Steamy New York Summer…

Enter Murderers by Henry Slesar

published 1960





Endsville was a strictly-for-music night club on the fringes of the Village, whose management was trying to make it both a serious jazz centre and a commercial proposition. The results weren’t always successful. The cryptic jazz quartets wearied the tourists, and the big bands bored the young beatniks and aging bohemians. When they walked into the subterranean chamber, with its mirrored ceiling and tapestried walls, they were able to pick and choose from among a dozen empty tables.

On the bandstand, a jazz flautist, a pianist and a bongo player were creating an intricate filigree of sound for the benefit of the small audience, only a few of whom seemed to be listening. They ordered whiskies all around (straight, to demonstrate their worldliness and distrust of the bartender) and Blackie, with his eyes shut, picked up the bongo’s rhythms on the table top while Loco giggled and slapped at his hands. Step talked to Dee Dee, about matters of no importance, and all she did was smile in answer. Then he gave up conversation, drank his drink, and turned his attention to the music.






commentary: I think even most crime fiction fans would be hard put to say much about Henry Slesar, but he was a very successful writer, with many screenplays, short stories, and soap opera episodes to his credit, and he worked with Alfred Hitchcock for his magazine and on his TV series. Perhaps he has disappeared because he wrote under many pseudonyms.

Kate Jackson over at Cross-Examining Crime wrote a great post on this book last year – I am going to ‘quote’ (steal) from it shamelessly, but I do recommend that you read her whole post (and take a look at the rest of her excellent blog too). The book opens with a classic scene of an older businessman taking away his young secretary for the weekend: things go badly wrong, and soon someone is lying dead. But is this scene all it seems – or is there something even weirder going on? This is what Kate says:

The narrative jumps back in time, deceiving you into thinking that you know what is going on, when in fact you really don’t, as the ending springs surprise after surprise, change after change… This story is [dark] in its motivations, plot surprises and prank consequences, providing a chilling and increasingly sinister atmosphere as the book rapidly draws to a close. It is hard to find a fault with this book: its pacing is excellent, its depiction of characters is well done - particularly with the conspirators who are beginning to turn on each other - and the plot thoroughly surprises and is written in a skilful manner.

Very well put, and the book is indeed a short sharp tour de force, increasingly gripping and absolutely full of surprises and twists.

It’s a shame it’s not in print, though you can find secondhand copies easily enough. And as Kate points out, it would make a great film or TV drama. The atmosphere of a steamy New York summer is very well done, and he draws a great picture of the bohemian actors and drifters who are taking part in a plot (or prank) that goes wrong. They are aimless and cool and very convincing – and you keep changing your mind about them…

This book follows on nicely from two recent blogposts – there were English Beatniks in John Sherwood’s The Half Hunter, and a NY rent-a-Beatnik party in Dominic Smith’s The Last Painting of Sara de Vos.

Top picture from the wonderful collection of jazz photos by William P Gottlieb, held at the Library of Congress – photos that I try to use whenever I can, because they are so beautiful and atmospheric. So they are somewhat before the date of the book, but no apologies for that. This one was taken at the Onyx Club in New York.

Second picture from another favourite collection – the James Jowers photos of 1960s life in New York, at the George Eastman Museum: he looks like someone who could easily have been in the group at the jazz club…