Seeking relief from the scorching heat of the New York summer of 1899, Dr. Charles Fortescue climbed to the roof of his office building with a rug and his pipe, and spent the wee hours of the morning unexpectedly watching a series of strange events through the windows of the swanky Rosemere apartment house across the street. A woman's scream in the dark, a man half-carrying a fair-haired woman from a sitting-room, a man in another apartment crawling on hands and knees, a raven-haired woman sobbing in despair at another window, and a man slipping furtively from the building's back door and down the street. Summoned to examine a body discovered in the Rosemere House the next morning, Dr. Fortescue is surprised to find that the man has been dead for at least twenty-four hours. Fortescue and New York's Detective Merritt are drawn into an investigation with no shortage of prospective suspects, but a distinct lack of evidence to work with, starting with the fact that the identity of the victim is as mysterious as the identity of the killer. In this variation of the classic "locked room puzzle," the question isn't how the murder could have been committed in the locked room, the question is how a dead body found its way into a locked and vacant apartment during the night ... and where it was hidden for the day between the victim's death and the discovery of the body. The answers to these questions will lead to the identity of the killer, and the rather unusual conclusion of this mystery.
Joseph Jefferson Farjeon was always going to be a writer as, born in London, he was the son of Benjamin Leopold Farjeon who at the time was a well-known novelist whose other children were Eleanor Farjeon, who became a children's writer, and Herbert Farjeon, who became a playwright and who wrote the well-respected 'A Cricket Bag'.
The family were descended from Thomas Jefferson but it was his maternal grandfather, the American actor Joseph Jefferson, after whom Joseph was named. He was educated privately and at Peterborough Lodge and one of his early jobs, from 1910 to 1920, was doing some editorial work for the Amalgamated Press.
His first published work was in 1924 when Brentano's produced 'The Master Criminal', which is a tale of identity reversal involving two brothers, one a master detective, the other a master criminal. A New York Times reviewer commented favourably, "Mr. Farjeon displays a great deal of knowledge about story-telling and multiplies the interest of his plot through a terse, telling style and a rigid compression." This was the beginning of a career that would encompass over 80 published novels, ending with 'The Caravan Adventure' in 1955.
He also wrote a number of plays, some of which were filmed, most notably Number Seventeen which was produced by Alfred Hitchcock in 1932, and many short stories.
Many of his novels were in the mystery and detective genre although he was recognised as being one of the first novelists to entwine romance with crime. In addition he was known for his keen humour and flashing wit but he also used sinister and terrifying storylines quite freely. One critic for the Saturday Review of Literature reviewed one of his later books writing that it was "amusing, satirical, and [a] frequently hair-raising yarn of an author who got dangerously mixed up with his imaginary characters. Tricky."
When he died at Hove in Sussex in 1955 his obituary in The Times wrote of his "deserved popularity for ingenious and entertaining plots and characterization".
I was so disappointed with this Crime Club selection. What annoyed me so much was that certain parts were extremely funny, to the extent that I was chuckling away (partly due to Ben, the tramp and his voracious range of cockney dialogue which I had to speak out loud to understand) but for the good part of the story I can't say I cared one way or another about what was happening, and then I also got mixed up with the various people (I.e. who was a criminal, who was double crossing who etc). I did like the idea of the book being split into two sections, but not enough that it will raise my star rating any higher than 3. Sorry J. Jefferson Farjeon.
This short mystery is a lot like the opening parts of Rear Window. Dude sees something mysterious in an apartment across the way, then gets inexplicably drawn into a murder mystery. Unfortunately, it's nowhere near as satisfying as Rear Window, and even though the killer is rather easy to guess, the reasons behind the killing brings the novel to an anti-climactic end. There's also the beginnings of a romance that are resolved too quickly.
It's a fairly easy read, but be prepared to endure the racism of the time period. It's not really bad, but does distract from the novel a bit. Both African-Americans and immigrants are held up to be definitely second class people.
As a free book, and a product of its time, it's not a bad read. Just not something you're going to remember a few months after.
"'Lord luvvaduck!' gasped Ben. The cheese had turned into a revolver."
When I found myself desperately in need of a crime fix, the obvious choice was a Detective Story Club Classic. I chose this one because of the intriguing "tramp detective", and it did not disappoint. Well-written, engaging characterisation, and nicely constructed.
Really two and a half stars. An engaging mystery, but I didn't love the ending. As another reviewer here said, there is a bit of racist stereotyping with some of the characters which took me out of the story. An ok read, but nothing special.
