D.B. Borton

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Mercedes Quero: Elusive Yet Ubiquitous

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A queer fish indeed is Mercedes Quero, who shows up when she’s least expected and most wanted. She appeared in four novels by Gladys Edson Locke, who wrote as G. E. Locke: That Affair at Portstead Manor (1914), The Red Cavalier, or, The Twin Turrets Mystery (1922), The Scarlet Macaw (1923), and The House on the Downs (1925). Though Locke lived all her life in the Boston area, these novels are all British country house mysteries. They usually feature an unmarried male focal character, whom Bob Schneider of SpeedyMysteries.com compares to Captain Hastings of the Hercule Poirot mysteries.

Quero is a detective of considerable reputation, in spite of her gender. When a diamond necklace is stolen in Portstead Manor, a character says, “I should send for that woman detective, Mercedes Quero. All London is talking about her since the Dexter case,” to which Lord Portstead responds, “Women are not at all suited to detective work. They are illogical and carried away by sentiment.” In Red Cavalier, a character notes that she is “highly successful in her profession.” In The Scarlet Macaw, she’s described as “the celebrated woman detective whose fame was known throughout England and even on the Continent.” Of course, her nemesis Detective Burton has a different view of her, and calls her “the most devilish, provoking and meddlesome skirt that ever was wished on a man.”

We’re never told Quero’s age, only that she is young. But her background is typical for professional women detectives; in Portstead Manor, the male character who befriends her learns something of her history: “Born and bred a gentlewoman, a sudden turn of fortune had thrown her upon her own resources.” She is often described as attractive, as from the point of view of another male character in Red Cavalier: “This slim, girlishly pretty young woman with mirthful brown eyes, skin fair as a child’s and soft brown hair simply coiled in her neck was not at all his idea of the detective who had already won an enviable name in her chosen profession.” In fact, Quero’s eyes are frequently characterized as “mirthful” or “mischievous” or “mocking,” and they appear to express most particularly her opinion of the men who surround her. She is capable of gentleness toward vulnerable women, and her mirthful eyes turn “misty” with sentimentality as she watches one man’s gentleness with a crippled little girl. But these are rare moments. She does not suffer fools gladly, especially men, or challenges to her authority, telling one man, “Don’t be stupid!” and admonishing Detective Burton at one point, “You will be good enough to remember that I am conducting this inquiry.”

As for the qualities that ensure her success as a detective, she is called “devilish smart.” And when one male character, who has commented on “the paradox of a pretty woman and a logical combined,” calls her “jolly clever,” she responds, “It is my business to be ‘jolly clever.’” A woman character made rather uncomfortable by Quero’s “very unusual pursuit” calls her “quick and intuitive,” as if to reclaim her for the female gender by privileging intuition over logic. And there is something to this claim, since she has a habit of showing up on the scene under an assumed name, and sometimes, as in Red Cavalier, even before she has been sent for. In this case, like Sherlock Holmes, she has read about the case and taken an interest. In all of these cases, Quero first appears in the guise of a secretary or maid, so that the experienced reader begins to look for her in the background long before she takes center stage. These impersonations permit her to spy on the principals in the case, a most unladylike thing to do.

While she is not the most athletic of girl detectives, she is perfectly capable of subduing an angry woman wielding a knife (Scarlet Macaw) and carries a small revolver that she uses to shoot a fleeing suspect (Red Cavalier).

Only in the first book, Portstead Manor, are we given a glimpse of the drawbacks of Quero’s career. When one character tells her, “I cannot understand you,” she replies, “No one does. I am a very much misunderstood person.” At the end of the book, the narrator mentions her lonely life, and speculates on the value of her continued friendship with the focal male character, for which she was “probably grateful.”

Locke herself seems to have been an interesting figure, with multiple degrees from Boston University and Simmons College, as reported by Douglas A. Anderson in his blog on Lesser-Known Writers. She was sufficiently proficient in Latin, French, and Italian to tutor in these languages and taught high school Latin and English. She was a member of the Boston Society for Psychical Research and never married.

