Angel Esquire

by Edgar Wallace

In Edgar Wallace’s “Angel Esquire” (1919), a nasty millionaire dies without revealing the combination to his save; however, he does leave behind several cryptic clues. Who will be the first to figure out the combination and claim the fortune: the millionaire’s criminal associates, or the innocent young girl whose father he swindled?

Genres: Crime, Mystery, Classics

52 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1908

About the author

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace (1875-1932) was a prolific British crime writer, journalist and playwright, who wrote 175 novels, 24 plays, and countless articles in newspapers and journals.

Over 160 films have been made of his novels, more than any other author. In the 1920s, one of Wallace's publishers claimed that a quarter of all books read in England were written by him.

He is most famous today as the co-creator of "King Kong", writing the early screenplay and story for the movie, as well as a short story "King Kong" (1933) credited to him and Draycott Dell. He was known for the J. G. Reeder detective stories, The Four Just Men, the Ringer, and for creating the Green Archer character during his lifetime.

Reviews

[Kim · Rating 4 out of 5]

Angel Esquire is a novel by Edgar Wallace published in 1908. Edgar Wallace wrote a lot. I bought an e-book called "The Complete Works of Edgar Wallace" or something like that, mostly because I get tired of looking for his books and I love his books. I'd love them a little better if I could hold them in my hands and turn the pages, but I'll take them this strange e-book way for now. Anyway, this complete works I now have goes on and on and on. So I counted for a while wondering how much there is to read, then I got tired of counting so just looked it up on the internet which says:

Wallace was such a prolific writer that one of his publishers claimed that a quarter of all books in England were written by him. As well as journalism, Wallace wrote screen plays, poetry, historical non-fiction, 18 stage plays, 957 short stories, and over 170 novels, 12 in 1929 alone. More than 160 films have been made of Wallace's work. He is remembered for the creation of King Kong, as a writer of 'the colonial imagination', for the J. G. Reeder detective stories, and for The Green Archer serial. He sold over 50 million copies of his combined works in various editions, and The Economist describes him as "one of the most prolific thriller writers of [the 20th] century", although few of his books are still in print in the UK.

How can anyone write 170 novels plus all that other stuff? So I figured the only way it could happen is if you lived a long, long time, but I'm wrong, he was 56 years old when he died. I can't imagine he got much done other than writing. I wonder if his hand was extremely painful after awhile. Oh, I just found the answer to that one:

Wallace narrated his words onto wax cylinders (the dictaphones of the day) and his secretaries typed up the text. This may be why he was able to work at such high speed and why his stories have narrative drive. Many of Wallace's critically successful books were dictated like this over two or three days, locked away with cartons of cigarettes and endless pots of sweet tea, often working pretty much uninterrupted in 72 hours. Most of his novels were serialised in segments but written in this way. The serialised stories that were instead written piecemeal have a distinctly different narrative energy, not sweeping up the reader on the story wave. Wallace rarely edited his own work after it was dictated and typed up, but sent it straight to the publishers, intensely disliking the revision of his work with other editors. The company would do only cursory checks for factual errors before printing. Wallace faced widespread accusations that he used ghost writers to churn out books, though there is no evidence of this, and his prolificness became something of a joke, the subject of cartoons and sketches. His 'three day books', reeled off to keep the loan sharks from the door, were unlikely to garner great critical praise and Wallace claimed not to find literary value in his own works.

I wonder if it was hard to just say his words and not write them down, I don't think I could ever remember what I was "writing" without at least notes. And as for not having literary value, I don't know about that, but I have fun reading them. Then there is this:

Q. D. Leavis, Arnold Bennett and Dorothy L Sayers led the attack on Wallace, suggesting he offered no social critique or subversive agenda at all and distracting the reading public from better things. Trotsky, reading a Wallace novel whilst recuperating on his sickbed in 1935, found it to be "mediocre, contemptible and crude... [with no] shade of perception, talent or imagination." Critics Steinbrunner and Penzler stated that Wallace's writing is "slapdash and cliché-ridden, [with] characterization that is two dimensional and situations [that] are frequently trite, relying on intuition, coincidence, and much pointless, confusing movement to convey a sense of action. The heroes and villains are clearly labelled, and stock characters, humorous servants, baffled policemen, breathless heroines, could be interchanged from one book to another."

