This was a very strange book. Surely old fashioned even when it came out in 1956, it's so bad it's almost good. So offensive it's actually impossible
for me to take offence. A terrible,
dated, stupid romp which starts with a man in a green fez stabbed, impossibly, in
a not-locked-but-empty room in Lincolns Inn and struggling out, of course, a
few last enigmatic words to the two junior partners who are the only people on
the scene.
So naturally instead of calling the police one of those
junior partners decides to put it all before Head Supremo Mr Charisma barrister
Patrick Butler, and dashes out, pausing only to draw the attention and
suspicions of a passing police officer by bumping into him in the fog and running away.
Hugh (the young man’s name is Hugh) continues to run – into Scotland Yard where Butler happens to be entertaining a young lady he has just
slapped on the behind because she’s said something he objects to (this in front
of the police, who don’t even say ‘excuse me sir, you can’t do that in here’ when she
accuses him and bursts into tears).
Anyway they escape Scotland Yard and
repair, hotfoot, to a glove shop in Seven Dials, where there is a fracas – and
on again to a hotel, piling the girls into their laps without so much as a
by-your-leave (Hugh’s fiancée having turned up at this point) and making
comments that would indeed be offensive if they weren’t so completely impossible to credit.
Brief interlude for everyone to pretend to be married so
they can share rooms, and the young woman who is not Hugh’s fiancée to ensure she and Hugh end up sharing (and for him
to tick her off for ordering pêche melba and well cooked steak. Real men eat raw
meat and stilton cheese, apparently, especially after they’ve just thrown
someone through a glove shop window).
Then Butler and Hugh escape from the police a second time by climbing along a ledge and
rushing onwards to the theatre to meet the widow of the man with the fez, who in her turn kindly
helps Hugh escape from the police a third time despite the fact he may have murdered
her husband, and also suggests to Butler that he might want to postpone pinching her bottom (which seems to be his way of saying thank you) to some point in time when they are not actually on the run.
Incidentally these behaviours appear to be attributed to
Butler being part Irish, or at least coincide with him spouting Irishisms and
generally giving the impression that any second now he is going to call someone
colleen. The widow on the other hand is exotically dressed and says 'dem' a lot. Oh and someone points out kindly that Hugh would probably only get manslaughter for the death of the man in the green fez anyway because the victim was 'excitable' and may well have attacked Hugh first, compelling him to defend himself.
Because, you know, all foreigners are invariably excitable in this sort of book, practically forcing the phlegmatic Englishman to stab them. (Surely this attitude was terribly dated by 1956? If indeed it was ever more than a literary cliche)
I could go on, but I won't. There are some improbable coincidences, there is a denouement, the dumb blonde isn't as dumb as she seems and Patrick Butler wraps the case up neatly with a bow, hands it over to the police and makes a date with a lady who is not the lady he came in with.
t'end
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