Friday's Forgotten (or Overlooked) Book: NOBODY WORE BLACK aka DEATH OF A FELLOW TRAVELER by Delano Ames

Cover art by Robert Stanley. This is the copy I have. I was lucky enough to find it though not as cheaply as I might have liked. But after all, it was Delano Ames and who knows when I might ever come across it again. (Or so I told myself.)

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Yes, ladies and gents, we're touting the one, the only, Delano Ames for the umpteenth time! Step lively, step closer, you don't want to miss any details.

NOBODY WORE BLACK aka DEATH OF A FELLOW TRAVELER (I prefer the second title) by Delano Ames is yet another mystery delight featuring Dagobert Brown, a keenly intellectual chap who still hasn't found a decent job suitable to his talents (not that he's looked very hard) and his very patient and loving wife, Jane. The book begins as usual with husband encouraging wife to write yet another 'thriller' (she's got two under her belt) in an effort to fund the family exchequer.

Dagobert points out that novel writing is a domestic industry and can be done in the home. He will mend his own socks and queue up for Grippeminaud's [their cat] fish on the way to the British Museum where he is doing research - on Mayan Civilization, I believe....

"What we want" he says "is somebody to get killed. We could easily spare some of your friends."

This is true, of course, but hardly to the point. "But I don't like murders!" I say, returning to the Autumn issue of Vogue.

As usual, a trip is the only thing which will apparently remedy their financial woes. (Don't ask.) Anyway, soon the happy couple is off to Cornwall.

That is the main attraction of this particular book by the way: the setting. I love just about anything set in windswept Cornwall. Plus the delicious and unexpected episode halfway through the mystery - oh yes, mystery follows the Browns wherever they go - there's the most luscious afternoon tea that it has ever been my privilege to read about. I could easily read those particular paragraphs over and over. One day I must try and duplicate the meal that a very hungry Jane Brown indulges in. I love when characters in a book actually pause to eat a meal. Happens so infrequently, especially in mysteries and never in thrillers. (Have you ever noticed that?) Don't you sometimes want to shout at the hero STOP AND EAT A MEAL FOR GOODNESS' SAKE! I know I do.

The fact that the particular meal takes place at a run down farm with a slatternly hostess dressed in slovenly clothing makes the excellence of the tea that much more fascinating. No explanation is given. It remains a culinary mystery for all time. The food is so good that Jane is hardly inclined to decipher the mumblings of her hostess which have something to do with the mystery at hand and which, really she should have paid more attention to.

But as usual I'm getting ahead of myself.

A rather unlikable fellow traveler has fallen off a cliff and remains unmourned by all and sundry. Was the fall an accident? A suicide? Murder most foul? What do you think?

Questions that plague: Why is the victim's sister so oddly nervous? Why is her devoted hubby so calm? Come to think of it, explain this marriage please. And oh by the way, why is that beautiful young actress (travelling with her director and filming a few scenes for her latest movie along the way) so obviously unsettled? Why is the voluptuous proprietor of the pub so skittish? Why is her lout of a boyfriend (a local farmer) so jealous? Why is his frowzy mother so talkative? And what about those two obstreperous harlequin Great Danes?

This time out Dagobert faces a definite moral quandary and just when he thinks he's found the way out, turns out, he hasn't.

Another wonderful entry in this charming series which should, I say again, be much, MUCH better known and appreciated.

Since it's Friday, don't forget to check out the other Forgotten (or Overlooked) books list at Patti's blog Pattinase. 

Friday's Forgotten (or Overlooked) Book: MURDER, MAESTRO, PLEASE (1952) by Delano Ames

Before you run screaming out the door, I really am trying to curb my crush on Delano Ames' books (and obviously not succeeding very well). But I promise that this is the last one for awhile. It's getting harder to locate Ames' books online especially when you don't want to pay big bucks. But mostly it's because they're just not available. Oh how I wish someone/anyone, would reprint the entire Jane and Dagobert series.

