A struggling literary agency sells a book to the studios for $50K, but one of the partners makes off with the money and lawyer Scott Jordan (Perry Mason with a .38) is brought in to solve this mystery, as more obstacles arise to keep this scandalous book from ever becoming a film.
Harold Q. Masur was an American lawyer and author of mystery novels.
He graduated from the New York University School of Law in 1934 and practiced law between 1935 and 1942. Then he joined the U.S. Air Force. In the late 30s he started writing Pulp Fiction. In 1973 he was President of the Mystery Writers of America
This one begins with Jordan investigating a literary agent absconding with $50K, but quickly morphs into a merry hunt for deceased millionaire's missing will. While the wrap-up is a little sudden, the smooth storytelling and plentiful legal twists that manage to be clever without being contrived make for a worthy read.
To start with, this is the greatest title ever. It sums up Scott Jordan, Esquire’s life perfectly! I’m sure he has the coroner’s office on speed dial. Poor man can hardly get a day’s work in without another body showing up. Then the police, well, they can never get it straight and are always hauling in Jordan’s clients and friends. What’s a fellow to do but straighten out one murder after another. You’d think the cops would be pleased...
This book is not well written. Deep it is not. There is no atmosphere. There is no character development. There are no life lessons to be learned. There is no suspense. I doubt Harold Q. Masur knows the meaning of the word metaphor. What this book is is a very quick read,(24 hours in my case), and a fun rush through crime, bad cops, worse civilians, & dead bodies, to a fairly predictable conclusion.
I was intrigued by the title and the story proved an excellent murder mystery. Author Masur was a wonderful, introspective writer.
"Watching the homeward-bound horde, I felt a vague stirring of envy. Nothing for them to worry about until tomorrow. A whole evening of relaxation. Dinner and a comfortable chair in front of the television set. Nothing to do but sit, benumbed and hypnotized by assorted comics, cowboys, and private eyes performing their antics in the great anodyne of forgetfulness."