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.