Starts off fun, in that old-school 1950s pulp-noir style, and the writing is as no-nonsense as Westlake always is, but...the plot goes just a wee but haywire in the last act of the book, sorta like Hammett's Red Harvest on pep pills, or, come to think of it, like Westlake's much later Richard Stark epic Buther's Moon. A lot of the pleasure I got from reading this very early Westlake though came from the fact that I read it (very carefully and gingerly) in the 1964 Dell paperback pictured above. That pulp smell...