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bev_reads_mysteries's review against another edition
4.0
It's been over twenty years since I read this one. It was my very first introduction to the work of Leo Bruce. Bruce is the pseudonymn for Rupert Croft-Cooke, a British author of both fiction and non-fiction under his given name. Using the name Leo Bruce, he created two series detectives: Sergeant Beef, a solid British police officer, and Carolus Deene, a senior master of history with an interest in criminology. It was also my very first parody of the mystery genre--and one I enjoyed very much.
Case for Three Detectives features Sergeant Beef and it pits the no-nonsense common sense of the British police officer against those of three amateur detectives: Lord Simon Plimsoll, Amer Picon, and Monsignor Smith. Discerning readers (especially those well-steeped in the Golden Age) will immediately recognize the similarities to certain well-known literary figures. Each of these amateurs quickly produce their own brilliant solution to the murder which has been commited in the familiar confines of a Locked Room. Each solution is startlingly original and iron-clad in its logic. While all along, Sergeant Beef eyes these amateurs with contempt and and states repeatedly, "But I know who done it."
I enjoyed my outing with Sergeant Beef so much in this mystery that Leo Bruce became a mainstay on my TBR and TBO lists. I've read every Sergeant Beef mystery that I could get my hands on--so far only two others of the eight original. And searching for Sergeant Beef brought the Carolus Deene novels to my attention. I have to confess that I'm a bigger fan of the academic amateur than I am of the British police officer in this case. But I continue to hold high regard for Case for Three Detectives. It is such a marvelously well-done parody and down-right good mystery on its own. I highly recommend it.
ssejig's review against another edition
3.0
The Classic Mysteries podcast has hooked me into reading many books. Some of which I enjoyed more than others. The thought that this author was playing off the stereotypes of other detectives intrigued me. And... it was fine. But I think the author spent a little too much time on the other detectives and not enough with the detective whose series this book starts.
A murder occurs in a locked room. The local policeman seem to have a person in mind but he has been told by his superiors that he must work with the local amateurs in the area because they are so adept at solving cases.
The mystery itself was fine enough but again, lost out to the large descriptions and "solutions" of the three detectives.
A murder occurs in a locked room. The local policeman seem to have a person in mind but he has been told by his superiors that he must work with the local amateurs in the area because they are so adept at solving cases.
The mystery itself was fine enough but again, lost out to the large descriptions and "solutions" of the three detectives.
jokoloyo's review against another edition
3.0
A parody detective novel. This time, the true hero is the constable, not the genius amateur detectives. Unfortunately the jokes outside the parody are not so hilarious.
wealhtheow's review against another edition
3.0
A stupid but sweet middle-aged woman is murdered in her bed in the midst of a lovely little house party. The other guests find her body within a minute, the room is locked, there are no footprints outside the window--the case seems insolvable. Three great amateur detectives show up the next day to solve the case--parody versions of Lord Peter Wimsey, Hercule Poirot and Father Brown.
Lord Simon Plimsoll: "He stepped out of the foremost of three Rolls-Royces, the second of which contained his man-servant, whose name I afterwards learnt was Butterfield, and the third, a quantity of photographic apparatus. I happened to be outside the front door at the time, and heard him address his man. I was at first a little startled at his idiom, for it reminded me of a dialogue I had heard in a cabaret between two entertainers whose name I believe was Western, and it took me a few moments to believe that this was his natural mode of speech."
Amer Picon: "He interrupted me. 'I know all that you know, mon vieux, and per'aps a leetle more. Oho, tiens, voila!' he ended not very relevantly."
Monsignor Smith: "'Why, I've actually heard that an American has risen from the ground and moved through the air with wings,' he said, 'and without sharing the fate of Icarus.'
The little cleric was staring out of the window through the thick lenses of his spectacles. 'But there are so many kinds of wings,' he murmured; 'there are the wings of aeroplanes and of birds. There are angels' wings and'--his voice dropped--'there are devils' wings.' Then he nibbled at a piece of bread which he had been crumbling.
We were silent at once. My acquaintance with all of this remarkable man that had been made public, led me to look for something in his words which would turn out to have some bearing on our problem.
'But there is flight without wings,' he went on, 'more terrible than flight with wings. The Zeppelins had no wings to lift them. A bullet has no wings. A skilfully thrown knife, flashing through the air like a drunken comet, is wingless, too.'
This was too pointed for Alec Norris, who began to talk hastily of motor-cars."
The detectives guide us through twists and turns of hidden ropes, servants with criminal pasts, and various wills, until at last, they each give their rendition of how this locked room murder was committed.
And then Sergeant Beef, the ponderous, slow-witted police officer originally assigned to the case, says "But I know 'oo done it" and unravells it all.
Lord Simon Plimsoll: "He stepped out of the foremost of three Rolls-Royces, the second of which contained his man-servant, whose name I afterwards learnt was Butterfield, and the third, a quantity of photographic apparatus. I happened to be outside the front door at the time, and heard him address his man. I was at first a little startled at his idiom, for it reminded me of a dialogue I had heard in a cabaret between two entertainers whose name I believe was Western, and it took me a few moments to believe that this was his natural mode of speech."
Amer Picon: "He interrupted me. 'I know all that you know, mon vieux, and per'aps a leetle more. Oho, tiens, voila!' he ended not very relevantly."
Monsignor Smith: "'Why, I've actually heard that an American has risen from the ground and moved through the air with wings,' he said, 'and without sharing the fate of Icarus.'
The little cleric was staring out of the window through the thick lenses of his spectacles. 'But there are so many kinds of wings,' he murmured; 'there are the wings of aeroplanes and of birds. There are angels' wings and'--his voice dropped--'there are devils' wings.' Then he nibbled at a piece of bread which he had been crumbling.
We were silent at once. My acquaintance with all of this remarkable man that had been made public, led me to look for something in his words which would turn out to have some bearing on our problem.
'But there is flight without wings,' he went on, 'more terrible than flight with wings. The Zeppelins had no wings to lift them. A bullet has no wings. A skilfully thrown knife, flashing through the air like a drunken comet, is wingless, too.'
This was too pointed for Alec Norris, who began to talk hastily of motor-cars."
The detectives guide us through twists and turns of hidden ropes, servants with criminal pasts, and various wills, until at last, they each give their rendition of how this locked room murder was committed.
And then Sergeant Beef, the ponderous, slow-witted police officer originally assigned to the case, says "But I know 'oo done it" and unravells it all.
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