S. S. Van Dine (1888–1939)

Warning--although the murderer is not identified by name in this review it does spoil aspects of the book.

My short review of this book:
By this point in the Philo Vance series S. S. Van Dine’s writing and plotting has degenerated in something that resembles self-caricature. The “subtle” “diabolical” and “ingenious” murder plot is laughably and unnecessarily convoluted. Vance is allowed free rein at the crime scene and with suspects in a way that would make any defense lawyer show more ecstatic. Members of the police force do little other than appeal to Vance for direction and he searches crime scenes, pockets evidence and interrogates witnesses without legal or police officials present. The person who any competent police officer would have suspected as having done the crime did indeed commit it. Vance’s supposed insights and knowledge never advance to two simple questions: who had the opportunity to commit the crime and who would benefit from it. The rawest of police officers would have cut through the nonsense in the first 24 hours and actually been able to arrest the culprit. Since Vance spent most of the book interfering with any credible evidentiary chain of custody the only way to “catch” the criminal was to have him explain “what and why” like a bad Bond villain and even then Vance had to arrange that someone else could justifiably shoot the murderer to be sure he didn’t get away with it. Indeed, given the way in which Vance described his preparations for that last showdown I wonder if Vance himself could have been charged with reckless endangerment.

A longer review:
I know that one is supposed to suspend disbelief when reading books such as these but Vance’s behaviour at crime scenes is beyond ignoring. Yes, he often arrives at the scene of the crime with the DA; yes, the books are set long before the birth of modern forensic science; yet I still find it beyond belief that the police would not complain at Vance (with his writer friend) searching a crime victim’s rooms without any form of supervision and pocketing potential evidence to later present to the police. Again, I am aware that the modern concept of ‘chain of evidence’ was not yet fully developed when this book was written however I still believe that any competent defense attorney (and since the characters in these books are almost all from wealth or society they will have legal representation) would tear apart any case based on evidence supposed found by a ‘friend’ of the DA.

Neither do I find the portrait of Vance as a super detective to be convincing. Vance appears to be more competent than the police because generally the police either do nothing or behave in patently incompetent ways. For example, the police are called to the house of woman who may have been murdered or may have committed suicide. The suicide note was typewritten. The police do not get a typing sample from the machine in the house let alone secure the machine. Matters of police routine are routinely not carried out and thus obvious clues and pieces of evidence lie waiting for Vance to find them hours, and sometimes days, after the initial discovery of the crime.

As often happens in the Vance series, Van Dine begins by “instructing” the reader how she/he is to understand the nature of the story they are about to read. This case, the reader is told, “was probably the subtlest and most diabolical criminal problem of his career.” This cues the reader to interpret the inability of the police and Vance to immediately solve the crime as evidence of the ingenious nature of the murderer rather than incompetence of the investigators. Without those instructions what the reader might note is that Vance is not particularly good at his job and it is no surprise that the DA, who used his power to interject Vance into police investigations, served only one term in office. show less

The literate, intelligent, and almost insufferably smug at times creation of culturally influential art critic Willard Huntington Wright, amateur detective Philo Vance, was Wright incognito. Philo Vance could drone on about art, dogs, arcane historical facts and languages all while solving the most intricately designed murder puzzle. The Philo Vance mysteries made Wright, who eventually owned up to writing them and embraced the celebrity hoisted upon him by the masses who read mysteries — show more as he viewed them — a literary sensation. William Powell’s portrayal of the urbane know-it-all who helped DA Markham solve the unsolvable cases in the movie adaptation of the wildly popular books added glamour to the mix.

Van Dine’s detective was a sensation in print and in the movies. Wright’s creation would eventually become out of step with the genre as it gravitated to the hardboiled detective, but there’s no denying his impact on the genre; if you doubt it, read the Spenser series by Robert B. Parker sometime; you’ll run across several fun references to Philo Vance.

