Writing, like old age and rugby, is not for sissies. This especially holds true for the writing of James Scott Byrnside, that sardonic writer of impossible crime novels, whose fifth book, Monkey See, Monkey Murder is clever and funny and definitely not for the squeamish. 

Byrnside is one of those rare modern authors who trades in the devices and desires of the classic mystery. He knows the difference between a closed circle and a locked room – and utilizes both with panache. His first three novels, set in old Chicago between 1920 and 1935 (but, maddeningly – and, for a certain reason, gratefully – not in chronological order) feature the erudite and cantankerous private detective Rowan Manory and his wiseass assistant Walter Williams. And generally speaking, the outline of each book clearly pays homage to the classic books Byrnside adores by the likes of Brand, Carr, Talbot and more. 

And yet, Byrnside deviates from the old masters in a variety of ways. First, our heroes experience a level of danger, both in terms of their reputations and their lives, that you never find in a Christie novel. I don’t want to spoil all the ways in which this is manifested, but check out the flood sequence in Goodnight Irene or the incredibly tense “buried alive” sequence in The Strange Case of the Barrington Hills Vampire. 

And then there’s the violence. 

Far be it from me to say that writing is fun, but it’s clear that James Scott Byrnside has a great deal of fun grossing us out. The image that stays from me from his last, and so far only stand-alone, novel, The Five False Suicides, is the suspect who runs into a forest fire and has their face melted off. I cringe because I have become very much violence-averse. Blame it on the modern gangster and horror novels which have turned into stomach-churning gore fests. Be warned that Byrnside doesn’t shy away from that either – but he’s clearly having fun with it and he somehow makes (most of) it very funny. And so I laugh because . . . well, fun is infectious. 

The fun starts right away in the latest novel. Manory has been asked to investigate a break-in at the home of big metals magnate Steven Rinehardt, who is certain that the assailant is working for Chicago gangster Ivan “The Flesher” Florkowski. Rinehardt has recently become engaged to nightclub singer Lulu Raspin, who just happened to be the gangster’s moll. The lovebirds embarked on a holiday to Malaya, where the millionaire was attacked by a crazed monkey and had part of his face ripped off. 

That’s right: a crazed monkey. A “maniacal macaque,” to be precise, even though primate experts say that macaques never initiate an unprovoked attack. And the part about the ripped off face is also true – and described in gleeful detail that once again had me cringing and laughing at the same time. Now that his nose is missing, Rinehardt has called off his engagement to Lulu. But that doesn’t seem to have stopped Florkowski from wanting revenge. Lulu has disappeared, and another monkey appears at Rinehardt’s estate and attacks him, right near the room where three gorgeous Rembrandt paintings are being stored. 

It’s a wild and crazy set-up that, almost self-consciously, gives way to a complex locked room murder puzzle. Impossible crimes are, after all, Manory’s emotional bread and butter, and it’s why we are here on the Byrnside train. But as the blood-soaked bodies, both human and simian, mount upwards into a pile nearly as tall as my TBR collection, it strikes me that this elegant problem is almost not in keeping with the mindset of most of this book’s inhabitants. Most of the characters who live in a Byrnside mystery are awful people, but the collection of ghouls here is especially nasty: self-destructive playboys collect venal girlfriends and employees, while corrupt policemen work hand in hand with underworld psychopaths.

Just another day in the Windy City.

In the end, Manory solves the locked-room problem, and that solution is elegant, too. I thought the explanation for the second macaque attack was especially clever. What irritated me about Monkey See is another element which to my mind violates a major rule shared by Ronald Knox and S.S. Van Dine. But you know what? Those rules were always served up with tongue-in-cheek. I know John Dickson Carr broke this very same rule several times, and it didn’t bother my fellow fanatics nearly as much as it bothers me when it occurs. (Let it be known that Agatha Christie, that consummate rule-breaker, never touched this one. I’m proud of her for that!) And let it not be said that Byrnside didn’t provide clues to every aspect of the solution. He’s reliable that way!

Meanwhile, it’s always fun to hang out with Manory and Williams (Walter might even have a chance at romance by book’s end!), and Byrnside’s humorous way with a phrase is like the proverbial spoonful of sugar that helps the menace go down. He can coin a clever description (“His arms were like noodles, and his red mustache was the color of weakness”), and give his dialogue the rhythm of a vaudeville routine, as when Manory interviews a prostitute about the missing Lulu:
“’Lulu crossed Ivan. That means death. Besides, we’re all dead. It just hasn’t happened to some of us yet.’
“Rowan goggled at the turn of phrase. ‘That’s lovely. Who said it?’
“She looked at him as if he were a lunatic. ‘I did. Just now. What kind of a question is that? You were right here when I said it.’”

Bah-dah-BUM!

Monkey See, Monkey Murder is now available for a book purchase or download on Amazon.