January 28, 2020

Through The Wall by Cleveland Moffett

~Through the Wall by Cleveland Moffett (1863-1926)

~Copyright, 1909

~Illustrated by H. Heyer

In an elite restaurant in downtown France (on the Champs-Elysees, to be exact), a man is shot. Not at all the proper sort of thing to do in a ritzy place. Meanwhile a mastermind criminal and a mastermind detective are pitted against each other–which is quite predictable and usual in detective fiction–the cause of the strife, however, is a beautiful girl’s prophetic dreams, which is decidedly not usual.

Peter Whimsey, in The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club praised this book. It seems to have been well thought-of, and oft-read in it’s own generation, but has largely been sitting around and gathering dust ever since. Merely 11 ratings on Goodreads, at the time I’m writing this. But long forgotten roads and books have held a fascination for me, and it’s apparent history of shelving-after-fame intrigued me.

It was a good, entertaining detective novel of the sort I’d given up ever finding again. I thought, when I finished all 60 of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries at the age of 15, that I had come to an end of stories like that. And I’d resigned myself to the fact that I’d never have the pleasure of watching one unfold before my eyes again. Until years later I found this novel—and discovered with joy that there was indeed one such tale still waiting to be relished.

I do love a good Agatha Christie novel, and Dorothy Sayers is grand fun too. Their stories are great and special in their own way, but they have a different sort of flavor to them all of their own. They have added a lot to the detective culture for sure, but sometimes I got a craving for the old Sherlock type flavor again. And this book, Through the Wall, runs very much in that vein and has the same “Sherlock Holmes-ish” feel to it. With the one exception of the ending perhaps, which almost feels like a Bulldog Drummond film.

The detective himself is not like Holmes. He’s far more normal, and has no strange eccentricities—like Holmes’ scratching away Jack Benny style on violins, or studying in opium trances. This detective, Coquenil, is a bachelor just like Holmes, ’tis true. But he’s an ordinary man aside from his unique knowledge of criminal history and high intelligence.

If you compare Holmes to Coquenil there’s one big practical difference. The stakes. Holmes lives a solo and detached life. No kith, nor kin, nor ties to speak of, nothing that he loves deeply with every fiber of his being—besides his own life. At least not that I can remember. If there was it must have been fleeting. Even his ‘love’ of justice and right is only a part time love. He’ll readily set it aside when it suits him.

Coquenil is not a lone wolf. He functions in a more realistic world with relationships; a dog, a dear mother, and tight friendships–he is a man who has many deeply rooted loves. His own life is not one of them.

He has ideals he won’t sacrifice. And people who he loves far, far deeper than life or job. And that makes him different. The stakes are higher. Higher than they can ever be with Holmes.

When Holmes fought his mastermind Moriarty, the highest stake, the worst thing Moriarty could do, was kill him–Holmes the great detective–and his reputation. But Coquenil’s death was a trivial thought to him. The mastermind he matched wits with could rip away from him far, far more in one hour than Holmes could ever dream of losing in a lifetime. But enough on that.

The plot is complex. The characters are engaging and easy to sympathize with. The pacing is excellent. There are many unique layers. It’s a bit overly theatrical in a few spots with the “new” technology of a lie detector and such. Overall it’s very well told, and the perfect book for a leisurely, rainy day.

Satisfying and entertaining. A nice contribution to the world of American detective fiction.

Currently available in the bookshop!