Today, Van Dine’s mystery novels and his creation Philo Vance seem more arcane than some of the tidbits about ancient history and art that would come out of the detective’s mouth while he was deciphering clues. But these mysteries are very nostalgic of another time — specifically the jazz age — and the murder puzzles are still top-notch, some of the best ever, in fact. But you as a reader will either loathe them, or love them. And in a strange irony many other reviewers have noted, the reason some readers loathe them is much the same reason others like myself love them. Vance is like escargot — there’s no middle ground; you either partake, or you don’t.

Canary is a very early Vance novel, with Vance the ultimate version of the urbane intellectual know-it-all. Trouble is, he seemingly does know it all, and expects the people around him to understand even the most arcane cultural reference he applies to working the Canary case. Markham usually does, but not everyone else, don’t y’ know?

The brutal strangulation of Broadway’s Margaret Odell is as sensational as she was to the opposite sex. But there seems no way possible for anyone to have been present with her at the time of her demise. But there’s a closet locked from the inside, and a steel box opened with a steel chisel; but only after someone tried to open it another way. An amateur? Did she interrupt a robbery? Was it one of her lovers? Or does it all point to blackmail?

What makes matters worse, is the more people Markham, his man Heath, and Vance talk to, the murkier it all gets. The more details they have, the more impossible the murder seems at all. This leads to Vance good-naturedly needling his old pal, DA Markham:

“Y’ know, Markham, it appears to me that the testimony in this case constitutes conclusive legal proof that no one could have been with the deceased at the hour of her passing, and that, ergo, she is presumably alive. The strangled body of the lady is, I take it, simply an irrelevant circumstance from the standpoint of legal procedure. I know that learned lawyers won’t admit a murder without a body; but how, in Heaven’s name, do you get around a corpus delicti without a murder?”

As one possible avenue of inquiry after another leads to solid alibis or no possibility of the suspect having anything to do with the murder, Vance jokes with the frustrated Markham:

“I say, if you keep up this elimination much longer,” observed Vance, “you won’t have anything left but the lady’s corpse.”

When there finally appears to be a break in the case regarding who the man hiding in the closet may have been, Vance turns the murder investigation upside down with an entirely new theory he’s been holding back:

“Markham,” said Vance quietly, but with unwonted seriousness, “if that’s what you really believe, you might as well drop the case now; for you’re foredoomed to failure. You think it’s an obvious crime. But let me tell you, it’s a subtle crime, if ever there was one. And it’s as clever as it is subtle. No common criminal committed it — believe me. It was done by a man of very superior intellect and astoundin’ ingenuity.”

Eventually when the case seems like a circular dead end, Vance, his lawyer Van Dine (our narrator) in tow, does a bit of sleuthing sans Markham and Heath, altering alibis and the suspects various connections to Odell and each other. But when he passes what he can on to Markham, all this info only creates new conundrums. That is until the person who was actually in the room when Odell was strangled makes arrangements to spill the beans. Only in an epiphany which arrives too late to Vance — his mind had been on Monet, don’t y’ know — does he realize the real reason for the call, and the imminent danger.

Despite the highfalutin banter and attitude, it’s a poker game with all the suspects who clues Vance into the real killer. But that alibi can’t be broken. Or can it?

Hidden beneath the erudite goings on, obscured by the two dollar words and the intellectual highhandedness, and veiled by the delicious murder puzzle of Canary, and every other Philo Vance novel penned by S.S. Van Dine, is pulp-style movement. Yes, you read that correctly. Philo Vance is/was touted as a mystery and detective series for the smarter and more intellectual members of the reading public; by design, it began as a lark by a man not dissimilar to his own creation. How ironic then that the thing which makes these so readable and enjoyable to those who’ve acquired an appreciation for them — and Philo Vance is undoubtedly an acquired taste — is the most basic staple of pulp writing: movement within the narrative.