The books have garnered mixed reviews. Anderson cites a review by the New York Times of Mr. Locke’s The Scarlet Macaw that damns it with faint praise, calling it an “interesting mystery” delivered in “extremely mediocre prose.” The plots are intricate and convoluted, and in the last book, The House on the Downs, almost every character is using an assumed name (the names themselves are worth mentioning: Sir Quenton Rotherdene, Theophilus Elphic, Bannard Darrel, Wallington Melrose, Paul Wardle). Should you decide to go looking for the Quero books, be warned: they have recently been reprinted in dreadful editions by the Hard Press of Miami. These appear to have been scanned and published uncorrected, with Quero’s name spelled in a variety of ways, most frequently as “Queer.”

Cad Metti: The Female Detective Strategist

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Book Covers, Cad Metti editions

Here’s a girl detective that has outlasted Nancy Drew, even if she’s never had Nancy’s star power. I counted nine editions on AbeBooks alone (not including the edition I own) and you can read about her exploits online for free. The original edition, as far as I can tell, is Cad Metti, The Female Detective Strategist; or, Dudie Dunne Again in the Field, published in 1895 in the dime novel series Old Sleuth’s Own (no. 37). The author is identified as Old Sleuth, “Author of all the Famous ‘Old Sleuth’ Stories.” “Old Sleuth” was a pen name adopted by Harlan Page Halsey. But “Old Sleuth” was, like the “Carolyn Keene” of the Nancy Drew books, a pen name used by other authors within the Old Sleuth dime novel empire, as well as the name of the fictional protagonist of many of the stories. (In his 1982 book, The Dime Novel Detective, Gary Hoppenstand identifies this character as “the first serialized detective character” and the prototype for what he calls the “Avenger Detective.”) There are several female detectives attributed to Old Sleuth; in fact, Roberts, Hoppenstand, and Browne have published a collection entitled Old Sleuth’s Freaky Female Detectives (1990). That this collection does not include Cad Metti suggests how many examples they had to choose from.

Oscar “Dudie” Dunne had been introduced in a previous novel (no. 29 in the series) as an ace detective with a remarkable facility for disguise. In Cad Metti, he has acquired a female trainee, “one of the brightest women that ever entered the profession: she is a born detective.” We are not told Cad’s age, only that Dudie is young and in the opening scene, they are described as “a young lady and gentleman,” though they are in disguise. Dudie describes himself as “her instructor.”

Gender-bending, as we’d term it now, is clearly part of the sensational appeal of the story. Dudie himself is “a young man of singularly effeminate appearance, with muscles like whipcord and powers of endurance that were seemingly tireless. He was not only a great athlete but a wonderful boxer, and it was a favorite role with him to assume the character of a dude.” As for Cad, according to Dudie,

She could make her living on the stage as a marvel. She is a great musical genius. She can sing or dance, she can fence or wrestle like a man. Her strength is extraordinary, and as a pistol shot she is the champion woman of the world; and when it comes to quickness, nerve, cunning, and courage she cannot be excelled.

Indeed, the impersonation they’re enacting in the opening scene is intended to draw the attention of ruffians and provoke an attack — a common strategy for the two detectives. As Cad says, “it is a great thing to meet an antagonist who really underrates you.” Once the two are accosted by the criminals they are trawling for, a rare editorial comment assures the reader that the two are playing a dangerous game: “We desire to call our readers’ attention to the courage and nerve of both the detectives in daring for one moment to think of meeting those three great burly men.” When the attack comes, the two detectives draw their concealed billy clubs and counterattack: “Cad meantime played a single-note tattoo on the head of number two.” When the dust settles, one of the ruffians laments, “It was the gal gave me my rap and she came down on me with the force of a Goliah.” Yet Cad has a softer side, for we’re told that she’s a mother, since she has “rescued and adopted two Italian children from the street.” She joins the ranks of female detectives with adopted children apparently intended to reassure readers of their femininity; we never hear about the children again.

