THRILLERS

Evening Star, Issue 21724, 19 May 1934, Page 2

THRILLERS

[Written by Mary Scott, for the ‘ Evening Star.’]

Miss Dorothy Sayers has written another mystery story, it is called ‘The Nine Tailors,’ and Lord Peter Wimsey is the hero again. The book, as one would expect from this gifted writer, is very clever, extraordinarily subtle, distinctive in style an d manner. But—l suppose it is my own fault—it didn’t thrill me. The truth is that I don’t care for mixed drinks. I like a thriller to be a thriller, not to be half concerned with a murder, and the other half with all the intricacies of English bellringing. I am not like Lord Peter, amongst whose 'universal talents—so necessary to your super-detective—was included the power to “ pull a very pretty rope.” The jangle and boom of the bells, the picture of the mighty giants dangling high, in the air, the midnight scenes in the country churchyard all intrigued me. But I didn’t want to keep reading about the intricate and mathematical changes. I wanted to get on with the story. Miss Sayers must beware of giving her readers an inferiority complex. No ■writer's popularity will stand that strain. Your thriller writer and mystery weaver must be clever, but not too clover. Ho must interest and impress his readers, but he pust carry them alojig with him. “A clevex* bit of work; very interesting to see how it’s done ” • that must he the reader’s pleasant conclusion when ho lays down the book. The writer must be brilliant enough to make his audience flatter themselves on good shrewd brains as well.

Miss. Sayers does not always remember to do that. She has a touch of arrogance, the merest hint of “the Oxford manner.” You may take her or'leave her; if she is too subtle for you, too scientific, and too elaborate, the fault is yours, not hers. I was very interested in the ■ glimpse Miss Vera Brittain gives of this clover writer in her ‘ Testament of Youth ’ ; the brilliant young Oxford student with the world before her. And she chose to write thrillers! Well, more power to hei'; not for her the sex novel, the psychological thesis, the problem play. Like Edgar Wallace, she “ preferred to write of an honest murder or two.”

But let her keep her murders honest. There are rules in this game. No use choosing to write detective stories and becoming too technical and too subtle for your public. The necessity is to convince your reader of his own intelligence, not to thrust. yours down his throat. There was much to be said for the old Edgar Wallace thrillers. They were absolutely true to type; you knew exactly what to expect. You could give one to your schoolboy nephew and be sure there would be no boring fecience in it, or to your flapper goddaughter and be certain she would find no hint of “sex” problems. Personally, they always thrilled me pleasantly..and soporifically, not painfully. 1 always found it possible to close the book at any point and sink into dreamless slumber. It was pleasant, too, to know that the book, carefully book-marked Jest you miss a murder or two, awaited your next leisure hour. ■

Wallace made no pretence of bringing his figures to life; they were types, nothing more. He dropped the numbers in the hat, gave them a. casual shako, t and started the game. You knew it would work out air right,; the manly—but not cave-manly-Lhero would eventually marry the bright—but not over-modern—heroine. If a policeman or two had to be sacrificed in the process, well, it was a pity, but that was all in the rules of the game. It was all very satisfactory, and you had your money’s worth, more particularly when the book had come into the florin edition.

Mason is better than this. There are few better thrillers than ‘ The House of the Arrow ’ and ‘ The Affair at the Villa Rose.’ Even an expert reader of such stories will fail to solve these mysteries. Moreover, Mason plays tbc game strictly according to the rules. There is a certain, amount of originality in his characters. Hanaud is a delightful detective, naive and cunning, childish and superb, vain and heroic all in one page. He is one of the best characters of the type since tbc immortal Sherlock was followed by the over-subtle Father Brown.

Lately we have missed the frequency of “ Sapper’s ” “ full-throated roar ” from the chorus. The earlier Bull-dog Drummond books were a delightful thrill. They wont at racing pace, never faltering nor looking back, never' burdened for a second by anything so dull as the blinkers of probability. We took the;mat a sitting and that sitting often wont op till midnight. That little band of adventurers were charming fellows, it was so comforting, too, to know that there were several of them and that they would be sure to appear with revolvers appropriately levelled the very second before the heroine’s brains were scattered at the tightly-bound feet of the hero. J. love a band of stout fellows. There is such safety in numbers and the hero is never entirely without hope. Loneliness is a painful predicament for the stoutest adventurer, and it imparts an uncomfortable anxiety to the reader. Now, 1 don’t want to be made uncomfortable when I’m reading a thriller. Bad enough to suffer for a Teas, a Colonel Newcombc, or Hetty Sorrel. But I refuse to sacrifice my feelings for Bull-dog Drummond, gallant fellow though he may be. It isn’t fair play. Of course I expect to be slightly harrowed and immensely excited to catch my breath and‘turn the next page hurriedly, to Joag and yet honourably refuse to look at the last page. That is the game as it should be played. Besides being thrilled, ,1 expect to be .amused. Your hero should be witty and your heroine naively pert oven in the jaws of death. But that is enough. I don’t want my heroic figure reduced to life size. J don’t want to meet him on the same plane. Let him remain in a braver, gayer world, not become a human being’with whose sufferings and danger I might have an uncomfortable fellow feeling. No, your thriller writer must not be too real. Ho must hold the mirror, not up to life but up to an American film. Then his renders will bo happy, his sales will leap to incredible figures, and lie will achieve a book a week and never lose a night’s sleep over it. How easy it all sounds! Just now, too, there seems an insatiable appetite for this form of fiction. The supply never exceeds the demand, and the librarian sighs for another Mason and regrets the death of Edgar Wallace. “Why doesn’t Horler write more;’ He”s doing about four a year, but wo could do with one a week,” .1 actually heard a bookseller say the other day. Have you ever read a Horler? If not, get one from your library; you will close the book with a certain tolerant scorn. “ Why, anyone could do that sort of tiling. It’s child’s piny.” Then go home and try.; But that is quite another story—and not a thriller cither!