Sunday, June 16, 2024

🌈🌻🌼Sunday's Short Stack🌼🌻🌈: Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem by Charlie Cochrane



Summary:
Cambridge Fellows Mysteries #13
Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith get asked by Lord Henry Byrd to locate a treasure trove that mysteriously disappeared many years ago. But is that the case Lord Henry actually wants them to solve?






Original Review March Book of the Month 2021:
First off, Cambridge Fellows Mysteries just keeps getting better and better.  Normally after 20 or so stories, between full-length novels, novellas, shorts, & free codas on the author's website, ideas would be getting weaker, perhaps even cliche or "copied" but not Jonty and Orlando.  These two fellas from St. Bride's is like a fine wine(better actually because I'm not a wine drinker) they strengthen and become enriched with age.  

Truth be told, the author's talent sharpen with each new entry as well.  Charlie Cochrane's knack for storytelling, for making the reader feel like a participant in the investigations, for having a healthy balance of staying true to the era and not making it a history lesson standout in these later released novellas.  I say that not because the original novels aren't as good or lack the above mentioned elements but because the novellas, well I don't want to say they "jump around" in the timeline but they are set throughout and in doing so the author has to re-visit the characters' strengths and weaknesses that they may have overcome in later timeline(such as how they were post-war compared to new lovers).  Sometimes when an author "goes backward in time" they forget and write them as they were later and when that happens certain things are lost and seem out of place.  Not Charlie Cochrane and her Cambridge investigative duo, she recreates, revisits, and furthers their journey all the while giving them new and intriguing cases to solve.

Now as for particulars in Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem, I think you know my answer: read it for yourself to find out because with a mystery too many seemingly insignificant elements can actually change the whole course of the investigation.  And I won't spoil that journey.  I will say, as per their norm, sometimes the non-answers to one query can lead to solutions in another.  What's not to like?  You got lost treasure(or possibly lost), possible ghost sightings, possible murder, possible accidents, just so many possibles that it's no wonder the title is Solving the Wrong Problem.  As usual Jonty and Orlando are up to the task.  Sometimes I think the men are living their very own "Choose Your Own Adventure" adventure in this novella.

I should mention that even though we don't see as many of the mens' typical sidekicks in this one, they aren't completely on their own either.  It's still glorious to see Mr. & Mrs. Stewart lending their knowledge into the clue seeking business again.  I think it's one of the things I've always found so brilliant with Cambridge Fellows, not only is the main couple a Holmes & Watson(shhh! don't tell them I said that, especially OrlandoπŸ˜‰) but Jonty's parents love it almost as much.  So often parents, especially mothers and especially mothers of that era would be trying to tamp down the not-always-but-sometime dangerous side of the couple's "hobby" but not Mrs. Stewart, she loves the snooping just as much as her son and "son-in-law".

Okay, that's it, if I talk(or type) too much longer I'll start giving away secrets and that's not allowed here.  I've said it before and I'll say it again, no matter how many full-length novels or one page codas, Miss Cochrane chooses to write, or more accurately that the boys decide to fill her in on, I'll be here reading them.  This series, this couple will never get old.

One more thing: if you are new to the series than be sure to check out the author's website to get a chronological order of Cambridge Fellows but once you've read the first 4 or 5, I think you can really read them in any order.  The first ones show the couple's romance explored more and so in order is more important IMO but the mysteries are always new to that entry. Sometimes there are details mentioned of previous cases but nothing that gives any case away or that leaves you wondering  "WTH is going on?"  However you choose to read it, don't let the number of entries scare you off because every single one is worth reading and experiencing.

RATING:



Orlando looked over to where a well-dressed chap in tweeds had entered the marquee. Without Applecross’s words, they’d have been able to guess the newcomer—every inch a peer of the realm—was the landowner. The deference shown by those present would also have sealed the case. His lordship surveyed the company, then made a beeline for Applecross, where the empty seat which had been so puzzling now made sense. Had it been kept free deliberately in case the man himself made an appearance?

Lord Henry paused, hands on the back of his chair, eyeing Jonty, who had turned his head round to get a view of the visitor. “Is that a Stewart I see before me?”

“It is, sir.” Jonty rose, then offered his hand to be shaken. “Jonathan, known as Jonty.”

His lordship pumped the hand up and down. “Very pleased to meet you. You’re the image of your mother, but I suppose you know that.”

“I’ve been told so often, yes.” Jonty beamed. “And I count myself lucky to have inherited her bone structure.”

“Magnificent woman. Like many of my generation, I’d have married her in a trice, but your father was too swift and determined for the rest of us.” He patted Jonty’s shoulder. “I’m far from alone in saying that I might have been your father. Perhaps you get tired of hearing men of my generation express that thought.”

“Not tired, no, although I no longer keep tally. I’ve realised how many heads and hearts Mama must have turned in her pomp.”

It was quite a familiar conversation with anyone of his lordship’s generation. Jonty never appeared to tire of the esteem in which his parents were held so neither, by association, did Orlando. He felt part of the Stewart family and always would. As if the thought gave birth to the act, Jonty words of introduction were, “Lord Henry, this is Dr Coppersmith, my colleague at St Bride’s and an old friend of the Stewarts. Almost an adopted son, in Mama’s eyes.”