MURDER, MAESTRO, PLEASE (1952) is another 'let's take a holiday with Jane and Dagobert' book - honestly, do these folks ever stay home? Nah, then we wouldn't have all these murderously fun adventures to read.

This time the amateur sleuths are traveling in the Pyrenees area between Spain and France when suddenly they're shot at - a nice way to begin a couple of weeks off. They're supposed to meet up with a cousin of Dagobert's, a young woman traveling with mutual friends - one a long ago school pal of Jane's - and all will be attending a slightly off the beaten path music festival.

But back to the shots which have momentarily caused a crimp in Jane and Dagobert's forward motion.

"We were as a bird (or a bullet) flies, very near the frontier of Andorra where, according to the guidebook, it is the 'inalienable right' of every adult male to carry firearms. On the slopes of the Pic des Quatre Vents they shoot the isard. It was out of season, but we had had an exquisite civet d'isard for dinner last night. It is a shy animal, difficult to shoot. Doubtless you stalked it in the dense fog. 

Then there were smugglers. Probably the frontier people fired at smugglers from time to time. In brief, there a dozen satisfactory explanations. I wished I could think of one.

Dagobert had been pursuing a different line of speculation. 

"I was wondering, " he said, "what mortal enemies we have made in the neighborhood."

"Don't..." my voice rose, but immediately sank to a controlled croak, "say things like that. This is supposed to be a holiday."

He picked me sympathetically out of the ditch and dusted me off. "You don't like the idea of mysterious assaults on our life?"

"No."

"Sinister attempts to make us abandon our project?"

"I wouldn't mind those so much," I admitted.

Our 'project' was to reach Puig d'Aze on a tandem bicycle via Andorra and the less accessible regions of the Eastern Pyrenees; I was quite willing to abandon this project on the spot. It had been formed four evenings ago at the Cafe de la Gare in Perpignan when the question of how to get to Puig d'Aze had first become acute.

There is, of course, a train and a regular bus service, but Dagobert had been reading a guidebook which was written before these things existed. It was full of maps showing mule paths. I had seen him gazing at the shop window next door which displayed hobnailed boots, steel-tipped sticks, campers' and cyclists' equipment. Recognizing the far-away look in his eye, I said quickly:

"There's a place down the road with motor-cars for hire."

Before you know it, Jane and Dagobert are honorary life members of the Club du Cyclisme des Pyrenees Orientale  and riding away on a tandem bike built for two, making their decidedly not uneventful way to their destination.

Once in Puig d'Aze, they (and we) meet up (at various times) with the usual (but very welcome) Delano Ames cast of colorful characters which, this time, include:

Naomi Gordon-Smith, a flighty, aging femme-fatale wannabe and Jane's long ago school pal.

Geoffrey Gordon-Smith, Naomi's patient, wealthy and very understanding, British hubby.

Perdita, Dagobert's cousin-by-marriage, a lovely, limpid girl for whom Dagobert assumes a natural family responsibility. She is newly engaged to:

Squadron Leader Johnny Corcoran, a famed test pilot and dashing man about Europe who, in turn, has his roving eye on any female within his immediate radius. He and Naomi appear to have a secret. Uh-oh. 

Tyler Sherman, an American from Texas with a drawl and a suspicious way of popping in and out when least expected. He has his eye on the lovely Perdita and he may or may not be a spy.

Vicky Stein, a young and prickly foreign woman of impoverished circumstances who is harboring secrets and obviously lying through her teeth. She may or may not be a spy.

Mitzi Stein, her even younger, likable and rather precocious, protective sister who is apparently, a bit of a prodigy. She too may or may not be a spy.

Fred Evans, another suspicious type - British this time - who claims to be a newspaper reporter - excuse me, 'roving correspondent'. He may or may not be a spy.

Last but not least, there's the hard drinking, oh-so-eccentric master of the harpsichord, Kitson, a loud, bushy-bearded slovenly type in a plum dinner jacket who is the sole reason for the Puig d'Aze Music Festival. At the first concert he plays nothing that is on the official program to the confusion of the invited audience.

Of course when Jane and Dagobert show up anyplace and at any time - can murder be far behind?