You may feel like you’ve read 25 pages when you look up to discover that you’ve only read 10 in a Philo Vance novel; the reason is because it’s overflowing with dialog and actions that create movement in the story. Van Dine may have been a culture-centric snob, but my oh my could he write! There is a sweeping sense of being carried along somewhere by the highfalutin jargon flying between Vance and Markham in Canary. That’s no accident; it can’t be, because it’s an earmark of every Philo Vance novel. One has to surmise that somewhere in Heaven, Willard Huntington Wright, aka S.S. Van Dine, is probably smirking, because the masses finally figured it out, don’t y’ know, eh what?

While it’s impossible to in good conscience make a general recommendation to readers on a book like this — because you may end up in the camp who just can’t take Philo Vance, rather than the camp who embrace the classic mystery novels — for those fans of Van Dine and his high-brow detective of the jazz age, this one is very fun. show less

S.S. Van Dine's Philo Vance has sadly been all but forgotten today, seeming too perfect and erudite for today’s reading audience. The dapper detective was adapted to film several times, however. The Kennel Murder Case is by far the best film adaptation of the highbrow sleuth. Famed director Michael Curtiz used that early 1930s soft focus look and a well-written and witty script to bring Vance to life in the form of William Powell, who proved perfect for the part.

From the opening moments show more of Vance at the Long Island Kennel Club with his dog, Captain McDavish, this is a classy and breezily-paced little mystery. The murder of Hilda Lake’s dog escalates into a human murder with lots of suspects. But how was the murder committed, since the victim is found dead in a room locked from the inside? It’s just the type of puzzle relished by Philo Vance, so he cancels his vacation cruise to lend Detective Heath (Eugene Pallet) a hand.

A young and very stylish Mary Astor stars as Hilda Lake, with a supporting cast which includes Helen Vinson, Ralph Morgan, Frank Conroy, and Paul Cavanagh. James Lee Liang as a cook obsessed with Chinese treasures adds flavor to this delicious little concoction. Vance has a locked room puzzle to solve, which could make this film seem stage-bound. Director Curtiz, however, manages enough flair and visual touches to offset that drawing-room feel many early 1930's mysteries had.

Shady business dealings, spurned affections, and valuable Chinese artifacts all play a part in this tight little mystery. Powell’s Vance is uptown, cool as a cucumber, and fun to watch as he’s always one step ahead of everyone else. In many ways, what makes Van Dine’s written characterization of Philo Vance seem insufferable to modern readers, lends the screen Vance, influenced by William Powell’s charm, almost hip. Vance’s solution to the mystery is unique, but the best part is the fun we have getting there.

This is a great little rainy night mystery for those times you’re in a nostalgic mood. Mystery lovers won’t want to miss this little gem. show less

“Almost any man may be a murderer, but only a certain type of man can injure a dog the way Scottie was injured here the other night.” — Philo Vance: The Kennel Murder Case

Literate, incredibly intelligent, insufferably smug and deeply flawed, Philo Vance has endured more in part to the portrayal of him on film by William Powell (initially) than due to the books by Van Dyne. One has to wonder, with all that we know about culturally influential art critic Willard Huntington Wright in our show more day, whether Philo Vance was not the softened version of the writer himself; or perhaps the reflection Wright saw when he passed by a mirror.

Disgraced and abandoned by a few old friends for his Prussian sympathies during the first World War, and trying to recover from an addiction to cocaine, he began devouring mysteries; mostly as a lark, since such low-brow literature was beneath him. He finally approached the famous Maxwell Perkins about writing a detective series with a character very similar to himself. Because the highbrow Wright could not bear the thought of the friends he had left discovering he had sold out his intellectual ideals by dipping into the waters of detective fiction for the uneducated unenlightened masses, he initially used the pseudonym S.S. Van Dyne.