“Splendid, splendid.” His lordship shook Orlando’s hand with equal enthusiasm. A plate of food, borne by Kane, appeared on the table. Lord Henry thanked the student, then they all took their seats. “I’m so pleased that you’re both present, gentlemen. I hear you’re a regular Holmes and Watson.”

Orlando forced a smile. How he hated the man from Baker Street: any comparisons with him were odious. “We’ve been fortunate to be consulted on certain mysteries that have evaded previous solution, yes.” He was aware he sounded pompous and those who knew him well would have recognised that meant he was getting worked up. Was it the mention of Holmes that had made his hackles rise or something about Lord Henry that rankled?

“I’ve read about some of your adventures, of course. Your father’s accounts of them always make amusing reading. Better than much else one finds in The Times. Might I enquire as to whether he has employed much artistic licence?”

“You may and the answer is not a single bit.” Jonty didn’t appear to be as insulted by the question as Orlando felt about it. How dare anyone imply that the accounts of their investigations had in any way been embroidered? If anything, they’d been moderated somewhat, real life being so often tinged with events that would be frankly unbelievable if put on paper.  “You’ll be aware that my father has a reputation as being a stickler for the truth in all situations.”

If he didn’t know, he damn well should have, the tone implied. Evidently Jonty had been affronted, despite the charming smile he still wore.

Lord Henry either didn’t notice the indirect rebuke or ignored it. “That reassures me greatly. I have a question and I’ll come straight out with it. Would you be interested in casting an eye over an old mystery that puzzles my family? No hidden codes or gruesome murders, but something I would hope worthy of your cerebral capacity.”



πŸ‘¬πŸ’™πŸ”ͺπŸ’•πŸ”«πŸ’™πŸ‘¬

If the men of St. Bride’s College knew what Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith got up to behind closed doors, the scandal would rock early-20th-century Cambridge to its core. But the truth is, when they’re not busy teaching literature and mathematics, the most daring thing about them isn’t their love for each other—it’s their hobby of amateur sleuthing.

Because wherever Jonty and Orlando go, trouble seems to find them. Sunny, genial Jonty and prickly, taciturn Orlando may seem like opposites. But their balance serves them well as they sift through clues to crimes, and sort through their own emotions to grow closer. But at the end of the day, they always find the truth . . . and their way home together.

********

Be sure and check the author's website for a complete chronological list of novels, novellas, free short stories in the Cambridge Fellows Mysteries Universe.

πŸ‘¬πŸ’™πŸ”ͺπŸ’•πŸ”«πŸ’™πŸ‘¬

Cambridge Fellows Mysteries


Monday's Mysterious Mayhem


Alasdair and Toby Investigations

Alasdair & Toby and Cambridge Fellows




Charlie Cochrane
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.

Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.

Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.


EMAIL:  cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com



Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem #13

Cambridge Fellows Mysteries
Series #1-12

Series Novellas

Alasdair and Toby Investigations
An Act of Detection #1

The Case of the Grey Assassin #2

Alasdair & Toby and Cambridge
The Case of the Undiscovered Corpse #1/#3


Saturday, June 15, 2024

🌈🌻🌼Saturday's Series Spotlight🌼🌻🌈: Nick & Carter Holidays(Father's Day Edition) by Frank W Butterfield



Father's Day,2005 #12
Summary:

Sunday, June 19, 2005

It's Father's Day and Nick Williams is a little sore and a little hungover from attending Mayor Jerry Brown's wedding in Oakland the day before with his ex-fireman of a husband, Carter Jones.

At the age of 82, who wouldn't be?

They're having breakfast later that morning with the two kids who've become like sons over the past couple of years.

After that, it's lunch at the Top of the Mark with even more friends.

Nick is looking forward to another big day.

And, given the holiday, it's hardly surprising when more than one father shows up.











Bastille Day, 1957 #15 
Summary:

A Nick & Carter Holiday #15
Sunday, July 14, 1957

It's Bastille Day in France and Nick and Carter are hosting a party at their house overlooking the Mediterranean just outside of Nice.

They've flown in friends and family from San Francisco and Boston for the festivities and it's turning out to be a lovely evening.

Then, Carter gets pulled aside with the shocking news that a couple has crashed the party.

Who would pull such a high-handed and socially unacceptable stunt?

It turns out to be none other than the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.

What happens when the only man to have abdicated the throne meets the richest homosexual in the world?

Be sure to read Bastille Day, 1957 to find out!

Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!

This is the fifteenth in a series of short stories and novellas all centered around specific holidays.

Each story is a vignette that stands on its own and takes place from the 1920s to 2008.





Mother's Day, 1978 #10
Summary:

Sunday, May 12, 1978

It's 3 in the morning and Carter is dancing the night away at the Trocadero Transfer.

Nick, being his dutiful husband, is along for the ride.

