Picture Perry Mason, that legal lion, shackled to the dreary chore of paperwork. His salvation arrives in the form of a bishop - or so the gentleman claims - fresh from Australia and trailing mystery like incense. Mason, who wonders speech disorders in a person who does much public speaking, suspects the prelate is less cassock than camouflage.
The tale Mallory spins is operatic in scope. At its center looms Renwold C. Brownley, a name that sounds as though Dickens and Gardner conspired over gin rickeys. Brownley, a plutocrat of the old school - meaning no school at all - wrecked his son’s marriage and drove Julia Branner to the Antipodes, where she abandoned her infant daughter. Now, years later, detectives have produced a girl who may or may not be the lost heiress. Julia cries impostor. The bishop predicts Julia will seek Mason’s aid, and so she does, bringing with her a cargo of trouble.
From this point, the plot pirouettes like a prima ballerina on a waxed floor. Mallory is attacked, vanishes en route to his ship, and Brownley himself is murdered - an exit as abrupt as his manners. Julia, accused and obstinate, refuses even to explain her innocence. Mason, undaunted, juggles impostors like a carnival performer while Paul Drake trails shadows.
This ninth Mason novel is a labyrinth of lies, a veritable masquerade where everyone wears a borrowed face. Though the roster of suspects is modest, Gardner’s ingenuity keeps the reader guessing until Mason, with a flourish worthy of Houdini, unmasks the villain. The courtroom is but a cameo; Mason and District Attorney Burger still exchange civilities - an idyll soon to perish in later books.
Bottom line: A vintage concoction, rich in complexity and
period flavor. For devotees and curious newcomers alike, it is a reminder why
Gardner once ruled the mystery roost with the serene confidence of a bishop - albeit
one who never stuttered.
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