As the senior detective (and the one presumed to have established fans among the Old Sleuth readership), Dudie Dunne is the star of the narrative and the story follows his actions and thoughts. But this strategy heightens the mystery of his female partner, who often turns up unexpectedly, especially when Dudie is in trouble. And Dudie is often in trouble as the two track a large gang of counterfeiters, since several government detectives on the gang’s trail have already disappeared or been assassinated. It is Cad whose spying saves Dudie when he is taken in by a beautiful woman’s appeal for help. In the guise of a messenger boy, Cad has overheard the woman scheming with the head of the gang to lure him to his death, and Dudie, who in spite of being warned that the gang has female members, has declared, “I’ll bet my life on her sincerity,” is forced to eat his words. In another scene, when Dudie is being menaced by members of the gang and forced into a duel, a “boyish-looking youth” magically appears to serve as his second. This is Cad, of course, and she’s had the foresight to recruit three men who “were Jim terrors right on their looks” to back her.

The narrator emphasizes that Cad’s chief advantage as a detective is her skill at disguise and her consequent ability to spy on criminals. At one point, she is described as “the strange, weird girl, who could flit from place to place like a shadow, who could change her appearances as readily as a change actress on the stage.” At one point, even Dudie doesn’t recognize her in disguise as a messenger boy, and praises her as “the wonder of the age.” Historians of gender will note that while the story reinforces the particular reprehensiveness of female deceit, it is Cad’s ability to out-deceive the master criminal deceiver that makes her its hero.

There is no strong suggestion of romance between the partners, who call each other “brother” and “sis.” But when Cad dismisses Dudie’s “lovely lady” as “the beautiful siren who is to lure Ulysses into the den where he is to be slain with merciless precision and cold-blooded exactness,” he suspects her motives:

Seeing the glitter in Cad’s eyes he fell to a conclusion and asked:

“Is my beautiful partner jealous?”

Cad responds, “Yes, I am jealous for your life.” Whether the author intended to prepare the way for future romance, or whether he intended only to provide further evidence of Dudie’s inability to read women, I can’t say, since as far as I know, the pair never appeared together again. (I’m happy to be corrected by a more knowledgeable reader.)

Oddly enough, Cad exits the story before its climax. When Dudie’s villainous female antagonist gives the order to shoot him and the police burst into the room, Cad is nowhere to be seen — unless she is disguised as one of the men with repeating rifles who crowd the room. Has the author abandoned her when she’s served her purpose or is he guarding her secret? We can hope for the latter explanation, but the dime novels aren’t known for their subtlety.

Harlan Page Halsey

Cad Metti, the Female Detective Strategist is widely available in multiple additions. You can read it free online through Project Gutenberg or download a free copy at Kobo or Amazon.

All ‘Round Kate and Her Detective Pard

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All Round Kate Cover

Murder! Mayhem! Sword fights! Italian banditti! A severed head! Anarchists! Opium dens! Unnatural fathers! Dastardly uncles! Bad dialogue! Anthony P. Morris’s All ‘Round Kate, published in 1890, had it all: everything that sold dime novels to a reading public eager for sensationalism. And at the center of it all was Detective Kate, a legendary figure among the criminal underworld of Chicago.

Kate’s introduction is as dramatic as her persona. The notorious Little Trivet, partner in the detective firm of Caxton and Trivet, is tracking a mysterious steel box that he’s been hired to recover when the pavement gives way beneath his feet and he plunges into an underground trap, where he’s menaced by a knife-wielding assassin. He appears doomed — and not for the last time in this thrilling tale — when something interrupts the “terrible tableau”:

   Now the trap was suddenly jerked open, and a form that was evidently stretched upon the stomach, and at full length, leaned over the edge. A pair of arms extended down, and in both hands gleamed revolvers that were leveled at the savage Italian.

   “Hold on there, my man!” cried a woman’s voice. “I guess we’ll have to spoil this little stabbing-match. Down with the knife or I’ll down you. Hear?” (5)

This is Kate (a popular name for young women detectives in the sensation literature of the time), so famous that she doesn’t need a surname. We’re told simply: “Kate was a well-known assistant to the Chicago police detectives; she had figured in a remarkable drama some time before as a companion and ally of a famous detective named Old Bull’s Eye” (5). This reference serves the purpose of providing Kate’s bona fides, since Old Bull’s Eye was a popular detective in dime novels. And although she’s termed an “assistant,” she wears a badge pinned to the underside of her bodice and has full authority to make arrests. As if to cement her reputation, all of the criminals in the story are out to kill her.

