By Mark Smith
Publish 12 months note: First released in 1974
A killer calling himself The Deathmaker is at the free, pursued by way of Arnold Magnuson, a grief-stricken detective at the verge of a psychological breakdown. Magnuson’s dogged research to discover the killer, and himself, takes him deep into city Chicago, laying naked the corrupt urban and its seething soul in all its macabre, heartbreaking, and violent complexity. It’s a sprawling, completely compelling tale, broadly considered as a beautiful literary success and maybe the easiest detective novel ever written.
“Remarkable for either its ambition and its accomplishment, it reads as if it have been written by means of a resurrected Charles Dickens, one chilled via 100 years of graveyard brooding…every web page is a excitement to read,[/i] manhattan Times[/i]
“A masterpiece . . . increases Dickens’ benign ghost to remind us back that we're all hooked up, all either blameless and guilty,” Kirkus Reviews
“A wonderful and arresting novel which to this point transcends the detective style that encouraged it as to face in a class of its own,” Arkansas Gazette
“In its sustained power, energy and scale, it truly is in contrast to the other fiction i've got read....A advanced and unforgettable novel,” The instances (London)
A nationwide ebook Award Finalist
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Extra info for The Death of the Detective: A Novel
Whenever it stopped of its own accord at one of those holes bordered with thorns that farmers dig along the edge of their ploughed land, Charles, waking with a start, would quickly remember the broken leg, and try to recall all the fractures that he knew. It was no longer raining; day was breaking, and, on the leaﬂess branches of the apple trees, birds sat motionless, ﬂuﬃng out their tiny feathers in the cold morning wind. The ﬂat landscape extended as far as the eye could see, the clumps of trees round the farms making widely spaced splashes of dark purple on that vast grey surface which, at the horizon, merged with the dreary tones of the sky.
When he entered Les Bertaux his horse took fright, and shied violently. It was a prosperous-looking farm. Through the open half-doors of the stables you could see huge draught horses placidly feeding from brand-new mangers. A stream of vapour arose from the big manureheap that ﬂanked the buildings, and, standing out among the hens and turkeys, ﬁve or six peacocks––that luxury of Pays de Caux farmyards––were pecking for food. The sheep-run was long and the barn tall, with walls as smooth as the back of your hand.
Père Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. They put oﬀ any discussion of money matters, there was plenty of time for that, since the marriage could not decently take place before the end of Charles’s mourning, that is to say, not until the following spring. The winter passed in waiting. Mademoiselle Rouault busied herself with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered from Rouen, and she made herself nightgowns and nightcaps with the help of fashionplates which she borrowed. During the visits Charles made to the Madame Bovary farm they talked about the preparations for the wedding, wondering which room they’d use for the wedding feast, how many courses they’d have, and what particular dishes they’d serve.