MURDER, MAESTRO, PLEASE is simply another in the wonderful Delano Ames' repetoire of books bound to please.

Don't forget to check in at Patti Abbott's blog, Pattinase, to see what other Forgotten (or Overlooked) Books other bloggers are talking about today. 

Oh, a note to those of you who may not be too familiar with the area of the world in which Jane and Dagobert find themselves this time out.

Traveling by motorcars from Puig over the border into Andorra:

We found a picnic spot about an hour later and waited until Tyler, who had been giving a driving lesson to Perdita, caught up with us. It was a green valley thick with wild narcissus, a few miles before the village of Adorre-la-Vielle, the capital of the republic. (It isn't quite a republic, but since 1278 a fief owning feudal allegiance to two co-princes who are the Spanish Bishop of Urgel and the French Assemblee Nationale. It is very complicated and doubtless fascinating, but details of 'viguiers and bayles' as Dagobert explained them to us during the picnic fortunately slip my - and his - memory.) 

Friday's Forgotten (or Overlooked) Books: FOR OLD CRIME'S SAKE (1959) by Delano Ames

Yes, yes, I know I've been lauding Delano Ames lately as the next best thing to chocolate, but bear with me. I'm smitten. I must laud while the lauding is good.

FOR OLD CRIME'S SAKE published in 1959 is yet another delightful vacation book - another wild and wacky holiday with those insouciant amateur detectives Dagobert and Jane Brown. This time we're off to Tabarca (?!) a small island in the Mediterranean where a grumbling Jane has won (with Dagobert's help) an all expenses (more or less) paid trip.

Jane's grumbling is the result of her reluctance to go anywhere near Tabarca. To her, the whole escorted trip in the company of six other contest winners and an officiously jovial host (sort of like a sheep-herder, but with people) who refers to himself in the third person, sounds like a nightmare.

Turns out Jane was right.

But let's back up a bit. We open in London where Dagobert and Jane are, as usual, discussing economics.

'Dagobert was deeply moved when my premium bond drew a fifty-pound bonus. Money so simply come by opened up new vistas. Far too many people, he decided, underrate money; and to acquire more of it momentarily displaced his current passion for Mudejar architecture.

Knowing my husband's aptitude for getting what he wants, I stirred expectantly. He grew pensive, giving the problem fuller consideration. In an effort to be helpful I said that some people made money by going to work. Dagobert who is always open to fresh ideas at once went out and bought the morning papers.

I plied him with coffee as he ran a hopeful eye down the Situations Vacant column.

"There are all sorts of things," he said in surprise. "The Government of Nigeria, for instance, is looking for a driller. Or, nearer home in Slough, Tracers and Estimators are urgently required. Bee-keepers...no, it's book-keepers. Coffin maker...

"No," he said, "You'd hate that."

"What?"

"Previous training unnecessary, good pay while you learn, rapid advancement - for intelligent young woman."

He turned the page before I could see it. 'We mustn't rush these things," he said, feeling that enough had been done for one morning. "It may take a day or two." 

As these sorts of things will, the aforementioned fifty pounds detours into a 'let's take a trip' mode. But fifty pounds isn't much when gamboling abroad. Dagobert's new idea is that he and Jane should enter numerous competitions (contests) and win themselves a trip or two or at the very least 'double their income' (as a contest in The Daily Sketch promises). Soon Dagobert is furiously 'at work' signing up for as many competitions as he can find while Jane goes out to buy new shoes.

When I returned late that afternoon, he was still hard at it. The place was strewn with magazines and papers. He had forgotten lunch and smoked two packets of cigarettes. He had worked out that by winning, say, only a quarter of the competitions he had already entered our earnings would be in the region of a hundred thousand pounds.

I know what you're thinking, but all is not lost. They do, improbably, win the Grand Prize offering of a trip to the island of Tabarca, Europe's tiniest Principality. (Or at least Jane wins the contest. Dagobert forged her name on the entry since obviously, he couldn't enter everything under his own name.)

