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Here, have some super weird, left field Edgar Wallace. Planetoid 127 is short, a little bit terrible, and sort of like what might happen if Edgar Wallace were writing Tom Swift.

Tim Lensman is Tom Swift, only more stupid. Chap West is Ned Newton, only…well, a lot more stupid. Elsie West is Mary Nestor, only smarter. The three of them are punting down a river somewhere, and stop to call on Tim and Chap’s science teacher, Professor Colson, who fairly obviously has a way of predicting the future, and is using it to get rich on the stock market. Tim doesn’t see that that’s what’s happening, because he’s not that bright, but a financier named Hildreth does, and is determined to discover the secret of Colson’s success…or kill him trying (as I would write if I was creating a blurb for the back of a book).

He does kill him, and then Tim inherits all of Colson’s stuff. And then, I dunno, stuff happens. When you get to the point where Colson dies, everything else is set up, and it’s not strictly necessary to read the rest. I mean, I did read the rest, obviously, and it was fine. I was entertained, if frustrated by Tim’s general idiocy.

So, here’s a thing: Colson tells Tim, shortly before he dies, that his secret notebook explaining everything is hidden in “the obvious place” and that he’s not a very good stonemason. After Colson is killed, Tim goes looking in fireplaces and stuff. It’s only when he looks out of his window in the middle of the night and sees someone knocking over Colson’s obelisk covered in code that it occurs to him that it might make a good hiding place. Fortunately, Wallace follows this up with a motorcycle chase.

It’s entertaining. I didn’t want to stop reading. But…come on, Edgar Wallace. This thing is ridiculous.

Terror Keep might be my favorite of Edgar Wallace’s books featuring J.G. Reeder, but I can’t help feeling that it’s all wrong.

J.G. Reeder is the kind of character one doesn’t associate with thrillers. He’s thin, shabby and middle-aged, with side-whiskers and a diffident manner. He also sort of knows everything, and claims his high success rate in tracking down crooks — mostly bank robbers and forgers — is due to his “criminal mind,” which sees evil motives in everything. He provides everything one should really require in a hero: moral rectitude and endless competence. But he’s not a romantic hero, and he’s not an action hero. At least, not at the beginning of Terror Keep.

Some of the earlier Reeder stories — the ones in The Mind of Mr. J.G. Reeder, I think — feature Miss Margaret Belman, a young woman who lives on the same street as Reeder, and, after they become friends, is often a target for those who want revenge on Reeder (about half of all J.G. Reeder stories revolve around people he’s put in prison wanting to get back at him).

In the earlier stories featuring Margaret Belman, Wallace skirts the issue of whether Reeder’s interest in her is romantic, and vice versa, but right at the beginning of Terror Keep she’s upset with him because he’s not more upset at the idea of her moving out of town, and later she picks a fight with him after he refuses to shave off his side-whiskers. It’s sort of cute, on one hand, but on the other it’s just undignified. But hey, that’s only the beginning of J.G. Reeder’s transformation into a vaguely appropriate object for Margaret’s affections.

Margaret is leaving town to take a job as secretary at a fancy country estate/boarding house called Larmes Keep. The proprietor, Mr. Davers, is funny looking and mysterious, and the three boarders are just mysterious. Meanwhile, an insane elderly crook named John Flack has just escaped from Broadmoor and is — surprise! — looking to get revenge on J.G. Reeder. This being an Edgar Wallace book, these two plot-lines are connected. And, this being a book where J.G. Reeder has to step up his game in order to be worthy of the girl, he gets increasingly action-y in response to the various attempts on his life.

Also there are caves and tunnels. Lots of caves and tunnels. Edgar Wallace understands the appeal of these things, so you’re never going to get just one cave, conveniently placed for smugglers. It’s always going to be a vast network of caves, with multiple entrances and stairs and ladders and furnished apartments. Oh, and it could collapse at any time.

I like Terror Keep so much, mostly for the same reasons I like Edgar Wallace’s books in general: It’s exciting, there’s just enough mystery to leaven the action, the characters are incredibly appealing without any apparent cause, and you never lose sight of Wallace’s sense of humor. And because I enjoy the book so much, it’s hard to complain about it, but there’s something that’s not right here. The great thing about J.G. Reeder as a character is that he’s not action-y or romantic. He just…knows everything. Or almost everything. What he doesn’t know he can figure out with the assistance of his criminal mind. I still like J.G. Reeder in Terror Keep, and I enjoy it when he fights off criminals and shaves off his side-whiskers, but I also have a nagging feeling that he shouldn’t have to do any of these things.

Actually, I’m reminded of how I felt after seeing Skyfall, the most recent James Bond movie: I thought the things they chose to do were executed well, but I kind of wish they’d chosen to do other things instead.

I am all set to go on an Edgar Wallace kick. It will actually be a delayed-onset Edgar Wallace kick. Thursday last week I was hunting around for something to read and found myself wishing I owned more Edgar Wallace. I eventually settled for one of Peter O’Donnell’s Modesty Blaise books — and then three more — but the yen for Edgar Wallace was still there and last night I went over to Project Gutenberg Australia (is it illegal for me to download post-1923 books from there? I don’t think I want to know) and read Room 13, featuring Wallace’s series detective J.G. Reeder.

So, here’s the thing about Edgar Wallace — I’ve talked about it before — every time I try to write about one of his books in particular I end up taking about his books in general. It’s like most authors’ books are individual objects, which can be discussed and compared, but Edgar Wallace’s fiction is a fairly homogenous substance to be measured out in page-lengths. I’m going to pretend for a moment that it’s not, though, and that Room 13 stands alone and has nothing to do with any other book. And when I am done, I will have described a pretty typical Edgar Wallace thriller.