Truth be told, Nick never wanted to rock around the clock back in the 50s and he certainly doesn't wanna get down and boogie, either. Whatever happened to dancing cheek-to-cheek?

So, while Carter wows the crowd with his shirtless gyrations, Nick chats with friends who stop by as he maintains his perch upstairs and keeps an eye on the show happening down on the dance floor.

As time drags on, however, Nick decides to have a seat and maybe rest his eyes for just a moment...

Before long, he's in Paris with his Uncle Paul and watching Josephine Baker do the Charleston.

This Mother's Day will be one Nick will remember for a long, long time.


Father's Day, 2005 #12
Original Review June 2022:
Another delightful short glimpse into the world of Nick and Carter.  Nice to see them in their later years.  Having only read some of the shorts in the author's Nick & Carter Holiday series I still don't know the couple's lifelong journey and I will say I felt like I was missing a few things in regard to the other characters spending Father's Day with the pair.  Even with that feeling of missing I wasn't lost by any means.

It only seemed fitting that I found these wonderful stories this year, especially Father's Day, 2005 as Dad's Day 2022 also falls on June 19, perhaps fatherly fate is at workπŸ˜‰.  There really is quite a bit packed into this short entry with lots of fatherly influence that will make you smile, a little sad briefly but in the end you'll walk away happy.  I don't really see saying that as a spoiler because knowing the emotions of the ending in no way spoils the journey.  Once again Frank W Butterfield's glimpse into Nick and Carter's life makes me bump his original Nick Williams Mystery series another notch on my TBR list.



Bastille Day, 1957 #15 
Original Review July 2023:
As I've said with the other entries in Frank W Butterfield's Nick and Carter Holiday series, I have not read any of the other full length novel Nick & Carter stories but they creep closer and closer to the top of my TBR list.  I mention it again because the only knowledge I have of the multitude of characters in the author's N&C universe is when they pop up in these short novellas so my familiarity is limited.  

Those who are more familiar with this world will have a better understanding of Parnell and Leticia as to their positive and negative sides but I'll admit as far as Parnell goes I was surprised by the level of closeness between him and his son, Nick, or maybe I'm remembering things incorrectly from earlier shorts.  Either way, it's lovely to see and certainly makes me want to find out more(so I'll know if my recall is playing tricks on me or notπŸ˜‰).

Truth is Bastille Day, 1957 is probably more of a Parnell & Leticia story as the bulk of it centers around unexpected drinks and convos with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.  Ever since watching Prince Charles and Lady Di's wedding when I was a mere 7 years old I have loved learning about the monarchy and will freely admit that I was taken in by the romance of Edward and Wallis but as I grew up and learned of his fascination with Hitler the rose colored glasses fell away.  It was very interesting to see Parnell and Leticia navigate hospitality and courtesy with their true thoughts on the pair for the sake of Nick & Carter's special night.  I don't know that I would have been able to do soπŸ˜‰.

Once again, Frank W Butterfield weaves fiction and history into a fun, thoughtful, and entertaining read with interesting characters, both fictious and real. The blending of reality and fiction to reveal a one-night event in the lives of Nick and Carter make Bastille Day, 1957 an enjoyable little gem.



Mother's Day, 1978 #10
Original Review May 2023:
Another holiday in the lives of Nick Williams and Carter Jones.  I have not read all of the entries yet, though I am trying to read the ones I missed last year for their appropriate dates.  Not sure how I missed Mother's Day, 1978 last year but somehow it went unnoticed when I was looking for mom stories. 

Anywho.  Thinking of the entries I have read, I would say Mother's Day, 1978 is one of the most heart-filled so far.  I say "heart-filled" because I found it equally heartwarming and heartbreaking.  While Carter enjoys himself on the dancefloor during their monthly date night at the Trocadero Transfer, Nick sits in the balcony above and finds himself dozing peacefully where he spends time with his Uncle Paul and others who pop up in his dream.  There he finds perhaps a sense of closure but also wakes with an equal sense of clarity that he needs to address.

Perhaps I'm not making much sense but in trying not to give anything away I'm finding it a bit difficult to express the emotions Nick finds himself facing in both his dream and waking state.  So maybe I'll simply say this: Frank W Butterfield brought tears of sadness and joy to my eyes with Mother's Day, 1978 and in doing so, I can't find a better way to express how amazing this short story is, it may just be my favorite Nick and Carter Holiday entry yet.

RATING:




Father's Day, 2005 #12
1198 Sacramento Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
Sunday, June 19, 2005
7:04 a.m. PDT 
"Boss?" 

Nick opened his eyes and said, "Yeah?" 

Carter sat down on the bed next to him. From what Nick could see, his husband was wearing nothing but a green pair of shorts and a loose t-shirt that was light blue. He'd obviously been working out at his gym below the pool that was located on the other side of the garden behind the house. With a smile, he said, "Rigo's gonna be getting you up here in a minute. Yesterday was a big day at the mayor's wedding with all the dancing and all the drinking. How're you feelin'?" 

Nick licked his dry lips. "A little sore, I guess." He licked his lips again. "And a little hungover." 