My word people, leave the guy alone. Remember that, "if you can't say something nice" thing I was told when I was young? I guess not everyone learned the same thing, they sound like a bunch of politicians. The guy died with massive debts owing large amounts of money to racing bookies, maybe that will make all the Edgar Wallace bashers feel better. If they were still alive anyway. It also says that his wife outlived him by only 14 months. I guess that way at least she didn't have to pay all that money back.

In my copy of the book, I guess it is still called a copy when there isn't a book with paper pages any where near me right now, my copy starts with this:


TABLE OF CONTENTS

ANGEL, ESQUIRE

I. The Yellow Box
II. The Silver Charm
III. A Case for Angel, Equire

ANGEL, ESQUIRE — THE NOVEL

Why we had two chapters 1, 2, and 3 I didn't know until I read the first one and found it was a short story, that's what all three of them are. The first story tells us why he is called Angel in the first place:

WHEN Christopher Angle went to school he was very naturally called "Angel" by his fellows. When, in after life, he established a reputation for tact, geniality, and a remarkable equability, of temper, he became "Angel, Esquire," and, as Angel Esquire, he went through the greater portion of his adventurous life, so that on the coast and in the islands and in the wild lands that lie beyond the It'uri Forest, where Mr C. Angle is unknown, the remembrance of Angel, Esquire, is kept perennially green.

And Angel is what we know him as all through three short stories and one novel. I had forgotten what his name was until I looked for it again a few minutes ago. Another thing we don't know about Angel is just what he does. For that, there is this:

In what department of the Government he was before he took up a permanent suite of rooms at New Scotland Yard it is difficult to say. All that is known is that when the "scientific expedition" of Dr Kauffhaus penetrated to the head waters of the Kasakasa River, Angel Esquire, was in the neighbourhood shooting elephants. A native messenger en route to the nearest post, carrying a newly-ratified treaty, counter-signed by the native chief, can vouch for Angel's presence, because Angel's men fell upon him and beat him, and Angel took the newly-sealed letter and calmly tore it up.

When, too, yet another "scientific expedition," was engaged in making elaborate soundings in a neutral port in the Pacific, it was his steam launch that accidentally upset the boat of the men of science, and many invaluable instruments and drawings were irretrievably lost in the deeps of the rocky inlet. Following, however, upon some outrageous international incident, no less than the—but perhaps it would be wiser not to say—Angel was transferred bodily to Scotland Yard, undisguisedly a detective, and was placed in charge of the Colonial Department, which deals with all matters in those countries—British or otherwise—where the temperature rises above 103 degrees Fahrenheit.

Then we have from the novel:

Nobody quite knows how Angel Esquire came to occupy the position he does at Scotland Yard. On his appointment, "An Officer of Twenty Years' Standing" wrote to the Police Review and characterized the whole thing as "a job."

Probably it was. For Angel Esquire had been many things in his short but useful career, but never a policeman. He had been a big game shot, a special correspondent, a "scratch" magistrate, and his nearest approach to occupying a responsible position in any police force in the world was when he was appointed a J.P. of Rhodesia, and, serving on the Tuli Commission, he hanged M'Linchwe and six of that black desperado's companions.

If the truth be told, nobody quite knew exactly what position Angel did hold.

If you turn into New Scotland Yard and ask the janitor at the door for Mr. Christopher Angel—Angel Esquire by the way was a nickname affixed by a pert little girl—the constable, having satisfied himself as to your bona fides, would take you up a flight of stairs and hand you over to yet another officer, who would conduct you through innumerable swing doors, and along uncounted corridors till he stopped before a portal inscribed "647." Within, you would find Angel Esquire sitting at his desk, doing nothing, with the aid of a Sporting Life and a small weekly guide to the Turf.

