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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
15 of 17 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
WHO KILLED FRANCES RAYE?,
By Allan Guthrie (Edinburgh, Midlothian United Kingdom) - See all my reviews
This review is from: The Deadly Percheron (Missing Mysteries) (Paperback)
Dr George Matthews, a psychiatrist, encounters a patient who claims he is paid by a leprechaun to wear a flower in his hair. Another, he claims, pays him to whistle at Carnegie Hall during performances. A third pays him to give quarters away. Jacob Blunt wants Dr Matthews to confirm that he's mad. Dr Matthews is curious, so he accompanies his patient to a rendezvous with one of the leprechauns. His name is Eustace and he isn't at all pleased to see the doctor.So begins the Deadly Percheron. After that it gets strange. First published in 1946 this unique murder mystery transcends the boundaries of the genre. It's noir, it's nightmarish, it's compulsive. John Franklin Bardin drags the reader into a world where the nature of identity is constantly questioned. Is our hero who he says he is? Can he be trusted? Is he, in fact, sane? Reality, as seen through his eyes, is a shifting kaleidoscope of memories. As the murders mount up the fragments of his shattered psyche are slotted together. Slowly reality stabilises. At the end of the novel, but only then, it all makes sense. Who killed Frances Raye? Well, now, let's start at the beginning..."Jacob Blunt was my last patient. He came into my office wearing a scarlet hibiscus in his curly blond hair. He sat down in the easy chair across from my desk, and said, "Doctor, I think I'm losing my mind.""
5 of 6 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
WHO KILLED FRANCES RAYE?,
By Allan Guthrie (Edinburgh, Midlothian United Kingdom) - See all my reviews
This review is from: Deadly Percheron (Canongate Crime Classics) (Paperback)
Dr George Matthews, a psychiatrist, encounters a patient who claims he is paid by a leprechaun to wear a flower in his hair. Another, he claims, pays him to whistle at Carnegie Hall during performances. A third pays him to give quarters away. Jacob Blunt wants Dr Matthews to confirm that he's mad. Dr Matthews is curious, so he accompanies his patient to a rendezvous with one of the leprechauns. His name is Eustace and he isn't at all pleased to see the doctor.So begins the Deadly Percheron. After that it gets strange. First published in 1946 this unique murder mystery transcends the boundaries of the genre. It's noir, it's nightmarish, it's compulsive. John Franklin Bardin drags the reader into a world where the nature of identity is constantly questioned. Is our hero who he says he is? Can he be trusted? Is he, in fact, sane? Reality, as seen through his eyes, is a shifting kaleidoscope of memories. As the murders mount up the fragments of his shattered psyche are slotted together. Slowly reality stabilises. At the end of the novel, but only then, it all makes sense. Who killed Frances Raye? Well, now, let's start at the beginning..."Jacob Blunt was my last patient. He came into my office wearing a scarlet hibiscus in his curly blond hair. He sat down in the easy chair across from my desk, and said, "Doctor, I think I'm losing my mind.""
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
Of Leprechauns, paranoia and dark amnesia,
By
This review is from: The Deadly Percheron (Paperback)
John Franklin Bardin was born in 1916 and during his lifetime he wrote ten dark or noir crime novels. He refused to recognize any difference between genres, once stating his belief there are only good and bad novels. According to Jonathan Lethem, who wrote a thoughtful and lengthy foreword to this edition, Bardin once said that Graham Green, Henry Green and Henry James were influential on his writing. The novel, Bardin's first, was published in 1946 and it is a very interesting noir novel indeed.
Amnesia and paranoia are the subjects and the characters, all unusual and distinct, sustain a complicated and bizarre plot through an abrupt but eminently satisfying conclusion. This is by no means a perfect novel, and the sixty-year-old style is sometimes disturbingly devoid of emotion. Shocking action is abruptly presented and just as abruptly disposed of. There is a fairly lengthy center section in which the amnesiac who is the protagonist, is established in his new and very much lower class life on Coney Island. Dr. George Matthews, a prominent psychologist, with a practice in midtown, and a comfortable upper class living, is confronted by a new client who arrives with a fresh hibiscus in his hair. For today's readers, especially those of us who lived through the seventies and eighties of the last century, that is nothing special, a man with a flower in his hair. In 1945, the sight was unusual to say the least. We sense something odd and a little off kilter about the good Dr. Matthews, almost from the very beginning. He appears to have more than passing interest in the burgeoning sexuality he observes around him and he seems to identify rather too strongly with his new patient, Jacob Blunt, the man who wears a hibiscus. Blunt reveals that while he is wealthy enough to afford the counseling service of Dr. Matthews, he is working for a couple of midtown leprechauns, not Irish, he assures the doctor, American leprechauns. What's more, he is really anxious to be told that he must be hallucinating, is withdrawing from reality, and the events he is witnessing and doing are not real. He is happily losing his mind, which is far better, he believes, than being trapped in the apparent lunacy of this strange alter world. The reader is rather suddenly brought up short when the doctor almost eagerly agrees to enter Mr. Blunt's world. From there we are drawn farther and farther into this weird world of murder, large horses, amnesia and paranoia. Events spiral at a relatively calm pace out of Dr. Matthews ken and out of his control, until the last section of the book in which a world a-tilt is set once more aright. Almost. This edition, from Millipede Press of Colorado, carries a striking cover painting by Salvador Dali.
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