Carter laughed. "Well, I have one of my pick-me-ups right here if you want it." 

Nick rolled his eyes. "How nasty is it?" 

"Not too bad. There's fresh papaya in it." 

Nick sighed. "Fine."

Carter reached his arm under Nick's back and, almost effortlessly, pulled him into an upright position. That was when Nick saw the glass of bright yellow liquid sitting on the table next to the bed with a glass straw sticking out of it. Carter grabbed it, held it up for Nick, and said, "Here you go." 

Taking the glass, Nick had a tentative sip. He nodded. "Not bad. Kinda sweet, kinda grassy." 

"Drink it all if you can. It'll put even more hair on your chest." 

Nick took another sip and then asked, "What's on the agenda for today?" 

"Bob and Mario will be here for breakfast at 9." 

Nick nodded. "Good. What else?" He took another sip. The yellow goop wasn't half bad. 

"Then, after some pool time, we're all going to lunch in the private room at the Top of the Mark. David and Ricky are joining us with Anita, who just turned 3, by the way, and David's parents." 

"Tell me their names, again." 

"His name is Dr. Peter Jansen. Her name is Marie Markham. He used to be a professor down at UC Santa Cruz and even taught Bob when he was there. She's the writer." 

"Right," said Nick as he remembered the fact that he'd optioned her latest novel a couple of months ago to make it into a movie at some point. "Did you ever read her book?" 

"I'm the one who suggested you buy the option, Nick." 

Looking into his husband's emerald green eyes, Nick said, "Some days are better than others." 

Carter grinned. "There's a lotta history rolling around in your head, son. I don't expect you to remember everything." He reached over and ran his hands through Nick's hair. "Besides, this isn't a sign of dementia. You've never remembered stuff like that. That's why you keep me around." 

Nick snorted and handed the almost-empty glass back to Carter who put it on the table. "I keep you around, fireman, because you're the most handsome man on seven continents."

Carter leaned forward and kissed Nick on the lips. "Wanna know why I keep you around?" 

Nick kissed him back. "Sure." 

"It's that famous right hook of yours." 

Chuckling, Nick said, "Why? Afraid I'd land one on you if you ever left me?" 

It was Carter's turn to snort. "Hell, no, son. I keep you around so I can threaten folks. I tell 'em that, if they ever cross me, I'll send you out after 'em." 

"That's ridiculous, Carter Jones." 

"Really?" 

"You haven't threatened anyone since you told Ronald Reagan to go to hell in 1986." 

Carter looked a little forlorn as he nodded and sat up. "You're right about that, son."





Bastille Day, 1957 #15 
27, chemin du Phare
Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat
France
Sunday, July 14, 1957
Early evening 
Nick Williams was grinning as he and Antoine Descombes stood by the wall at the bottom of the lawn of his and Carter's house. Their backs were to the Mediterranean as they faced the pool and patio in the distance and the house beyond that. 

Nick and Carter were hosting a small party for Bastille Day. They'd flown in friends and family from San Francisco and Boston. Everyone was gathered for a buffet dinner before the fireworks started above Monaco, a few miles to the east. 

Somehow, Nick had misunderstood and had scheduled the get-together for the night of Bastille Day. So, it had been a big surprise the night before when the fireworks over Nice (to their west) had suddenly exploded while he and Carter were having dinner by the pool with the small group of friends who were staying at their house. Apparently, the city of Nice did their big show on the 13th. 

Even though they'd been living in Nice the summer before, neither Nick nor Carter had remembered that the fireworks show, which was set off right in front of their hotel, the Beau Rivage, had been on the 13th in '56. And, in all the bustle and confusion connected to the preparations for the hotel's grand opening following more than a year of renovations, none of their staff had thought to mention anything about it. 

Nick had been promised, however, that the fireworks display over the palace in Monaco would be just as dramatic. The view wouldn't be as good, but Nick figured no one would care too much. 

Antoine continued with his story. "So, I say to him, 'Jacob, you must close your eyes in the catacombs. I will guide you'." 

Antoine, who was French and just about as big as Carter, was talking about his lover, Jacob "Jake" Robinson, Nick's American attorney in France. 

"And this was in a part that tourists never see?" 

"Oui." 

"How did you two get in there?" 

Antoine gave a classic Gallic shrug. "I know many secrets of Paris." 

Nick laughed. "I have no doubt about that." He shifted his weight on the grass. He really needed to get back over to the house and mingle some more, but he always loved hearing Antoine's stories. Nick felt like he was seeing the real Paris through the other man's eyes. "So, what happened next?" 

Antoine put his hand over his head and ducked down a little. "The ceiling, you know, is small." 

"Sure." 

"And la lampe..." He frowned. "How you say?" 

"Lamp?" 

He shook his head. Using his hand, he pretended to be holding something that he was swinging back and forth. "For seeing in the dark?" 

"Oh! Flashlight?"

He nodded. "Yes, this." 

Right then, Nick saw Carter standing by the pool and waving. 

Nick waved back. 

Carter made a summoning motion with his hand and didn't look happy. 

