A very solid, no-nonsense police procedural from 1936. Our lead detective, Inspector Richardson, has moved quickly up the career ladder, and this book shows why: he’s not afraid to listen to civilians and enlist their aid, he doesn’t jump to conclusions, he can admit a mistake and alter course, and he’s a skilled but not oppressive interrogator.
Mr. Pomeroy is pottering about in his garden one morning when he’s visited by some people interested in leasing a bungalow like his. When he checks to see if his wife would mind this early-morning intrusion, he finds Mrs. Pomeroy dead in the bath. And naturally he’s the premiere suspect.
The ensuing investigation involves several diverse plot lines, some of which are easily seen by the reader. Richardson keeps at it, untwisting the threads until he finds the solution.
While characterization is limited, and ambiance nonexistent, this book still held my interest. Nothing over the top, no foolishness, a tiny amount of welcome humor; I’d recommend this to those who like mysteries from this era, and who don’t want a lot of gore with their murders. ( )