Once Mr. Commissioner himself walked into the room unannounced, and found Angel so immersed in an elaborate calculation, with big sheets of paper closely filled with figures, and open books on either hand, that he did not hear his visitor.

"What is the problem?" asked Mr. Commissioner, and Angel looked up with his sweetest smile, and recognizing his visitor, rose.

"What's the problem?" asked Mr. Commissioner again.

"A serious flaw, sir," said Angel, with all gravity. "Here's Mimosa handicapped at seven stone nine in the Friary Nursery, when, according to my calculations, she can give the field a stone, and beat any one of 'em."

So there is our hero Angel, the man who solves all the cases, both the first three in the short stories, and then in the novel. In our first story we have a woman contact Angel about her husband who has been acting strangely ever since he came home from the Congo, where he had been to report on alluvial gold discoveries, whatever they are. Here is some of the story:

"He wrote by every mail, and even sent natives in their canoes hundreds of miles to connect with the mail steamers, and his letters were bright and full of particulars about the country and the people. Then, quite suddenly, they changed. From being the cheery, long letters they had been, they became almost notes, telling me just the bare facts of his movements. They worried me a little, because I thought it meant that he was ill, had fever, and did not want me to know."

"And had he?"

"No. A man who was with him said he was never once down with fever. Well, I cabled to him, but cabling to the Congo is a heart-breaking business, and there was fourteen days' delay on the wire."

"Then, before my cable could reach him, I received a brief telegram from him saying he was coming home."

"There was a weary month of waiting, and then he arrived. I went to Southampton to meet him."

"He met me on the deck, and I shall never forget the look of agony in his eyes when he saw me. It struck me dumb. 'What is the matter, Jack?' I asked. 'Nothing,' he said, in, oh, such a listless, hopeless way. I could get nothing from him. Almost as soon as he got home he went to his room and locked the door.".......

"And what has happened since?"

"Nothing; except that he has got steadily more and more depressed, and—and—"

"He gets letters—letters that he goes to the door to meet. Sometimes they make him worse, sometimes he gets almost cheerful after they arrive; but he had his worst bout after the arrival of the box."

"What box?"

"It came whilst I was dressing for dinner one night. All that afternoon he had been unusually restless, running down from his room at every ring of the bell. I caught a glance of it through his half-opened door."

Then an unearthly chattering and screeching met their ears, and the girl turned pale.

"Oh, I had forgotten the most unpleasant thing—the monkey!" she said, and beckoned him from the room. He passed through the house to the garden at the back. Well sheltered from the road was a big iron cage, wherein sat a tiny Congo monkey, shivering in the chill spring air, and drawing about his hairy shoulders the torn half of a blanket.

"My husband brought one home with him," she said, "but it died. This is the fifth monkey we have had in a month, and he, poor beastie, does not look as if he were long for life."

Angel knows what is wrong with her husband. He also knows, in the second story, why the ships of Sir Peter Saintsbury continue to have "bad luck", three of them wrecking in the past year. And he is the one who discovers who it was that robbed the bank at Notting Hill Gate. It had to be the clerk since he was the only one with the chance of doing such as thing, but:

'He was carefully searched, but no money was on him when he was found. He had been seen enterin' the little street. One of the bank clerks, who happened to leave the bank at the same time, had walked with him to the entrance of the street, an' nobody had been seen to leave at either end before he was discovered. If he'd stolen 'em himself—what had happened to the banknotes? He couldn't bury 'em. There was no place in the street itself where they could have been hidden—you may be sure that we searched every possible hidin' place—an' the police were forced to believe that his story was true.

But, on to the novel. The story begins with MR. WILLIAM SPEDDING, of the firm of Spedding, Mortimer and Larach, Solicitors. Keep him in mind, it matters. Mr. Spedding has bought the property on Lombard Street for one of his clients. Here is Mr. Spedding talking with the contractor:

"My client requires the very best work; he desires a building that will stand shocks." Mr. Spedding shot a swift glance at the contractor, who sat at the other side of the desk. "Something that a footling little dynamite explosion would not scatter to the four winds."