According to the newspapers, Tabarca has recently been bought (along with all feudal rights) by Henry Howard Hutton Jr. a 'pulled up by his bootstraps' millionaire; the island will be the setting for his lavish wedding to Princess Juana of royal Tabarcan lineage.

In fact, the contest has been spawned - as a way of promoting the island paradise and attracting publicity and tourist dollars - by 'Home Truth' a local gossip rag, controlling interest recently purchased by Hutton Jr.

Jane doesn't want to go. She is non-plussed at being chosen one of the 'Lucky Seven' contest winners. (An assorted motley group.) The trip doesn't sound like her sort of thing at all. Especially since it means leaving Dagobert behind (no spouses allowed) to the tender mercies of a married neighbor with an eager eye and the same egregious taste in music.

But 'but me no buts', Jane is soon off to Tabarca.

Following the storm-tossed, choppy-waved channel crossing from hell - everyone is agonizingly sea sick and relegated to their cubby-hole cabins - the Lucky Seven discover that they are one contest winner short. They are now the 'lucky' six, one of them has disappeared. But their tour guide Bobby Marcovitch, after an initial panic attack, insists that the disappearance shouldn't throw a damper on the proceedings.

The rest of the trip goes downhill from there.

But with Dagobert and Jane, there's never a dull moment as mistaken identities, red herrings, murder, blackmail. revenge, a broken engagement, not to mention the threat of capital punishment by hanging, add their own flavor to a murderously boisterous Mediterranean holiday, culminating in enough over-the-top Tabarcan island festivities to rival the royal wedding in Monaco. Phew!

Oh yes, Dagobert catches up to Jane, not to worry. My favorite moment in the book is when the group (the women wearing borrowed mink coats - a perk for the trip only - supplied by the contest host)  is driven to their hotel (before embarking on a boat to the actual island) and Jane glances out the car window. She spies a motorcycle following them and without any hint of a qualm, she realizes that - somehow - it's Dagobert all the way from London. She pretends not to notice.

I hate to use the word 'romp' but this is exactly what Delano Ames delivers in FOR OLD CRIME'S SAKE.

I love this sort of thing when it's done well and Delano Ames (1906 - 1987) did it better than most.

Don't forget to check in at Patti Abbott's blog, Pattinase, to see what other Forgotten (or Overlooked) Books other bloggers are talking about today.

Friday's Forgotten (or Overlooked) Book: THE MAN IN THE TRICORN HAT (1960) by Delano Ames

The English writer Delano Ames (1906-1987) wrote lots and lots of books, the titles of which I've just recently discovered online. Most of you know how enamored I am with Delano Ames' Dagobert and Jane Brown mystery series since I've (unashamedly) shared my enthusiasm - gone overboard, some may say. But when it comes to newly discovered authors, there's no such thing as too much shouting from the rooftops far as I'm concerned.

Isn't it thrilling to find an unknown vintage author (unknown to me anyway) and suddenly realize that there's a bunch of unread/unheard-of books out there? If you can find them, of course. The hunt is on!

To that end, I've just ordered two more Delano Ames books (all I can find that are affordable at the moment) and can't wait to see if they live up to the previous Dagobert and Jane puzzlers. Oh how I love those two amateur crime solvers.

But I'm not writing about them today, so enough of that.

Turns out that Delano Ames had another series, this one featuring the affable Juan Llorca, a member of the Spanish constabulary:

"You know those gaunt figures who appear in pairs on lonely Spanish roads, scaring the wits out of everybody with their black tricorn hats, great green cloaks and rifles? Well, one of them was my friend Paco. The other - the one with the five days' black stubble on his chin and a patch of dirty sticking-plaster on his left ear - was me.

Also my feet hurt. We'd had nearly a week of what they call 'servicio de campo', which means pushing around the countryside listening to complaints about the neighbour's goats, keeping the gypsies on the move and sleeping in our cloaks.

When we left Madrigal del Mar fives days ago there were the usual rumours that the hinterland was crawling with suspicious characters. Paco, who reads El Coyote and the comics, had great hopes about Red spies, or at least white slavers; but we hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary except old Don Fernando, who is well known to be crazy."