"No good, I think," said Antoine. "We go, no?" 

"Yes," Nick replied as the two men strode over in that direction. As they walked, Nick could feel a knot forming in his stomach.





Mother's Day, 1978 #10
Trocadero Transfer
520 4th Street
San Francisco, CA 94107
Sunday, May 14, 1978
2:46 a.m. 
"Nice to see you out, tonight, Nick." 

I looked at the smiling man next to me and smiled back. The man's name was Dick Collier and he owned the place. He was a little shorter than me, with curly black hair, a Castro clone mustache, and bright blue eyes. He was wearing what looked like a red satin track suit. The top was unzipped, with no shirt underneath, and revealing a chest of black hair but not a lot. 

"Looks like a nice crowd," I observed. We were standing at the railing overlooking the dance floor. 

He nodded. "I think we've finally got that family feeling I always dreamed of." 

"Definitely," I replied as I stifled a yawn. 

"How's your father doing?" 

I took a deep breath. "He's could be better, but he's hanging in there." 

"I saw in Herb Caen that he left the hospital."

I chuckled. "More like they kicked him out last Monday. But he's at home. Our home. We set him up in our bedroom in the bed my grandfather built and there's a battle-axe of a nurse who's in charge of a small army catering to his every whim. He tries to be difficult, but she doesn't take any of his guff." 

"Where are you and Carter sleeping?" 

"On the third floor." 

"Wish him well for me." 

I smiled. "I will." 

We looked at the dance floor for a moment before Dick asked, "Who are the studs Carter is dancing with?" 

"Jerry is the blond. Bill is the brunet. They moved here back in January." 

"Are they a couple?" 

"Yeah. They met during Mardi Gras back in '75. Jerry just got out of the Navy." 

"There he goes," said Dick, leaning over the railing to watch the next part of the floor show. 

I laughed as the crowd dancing around Carter began to whoop it up. He'd just taken off his shirt and was twirling it in the air. 

"Man," said Dick, "if I didn't know he was in his 50s, I'd think he was twenty years older. 

"The white hair on his chest kinda gives him away, doncha think?" 

Dick laughed. He turned to look at me. "Do you mind if we talk a little business?" 

"Sure." 

"The way things are going, Nick, I think I'll be able to pay you back by the end of next year." 

"No rush on my end."

He frowned a little and then turned to look at the crowd dancing below. "I hate being in anyone's debt." 

I looked at him for a long moment. He was in love with the Troc. It was his baby. Since it had opened, it had become the kind of place he'd dreamed of. It felt like a home, of sorts. I knew it was the only place anywhere in the world where I was willing to show up after 2 in the morning and hang out with Carter while he danced shirtless to the latest disco tunes. 

Dick had built something special that was filled with a kind of magic I'd rarely ever seen. Although they were nothing alike, I always thought of the old Black Cat on Montgomery whenever we walked in the doors. That was another place that, once upon a time, had that same kind of magic. 

So, looking at Dick and seeing how much he was in love with the music and the crowd and the sound system that had cost a hundred grand and was worth every penny, I made up my mind. It was something I'd wanted to do when he'd first asked me to be a silent partner in the club and, instead, I'd offered to loan him as much money as he needed at no interest. I liked the guy and knew whatever he did with the place would be successful. And I'd been right. He was more successful than anyone in the City thought he would be. And that was a good thing. 

I squeezed his shoulder. "Dick?" 

He looked at me. "Yeah, Nick?" 

"You don't owe me a thing." 

His blue eyes widened. "But..." He began to frown. "But that promissory note—" 

"Forget about it. It's canceled. Paid in full." 

He stared at me for a long minute before finally asking, "How do you make any money if you just give it away?"

I shrugged. I'd never once understood how I'd become so rich and, at 55, wasn't interested in figuring it out. Carter and I had more money than we could ever spend in a thousand years. Giving it away was one of my favorite things to do. My lawyers and accountants would have to figure out a way to do it so that Dick wouldn't owe any taxes, but they knew every (legal) trick in the book. 

He leaned in. "Are you sure?" 

I grinned and kissed him on the cheek. "Positive." Thinking of one my favorite people, I waved my hand like Roz Russell in Auntie Mame and said, "Now, circulate, darling, circulate." 

He kissed me back and, before heading down the spiral staircase that led to the dance floor, said, "I'll never forget this, Nick. I promise."



Nick Williams Mystery Series
In 1953, the richest homosexual in San Francisco is a private investigator.

Nick Williams lives in a modest bungalow with his fireman husband, a sweet fellow from Georgia by the name of Carter Jones.

Nick's gem of a secretary, Marnie Wilson, is worried that Nick isn't working enough. She knits a lot.

Jeffrey Klein, Esquire, is Nick's friend and lawyer. He represents the guys and gals who get caught in police raids in the Tenderloin.

Lt. Mike Robertson is Nick's first love and best friend. He's a good guy who's one hell of a cop.

The Unexpected Heiress is where their stories begin. Read along and fall in love with the City where cable cars climb halfway to the stars.