"It seems all very clear," said the great builder. He took a bundle of papers from an open bag by his side and read, "The foundation to be of concrete to the depth of twenty feet... The pedestal to be alternate layers of dressed granite and steel... in the centre a steel-lined compartment, ten inches by five, and half the depth of the pedestal itself."

The solicitor inclined his head. "That pedestal is to be the most important thing in the whole structure. The steel-lined recess—I don't know the technical phrase—which one of these days your men will have to fill in, is the second most important; but the safe that is to stand fifty feet above the floor of the building is to be—but the safe is arranged for."

And the work begins on the new building, the safe, secure building with a mysterious pedestal:

So in rain and sunshine, by day and by night, the New Safe Deposit came into existence. Once—it was during a night shift—a brougham drove up the deserted city street, and a footman helped from the dark interior of the carriage a shivering old man with a white, drawn face. He showed a written order to the foreman, and was allowed inside the unpainted gate of the "works." He walked gingerly amidst the debris of construction, asked no questions, made no replies to the explanations of the bewildered foreman, who wondered what fascination there was in a building job to bring an old man from his bed at three o'clock on a chill spring morning.

Only once the old man spoke. "Where will that there pedestal be?" he asked in a harsh, cracked cockney voice; and when the foreman pointed out the spot, and the men even then busily filling in the foundation, the old man's lips curled back in an ugly smile that showed teeth too white and regular for a man of his age.

The next chapter we have a man coming to visit this client of Mr. Spedding's. To do so isn't the easiest thing to do though, first he has to jump over two wires that are across the front door and I can't remember what they did, then there is a rug with a hole under it, so to step on it means you would have found yourself in the basement, he makes it past this. At the top of the stairs he finds a suite of armor holding an ax, which falls down toward him when he trips over that wire.

Finally he makes it into the room of an old man with a cracked old voice sitting in a big chair by the fire. Our old man is Mr. Reale, a very wealthy, very strange, old man, he's the guy who built the pedestal house. He also isn't a very nice man. Our visitor is Jimmy, and this part is pretty much what the rest of the book is about:

The pair sat on opposite sides of the fireplace, neither speaking for fully ten minutes; then Jimmy leant forward.

"Reale," he said quietly, "how much are you worth?"

In no manner disturbed by this leading question, but rather indicating a lively satisfaction, the other replied instantly: "Two millions an' a bit over, Jimmy. I've got the figures in my head. Reckonin' furniture and the things in this house at their proper value, two millions, and forty-seven thousand and forty-three pounds—floatin', Jimmy, absolute cash, the same as you might put your hand in your pocket an' spend—a million an' three—quarters exact."

"A million and three-quarters," he repeated calmly, "is a lot of money."

"All made out of the confiding public, with the aid of me—and Connor and Massey-"
Jimmy puffed a cloud of tobacco smoke. "Wrung with sweat and sorrow from foolish young men who backed the tiger and played high at Reale's Unrivalled Temple of Chance, Cairo, Egypt—with branches at Alexandria, Port Said, and Suez."

"How many men have you ruined, Reale?" asked Jimmy.

"The Lord knows," the old man answered cheerfully; "only three as I knows of—two of 'em's dead, one of 'em's dying. The two that's dead left neither chick nor child; the dying one's got a daughter."

In this book we have Massey, who is a bad guy, Conner, who is also a bad guy, and Jimmy, I'm not sure what he is. They all worked for Old Reale, they all helped him cheat people out of their money with some fixed gambling machines of his that I don't understand. He tells them that in his will they will get his money, them and a young lady, Kathleen Kent, she's the girl who's father was ruined by them. So they will share his money, well Massey won't he'll be dead in a few minutes.

"There's a puzzle about these two millions," Reale went on, and his croaky voice, with its harsh cockney accent, grew raucous in his enjoyment of Massey's perplexity and Jimmy's knit brows. "An' the one that finds the puzzle out, gets the money."

