happens which affects someone we care about—thus keeping us in suspense—or we will end up not reading the novel.
Conflict?
All novels deal in conflict, too. Not always in open, bloody. physical conflict as is often the case in the mystery, but always in conflict—the clash of human wills, the confrontation of philosophies, the facing of one’s inner demons.
Violence?
Not violence either. Consider the body count in The Iliad, then read a mystery like Don Westlake’s Help, I am Being Held Prisoner. His imprisoned hero’s only crime is a fondness for harmless practical jokes that go awry through no fault of his. What, except in antic dress and with a certain added element, is Westlake’s novel but Maupassant’s “A String of Pearls”?
The added element? A crime.
Strip everything else away from the mystery, and what we have that makes it different from other fiction is a crime. And not just stuck in there at the last moment. What has happened to or around or because of that person we care about is, in the mystery, somehow criminous. It need not be murder—the theft of one’s reputation will do nicely—but crime there must be, and the novel must in some way revolve around it. We don’t even need a solution to the crime—nice as that is to have.
What we do need, as we need in any successful novel, is a resolution to the action. We like to feel that we have been dealt with fairly in the dynamics of the drama, in story-line, in character. In mystery circles, best-of-breed is always novel first, mystery second.
But because of that pesky crime in there, that puzzle, that “added element” if you will, the mystery writer also has to deal more fairly with plot than other writers. In so doing he has to deal more fairly with the reader than the mainstream novelist.
In those admittedly rare instances when “mystery” and “novel” come together in perfect balance, we have a classic: Stanley Ellin’s Mirror, Mirror on the Wall in 1972 was, for instance, as surely literature and as surely innovative as Milan Kundera’s Unbearable Lightness of Being was to be twelve years later.
Dick Lupoff is a novelist first and a genre writer second. He is a professional at the height of his powers, seeking to expand his writing horizons by moving into a new field. And make no mistake: The Comic Book Killer, entertaining mystery that it is, is deliberately after larger game than just a well-constructed puzzle. The Comic Book Killer is a very tricky book, and I don’t mean just the plot.
First, it takes us on a remarkable ride through the world of the comic book collector, a world where someone will kill for what is between these gaudy paper covers. For many youthful years, until I realized that it was the story behind the pictures that obsessed me, I intended to be a comic strip artist. Reading Lupoff’s novel, I suddenly ached for that obsession of my youth.
Next, almost in passing, Lupoff gives us the Education of Candide. Not that Hobart Lindsey, the protagonist of the novel, is an innocent. Indeed, at first meeting he seems in training to be Ebenezer Scrooge, Jr. He has as much empathy with humanity as a rock. Taking a chance is not waving at a passing auto that might contain a business acquaintance. He has figured out the world long ago, and has quit thinking about it. In his mind, cliché passes for profundity.
The Comic Book Killer is Bart Lindsey’s awakening to this world through which he has moved like a zombie while seeking the next rung on the corporate ladder. As he tries to track down a quarter-million dollars worth of rare comic books for his employer, International Surety, Bart learns some astounding truths about university professors, about blacks, about cops, about lesbians—and about hatred and love and fear and death.
He learns that nobody quite fits into the neat little boxes to which he has assigned them all his adult life.
Most especially, not himself.
There are no black-and-white villains and heroes here, everyone is many-layered, with motive within motive for their actions so the final moment of the mystery is also the final triumph of the poor tattered human psyche.
Memorable characters abound. Marvia Plum, that strangely voluptuous black policewoman, arouses in Bart unknown feelings having more to do with lost virginity than lost comic books. Did the seductive Margarita of the flashing eyes bop him on the head and shove him in the way of an approaching train? What is the relationship of the highly respected Professor ben Zinowicz with Francis, the muscleman who perhaps likes violence almost as much as he likes to oil his skin and pump up his biceps? The radical lesbian Sojourner Strength proves to be not only a Jewish girl named Horowitz, but a martial arts expert besides. Even the proper Ms. Wilbur, despised as a probable head-office snitch, is someone far different than she seems.
The Comic Book Killer is a novel of character even before it is a mystery, but as mystery it ranks high. Lupoff recreates his Bay Area locales with panache and a loving attention to the detail that makes scenes leap off the page. His plot is tricky, many-facetted, so we gradually learn each seemingly unimportant act has many depths of meaning, each more profound than the next. Lupoff handles his violence with restraint and realism; Bart’s scene in the middle of the Bay on a fog-swept night does not suffer in comparison with The Op’s similar adventure during Hammett’s masterful “The Tenth Clew.”
Lupoff writes with intelligence, humor, wisdom, and a zest for life. He had a lot of fun writing this book, and it shows; because of it, we have a lot of fun reading it.
CHAPTER ONE
Hobart Lindsey put the Contra Costa Times on the seat beside him, the No-Spill coffee mug on the Kar Kady, and the KGO morning news on the Hyundai’s radio. He waved to his mother, standing at the window, and pulled out of the driveway, headed for work.
The radio was spieling out a commercial pitch for a Cadillac dealer holding a big big sale. Make sure you get your new Eldorado or Sedan De Ville before the new tax law goes into effect. There were those ads that appealed to the making-its and those that appealed to the made-its. The news itself was the usual mix of global outrage, natural disaster, and human atrocity. Only in the sports headlines was there ever any talk of heroes, and even in sports it seemed there were more drug busts and paternity suits than points scored or championships won.
Not that Lindsey’s own life was so exciting. But, by gosh, if he had the chance to earn the kind of money—and glory!—those athletes had, he wouldn’t throw it away. He wouldn’t stuff it up his nose or pour it down his gullet or blow it on a moment’s pleasure with some cheap floozie, that was for certain!
But, alas, there wasn’t much of a chance to make big money settling insurance claims. Not if you were honest, and Lindsey was honest. And less chance for glory. Unless—unless—he permitted himself a fleeting daydream. Maybe today something would happen to lift him out of the humdrum. A crisis, an opportunity, a chance to escape the everyday round of claim forms and statistical reports and his unchanging life at home with Mother—
He hit the brakes to keep from rear-ending a Mercury Sable rolling down the ramp into the garage under his office. It looked like Eric Coffman’s station wagon, so he waved, just in case Eric was looking in the rearview mirror. He parked the Hyundai and headed for the elevator, the morning paper tucked under his arm. Maybe it wasn’t Coffman after all. And if it had been, he was already out of sight.
* * * *
“This is terrible! They cleaned us out, they took everything!” The voice was a youthful, reedy tenor. A young man then, dreadfully upset. Likely a teenager. “I’m ruined, ruined.” He stopped to sob. “Oh my God, call me back right away, please!”
Hobart