I love the first person point of view so I was already won over by time I finished reading these opening paragraphs of the first Juan Llorca book. I also love when an author has a droll sense of humor which (coincidentally) more or less matches mine. Delano Ames and I are on the same wavelength. Ah, bliss.

Juan Llorca is apparently the only Civil Guard member, currently assigned to duty in the small fishing village of Madrigal, who has any active sleuthing brainpower. Everyone else is out for numero uno including the alcalde (mayor), playing political one-up-man-ship, not really caring if justice is served. Sound familiar?

On the outside, the attractive if somewhat nebishy Llorca is a punctilious officer ready to do his duty even while wearing a black patent leather tricorn hat. But at heart he is a romantic with a somewhat sensitive self-image. Llorca has his eye on the beautiful but confounding English artist Julia Fairfax, newly settled in Madrigal. Is she sending Juan come hither signals or is she not? Is she married or is she not?  Why is she so reluctant to discuss her background? Aside from that - is she a murderer? And oh by the way, who is Angus Smith to her?

Let's back up a bit:

When a Texas oil millionaire named Rittenbacker and his curvaceous niece and young nephew rent a Madrigal villa, they settle in to contribute to the local tourist economy and soak up the determinedly quaint Spanish atmosphere. In turn, of course, they become objects of local gossip and speculation - especially when the niece, Mary Lou, shows up on the local beach wearing a bikini.

Rittenbacker, it turns out, is intent on buying some 'art masterpieces' newly discovered by the aforementioned Don Fernando, Madrigal's rather peculiar arts and antiques dealer. As Juan Llorca says: His "... shop is called the Bricum-ad-Bracum, which is, I'm told, Latin for junk.

Even so, Don Fernando and his Dona Carmen (a disreputable toothless lady with a roving eye), do a raging good business discovering long lost masterpieces hidden under a rock or two here and there. Juan Llorca is aware that the Texas oil millionaire is probably going to be fleeced, but he tries to be diplomatic about it, not wanting to come out and actually accuse one of the town's more well-known and indulged eccentrics. Besides, Rittenbacker is old enough to take care of himself.

In the meantime, there is the nagging question of Angus Smith, a tall good-looking sort with a sneer and an attitude. He has shown up in Madrigal and immediately assumed an annoying proprietary air over Julia Fairfax. Obviously these two know each other. Is he the absent hubby?

When the body of the Texas millionaire turns up dead, the natural conclusion that Smith (having been found to be a vile blackmailer) is the perp seems rather convenient. Maybe too convenient. It's then up to Juan Llorca to get at the truth of the sordid matter before the approaching Fiesta of the Moros and Cristianos (Moors and Christians) - which usually culminates in a 'pretend' battle involving the entire town of Madrigal del Mar - forges ahead and helps a murderer escape justice in the ensuing melee.

Just when you think you more or less know what's going on, turns out you don't. Delano Ames holds back a couple of surprises until the very end - just as it should be.

This is not Dagobert and Jane Brown, but on the whole, not a bad mystery with as engaging a leading man as you could want - even if he does have to wear a black patent leather tricorn.

The reader also gets to learn a bit about Spanish law, police proceedings, investigations and other esoteric minutiae. If I can find another Juan Llorca mystery, I will definitely be reading it.

George Kelley is doing 'link duty' this week, so don't forget to check in to see what other Forgotten Books other bloggers are talking about today.

Friday's Forgotten Book: CORPSE DIPLOMATIQUE (1950) by Delano Ames (1906 - 1987)

No, I don't have this copy - I wish I did.

I've never traveled to Nice, France, but I've always wanted to. Now that I've read Delano Ames' charming mystery, CORPSE DIPLOMATIQUE published in 1950, I feel as though I've been to the French Riviera and had the most delightful time.

I'm having trouble containing my enthusiasm for this book, so I won't. I only merely LOVED IT! There, I've gotten that out of my system.

I'd read one previous Delano Ames book, SHE SHALL HAVE MURDER and liked it well enough to look for more. This one just caught my fancy and I read it in two nights though I easily could have read it in one if I hadn't minded going sleepless.

