Quite a while ago I read a wartime issue of Mammoth Detective and it had me wanting for more. Fortunately, I had another issue in storage, but from the postwar era. Eagerly I dove into the lead novella.
Mammoth Detective was published by Ziff-Davis and carries a date of January 1947. The cover illustration is by Arnold Kohn. For 25-cents you got 180 pages of thrills and plenty of lovely internal illustrations. The lead novella by John D. Swain marks his first published story since departing the literary scene in 1943 to join the war effort.
Blood on the Moon by Dwight V. Swain is illustrated by Arnold Kohn. Love-sick Frank Blair is futilely trying to convince bar singer Helen Humphries to quit her job at The Hideaway Club. She claims to love Frank as much as he pines for her, but swears that she can’t quit the job, and won’t provide Frank with a reason. Club owner Moe Evans and his stooges horn in and make fun of him for his efforts. The situation worsens when his older brother, Al Blair, a policeman, walks in and finds his kid brother in this den of hell. He tries to coerce Frank to depart the premises and stay away from Helen, who he openly views as a tramp and a slut, for what kind of decent girl would work at The Hideaway. Frank naturally takes offense and to Al’s surprise, steps in and delivers a solid fist, sending him hurling to the ground. Al Blair departs the establishment, figuring his brother a lost cause and corrupt to boot. The situation soon deteriorates as Helen accepts a phone call. Blanching from whatever was said on the line, she hangs up and runs outside. Frank attempts to pursue but is knocked down for his troubles by one of Moe’s stooges. Captured, he’s brought back inside to Moe’s office and learns some details. Seems one Ray Humphries was sent to prison for participating in a bank heist years ago, making off with over $70,000 dollars. Worse, it’s alluded to that Ray is Helen’s husband! (An inflation calculator converts that approximately to $986,000 in 2024 currency, nearly a cool million dollars!) Turns out Ray escaped prison and seeks retribution. The rest of the novel is blood-and-thunder action and murder with some psychological horror tossed in and Hollywood-style car chases. But don’t let that throw you. Swain writes it all in solidly entertaining fashion as Frank Blair becomes a murder suspect on the lam with Helen, who he isn’t sure he entirely trusts purely on blind faith as she repeatedly requests of him. But when the jailbird is told to be her husband, Frank gets frustrated and no longer accepts faith. Especially after the pair are caught at the scene of a homicide and his brother catches the pair over the corpse. Besides eluding policemen and numerous stooges, Frank Blair finds himself in fear for his very life from Helen’s sadistic husband. How Frank goes about escaping the clutches of various killers and the cops makes for a real nail-biter, but more entertaining perhaps is how Swain navigates his hero through hell and back. How does Frank convince his brother and the police that he is innocent? That too makes for superb reading, as Swain doesn’t cut corners.
No Trouble at All is by H. B. Hickey and illustrated by Ed Boecher. Hickey authored two tales featuring Mancuso. The first debuted in the November 1946 issue. In Mancuso’s second (known) venture, he sets out to reclaim loot from a jewel heist. In Jason Bourne fashion, he brutally manhandles the goons from the heist and anyone indirectly associated, too. In the end, he returns the loot in a briefcase to a New York insurance firm. I don’t know if he is an insurance detective in Mancuso’s first appearance, but I’d be game to read it. This story was exciting and sure it has its cliche eye-roller moments, but Hickey’s tale is well worth the read. What is unclear to me is why Mancuso failed to have a third appearance. In any case, Hickey appears to have authored only a handful of crime stories then switched entirely to science fiction and westerns.
The Corpse Keeps Company is by Julius Long and illustrated by Arnold Kohn. A lawyer desires to hire Mayhew to investigate his fiancée whom he himself is representing. Mayhew doesn’t personally handle cases; instead, he has Snyder. He sends Rocky undercover. Rocky ends up murdered. A screwdriver through the chest. Snyder flies up to personally take charge. The fiancees brother is also murdered. She blames the lawyer for hiring a detective, which led to the death(s). Synder unravels the fraudulent sales plot and unveils the true killer. Bit of a snooze for me but had a good pace.