Long before the Summer of Love, pride parades down Market Street, and the fight for marriage equality, San Francisco was all about the Red Scare, F.B.I. investigations, yellow journalism run amok, and the ladies who play mahjong over tea.

Saturday Series Spotlights
Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3
Nick & Carter Holiday Series
Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!

This is a series of short stories with each centered around a specific holiday.

From New Year's Day to Boxing Day, each story stands on its own and might occur in any year from the early 1920s to the first decade of the 21st Century.





Frank W Butterfield
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.


FACEBOOK  /  FB FRIEND  /  WEBSITE
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Father's Day, 2005 #12

Bastille Day, 1957 #15

Mother's Day, 1978 #10

Nick Williams Mystery Series
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Nick & Carter Holiday Series


Friday, June 14, 2024

πŸŒˆπŸŒ»πŸŒΌπŸ“˜πŸŽ₯Friday's Film AdaptationπŸŽ₯πŸ“˜πŸŒΌπŸŒ»πŸŒˆ: The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett



Summary:

ONE OF TIME MAGAZINE'S 100 BEST MYSTERY AND THRILLER BOOKS OF ALL TIME

Detective Sam Spade is a private eye with his own solitary code of ethics. When his partner is killed during a stakeout, he is drawn into the hunt for a fantastic treasure with a dubious provenance—a golden bird encrusted with jewels. Also on the trail are a perfumed grifter named Joel Cairo, an oversized adventurer named Gutman, and Spade’s new client Brigid O’Shaughnessy, a beautiful and treacherous woman whose loyalties shift at the drop of a dime. 

These are the ingredients of Dashiell Hammett’s coolly glittering gem of detective fiction, a novel that has haunted generations of readers.



....Samuel Spade's jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible v of his mouth. His nostrils curved back to make another, smaller, v. His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal. The v motif was picked up again by thickish brows rising outward from twin creases above a hooked nose, and his pale brown hair grew down-- from high flat temples--in a point on his forehead. He looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.

......He said to Effie Perine: 'Yes, sweetheart?"

......She was a lanky sunburned girl whose tan dress of thin woolen stuff clung to her with an effect of dampness. Her eyes were brown and playful in a shiny boyish face. She finished shutting the door behind her, leaned against it, and said: "There's a girl wants to see you. Her name's Wonderly."

......"A customer?"

......"I guess so. You'll want to see her anyway: she's a knockout."

......"Shoo her in, darling," said Spade. "Shoo her in."

......Effie Perine opened the door again, following it back into the outer office, standing with a hand on the knob while saying: "Will you come in, Miss Wonderly?"

......A voice said, "Thank you," so softly that only the purest articulation made the words intelligible, and a young woman came through the doorway. She advanced slowly, with tentative steps, looking at Spade with cobalt-blue eyes that were both shy and probing.

......She was tall and pliantly slender, without angularity anywhere. Her body was erect and high-breasted, her legs long, her hands and feet narrow. She wore two shades of blue that had been selected because of her eyes. The hair curling from under her blue hat was darkly red, her full lips more brightly red. White teeth glistened in the crescent her timid smile made

......Spade rose bowing and indicating with a thick-fingered hand the oaken armchair beside his desk. He was quite six feet tall. The steep rounded slope of his shoulders made his body seem almost conical--no broader than it was thick--and kept his freshly pressed grey coat from fitting very well.

......Miss Wonderly murmured, "Thank you," softly as before and sat down on the edge of the chair's wooden seat.

......Spade sank into his swivel-chair, made a quarter-turn to face her, smiled politely. He smiled without separating his lips. All the v's in his face grew longer.

The tappity-tap-tap and the thin bell and muffled whir of Effie Perine's typewriting came through the closed door. Somewhere in a neighboring office a power-driven machine vibrated dully. On Spade's desk a limp cigarette smoldered in a brass tray filled with the re-mains of limp cigarettes. Ragged grey flakes of cigarette-ash dotted the yellow top of the desk and the green blotter and the papers that were there. A buff-curtained window, eight or ten inches open, let in from the court a current of air faintly scented with ammonia. The ashes on the desk twitched and crawled in the current.

Miss Wonderly watched the grey flakes twitch and crawl. Her eyes were uneasy. She sat on the very edge of the chair. Her feet were flat on the floor, as if she were about to rise. Her hands in dark gloves clasped a flat dark handbag in her lap.

Spade rocked back in his chair and asked: "Now what can I do for you, Miss Wonderly?"

She caught her breath and looked at him. She swallowed and said hurriedly: "Could you--? I thought--I--that is--" Then she tortured her lower lip with glistening teeth and said nothing. Only her dark eyes spoke now, pleading.

Spade smiled and nodded as if he understood her, but pleas-antly, as if nothing serious were involved. He said: "Suppose you tell me about it, from the beginning, and then we'll know what needs doing. Better begin as far back as you can.

"That was in New York."

"Yes."

"I don't know where she met him. I mean I don't know where in New York. She's five years younger than I--only seventeen--and we didn't have the same friends. I don't suppose we've ever been as close as sisters should be. Mama and Papa are in Europe. It would kill them. I've got to get her back before they come home."