Dagobert Brown (the rather strangely named amateur sleuth/dilettante/intellectual) and his novelist wife Jane are supposed to be frugally traveling on the Riviera. Lacking any real money but managing always to be on hand for food and drinks amid the chatter and doings of all sorts of intriguing characters. Jane and Dagobert are usually also on hand when murder strikes.

What I liked immediately is that Dagobert and Jane have an unusual, though affectionate, off-key relationship. He urges her to work on her book, while he is supposedly researching some sort of thesis about Bertran de Born, an obscure and very ancient poet - that is, unless he gets sidetracked with one or another of his various interests. Work - day-to-day wage earning work - is anathema to Dagobert and Jane is indulgent of his whims though occasionally she wishes he'd bring home a paycheck or two.

This review will be filled with several quoted passages from the books simply because I can't think how else to convey my fervor for this sort of writing - it catches me up and takes me along every single time. If you don't instantly like it then you will not like the book and oh, poor you.

'Dagobert had in mind a lonely village perched on a rocky hillside in the Basses-Alpes where we could study Provencal, so we went to the Hotel Negresco on the Promenade des Anglais.

In this way we got our names in the Riviera-Gazette among recent arrivals in Nice. We were listed with the King of Sweden, Mrs. Stuyvesant Reinlander III of Philadelphia and someone called S.A. Bao U. I wasn't dressed for it but it was pleasant while it lasted.

"It's the only place I could think of," Dagobert apologised as he put his mackintosh and hobnailed boots in the vast Louis Quinze wardrobe. "It's nice and central," he added.

"Yes, I noticed the police station around the corner. Still they won't present the bill for a week, probably."

"It's all about local colour," he said cheerfully. "S.A. Bao U. will be useful when we visit Siam, or would it be Burma?...I wonder what the inside of a French police station looks like?"

"Dagobert," I asked suddenly, "did we buy return tickets?"

He removed the belt from his corduroy trousers and shook out his grey flannel suit which had been rolled up in a rucksack.

"I suppose one changes for dinner," he said. "Well, in a way no. It seemed such a lot to spend all at once. You worry too much about essentials, Jane."

I didn't say "somebody has to," though the thought did cross my mind. I live with Dagobert - in fact he is my husband - and I have learned that discussions beginning in this way never get anywhere.'

There, now you have a bit of the flavor of the book and of the relationship of our two amateur sleuths. A bit later out on the hotel's dining terrace, Jane joins Dagobert for dinner and can't help but notice that he's made himself completely at home.

'I found Dagobert sitting under a striped umbrella, sipping a Noilly Prat. He looked as though he owned the place. He stood up and held my chair for me. He was wearing a beret I'd forgotten he had. A copy of a French Communist newspaper was folded beside his saucer and he had bought a packet of Gauloises cigarettes. He gesticulated in a very Latin way as he asked the waiter to bring me a Dubonnet. He looked essentially, unmistakably English. I'd never noticed that before.

"One could be quite comfortable here," he said, handing me the salted almonds. "Or do you find the atmosphere uncongenial to work?"

"I don't want to seem mean-spirited," I said, accepting the almonds, "but are these thrown in?"

Properly he ignored the question. "We could probably persuade the management to provide a small table for your typewriter on our private balcony." he said. "If you feel the place really inspires you, I could doubtless take lessons in Provencal at the Universal School of Languages. How did you think of starting your novel?"

"I haven't thought."

"You should," he said, sweeping the luxurious appointments of the terrace with an appreciative eye. "One has to pay for this sort of thing. Couldn't it begin right here...let's see...with what?"

He paused, frowning. I drank my Dubonnet and thought of other things. Dagobert is always thinking of ways for me to begin a novel. He has the mistaken impression that I am happier when occupied.'