This doesn't please Massey at all, it doesn't seem like he would be the best person to play a game with, and the chapter ends with this:

Half an hour later Jimmy left the house with a soiled slip of paper in his waistcoat pocket, on which was written the most precious verse of doggerel that the world has known. And the discovery of the two dead men in the upper chambers the next morning afforded the evening press the sensation of the year.

Angel gets to enter the story right about here, for he knows of Reale. Oh, and Angel knows Jimmy and Conner too. And all the other bad guys those two know. Angel knows just about everybody in the book. He doesn't know the solution to the puzzle though, neither does Jimmy or Conner or Kathleen when she enters the book. Here is the "puzzle" given to Kathleen:

"Here's a puzzle in language old, Find my meaning and get my gold. Take one Bolt—just one, no more—Fix it on behind a Door. Place it at a river's Mouth East or west or north or south. Take some Leaves and put them whole In some water in a Bowl. I found this puzzle in a book From which some mighty truths were took."

She read again and yet again, the others watching her. With every reading she seemed to get further from the solution of the mystery, and she turned in despair to Angel.

"I can make nothing of it," she cried helplessly, "nothing, nothing, nothing."

If you can make anything of it, you can collect the fortune. I won't be collecting any fortunes, I will be moving on to the next book though, I found this one fun to read, but it wasn't my favorite Wallace book, although it wasn't as bad as some people seemed to think it was. Happy reading.

[Pupottina · Rating 4 out of 5]

Angel Esquire

Edgar Wallace, scrittore britannico di romanzi gialli, ha ideato trame, divenute ottimo materiale di partenza, per pellicole sul grande schermo. Anche il giallo LA TOMBA INSANGUINATA è stato trasformato in un film negli anni Sessanta. Anche questo giallo, come gli altri di Wallace, è una sfida all'intelligenza del lettore, chiamato a condividere l'esperienza investigativa insieme al detective di Scotland Yard, Christopher Angel, il più anticonvenzionale nel portare alla luce la verità.
Il caso del milionario, con l’hobby per i marchingegni e gli indovinelli, che ha messo insieme una fortuna spillando soldi ai giocatori nei suoi casinò, è strano. In punto di morte, il milionario sembra provare pietà per una persona soltanto, la figlia di uno degli sprovveduti che ha truffato e rovinato. I suoi soci non ci stanno. Non vogliono che lui ceda in quel modo la sua parte di ricchezza. Ma un diabolico rompicapo è la soluzione che il milionario impone ai contendenti per ottenere la sua immensa fortuna. Il problema è che la soluzione del rompicapo appare impossibile, estremamente complessa, ed il milionario diventa presto defunto portando con sé la combinazione per aprire la cassaforte che custodisce l’eredità.
LA TOMBA INSANGUINATA è un enigma, che si incastra in un altro. Ecco cosa contiene questo giallo classico che contiene le mille sfaccettature dell'animo umano.

[Mike · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read this at the recommendation of my wife, who had just listened to it on Librevox. She was right - it was amusing as well as action-packed. There are no shortage of villains; even the romantic male lead is a bit of a villain, though he despises himself for it.

The premise is one of those "wills with puzzles" that seem to have been such a popular trope for detective novelists. The former owner of a casino in Egypt has died, and left his giant fortune - or rather, the opportunity to access his giant fortune by solving a puzzle - to three people: two of his former confederates, and the daughter of a man whose ruin came about through gambling at the casino in question.

Christopher Angel, known as Angel Esquire, an odd sort of special inspector at Scotland Yard, takes an interest on behalf of the female heir, who is frankly a bit weaksauce, especially when compared with some of Wallace's intrepid heroines; she does almost nothing to influence the course of events, and is mostly there to be rescued and explained to, and to be fallen in love with by one of the former confederates of the casino owner. She is also, by a convenient coincidence that keeps the cast tight and puts her and her protectors in danger, the former secretary of a publisher who published a book that may hold the clue to the puzzle, and who gave a copy to her for no particular reason. By another convenient coincidence of the same kind, the author of the book is a close associate of the gang of ruffians who are after the puzzle solution, though that doesn't help them much, since he's suffering from dementia. The puzzle solution, in the end, is not that difficult and a bit of a let-down.

