Brian Moore's Pulp Fiction: French for Murder

French for Murder

Bernard Mara [pseud. Brian Moore]

New York: Gold Medal, 1954

Related posts:

Parisian French, not Québécois French

Brian Moore's Pulp Fiction: Sailor's Leave

Sailor's Leave [Wreath for a Redhead]

Brian Moore

New York: Pyramid, 1953

Related post:

Brian Moore's True First

Brian Moore's Pulp Fiction: The Executioners

The Executioners

Brian Moore

Toronto: Harlequin, 1951

Related post:

Murderers Move in on Montreal

Brian Moore's Pulp Fiction

This blog began ten months ago with a modest piece on Sailor's Leave, the Brian Moore novel first published by Harlequin as Wreath for a Redhead. "It's a very small secret", I wrote at the time, "that between 1951 and 1957 Moore published seven pulp novels." Today, having spent much of the morning surrounded by Canadian reference books, I'm beginning to reconsider my words. The Canadian Encyclopedia doesn't mention them, nor does The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature. Reference works that do recognize Moore's pulps cock things up completely. Here, for example, is John Robert Colombo writing in his 1000 Questions About Canada:

The distinguished novelist Brian Moore did not write Harlequin Romances, but in 1951, while still a newspaperman, he wrote a number of suspense novels that were published by Harlequin Books. They are Wreath for a Redhead and The Executioners.

Information is not plentiful, but it seems Moore wrote other novels for Harlequin. Their titles are sometimes given as This Gun for Gloria, French for Murder (as Bernard Mara), Intention to Kill [sic] and Murder in Majorca (as Michael Bryan). It seems in 1952 Pyramid Books published yet another Moore pot-boiler, titled Sailor's Leave.

I don't think Colombo really meant that Moore wrote all his pulps in 1951 – they were produced over a six-year stretch that began in 1950 – and so, put this morsel of misinformation down to sloppiness. But what of the rest? None of the "other novels" were published by Harlequin, and Sailor's Leave, published in 1953 (not 1952), was nothing but an American reissue of Wreath for a Redhead. Contrary to Colombo's claim, information is plentiful and the titles are well-documented – as they were in 2001, when 1000 Questions About Canada was first published. As with any research, the trick is knowing where to look. Let's start with Denis Sampson's fine biography Brian Moore: The Chameleon Novelist, which includes this handy page:

The very same information can be found elsewhere, which makes Colombo's writing all the more disconcerting. This is, after all, a man whose career was built in large measure as Canada's go-to guy for reference works. I don't think I'm making too much of a fuss; this is the second time I've consulted Colombo in writing this blog, and it is the second time his information has shown itself to be incorrect.

Enough. I promised myself that October would be dedicated to writing that brings in money. The next week or so will feature nothing but images of Moore's pulp novels. Enjoy!

Related posts:

Brian Moore's True First

Murderer's Move in on Montreal

Parisian French, not Québécois French
No Lady Before Judith Hearne
No Gun for Gloria

Childhood's End

That crummy bookstore I complained about last Thursday wasn't my only source of books. In elementary school then, as now, the Scholastic Book Club was omnipresent. Their books were in our classrooms, they were in our library, and each month brought new catalogues with titles like From the Earth to the Moon, 100 Pounds of Popcorn and The Rise and Fall of Adolph Hitler tapping my allowance. Times have changed. As a parent, I can testify that the publisher's once varied offerings have been replaced by a narrow range of paper and plastic product.

Of the hundred or so Scholastics I once had, only PM: The Prime Ministers of Canada by John McCombie and an illustrated book on Sacco and Vanzetti remain. Why these two and not the above, spotted last week at the local thrift shop? Yes, it doesn't look like much – and certainly author and illustrator Gordon Johnston owes everything to Robert Ripley – but I do remember It Happened in Canada as a favourite. Published when I was ten, the book served as an early introduction to cannibalistic cougars, communes, cowcatchers, and names like George Brown and Sir Wilfrid Laurier.

No doubt this is the first I read of Frances Brooke and The History of Emily Montague... and I'm betting I didn't encounter either again until university. I take this opportunity to reveal, without shame, that I've never read Mrs Brooke's novel.

An image... well, I don't want to say that it is seared into my brain, but I certainly did remember it. Who could forget?

And I also remembered this woman, who lost her mind while retaining her looks.

Did I look up 'bustle' in the OED, or was I too lazy? And what did my ten-year-old self make of the wow, zowey, zap stuff about morphine and fine Turkish opium?

Some nine-year-old tough who peddles drugs

I swear to God

I swear: I never even knew what drugs were...

A Thanksgiving Hymn

"A Thanksgiving Hymn" by Agnes Maule Machar (a/k/a Fidelis), from the revised edition of her Lays of the 'True North,' and Other Canadian Poems, published in 1902 by Copp, Clark. Miss Machar's portrait is taken from Canadian Singers and Their Songs, compiled by Edward S. Caswell (Toronto: McCleland & Stewart, 1919).

Usually Modest, Often Attractive

The used bookstore closest to my childhood home was very much a soulless place. In weekly visits – spanning elementary school, high school and the first year of college – I never once heard the owner say anything other than the amounts owing for my purchases. His place of commerce, lit up like an auto body shop, had no shelves; browsing involved flipping through rows of books in bins of white arborite. This form of display, requiring uniformity of format, explains why it is that he sold mass market paperbacks and only mass market paperbacks. Bantams, Penguins, Signets, each was stamped on the inside front cover with the store's name and the words 'BRING BACK THIS BOOK FOR CASH OR TRADE'. An order? An offer? Either way, I attempted this only once, at age eleven, and was surprised to find that MAD's Dave Berg Looks at Living, bought the previous week for 95 cents, was now worth just nine...

No, not ten cents... nine cents.

This warm and fuzzy childhood memory was revived after I stumbled upon Seven Roads' Gallery of Book Trade Labels. Remnants of an earlier age, these small, typically elegant advertisements stand in sharp contrast to the mass market merchant's big, ugly and crude rubber stamp. Earlier this week, I took a quick look through my collection in search of these labels. The first I came across belonged to Chapman's Book Store, which was frequented by past generations of my family.

The next was this attractive advert from Ireland and Allan, which was once located on Granville Street, not far from my old Vancouver condo. We were separated by only five blocks and five decades. Out of the thirty or so I came across, Ireland and Allan's is the only label that bears a printer's name.

My favourite belongs to druggist Walter E. Shields, pasted on the inside front cover of a near-valueless 1902 edition of Jack London's A Daughter of the Snows. It's a reminder of a time when small rural stores were, by necessity, all things to all people. Waskada, Manitoba, where Mr Shields plied his trade, is not a small town, but a village; its population today hovers around two hundred.

For some reason, I have a dozen or so titles bearing trade labels from Wendell Holmes. These books, first sold in the Ontario cities of London and St Thomas, I picked up in Montreal, Vancouver and New York. Interesting to see the change brought on by time – the three labels below date from the First World War, the 'twenties and the Second World War, respectively. I wonder why Mr Holmes stopped thinking that the books he was selling were good.

Now in its 103rd year, the shop that once belonged to Wendel Holmes soldiers on under his name, despite all challenges. The same cannot be said for that bookstore of my childhood. It is no more – done in, I suppose, by the rise of the trade size paperback.