Room 13 opens in Dartmoor Prison, where Johnny Gray is serving out a sentence of a couple of years for something to do with horse racing. There’s lots of fairly self-consciously used thieves’ cant — a “screw” is a warder, forged banknotes are “slush” — and a clear picture of what the world of professional criminals in England looks like (I mean, what it looks like in this book. The connection to reality is probably pretty tenuous). There’s a sense that everyone who lives by breaking the law is acquainted with all the others, if only by reputation, and that a stretch in jail is an accepted part of their way of life. [redacted for rambling about Edgar Wallace].

There’s also a fair amount of gossip, which introduces us to old lag Emanuel Legge, who was in Dartmoor when Johnny’s sentence began, and to his son, Jeff, who is responsible for Johnny’s imprisonment. Jeff has never been in jail, and has rarely been seen, but he’s known by some to be the Big Printer, whose counterfeit notes are so good that even the police can’t tell them from the real thing.

We also hear about Peter Kane, another criminal — or former criminal — who is a friend of Johnny’s. He has a daughter, Marney, who Johnny’s in love with, but Peter would prefer that she marry someone respectable. The night before he’s released from prison, Johnny receives a letter from Peter, letting him know that Marney is engaged to be married to a Canadian, Major Floyd.

Johnny’s independently wealthy, so when he’s released from prison, his luxurious apartment and valet are waiting for him. Marney, on the other hand, isn’t — although he heads straight to the Kanes’ home the day after his release, she’s already married to Major Floyd. And Major Floyd, when Johnny comes face to face with him, is none other than Jeff Legge, impersonating a respectable Canadian in order to help his father get revenge on Peter Kane.

That sets most of the plot threads in motion. There’s the question of Jeff and Marney’s marriage — is it bigamous? — the mystery of the Big Printer — can anyone actually get proof that it’s Jeff? and where are the notes printed? — the bad blood between Peter Kane and Emanuel Legge, and the question of why a wealthy, well-educated young man like Johnny would get involved in crime anyway. Not to mention all the smaller questions that come up (who shot Jeff Legge?). [redacted for rambling about Edgar Wallace]. Having all of these different things going on at once means there’s no slow, investigative section of the book. Aside from the occasional appearance of the unassuming, middle-aged J.G. Reeder, knowing much more than anyone thinks he ought and making the most delightful insinuations, the pace is pretty breathless. Something is always happening, and it usually involves guns. [redacted for rambling about Edgar Wallace].

“Action-packed” isn’t always a recommendation, especially if you’ve passed your fourteenth birthday, and it’s not enough to make a book enjoyable all by itself. Humor is. Engaging characters are. Twists that you don’t see coming right alongside ones that you do probably aren’t, but they are pretty fun. And Room 13 has all of the above. We’re exclusively concerned with archetypes, obviously, but they’re archetypes with charm, or a sinister fascination, or an innate trustworthiness. You can see the strings above the puppets, but that doesn’t stop you from liking the characters you’re meant to like and hating the characters you’re meant to hate. And puppets are all that’s called for, really.

Room 13 doesn’t particularly want to do anything but entertain, and it does that very well. And it does it without being a half-coherent mess, which by all rights it should be. [redacted for rambling about Edgar Wallace]. Instead, every time the plot does something twisty, you can pinpoint the clues that led up to it. It’s great.

So, yeah. That’s what Edgar Wallace is like. As a writer, anyway. As a person he seems to have been pretty unpleasant. But he’s been dead a long time, so you can read his books with a clear conscience.

When it comes to early 20th century thriller writers, Edgar Wallace is easily my favorite, in spite — or perhaps because — of the fact that his books are mostly ridiculous and terrible. But Tam O’ the Scoots is not terrible at all. Tam O’ the Scoots doesn’t know what terrible is.

It is kind of ridiculous, of course, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

There are many wonderful things about Tam O’ the Scoots, possibly even including Tam’s Scottish accent. Tam himself is one of them, a mechanic turned pilot who flies better than everyone else, cheerfully cadges cigars off his superiors, and writes poetry to his downed German opponents. The only thing he might be better at than flying is relating his adventures afterward in a dime novel-esque style he gets from his favorite reading material. Basically, Tam would be cooler than everyone else even if he didn’t have a sense of humor, but he does, and so does his author, which means that everything sort of steps up a level.

The other big thing — I mean, besides Tam himself being more delightful than enyone has a right to be — is the dynamic between the British airmen and their German counterparts. They’re constantly trying to kill each other, of course, but they also have a lot of respect and even affection for each other. When Tam shoots down a particularly good German pilot in one of the early stories, someone’s like, “oh, we should send a wreath to the funeral.” Tam concurs, writes a poem to go with the wreath, and flies it over the German lines to drop it in front of the funeral procession himself. And when the German anti-aircraft gunners realize where he’s headed — which they do pretty quickly — they stop firing. In a later story, one of the German pilots has been continuing to fire on British planes after they’re already going down in flames, and everyone is appalled at his ungentlemanly action. Later we get a look at the German aerodrome, and it turns out they’re also troubled by this behavior. They even assist Tam in his plot to scare the offending pilot away. It is, like the rest of the book, ridiculous and delightful in equal measure.

Eventually there’s a girl for Tam to fall in love with. She’s sort of ridiculous and delightful, too.

This book, guys. I like it even more than the early Biggles books. I think that might mean I’ve grown up.

2 Comments on Tam O’ the Scoots, last added: 2/14/2012