Eric Ambler
1962
Awards: Edgar
Rating: ★ ★ – – –
On the
surface of it, this book had all the ingredients of a great mystery
story. It is set in exotic locations in Greece and Turkey. The main
character is a dumpy small-time crook who gets caught up to his neck in
international intrigue. The British author, Ambler, who was described on
the book’s 1962 cover as “the greatest living writer of the novel of
suspense,” had been, among other things, a songwriter, a vaudeville
comedian, an ad executive, and an Oscar-nominated screenwriter. So I was
raring to read it.
The story is about Arthur Abdel Simpson,
son of a British father and an Egyptian mother, who lives in Athens and
makes a living as a petty thief and distributor of pornography. One day
he picks the wrong tourist to scam; his mark turns out to be a member
of a ring of spies (or maybe thieves or drug smugglers) who catches
Arthur red-handed trying to steal his travelers checks and blackmails
him into helping with a major caper.
At first, Arthur’s task is
just to drive a car from Athens to Istanbul. It is supposed to be an
easy job but he forgets that his Egyptian passport has expired, so he
gets stopped at the Turkish border. The car is searched and the customs
officials find guns and grenades hidden in the door panels. The Turkish
equivalent of the CIA then makes Arthur a deal: they won’t arrest him
for possession of the weaponry if he agrees to stay with the gang and
provide information about what they’re up to. So Arthur wangles his way
into becoming the gang’s full-time driver, lodges with them in their
villa outside Istanbul, and generally gets involved way over his head in
their scheme.
It’s hard to say sometimes why a book doesn’t
quite catch your imagination the way it seems it should. What happened
was that I’d often reach the end of a paragraph and realize that I’d
spaced out and missed what had happened and had to go back and read it
again. I didn’t look forward to picking this book up again after I’d
taken a break and would find myself reading other things instead.
It
had a heck of a lot of what seemed like unnecessary detail. All
distances were exactly estimated: there was an island sixty kilometers
from Pendik; a wall was twenty feet high; they had one-hundred fifty
yards to go; there was a sheer drop of thirty feet; the roof was
thirty-five feet wide. The gang’s preparations seemed needlessly
convoluted: they went to garages, resorts, restaurants, museums, and
back and forth to Istanbul about fifty times, without anything major
happening most of the time. And every move Arthur made was described in
excruciating detail even though he seemed to spend most of the time
dusting the car and filling it with gas.
The best parts of the
book were actually Arthur’s rare flashbacks to his British public school
childhood, when he was a loner and a troublemaker and had colorful
run-ins with teachers and administrators.
This review originally appeared on Cheeze Blog.
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