Apart from those two convenient coincidences and the weak female lead, though, it's enjoyable, funny, quirky, and full of well-described action.

[John · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a real "Boys Own" romp and a thoroughly enjoyable one at that. The sort of stuff that I loved when I was about twelve. Imagine if Charteris's Simon Templar had been recruited by Scotland Yard; then you would have an idea of what Christopher Angel was like a few decades earlier. It may be pulp fiction but it is extremely well written pulp fiction. Considering it was written well over 100 years ago, the writing is fresh and not at all staid and stuffy like many of its contemporaries. The plot is quite clever and although Angel is a bit too good to be true he carries it off well.

I don't think Wallace wrote any other full length Angel novels which is a shame. I stand in hope to be corrected on this.

[Oliver · Rating 4 out of 5]

(English review follows below)
Der leicht schrullige Inspector Angel gehört zu den fähigsten Beamten von Scotland Yard. In seinem neuesten Fall geht es um den ehemaligen Spielcasino-Besitzer Real, der einige Menschen um viel Geld gebracht hat und nun sein ganzes Vermögen der Tochter eines Mannes vererben möchte, den er in den Selbstmord getrieben hat. Seine Kumpane sind aber auch sehr an dem Vermögen interessiert, ebenso wie der zwielichtige Anwalt Spedding. Das Problem für alle: Real hat einen absolut einbruchssicheren Safe konstruieren lassen, der sich nur durch ein bestimmtes Wort öffnen lässt..
Unterhaltsamer Krimi mit vielen schönen Elementen wie geheimen Kellern mit Giftgaszufuhr, Geheimverstecken, erfrischendem Humor (auch in den teils wundervollen Dialogen) und gut gezeichneten Helden wie Inspector Angel und seinem Helfer Jimmy, sowie Bösewichten wie der Anwalt Spedding, der auch vor Mord nicht zurück schreckt. Diese Elemente kaschieren geschickt die arg konventionelle Handlung, nur im Mittelteil lahmt die Geschichte kurz um dann aber in ein ordentliches Finale zu münden. In der hier gelesenen Ausgabe sind noch drei Angel-Kurzgeschichten voran gestellt, in welchen er u.a. einen verschwundenen Ehemann findet und einen aufmüpfigen Lokalfürsten in Indien in die Schranken verweist.
Der Stoff wurde zwei Mal verfilmt, die britische Verfilmung von 1919 gilt als verschollen, die deutsche Rialto-Verfilmung von Franz Josef Gottlieb gilt zurecht als ziemlich misslungen. Harry Meyen als Inspector Angel ist eine krass-farblose Fehlbesetzung, Eddi Arent bekommt zu viel Raum in diesem Film und nervt ganz gut. Einige Veränderungen gegenüber dem Roman sind ebenfalls misslungen, so ist Jimmy (Hauptfigur des Films, gut gespielt von Harald Leipnitz) am Ende plötzlich ein Bösewicht und der im Roman so herrlich durchtriebene und gewiefte Anwalt Spedding verkommt bei Werner Peters zu einer töffeligen Nebenfigur. Die Schlusspointe ist dann endlich der Sargnagel dieses langatmigen Films.