In the story, Kate teams up with Trivet when they discover that their cases intersect. They’ve been hired by separate individuals to find a mysterious steel box, said to be impossible to open. Kate tells Trivet, who doesn’t know the contents of the box, that it contains a human head. All of the villains in the story are after the box, and every time it is within the grasp of the two detectives, it’s snatched away, usually in situations involving grave peril to one or the other or both of them. Luckily, they have established a method of communication so that one can appear at the last minute to effect a rescue of the other.

As in many stories involving women detectives, there are young women victims in the story who also need to be saved from dastardly men. This story is especially sensational because one villain orders his own daughter killed.

Kate is admirably suited to this work, not only because of her courage (not to mention her insouciance), but because of her skills. In addition to the revolvers that she handles with such aplomb, she is an expert swordswoman, as the abovementioned savage Italian learns to his cost:

Kate made a great bound, caught up the fallen sword, and quick as a flash, she had crossed blades with the savage intruder.

   Another moment and Jim saw that the woman who so suddenly and formidably confronted him was an excellent swordswoman. (5)

Far from modest, Kate presses her psychological advantage, crying, “You have a master to deal with here!” Then we’re told, “Next instant her swordpoint was at his throat.” That the villain survives another 27 pages gives Kate ample scope for displaying her other advantages. In another confrontation with her Italian adversary, Kate’s revolver fails her, but readers need not be alarmed: “The exciting moment gave Kate another opportunity to display her wonderful muscle and endurance” (7). Indeed, in a later scene, Kate is called upon to haul the captured and bound Italian out of yet another pit:

If the wonderful muscle of this female detective had never been displayed before, it now showed itself with wonderful emphasis. She gradually but surely began to draw up the heavy form of the Italian, finally dragging him over the edge. (25)

She also hauls up the mysterious steel box, enabled to do so by her remarkable preparedness: “Kate always had little appliances ready for emergencies, and she produced a stout cord from somewhere about her clothing” (25). All ‘Round Kate, indeed!

As is true of most women detectives, Kate’s success depends upon her willingness to behave in ways condemned by her society as unfeminine. To plan their collaboration, she and Trivet retire to a saloon, one of several occasions in the story when she enters this space forbidden to respectable women. Her skill at disguise also helps her to move freely and tail the criminals on whom she is spying. At one point, she saves Trivet by appearing among a group of murderous anarchists disguised as a Frenchman; two pages later, she’s disguised as a laborer when she tails a villain. When Kate shows up in a saloon dressed as a “lumber shover” (don’t ask me) and Trivet asks, “Is it you, Kate?” she quips, “Don’t I look like myself?” (27). To save one threatened young woman, she impersonates her and confronts a would-be murderer. Kate’s own unladylike spying is justified by the crucial information women learn in this story by listening to what they aren’t supposed to hear and watching what they aren’t supposed to see — information that saves their lives. Even before we know the extent of one miscreant’s villainy, we are prepared to dislike him because he thinks, “Who can this woman be? A female detective, forsooth! She would better be darning stockings for some lover or husband, I think” (6). This villain will eventually be put to death by the poisoned sword of another woman (yes, reader, not one but two master swordswomen in this story), a satisfying conclusion that displaces the violence we may both wish and fear for Kate to inflict on him.

Given Kate’s character as it has been developed throughout, readers may be taken aback by a bet she makes with Trivet about whether he’ll catch the man they’re both after, “If he doesn’t tumble into your lap I’ll lose a box of cigars, and if he does, you owe me a box of Sunday gloves” (27). It’s an odd moment; we’re invited to speculate whether Kate has a pair of gloves secreted somewhere about her person and put to use when she attends church on Sundays in the guise of a proper young woman. Of course, by waiting where Kate has told him to wait, Trivet finds the missing man and Kate wins her gloves.

I should caution prospective readers that when I say this novel contains “everything that sold dime novels to a reading public eager for sensationalism,” that includes the racial stereotyping and cringeworthy dialect endemic to this genre. The evil Italian has his literary roots in the gothic novels of Anne Radcliffe, but he also has cultural roots, as do the villainous Chinaman and Negro in this story.  