Within moments, a dapper gentleman who'd earlier been giving Jane the continental eye in the lobby appears on the terrace, chooses the table immediately adjacent to the couple and orders un cafe. The little man can't help but be startled by the nature of Dagobert's conversation, centering on the best way to kill a man. (He is prompting Jane to begin her novel.) An amusing scene ensues made all the funnier by Dagobert's complete disregard of the sensibilities of his coffee-drinking neighbor though Jane is aware that the gentleman is growing alarmed byDagobert's murderous enthusiasm complete with sound effects.

Turns out that the little man is the courtly though womanizing Don Diego Sebastiano, Vice Consul in Nice for the insignificant Central American country of Santa Rica. Unknown to Dagobert and Jane, Don Diego is currently living in fear for his life and/or losing his cushy Riviera job, since the assassination back in Santa Rica, of the current President, his uncle. Hence his immediate alarm upon noting  Dagobert's blood thirsty conversation.

"What's a place like Santa Rica doing with a Vice-Consul in a place like Nice?"
"What, indeed?" Don Diego said gloomily.

At any rate, this has little to do with the main events in the story except to add confusion when just a few pages later after Dagobert and Jane have moved to the monetarily more suitable Pension Victoria (with a great view of the Mediterranean), Jane is practically a witness to the shooting death of Hugh de Courcy Arkwright, a debonair language teacher, fellow pensionair and blackmailer.

Of course we don't know right off the bat that the victim is a blackmailer, but eventually the truth - as is to be expected - will out. To add to the confusion I previously mentioned, everyone assumes that the intended murder victim was really Don Diego as he was seen walking on the promenade in the same vicinity. The bullet just missed him by inches. Therefore Arkwright's death must be a one of those nasty twists of fate.

Until Dagobert causes a stir in the Pension Victoria's dining room when he announces that Arkwright's death was no accident. Dagobert has a flair for drama as you may have noticed.

Time for a bit of introduction. Staying at the pension alongside the two sleuths are:

Mrs. Andrioli, middle-aged and earthy, who owns and manages the Pension Victoria.

American widow Eleanor Duffield and her awkward uncommunicative daughter:

Sophie Duffield, the uncommunicative daughter whose awkwardness makes her appear much younger than her 24 years. (Unknown to her uppity-crust mother, Sophie has an eye on Joe Orsini, American bartender at the Brooklyn Bar, a local dive.)

Iris Makepeace, flirtatious young married (with a husband conveniently half an ocean away, working in - coincidences of coincidences, the above mentioned Santa Rica - but more about him later) who apparently thinks nothing of indulging in an affaire d'coeur with -

French pianist Dieudonne Dompierre (known as 'Pierre' - thank heaven) who keeps a piano in his small room and was conveniently playing the chaconne from the Bach violin concerto meant for the left hand (a clue that goes nowhere as so many do in this story) at the time of the murder.

And before his death, Major Hugh de Courcy Arkwright, suave Englishman, blackmailer and murder victim.

Jane writes : 'Apart from the above six people, there was a sprinkling of Swiss, Belgians and Scandinavians whom I never really got straight. I felt that six were enough to go ahead with, especially if I added - as Dagobert insisted - the personnel of the Brooklyn Bar and the Santa Rican Consulate...'

That would be Joe Orsini formerly of Buffalo, New York, Suzette (Don Diego's favorite sultry pick-up), Don Diego himself, Juan Moro (Don Diego's sullen driver) and later Henry Makepeace, Iris's not very sanguine hubby, who shows up out of the blue, moves in and apparently has no qualms about Iris and Pierre's entanglement. He claims he and Iris have an 'open' marriage. Right.

So, plenty of suspects, plenty of red herrings, plenty of motives to be discovered and plenty of supposed clues to be inspected and tossed aside. Dagobert and Jane aren't so much actual hands-on detectives as observers of human nature and proponents of 'what if?'.

Some of what happens is told rather than shown - supposedly a writing no-no - but here it works just fine.

This is a mystery in which the killer's identity doesn't matter as much as the fun we're having.

Read about author Delano Ames, his life and work here.

This week, B.V. Lawson is collecting the Friday Forgotten Book links over at her blog, In Reference to Murder, while Patti is away. Don't forget to check in.