifestyle of a different sort. Van de Wetering described de Gier in ways that resembled himself at times: fashionable, debonair and mustachioed. They both moved to Maine and both cleaned up their life and drinking with the aid of Zen Buddhism. At one point, van de Wetering had stopped writing due to his alcoholism.

Another very famous and successful mystery writer was Raymond Chandler, who was known to have abused alcohol for the duration of his writing career. It has also been theorized that it was alcohol that killed Edgar Allen Poe, although modern theories include many other ideas such as drugs and rabies. Stephen King is quite open about his past in rehab, which was not of the celebrity type.

Rippetoe makes the point that fiction mirrors what society thinks about drink. Well, there is college-aged society, young society, middle-aged society and aged society and fiction aimed at all those groups these days. That leaves quite a bit of leeway. I would be very interested in input from readers with opinions on the subject of the changing role of alcohol or drugs in the lives of detectives and how it impacts their work.