"Yes," he said.

"They're coming home the first of the month."

Spade's eyes brightened. "Then we've two weeks," he said.

"I didn't know what she had done until her letter came. I was frantic." Her lips trembled. Her hands mashed the dark handbag in her lap. "I was too afraid she had done something like this to go to the police, and the fear that something had happened to her kept urging me to go. There wasn't anyone I could go to for advice. I didn't know what to do. What could I do?"

"Nothing, of course," Spade said, "but then her letter came?"

"Yes, and I sent her a telegram asking her to come home. I sent it to General Delivery here. That was the only address she gave me. I waited a whole week, but no answer came, not another word from her. And Mama and Papa's return was drawing nearer and nearer. So I came to San Francisco to get her. I wrote her I was coming. I shouldn't have done that, should I?"

"Maybe not. It's not always easy to know what to do. You haven't found her?"

"No, I haven't. I wrote her that I would go to the St. Mark, and I begged her to come and let me talk to her even if she didn't intend to go home with me. But she didn't come. I waited three days, and she didn't come, didn't even send me a message of any sort."

Spade nodded his blond satan's head, frowned sympathetically, and tightened his lips together.

"It was horrible," Miss Wonderly said, trying to smile. "I couldn't sit there like that--waiting--not knowing what had happened to her, what might be happening to her." She stopped trying to smile. She shuddered. "The only address I had was General Delivery. I wrote her another letter, and yesterday afternoon I went to the Post Office. I stayed there until after dark, but I didn't see her. I went there again this morning, and still didn't see Corinne, but I saw Floyd Thursby."

Spade nodded again. His frown went away. In its place came a look of sharp attentiveness.

"He wouldn't tell me where Corinne was," she went on, hope-lessly. "He wouldn't tell me anything, except that she was well and happy. But how can I believe that? That is what he would tell me anyhow, isn't it?"

"Sure," Spade agreed. "But it might be true."

"I hope it is. I do hope it is," she exclaimed. "But I can't go back home like this, without having seen her, without even having talked to her on the phone. He wouldn't take me to her. He said she didn't want to see me. I can't believe that. He promised to tell her he had seen me, and to bring her to see me--if she would come--this evening at the hotel. He said he knew she wouldn't. He promised to come himself if she wouldn't. He--"

She broke off with a startled hand to her mouth as the door opened.

The man who had opened the door came in a step, said, "Oh, excuse me!" hastily took his brown hat from his head, and backed out.

"It's all right, Miles," Spade told him. "Come in. Miss Wonderly, this is Mr. Archer, my partner.

Miles Archer came into the office again, shutting the door behind him, ducking his head and smiling at Miss Wonderly, making a vaguely polite gesture with the hat in his hand. He was of medium height, solidly built, wide in the shoulders, thick in the neck, with a jovial heavy-jawed red face and some grey in his close-trimmed hair. He was apparently as many years past forty as Spade was past thirty.

Spade said: "Miss Wonderly's sister ran away from New York with a fellow named Floyd Thursby. They're here. Miss Wonderly has seen Thursby and has a date with him tonight. Maybe he'll bring the sister with him. The chances are he won't. Miss Wonderly wants us to find the sister and get her away from him and back home." He looked at Miss Wonderly. "Right?"

"Yes," she said indistinctly. The embarrassment that had gradually been driven away by Spade's ingratiating smiles and nods and assurances was pinkening her face again. She looked at the bag in her lap and picked nervously at it with a gloved finger.

Spade winked at his partner.

Miles Archer came forward to stand at a corner of the desk. While the girl looked at her bag he looked at her. His little brown eyes ran their bold appraising gaze from her lowered face to her feet and up to her face again. Then he looked at Spade and made a silent whistling mouth of appreciation.

Spade lifted two fingers from the arm of his chair in a brief warning gesture and said:

"We shouldn't have any trouble with it. It's simply a matter of having a man at the hotel this evening to shadow him away when he leaves, and shadow him until he leads us to your sister. If she comes with him, and you persuade her to return with you, so much the better. Otherwise--if she doesn't want to leave him after we've found her--well, we'll find a way of managing that."

Archer said: "Yeh." His voice was heavy, coarse.

Miss Wonderly looked up at Spade, quickly, puckering her forehead between her eyebrows.

"Oh, but you must be careful!" Her voice shook a little, and her lips shaped the words with nervous jerkiness. "I'm deathly afraid of him, of what he might do. She's so young and his bringing her here from New York is such a serious-- Mightn't he--mightn't he do--something to her?"

Spade smiled and patted the arms of his chair.

"Just leave that to us," he said. "We'll know how to handle him.

"But mightn't he?" she insisted.

"There's always a chance." Spade nodded judicially. "But you can trust us to take care of that."

"I do trust you," she said earnestly, "but I want you to know that he's a dangerous man. I honestly don't think he'd stop at any-thing. I don't believe he'd hesitate to--to kill Corinne if he thought it would save him. Mightn't he do that?"

"You didn't threaten him, did you?"