All ‘Round Kate is available online from the University of Minnesota’s digital collections here.

EIGHT MILES HIGH

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The floor plunged. I hung suspended in space for a heartbeat, then dropped. The floor leapt, slammed my soles and jolted my spine. The shock threw me sideways and my shoulder struck metal. I thrust out a hand to steady myself, but I couldn’t find anything to hang on to. The air was thickening with smoke.

A hand closed over mine and guided it to a metal bar. Nearby, below me, someone had opened a door and warm air and smoke rushed in. A flash of light caught my eye. Across from me, my photographer, who was also my business partner, was lowering his camera, his mustache twitching with what I knew to be a smile of gratification. If I could have released my grip on the bar that held me upright, I would have lunged at him and shoved the goddamned camera down his throat. Leaning against his leg was a golden retriever hard pressed at this instant to live up to his name, which was Happy. The wind flattened the dog’s coat. He was wearing a harness and backpack, as well as an odd little helmet like a miner’s helmet, with a light like a flashlight surrounded by tiny lights that glittered in the smoky air. Surreal. Maybe I was having a nightmare.

My eyes stung and watered. In my ear, above the roar of the single remaining engine and the rushing air, a woman’s voice shouted, “Remember, count to ten and then pull.” A hand guided my free hand to a cord dangling from the harness that bound my heaving chest.

The floor dropped again. My arm was nearly jerked from its socket as I tightened my grip in panic. Everything tilted.

Firm hands at my waist were pushing me toward the open door. Smoke blinded me. I clung to the metal bar.

But it was a larger, firmer hand that shoved me out, a deeper voice vibrating in my ear, “Time to go, Cat!”

I plunged, and in the three-count before I yanked the cord, I had time for one thought: I need me a new partner.

SEVENTH DEADLY SIN

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My daughter considers me a bad influence. If you want to know why, you can tour my kitchen.

On the outside, my refrigerator displays the usual collection of family snapshots and kiddie crayon art, heavy on lopsided hearts over drunken letters that spell out, “I Luv You, Grammy!!” The magnets run to ads for security equipment dealers, bloody daggers, and signs that say, “This Refrigerator Is Bugged.” Posted on the front is a used body target from the firing range, with bullet holes in the lower left forearm and about three inches west of the right ear. Its purpose is inspirational. Dangling from the handle is a locked pair of handcuffs that I intend to remove as soon as I find the key.

Inside, the refrigerator is well-stocked with beer, Chinese take-out cartons, limes, and tonic. The limes are for medicinal purposes. They stave off the kind of colds that can develop into bronchitis and put a sixty-one-year-old senior citizen like me in the hospital, where she is bound to catch something worse and leave in the back of a hearse. I think there may be some milk back behind the cream cheese, but if so, it went sour sometime around New Year’s. In the freezer compartment are several bags of frozen peas marked “Do Not Eat.” These serve as ice packs to treat the sprains and other minor injuries that plague people my age who lead an active life.

The cookie jar on the counter holds a set of picklocks. But its primary purpose is to cover a small stain from a chemistry experiment that got out of hand.

The dishes in the sink are dusted with white powder. The fingerprints showing through the powder provide a record of everyone who has eaten or drunk in this kitchen in the past twelve hours — except the cats, of course. The cats have left their own traces in the small hard bits of food and kitty litter that crumble into grit underfoot.

There’s an empty gin bottle in the garbage can under the sink. Fortunately, I have more.

There’s a small palm tree on the kitchen table, with a hangman’s noose attached to one of its fronds — a product of my studies in knot-tying.  Hidden behind the palm is a small voice-activated tape recorder so sensitive that it can pick up a cat’s yawn at four feet. Also on the table are a surveillance supplies catalog and a forensic medicine textbook. When the grandkids come to visit, though, my reading matter gets stashed on top of the refrigerator.

You can see why this kitchen disturbs my daughter. It is not the kitchen of an apple-cheeked, sweater-knitting, cookie-baking, all-American grandmother. It’s the kitchen of a detective-in-training.