Sand on the Gumshoe: a century of Australian crime writing

CARTER BROWN

Carter Brown, the pseudonym of British-born Alan Geoffrey Yates, must easily be Australia ’s most prolific author. At the time of his death in May 1985, a Sydney newspaper estimated he had written 270 books, selling more than 70 million copies in 14 different languages. A more recent estimate by his widow, Mrs Denise Yates, is 325 novels.

Yates was a genuine pulp writer and he established himself on the market when pulp was king. Before the crime thrillers that established the Carter Brown name, Yates churned out numerous westerns, science fiction and horror stories under various pen-names including Paul Valdez, Tom Conway and Tex Conrad. However he will always be better known as Carter Brown.

Literary recognition remained elusive. Not that it seemed to matter too much. The Carter Brown thrillers, all paperback originals published by Horwitz, sold extremely well in Australia, the United States and numerous foreign markets. Yet the critics ignored him. An exception was Anthony Boucher, who reviewed crime fiction for the New York Times Book Review and was himself a pulp writer of considerable talent. In the 850-odd columns he wrote for the Times, he found time to champion Carter Brown. Paradoxically, Boucher disliked the Raymond Chandler stories.

Yate’s adventures were largely set in the United States yet he didn’t visit the country until many years into his career. That didn’t particularly matter as the background he used was a purely idealised view of how big cities should be, especially the mean streets where heroes created order out of chaos.

Alan Yates was born in England in 1923 and settled in Sydney following World War II. He began writing soon afterwards and, following a period with the public relations department of Qantas, became a full-time author. The release of his work in the United States through New American Library unleashed his skills on a new market.

Several of his novels were ba

‘Poison Ivy’ is one of the master’s shorter works and it is a fine indication of what Carter Brown could do with a well-worn premise.

Poison Ivy

CHAPTER ONE

The face under the fez was sad and drooping – a thinker’s face. He had plenty of time to think while he sat there cross-legged, thumping out a steady beat on the drum with the flat of his right hand. On the small wooden platform, four dames stepped backwards and forwards rhythmically. They wore veils, silk jackets and pants, and slippers.

The barker stepped forward and cleared his throat. ‘Walk up!’ he shouted in a metallic voice. ‘Walk up! Walk up! See the sirens of the East! See the four genuine harem girls. See the dance of the seven veils! See…’ His voice faded as I walked away.

Further down the lane was death-defying Deane, preparing to ride the wall of death for the fourth time that day. Then there was the woman with two heads, the fat lady, the human skeleton – they were all there.

I went almost to the end of the row and there was the sign – Mollo, the magician. The barker was in full gallop. ‘Mollo’s magic will delight you, thrill you, terrify you! You will be mystified, horrified, terrified! You won’t believe your eyes! See the beautiful girl turned to stone! See the paper dolls come to life! See…’

I walked past him, paid my quarter and ducked under the curtain. There weren’t any more than ten people inside, patiently waiting for the show to start. I took a seat in the front row and lit a cigarette. The dark blue curtain across the front of the stage had the signs of the zodiac painted in faded gold all over it. A couple more people drifted in and then the show started.

It wasn’t a bad show – it wasn’t good, either. The best thing about it was Mollo’s assistant. She was a brunette with wistful eyes and a perfect figure. Mollo was a little guy with long black hair and a wisp of black moustache. He didn’t seem to care whether the audience liked the show or not – maybe there weren’t enough of them to matter.

But when it was finished, he came back on stage and bowed to the smattering of applause. The curtain came down and the people filed out. All except me. I stayed. I lit another cigarette and waited.

After a while, the barker walked in. He looked at me. ‘The show is over, bud,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to pay if you want to see it again.’

I flipped him a quarter. He looked at me curiously, then climbed up to the stage, ducked behind the curtain and disappeared. A minute later Mollo came out. He looked at me curiously, too.

‘I hope you don’t mind my staring,’ he said in a cultured voice that was tinged with sarcasm, ‘but this is the first time that anyone has ever paid twice to see my show!’

‘Yeah?’ I raised by eyebrows.

‘I feel flattered,’ he said.

‘You needn’t be,’ I told him, ‘it was the dame I wanted to see.’

‘Oh?’ The sardonic gleam was still in his eyes. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid she never talks to a member of the audience – never!’

I flicked ash onto the floor. ‘How is Ivy these days?’ I asked him. ‘Still peddling dope on the side for a fast buck?’

His eyebrows came together. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t follow you.’

‘You don’t have to,’ I said. ‘Just tell Ivy that Rex Kaufman wants to say hullo.’

‘Very well,’ he bowed and withdrew between the curtains.

Ivy came out a few seconds later. ‘Why, Rex!’ She made it sound enthusiastic. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine,’ I said, ‘just fine.’ She was still in her costume and she looked very nice. ‘How are you keeping these days?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m making out – just. But what with four shows a day, my feet are just killing me!’

‘If anyone could make a fast buck, you could,’ I told her. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve turned honest?’

‘I have, Rex,’ she said seriously. ‘I learned my lesson the last time. If you hadn’t squared things with the cops for me, I’d still have been in gaol right now. Never again!’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I gri

‘I’d love to, Rex,’ her big blue eyes shone at me, ‘but I’ve got another show in twenty minutes – sorry.’

‘That’s the last one, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, she agreed.

‘Then I’ll buy you a cup of coffee after that. I’ll wait outside for you.’

‘But, I…’

‘You’ve got time for a cup of coffee,’ I told her. I’ll see you after the last show!’

I walked out, wondering if I should ask the barker for my quarter back, then thought it looked as if they were having a tough time, anyway. I went and saw the harem girls. At close quarters, they could have been called the harem mothers to advantage. The trouble with me is that I’ve got no illusions left.

When the show was over, I strolled back and waited outside Mollo’s sideshow. I waited a quarter of an hour, then Ivy came out. She looked good. Ivy always looked good, I remembered. I drove downtown to where the lights were brighter and we stopped for coffee in a joint that didn’t put cloths on the tables, but they made good coffee.

‘How’s the private eye business these days, Rex?’ Ivy asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘It could be better, but I’m not starving.’ I drank some coffee. ‘How is Mollo’s show doing?’

She wrinkled her nose again. ‘I don’t think he’ll stay in business much longer. We average about fifteen a show – that’s not quite four bucks, gross!’