The memory of Mr Reade's voice on the phone ran through his head like a gramophone record – 'Oh, we know that those sort of things happen in the public or free libraries, Mr Cain, but not in the Metropolitan. All our members are so carefully screened, you see; three references, a degree from a reputable university, and proof of financial status, before one is even allowed to join. As I said to my assistant, "these things may take place in the British Museum Reading Room or even the London Library, but never in the Metropolitan."
'And it was the way the book had been treated that was so horrible, Mr Cain. This wasn't just the work of a thief removing plates to make up an imperfect copy of his own. It had been slashed and torn as though a maniac had done it, as though somebody bore the book a personal grudge.'
'A maniac!' John whispered the word aloud, for that was the most probable explanation, it seemed. Somebody who felt he had a secret hidden in the book would merely have removed the incriminating pages. A hard-working maniac too. An old dealer had been killed for the book, a millionaire had been robbed of it, and a very swagger library had had its copy mutilated. He was beginning to picture the kind of mind that was at work. Somebody who hoarded the books, but didn't want anybody else to have them; an efficient somebody, though. The Metropolitan was a reference, not a lending, library, and no one was allowed to take a book from the premises. It would have been very hard to steal that copy, but quite simple to deface it. He began to feel a deep dread at the thought of that crazed but efficient mind.
Blue Octavo (1963) by John Blackburn
(Valancourt Books, 2013)
Blue Octavo is an intensely focused thriller, dry and British, the kind of novel Hitchcock might have optioned when he was at a loose end.
* * *
Blackburn was beautifully suited to write thrillers: his characters come alive and action finds its target despite all aesthetic economies. Blue Octavo has a clear who-done-it plot with a trio of winning and oddball amateurs out to crack the case.
A bookseller, a library staffer, and a dodgy vicar are among the killer's victims. Book dealer John Cain, adventurer J. Moldon Mott, and debutante industrial heiress Julia Lent unite to unravel the killer's apparent motivation: collecting every known copy of a rare 1909 mountaineering book: The Grey Boulders – An account of British Mountaineering between the years 1840 and 1910.
....They sat in the office behind his [Cain's] shop, hedged in on every side with piles of unsorted books and unframed prints. Though officially the shop itself was closed, through the glass partition he could see one industrious browser still browsing. He was an old, though not very valued customer, and could be trusted to let himself out.
'Yes, I suppose one could call it neat, in an unpleasant, crazy way.' Mott had obviously noticed Julia's smile and was put out by it.
'We've got a very rum bird on our hands, it seems. When he can buy or steal he does so, when that's impossible he destroys. An efficient blighter, too; he must have got hold of most of the edition by now. But the way, did you know that there were only seventy-six in existence – not a hundred as originally advertised?
'No, well, don't let me teach you your business, but it's a fact. Twenty-four were destroyed in a fire just after binding. Allowing for a normal loss through time, what Roach bought, and what we know to have been destroyed, there can't be many copies about now. My guess is that if we don't get our hands on one of them, we're sunk. Only that book can tell us the kind of man we're up against, and we've got to get hold of a copy – we've got to. I suppose you've had no luck at all, old boy?'
'No, not a smell of the damned book.' John remembered his fruitless hours on the telephone, and the replies which had always been the same. There just didn't seem to be a copy anywhere. 'No, sorry, Cain, but I haven't seen one for years. Why don't you try Francis Edwards?' 'Can't help, old boy. Think I sold a copy some time back, but I can't remember who to. James Thin in Edinburgh might have one.' 'No, sir, we haven't one in stock at the moment. Perhaps the Museum Bookshop in Kendal might help. They carry a very large stock on sporting subjects.'
Yes, always the same: 'Sorry', and advice to try somebody else. 'Try Quaritch, and Maggs, and Commin in Bournemouth, and Hill in Newcastle, and Kerr in Lancashire.' Try anybody you damn well liked, but it didn't do any good. John dreaded the thought of his next phone bill.
'I see. Then we'll just have to hope that our friend panics and shows his hand by attacking you, old boy. Ah, but you've got business to attend to, it seems.' Mott broke off as a knock sounded on the door and the browser came into the office.
'Ah, good evening, Mr Cain.' The man came slowly towards John and he wheezed and creaked like an old gate. He weighed about twenty stone with a great sagging paunch slung in front of him, and grey, mutton-chop whiskers gave him a marked resemblance to the late Emperor Franz Josef of Austria. There was a book in his hand, and he held it out as though it were a rather nasty object and probably laden with germs.
'Sorry to bother you so late, but I found this, and wondered if it is your price-marking. Seems terribly high, you know; thirty shillings!'
'Let me see, Major Allan.' John glanced forward at the book.
'Yes, Ford Madox Ford's Queen who flew. I don't think thirty bob is too much. It's a first edition and quite scarce.'
'Yes, yes, but the condition it's in, Mr Cain.' Franz Josef's face looked slightly injured, as though John were an old friend who had let him down badly.
'The spine and covers are rubbed, and there's quite a lot of foxing on the endpapers. Foyle's had one the other day in much better condition for only twenty-five.'
'All right, twenty-five it is then, Major.' Normally John would have used the obvious retort, 'Why didn't you buy Foyle's copy?' and held out for the full amount, but now he just wanted to get rid of the man. He watched him lay the money on the desk and wheeze away, well satisfied with a bargain.
'Humph, big business indeed, old man!' Mott stared scornfully at the money, and then grinned across at Julia. 'Do you manage to make a living out of this dump?'
'Yes, thank you, I make a living.' John suddenly realized that he had rarely disliked a human being as much as he disliked Mott.
* * *
My interest in Blackburn's fiction has focused on titles that braid elements of thriller and horror. Bury Him Darkly (1969) is probably the finest Blackburn novel I have read along these lines. The Scent of New-Mown Hay (1958), reissued by Valancourt Books in 2013, is an excellent techno-thriller with bows to affect and body horror. Blow This House Down (1970) is a more topical thriller, and also looks forward to the 1970s urban disaster trend in publishing and film.
Blue Octavo is free of blood and gore. Its puzzle premise owes more to Dickson Carr and Ellery Queen than to Grand Guignol or Ian Fleming. Indeed, it's almost cozy.
Scholar Mike Ripley, who wrote Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang (2017), nicely sums up Blackburn's strengths in his introduction to the Valancourt edition:
Most of Blackburn's novels were short – Blue Octavo clocks in at little more than 50,000 words, which is a refreshing change from many of today's overblown thrillers – and all characterised by short scenes, pithy dialogue and rapid action to enhance the pace of the storytelling. The characters in them are described in stark outlines, yet cleverly enough to make them all believable and though Blue Octavo may have only 50,000 words, you would be hard pressed to find a wasted one.
Jay
19 May 2022
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