---

Slightly eccentric Inspector Angel is one of Scotland Yard’s best men. His newest case is about an old man named Real who has robbed many men of their fortunes in the casinos he had run before retiring. Real wants to bequeath his whole fortune to the daughter of a man who killed himself because he lost all his money in one of Real’s casinos. But Reals former associates in crime also want their slice of the cake, just like the shady lawyer Spedding. The problem for everyone involved. Read commissioned the construction of a burglar-proof safe, which can just be opened by entering a specific word in the lock.
Entertaining crime novel with many nice elements like secret basements which can be flooded with poisoned gas, secret compartments, refreshing humor (especially in the often wonderful dialogue), well drawn heroes like Angel and Jimmy, and foes like the lawyer Spedding, who doesn’t even shy away from murder. All these elements cover well the quite conventional plot, only in the mid-section the story drags a little, but a nice finale sets things straight again. This issue features three more short stories about Inspector Angel before the novel, stories about vanished husbands, or crooks in India.
The novel was filmed twice, the British version of 1919 is supposed to be lost, the German Rialto-version of 1964 has a reputation as a failure, and rightly so: Harry Meyen as Insector Angel is grotesquely miscast and Eddi Arents comedy antics get far too much room in this film. Some changes to the novel can also only be considered as a failure, like making Jimmy (the main character of the movie, played well by Harald Leipnitz) a villain and making the shady lawyer Spedding a goofy sidekick. The final gag is the nail to the coffin of this plainly boring motion picture.

[Chandini · Rating 2 out of 5]

This novella revolves around the hunt for an inheritance, or rather the word to unlock the safe where the inheritance is safely stored. The millionaire who is leaving the money is not your nicest fellow. He made his money out of scamming people who came to his casinos and has now decided to leave all his ill-gotten gains to one of three people - to Connor or Jimmy, his associates in the casino swindles or to Kathleen Kent, the only living child of the men he swindled out of all their money. It's a great premise but it's not well executed. Mostly it just feels like the story drags on or contains completely random events, like the episode with Mr. Lane. It does provide a bit of humor but it is totally irrelevant. I'm not at all sure why Wallace included it since Angel Esquire is a pretty funny character. The end is especially humorous and the only really entertaining part of the book. I love the theory the doctor friend of Angel and Jimmy announces to get the press on to another story. I love the way Angel sets about playing matchmaker. On the subject of matches, this is one of Wallace's less conventional romances. The girl very clearly has just friendly feelings for one man and a revulsion to another. The men are both kind but basically indifferent to her charms for most of the book.

This is also one of Wallace's more subtle (if you can believe it!) digs at Conan Doyle, creator of the famous Sherlock Holmes - "There are supercilious critics who sneer at Scotland Yard. They are quite unofficial critics, of course, writers of stories wherein figure amateur
detectives of abnormal perspicuity, unravelling mysteries with consummate
ease which have baffled the police for years. As a matter of fact, Scotland Yard stands for the finest police organization in the world."

Characters
Mr. William Spedding - exceptionally smart lawyer to Mr. Reale with a dry sense of humor

Reale - eccentric, common, cockney, uneducated millionaire who used to run (crooked) casinos with Connor, Jimmy and Massey. Loves riddles, puzzles and inventing. Devises a game to pit his old associates against his old victims

Jimmy - well bred, clever, handsome, cynical young adventurer, at home in high and low society, worked with Reale, Connor and Massey in the casinos but has a streak of chivalry still

Connor - a cunning "big, heavily-built man, with a drooping moustache." who used to help Reale in his crooked casinos but is now q member of the Borough Lot

Massey - a straightforward criminal who used to work with Reale, Connor and Jimmy, a "short, thick--set man with a broad, red face...a cruel man-beast without capacity for pity."

Christopher Angel aka Angel Esquire - unconventional detective at Scotland Yard specializing in foreign affairs with a very unusual work history, from big game hunter to J.P. of Rhodesia. "old-looking young man with the wicked eye" known for "if you're in a mess of any kind, Angel's the chap to pull you out"

Kathleen Kent - daughter of a man who lost all his money at one of Reale's casinos, a resolute girl who is "something more than pretty, something less than
beautiful. An oval face with gray, steadfast eyes, a straight nose and the narrow upper lip of the aristocrat, her lips were, perhaps, too full and too human for your connoisseur of beauty."

