Tag Archives: Robert Bruce Montgomery

Crook Books

Books, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I seem to have turned to a life of crime.

I am immersed in old novels of mystery and detection.

My mom coulda been shocked and ashamed (think of a teary-eyed matron: “He’s a good boy…”), but she first introduced me to Hercules Poirot.

My dad woulda said “Whadda ya expect from a kid who’d rather read a book than change the oil in the car.”

Janie, the love of my life; “He’ll get over it. Next week it’ll be giraffes in outer space. He’s retired and having a fine time.”

Oh, but I’ve had a nefarious past. On stage I’ve murdered (“Deathtrap,” Dial M for Murder,” “Ceremony of Innocence”, and “Sweeney Todd”), I’ve stolen (Glengarry Glen Ross,” and “Little Foxes”), I’ve evaded taxes (“You Can’t Take It With You,”) and I’ve tried miserably to play Dracula, which was a crime unto itself.

But that was the theatre.

Now it’s the written word.

That’s powerful stuff.

I blame it on a local bookseller. He shrewdly showed me a group of criminous novels by Emile Gaboriau he had just obtained. Having read the canons of Arthur Conan Doyle and Paul Feval in the past, I was open to exploring the originator of Monsieur LeCoq. That led me back to re-read Sherlock’s adventures.

The same bookseller then lured me to a pile of beautifully maintained mystery novels published in the 1930’s by the Mystery League for cigar shops and drug stores. Some were good, most were…not so much, but they took me to the pre-WWII seaside villages, pubs, trains, pubs, church graveyards, pubs, estuaries, and pubs of England. This is not the between-the-wars England of Agatha Christie (not that there’s anything wrong with that.) These often tawdry stories have also taken me to German castles, Parisian bordellos, New Orleans unrestrained Mardi Gras bacchanals, the treacherous dressing rooms of Philadelphia department stores, and New York speakeasies. What’s not to like?

Currently, I’m hanging out with the obnoxious Philo Vance, for whom no expense need be considered…for that matter no other person on the planet need be considered. Whatta guy.

And…

I am luxuriating in the mystery novels of Edmond Crispin (real name; Robert Bruce Montgomery) and his ever-so-erudite don/detective, Gervais Fen.

Tagging along with Professor Fen, I’ve visited post-WWII pubs, pulled the blackout curtains after dark, climbed into choir lofts, chased lost Shakespearean manuscripts and toy shops that move, lugged a pig head in a sack, run for Parliament, and protested animal cruelty sitting on a branch in a tree.

It’s been delightful, but I must caution. It’s best to read Crispin with a dictionary nearby. Gervais is verbose, has a serious vocabulary (word-wise and quote-wise), and is unabashed in employing same…and it’s very worth knowing what he’s saying. It’s usually apt and funny.

What have I learned thus far in this hazardous literary journey?

When in doubt, arrest the local publican.

Ask Me About My Shirt

Lexington Theatre, Lexington-Today, Movies, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“…conversational silences, even when motivated by the mere necessity of drawing breath, must out of ordinary courtesy be bridged somehow.” — Bruce Montgomery (aka Edmund Crispin).

“Ask me about my shirt.”

Out of nowhere and pertinent to nothing that had been said before, that was Queezer’s contribution to the afternoon’s tale-spinning.

I suppose it would qualify as a bewildering example of strategic chitchat…maybe not in normal company, but this was a group of theatre types. Conversational gambits gambol freely in such flocks.

There had been the slightest of pauses in the last boozy speculation of Montana Joe’s wistful reminiscence of a non-existent girls softball team in the Missoula of his youth; a softball dream team immediately and rudely dubbed; “The Humping Heifers of Montana” by the mis-enlightened ribald listeners of this day. Those listeners and their raconteur were only slightly embarrassed by their own crass-itude, and that embarrassment was overwhelmed by the self-pleased, wheezy guffaws from this gaggle of geezers. Said guffaws depleted the reservoir of oxygen in the geezers, thus creating a gap in the chinwag.

This was the gap Queezer sought to bridge with his sartorial demand; “Ask me about my shirt.”

He’d been politely waiting, enduring, besides the admiration for the softball team, the afternoon’s other discussions ranging from;

  • frank reverence for the scat singing of Cyrill Aimeé,
  • the value of singing lessons for young actors,
  • the remarkable competence of past local newspaper reviewers who had once said nice things about us,
  • incredulity about the amazing odds against our dogs being the best good dogs on the planet which clearly they were,
  • the stark drop in attendance and support for live theatre,
  • and the profound beneficial effect of the new pitch clock in major league baseball.

Burning issues all certainly, but lacking somewhat in focus and priority.

Queezer filled the lack and the gap; “Ask me about my shirt.”

Breath and drinks replenished, wary eyes queried sideways. Was this a trick question? Like; “How many fingers am I holding up?” or “How many colors of blue make up the sky?”

Junesboy finally sighed and took one for the team; “OK, where’d ya get that shirt?”

Queezer proceeded to rattle off the provenance of his very nice camp garment to an audience that in the soporific summer sun soon resembled William Powell’s post-prandial cigar-and-brandy old boys nodding and snoring in their New Year’s tuxedos in AFTER THE THIN MAN.

“I ordered it from L. L. Bean. It’s the shirt Roman Polanski wore when he sliced Jake’s nose in CHINATOWN. He got it from Lebowski’s laundry basket. It was one of the bowling shirts in scene three. Before that it was worn by Elliot Gould in the Japan golfing scene in M.A.S.H. Gould borrowed it from Hunter Thompson’s Samoan lawyer – that’s where the beer stains came from. Isn’t it great?”

This went on for a good 20 minutes or so.

Then I woke up from my doze.

But it is a real nice shirt and I really like camp shirts and Hawaiian shirts, whether they’re Tommy Bahama or off the $5.99 spinning wire rack down at Walgreen’s. One of the glories (and there are many) of retirement and hermitude is the possibility of wearing outrageous, voluminous shirts every day. After thirty plus years of a coat-and-tie career, it’s a possibility I strive to realize each morning.

My all-time favorite shirt was a flimsy camp shirt I bought in San Francisco’s Chinatown. It was made in Japan, cost $8.99 and featured not one, not two, but three full dragons in livid color set against a cream background.

It was a quality piece.

Mel Gibson wore it while prowling the treacherous streets of Jakarta with Linda Hunt in THE YEAR OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY. Before that, John Saxon wore it while getting his ass kicked by Bruce Lee in ENTER THE DRAGON. He borrowed it from Sean Connery who wore it while sipping tea with Tetsuro Tanba before jumping in the bath with Akiko Wakabashi in YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE.

I wore it in “The Fifth of July,” directed by my friend Montana Joe on the Guignol Theatre stage in 1983.

It was a helluva shirt.

I’m glad you asked about it.

Hey!

Wake up!!