Opening: What I am about to relate occurred but a few years ago—in the summer of ’99, in fact. You may remember that the heat that year was something fearful. Even old New Yorkers, inured by the sufferings of many summers, were overcome by it, and everyone who could, fled from the city. On the particular August day when this story begins, the temperature had been even more unbearable than usual, and approaching night brought no perceptible relief. After dining with Burton (a young doctor like myself), we spent the evening wandering about town trying to discover a cool spot.
At last, thoroughly exhausted by our vain search, I decided to turn in, hoping to sleep from sheer fatigue;[2] but one glance at my stuffy little bedroom discouraged me. Dragging a divan before the window of the front room, I composed myself for the night with what resignation I could muster.
The House, really, is an apartment building in New York City. This is a period story in which women and men all wear hats and gloves upon going out of their homes. For those who have seen a Jimmy Stewart film called, "Rear Window", you might be reminded of the intricacies of that story as this one begins to unfold. This tale, though, is not the same, as the reader will discover. Best wishes as you delve into the mind of the detective to sort out the details of this mystery.
While the first in the series was fresh, this book seemed very similar to the first book with different characters and tweeked plot. A few bright spots, but not sufficient.
This outing for the tramp Ben was not as well conveyed as No. 17 which seemed much more logical and credible. Much of the time we had poor Ben’s thoughts and efforts clouded with delirium induced either by his being drugged or extreme hunger. He is definitely a plucky fellow though and his natural tendency to cowardice is overcome when need arises by his strong sense of justice and honour. The final chapter was decidedly muddled and the ending a little abrupt which gave the whole an unsatisfying air.
I liked Farjeon's other books but this is terrible. Can't understand the dialect and story either. I wo t waste mo ey on any of the others in this series.
Ugh. I got halfway through this and just gave up. The cockney finally beat me down for good. This was another from my increasingly more misguided foray through the library book sale. An appealing cover and a good plot were undone by terrible writing. Fully halfway through the book, you know there’s something going on across the street from the empty house most of the first half of the book is set in. Which is the same as what you knew on page one of the book. In between, there’s cul de sac after cul de sac of plot meanderings that all lead back to the same spot. There’s a reason why this writer is mostly forgotten today! If you come into it thinking, oh Hitchcock made a film from one of these stories, don’t let that mislead you! This is not like watching The 39 Steps or Rebecca and then discovering an incredible writer behind the movies. Not at all! Total pass from me, but I’ll give it a second star since it got me to the middle of the book.
A sad disappointment after the wonderful Number 17. The earlier book had started out as a play, which was a big hit both on stage and on film. Farjeon was persuaded (or wanted) to cash in on their success, so he turned it into a novel. And it was first-rate.
Some years later this second book was published (there would be six more). Farjeon repeated the premise of the first book by having the plot center on a house in which Ben was taking refuge, but nothing else about the story compares. There is no real mystery. We know that the house, or rather houses, are the headquarters of some criminal organization, but there is no big reveal as to the nature of the crimes going on. Eventually we figure it out, but as crimes go, it is nothing new or exciting. Much of the action takes place in Ben’s fevered mind, which gets to be tedious, and at the end I did not have the feeling of satisfaction that one gets at the close of a good mystery.
Given how much I enjoyed No. 17, the first in the series, this was a big letdown. It's a book split into two halves and the first is adequate enough, a kind of re-run of the first novel with the addition of a second, even more mysterious house set across the street from the brunt of the action. Ben is as loveable as ever and the writing zings along. Then we cut to the second half, which is a kind of explanation/jump back in time in which Ben becomes very much a bit part in his own story, and it completely falls apart: repetitive, with lacklustre and interchangeable characters, and a real a dearth of interest. What a shame!
The story would be great, except for the author's use of dialect. Having to decode what the main character was saying (mostly to himself) got in my way of experiencing all the ins and outs of his deductive reasoning (usually flawed) and finding any clues to what the mystery was. The fact that it happens in a very short period of time and there are a wide-ranging cast of supporting characters should add to the enjoyment, but I found it frustrating.
This book was published in 1903, and it hasn't worn well. The story is adequate, but frequently a little overwrought; the characters seem like so much stock, trotted out to run their paces and retire, without ever becoming real people. Still, it isn't an unworthy read, even if just for the historical aspects.
Very exciting and intriguing. Would recommend if you enjoy the golden age of crime books. This is the first book by J. Jefferson Farjeon I have read, and I'll definitely read more.