"I told him that all I wanted was to get her home before Mama and Papa came so they'd never know what she had done. I promised him I'd never say a word to them about it if he helped me, but if he didn't Papa would certainly see that he was punished. I--I don't suppose he believed me, altogether."

"Can he cover up by marrying her?" Archer asked.

The girl blushed and replied in a confused voice: "He has a wife and three children in England. Corinne wrote me that, to explain why she had gone off with him."

"They usually do," Spade said, "though not always in En-gland." He leaned forward to reach for pencil and pad of paper. "What does he look like?"

"Oh, he's thirty-five years old, perhaps, and as tall as you, and either naturally dark or quite sunburned. His hair is dark too, and he has thick eyebrows. He talks in a rather loud, blustery way and has a nervous, irritable manner. He gives the impression of being--of violence."

Spade, scribbling on the pad, asked without looking up: "What color eyes?"

"They're blue-grey and watery, though not in a weak way. And--oh, yes--he has a marked cleft in his chin."

"Thin, medium, or heavy build?"

"Quite athletic. He's broad-shouldered and carries himself erect, has what could be called a decidedly military carriage. He was wearing a light grey suit and a grey hat when I saw him this morning."

"What does he do for a living?" Spade asked as he laid down his pencil.

"I don't know," she said. "I haven't the slightest idea."

"What time is he coming to see you?"

"After eight o'clock."

"All right, Miss Wonderly, we'll have a man there. It'll help if--"

"Mr. Spade, could either you or Mr. Archer?" She made an appealing gesture with both hands. "Could either of you look after it personally? I don't mean that the man you'd send wouldn't be capable, but--oh!--I'm so afraid of what might happen to Corinne. I'm afraid of him. Could you? I'd be--I'd expect to be charged more, of course." She opened her handbag with nervous fingers and put two hundred-dollar bills on Spade's desk. "Would that be enough?"

"Yeh," Archer said, "and I'll look after it myself."

Miss Wonderly stood up, impulsively holding a hand out to him.

"Thank you! Thank you!" she exclaimed, and then gave Spade her hand, repeating: "Thank you!"

"Not at all," Spade said over it. "Glad to. It'll help some if you either meet Thursby downstairs or let yourself be seen in the lobby with him at some time."

"I will," she promised, and thanked the partners again.

"And don't look for me," Archer cautioned her. "I'll see you all right."

Spade went to the corridor-door with Miss Wonderly. When he returned to his desk Archer nodded at the hundred-dollar bills there, growled complacently, "They're right enough," picked one up, folded it, and tucked it into a vest-pocket. "And they had brothers in her bag."

Spade pocketed the other bill before he sat down. Then he said: "Well, don't dynamite her too much. What do you think of her?"

"Sweet! And you telling me not to dynamite her." Archer guffawed suddenly without merriment. "Maybe you saw her first, Sam, but I spoke first." He put his hands in his trousers-pockets and teetered on his heels.

"You'll play hell with her, you will." Spade grinned wolfishly, showing the edges of teeth far back in his jaw. "You've got brains, yes you have." He began to make a cigarette.


Hard-boiled detective Sam Spade gets caught up in the murderous search for a priceless statue.

Release date: October 3, 1941
Running time: 101 minutes

Director: John Huston

Cast:
Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade
Mary Astor as Brigid O'Shaughnessy
Gladys George as Iva Archer
Peter Lorre as Joel Cairo
Barton MacLane as Lieutenant Dundy
Lee Patrick as Effie Perine
Sydney Greenstreet as Kasper Gutman
Ward Bond as Detective Tom Polhaus
Jerome Cowan as Miles Archer
Elisha Cook, Jr. as Wilmer Cook
James Burke as Luke
Murray Alper as Frank Richman
John Hamilton as District Attorney Bryan
Walter Huston as Captain Jacobi (uncredited)
Emory Parnell as Mate of the La Paloma (uncredited)

Awards:
14th Academy Awards - February 26, 1942
Best Picture - Hal B. Wallis - Nominated
Best Supporting Actor - Sydney Greenstreet - Nominated
Best Adapted Screenplay - John Huston - Nominated

AFIs 100 Years . . . 
100 Movies - No. 23
100 Thrills - No. 26
100 Movie Quotes - "The stuff that dreams are made of." – No. 14
100 Movies (10th Anniversary Edition) - No. 31
AFI's 10 Top 10 - Mystery Film - No. 6



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1931  /  1936  /  1941



Dashiell Hammett
Also wrote as Peter Collinson, Daghull Hammett, Samuel Dashiell, Mary Jane Hammett

Samuel Dashiell Hammett was an American author of hardboiled detective novels and short stories. Among the enduring characters he created are Sam Spade (The Maltese Falcon), Nick and Nora Charles (The Thin Man), and the Continental Op (Red Harvest and The Dain Curse). In addition to the significant influence his novels and stories had on film, Hammett "is now widely regarded as one of the finest mystery writers of all time" and was called, in his obituary in the New York Times, "the dean of the... 'hard-boiled' school of detective fiction."


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