Run, Rabbit, Run is by Frances M. Deegan and illustrated by William A. Gray. She wrote pulp fiction from 1944-1952, then vanished from the literary field. Why? Was she not able to transition from the dying pulp market to the paperbacks? The 1940 census has her as a stenographer at a chocolate factory, while the 1950 census gives no occupation. Not helpful. A droll tale involving Sammy Shopa, musician, asked by a female singer that ditched his band to marry rich. Only, someone there wants to rub her out. He’s taken for a killer after a Granby is killed, but fact is, that man jumped in front of the bullet meant for the girl. So, Shopa refers to himself as a fleeing rabbit, bouncing and hopping about, trying to stay alive, ahead of those hunting him.
Forty-Cent Tip is by Harrison B. Latimer and illustrated by William A. Gray. This was Latimer’s first of only two published pulp stories. The Off the Blotter editor’s section candidly remarks the name “sounds like somebody’s penname”. At a guess, I’d nail H. B. Hickey with that accusation, as his real name is Herbert B. Livingston. A quick search online confirms this via The H. B. Hickey Fan Page created by Richard Simms. As to the story; ex-Chicago defense attorney Ward is a bit of a drunk. Formerly a successful lawyer, by his own statements, he’s relegated himself to a remote town. No reason is ever provided for his relocation nor what happened in Chicago. He finds himself defending an aged doctor, himself practically a stranger to the town, having relocated there himself a handful of years earlier, reportedly from Texas. His past is unknown into the prosecuting attorney reveals a mistake the doctor made. But that isn’t why he is on trial. His female assistant was found dead from an insulin overdose. And he prescribed the medicine. The label was on the wrong bottle, found to have been steamed off. Ward finds himself forced to sober up fast and suffering from alcoholic withdrawal while trying to save an innocent man’s life, a life no other attorney was willing to take a chance on. A chance discussion from another day and a face in the stands makes him add two improbabilities and a forced admission of guilt from another party. A fun story that cheekily mocks Hollywood court trials and the methodology by which the defense gets the accused off, but Ward’s imagination and frantic fantasy stalls the verdict long enough for such a chance to occur. Not a bad tale, but his former entry in this magazine is my fave of the pair.
Frozen Food—for Thought is by Glenn Low and illustrated by Rod Ruth. Real name is Glenn Dale Lough, and like Frances Marie Deegan, had a brief stint in the pulps, from 1945-1953. Glenn would go on to author some risque romance paperbacks as Glenn Low and as John Furlough. In 1997 this short story was collected in 100 Sneaky Little Sleuth Stories. A crook and murderer is captured by a deputy. While signaling for the ferry boat to be brought across, the deputy cuffs the killer to a barge chain. The killer bashes a heavy barge chain across the deputy’s skull, killing him instantly. The boat comes across with a pretty young lady. She’s aghast to see the corpse. Taking her captive, he forces her out upon the ice ahead of him in case spots of it are too thin. At a certain point he stops. There’s a corked jug floating in the river. This is his marker, and tied to it underwater is the stolen loot. While freezing upon the frozen river, the girl escapes and returns with the law. The double-killer was frozen dead to the ice, stuck there because of the barge-chain he was cuffed to. Bit of an ironic twist, that the girl doesn’t get her revenge upon the killer, the man who just murdered her husband, the deputy.
“Aw, Hell, I’ll Walk!” is by Robert Moore Williams and illustrated by H. W. McCauley. I’ve read RMW’s westerns, so am looking forward to his crime tale. An insurance detective is investigating a shyster who has filed several successful claims. Unfortunately, while he does prove the man is filing premeditated claims, he learns why the man is doing so. Seems the company he represents fought off a claim on a permanently injured teen girl, probably left crippled. The girl is related to the shyster’s driver. The dick tears up the evidence.
If you personally wish you could read this issue for yourself, good news! The archive.org site has this particular issue digitized and currently 100% free to read.