His meticulously plotted and literate detective fiction was firmly steeped in the Jazz Age, and immediately became so popular that Wright was soon unmasked as the author. While at the zenith of his fame and wealth brought to him by his creation, Philo Vance, he even wrote a self-deprecating article, “I Used to be a Highbrow and Look at Me Now.” Hardboiled detectives like Race Williams and Sam Spade eventually got a foothold on the reading public, however, and suddenly they wanted grit and guts and gats, not a sophisticated detective who could drone on about art, dogs, languages, and arcane history while solving the most elaborate and intricately conceived murder cases.

One of the better Philo Vance novels, such as the fun Kennel Murder Case, feels nostalgic when read today, while one of the more insufferable (but still fun) entries, such as The Scarab Murder Case, feels genuinely dated. For this reason Van Dyne’s Philo Vance novels have largely become viewed as somewhat archaic, difficult to read, and of historical interest only to document the evolution of the mystery and detective novel form. The person who has changed that, posthumously, is actor William Powell. When film buffs rediscovered the films where he portrayed the erudite detective the renaissance of S.S. Van Dyne began. It didn’t hurt that the best of the films, The Kennel Murder Case, filmed shortly before Powell began playing Hammett’s Nick Charles in all those wonderful Thin Man films, had fallen into Public Domain, making it easily accessible to — ironically for Wright — the masses. It also didn’t hurt that Michael Curtiz, the director of Casablanca, filmed it, turning it into a classic in the locked-room variety of drawing room mystery.

The book The Kennel Murder Case is based on, is a fun and nostalgic read with much to recommend it. It outshines The Scarab Murder Case, which, while having a fun setting in a private museum, some exciting moments, facts about Egypt, and a good puzzle, is a bit too talky. In The Scarab Murder Case, Vance comes off too insufferable at times. The solution to the mystery, while inventive, is also a bit far-fetched and maddening, considering actions taken early on by Vance that I can’t get into without spoiling everything for the reader. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still fun, but don’t judge the series by it. Instead, let’s consider how much fun The Kennel Murder Case is for the reader.

With the image of William Powell in the mind of the reader, the urbane and sophisticated Vance holds a certain charm that isn’t quite pulled off as well in Scarab. In conjunction with a story where the snobbery is softened, and less grating, The Kennel Murder Case becomes quite a fun read. In fact, solving the murder of Archer Coe, found dead in a room locked from the inside, with no other access but the door, is a blast for mystery lovers. The reader is virtually stepping into a time machine, traveling back to an era when Manhattan was glamorous rather than gauche, and when solving mysteries was a fun hobby for gentleman of means and imagination. This was a time in both books and film when sleuths led police around in circles as they picked up on one arcane or seemingly insignificant clue after another until they had figured it out — long before the cops. No one exemplified that style of mystery better than Van Dyne’s erudite creation, Philo Vance. It’s all an intellectual game, you see, even though it’s murder — a very serious business.

Coe’s shoes and a fountain pen lead Vance to believe he was murdered. Hilda Lake is one of the suspects, but so is the entire household. Then another murder occurs. A vase of no value is conspicuously placed among finer pieces, and there’s blood on it. A dagger is found, and a dog was attacked on the night in question. While Vance is helping District Attorney Markham with the case, we’re privy to Vance’s knowledge in regard to the proper breeding of the Scottish terrier. He does so in such a snobbish manner, it’ll make your eyes roll, yet there’s humor also, and more charm than in Scarab. You’ll hear some highfalutin jargon in both dialog and narrative on occasion in both books, yet it’s softened just enough in The Kennel Murder Case to give that one more nostalgic charm when read today.

The ending to The Kennel Murder Case is a good one, and it reads faster than you’d think with all the talk and the puzzling over this clue and that one. For a belligerent highbrow, Wright could, well, write. Terrific stuff in its own way, if you’re in the mood for something of this nature in the mystery genre. There’s a very late 1920s, early '30s feel of men-about-town in Manhattan to both these stories. Philo Vance was a frighteningly smart, dapper and erudite detective who enjoyed the challenge. Three and a half stars for The Scarab Murder Case, but Five for The Kennel Murder Case. Great old-fashioned stuff for when you’re in the mood. show less