Bat Sands - a thief in the Borough Lot "the man who looked so ill--he had the unhealthy appearance of one who had just come through a long sickness"

Vinnis - brutish, violent, blackmailer in Borough Lot

"Curt" Goyle - violent member of the Borough Lot

old George - once a well educated schoolmaster now a demented old man who acts as house watchman for the Borough Lot

Mr. Lane - a shall time crook in the wrong place at the wrong time

Mr. Ernest Mauder - pleasant faced, good natured old man, once employed Kathleen Kent as a secretary

Sir William Farran or 'Bill' - a doctor, "a specialist in unpronounceable diseases... and author of half a dozen works of medical science." Friend of both Jimmy and Angel

[Neil · Rating 3 out of 5]

Another puzzle following the success of The Four Just Men, the solution's not very interesting, but some fun situations on the way. Angel Esquire himself (who also appears in several Wallace short stories is wasted in the novel.

[William · Rating 4 out of 5]

Entertaining listening 🎧
A will written British detective mystery thriller adventure by Edgar Wallace about a will and the greed that follows it. I would recommend to readers of British mysteries. Enjoy the adventure of reading🕶 or listening🎧 to novels 🕵️‍♂️👩‍🦰😍🎉 2022

[Lucy · Rating 2 out of 5]

The character of Angel redeems this farrago of confused nonsense. The plot twists and turns make no sense and contradict themselves. As for the disclosure of the secret code, well lame doesn't describe it!

[Julie Davis · Rating 3 out of 5]

Classic Edgar Wallace with two unlikely heroes working to solve a puzzle and save a young woman's inheritance. A good way to start the New Year.

[Isidore · Rating 2 out of 5]

Angel Esquire (1908) was Wallace's second full-length thriller, and it isn't a patch on his sensational debut in The Four Just Men , but it has some good moments.

The problems are twofold. The plot apparatus of the novel is likely to be exceedingly familiar to fans of old movie serials: a mysterious riddle, and the first person to solve it will gain millions; a heterogenous bunch of competitors for the prize, all scheming against each other; a Good Badman; a virtuous heroine who must be repeatedly rescued from a fate worse than death; and a villain subjecting the good guys to a succession of ingenious and diabolical perils.

Now, I am reluctant to scold Wallace for concocting such hoary stuff, since it usually turns out, when one examines the dates, that he invented a lot of now clichéd material; and in any case there's no reason why a plot like this couldn't furnish a lot of fun, particularly given the gift for mordent humour which Wallace displayed in his previous book. But there's a rushed, perfunctory feel to this story, the perils are never quite bizarre enough, the villain (although described as "one of Nature's perversities") insufficiently grandiose or grotesque to make it all a memorable romp. From time to time Wallace does introduce touches of humour which brighten things up considerably (he does a particularly good job on enlivening the inevitable romantic finish), but there isn't the sustained tone of gleeful black comedy which made his first book so entertaining.

The other problem is a weak central character, Christopher Angle (aka 'Angel') is both an Old Africa Hand and a brilliantly eccentric Scotland Yard detective, and that's one hat too many for a genre hero to wear. Wallace came to realize this, and in short order conferred the O.A.H. concession on his new creation, Sanders of the River, and let a series of other characters (notably Inspector Elk and J.G. Reeder) handle the urban crime detail. Angel's lack of focus is not helped by forcing him to compete with an anti-hero who steals much of the limelight, as well as the heroine.

The novel is short, and Wallace padded the book with three Inspector Angel stories which had been published previously in magazines. While these are in some ways experiments to see if Angel is a workable series hero, on the whole the stories are more effective than the novel itself, and possess a radically different flavour. The stories are more weird and unpredictable, with Angel's sinister African background emphasized in a way wholly lacking in the novel, to its detriment. "The Silver Charm" is especially good: there's a fine, outré moment when Angel abruptly reduces an arrogant African "king" to a terrified wreck by handing him a dry stick---which proves to be a fetish of deadly import.

On the whole, the book passes the time pleasantly, but is unlikely to show up on anyone's list of favourite Wallace thrillers. It is interesting to watch him learning on the job, though.

[David Highton · Rating 3 out of 5]

Written in 1908, 3 short stories and a novel featuring the Scotland Yard detective with a mysterious past

[Amber]

A.L. Burt, 1908