So Only Mugs Work by Frank Griffin

So Only Mugs Work

So Only Mugs Work by Frank Griffin was published by Hamilton & Co. This book is not recorded in Whitaker’s Index, nor the British Library, nor WorldCat. So, its actual date of publication is a complete guess, but I would hazard to say circa 1946-1949. The cover art is by H. W. Perl.

I’ve covered Frank Griffin two prior times, so I won’t delve into his past again. Feel free to click on his name in the tagged location to read the other prior posts. I’ve more Griffin books to blog and unlike many other English authors of the mushroom-publisher era, he was quite competent.

So Only Mugs Work spans 46 pages, beginning on Page 1; page 47 features the story’s blurb, while 48 was left entirely blank. Not unusual, but a total waste of space to advertise other titles similarly published by Hamilton & Co., a publisher who would survive the mushroom boom as Panther Books. Some advertisements would have helped date this book.

Chapter One: Two men enter the private offices of elderly Mr. Martin. On their way up the steps nobody impedes their progress, not even aged caretaker Jules. They are met by Mr. Martin’s secretary, Miss Waters. When asked for their names, they supply “Mr. Jones” and “Mr. Smith.” She’s dubious, to say the least. They don’t have an appointment. They want to see Mr. Martin about some land. A lot of land. And willing to pay. She walks into the adjoining room, broaches the topic, and her opinion. Mr. Martin is a complete prick towards her. She’s not paid to think. She admits them. It’s quiet in there. Door opens. All three depart. Mr. Martin doesn’t say a word to her. Quite strange, to leave with the pair without saying a word, etc. Screw the odd bastard. He treated her cruelly. She could care less.

Hours pass. Another group of men arrive. They don’t like to learn that Mr. Martin has departed with two other men. Who were they? She doesn’t know. The apparent leader describes them. She’s shocked; the descriptions match. They take her hostage.

Chapter Two: Enter Lucien Ropps, a wealthy and eccentric young man. He has bookcases and rooms loaded with every form of book associated with criminology. It’s his hobby, his passion. Does he have a real job? Hell if I know! This is a thriller. Plots be damned! Such things don’t matter! He’s despised by the police for publicly criticizing the fingerprint system of classifying crooks. Lucien has a secretary of his own, the lovely Mavis Thompson. They are closing for the day and Lucien offers to drive her across town to hook up with her friend, Miss Pearl Waters. So they drive, and Mavis is upset to discover Pearl is not present. They always meet at the same spot. Annoyed, Lucien drives to Pearl’s employment; Lucien picks up a discarded item outside, and they work their way upstairs, and into the offices. It’s a cinch something is wrong. The place has been torn apart. Lucien asks Mavis if Pearl wears a coat. Mavis acknowledges she does, depending on the day, and describes the sort she would have worn today. Lucien extracts from his pocket the object he picked up while coming in: a button. Mavis gasps! It’s from Pearl’s coat!

The story becomes a jumble of exciting chapters, loads of action and adventure, mixing with the scum of the underworld, etc. More absurd coincidences, but this is a work of fiction and I’m eating this shit up, I tell you.

Lucien eventually gets involved in a bar shootout, follows a group of unscrupulous souls via automobile, loses them briefly, discovers their turnoff, and proceeds to a dimly-lit large house. Breaks in, finds a gun moll, ties her up. Meanwhile, another car arrives and a gang-war ensues. Lead flies, blood flies, bodies die. Lucien discovers that the gangs are each after a suitcase filled with cash, unreported cash, a lifetime of savings that never was held by the bank. Lucien finds Mr. Martin in the basement beaten to a bloody pulp and he imparts one passing remark before dying: win.

Meanwhile, the gun moll is untied by another woman who served time. She was at the club shooting and hopped a ride with Lucien with an interest towards seeing where the ride led. She recognized the men that escaped and knows the gun moll was associated with them. She’s convinced that woman rolled over to the cops and fed them information that led to her own incarceration. She’s out for blood. After untying her, she decides that while the bullets fly throughout the house to exact her revenge. But the moll escapes; bludgeoned and afraid for her life, she flees downstairs into the arms of the opposition. They escort her out and to their secret hideaway. While tied down to a table, the leader becomes violently intoxicated and makes sexual advances. She attempts to remove his nose with her teeth and he consumes more liquor and the rest is left to our own perverted imagination. Later, one of his own crew comes in and is mortified by the bloodied remains of what used to be a gorgeous woman.

The gangs eventually wipe each other out, Lucien follows Mr. Martin’s whispered word “Win” to the man’s office and eventually discerns it could stand for “window.” There he finds a secret compartment, a rather large one, and upon popping it open, does not find what he expects. The suitcase of dough is missing. However, a gang member is dead, stabbed, and folded and stuffed in the compartment. Nonplussed, Lucien continues his search for the missing secretary at the other gang’s hideout.

Breaking in, he shoots it out with various villains, finds the missing secretary. During the rescue effort, he’s cornered in the room and about to die when a police lieutenant following one of Lucien’s prior leads bursts in and shoots Lucien’s would-be killer dead.

All the gang members are dead or captured, and yet, one mystery remains: what became of Mr. Martin’s loot? Well, Lucien returns to the scene of the crime, and with the lieutenant in tow, certain that Lucien is himself guilty of appropriating the funds and breaking numerous laws. Well, yeah, he did. Lucien eventually hunts up the building’s aged caretaker. He’s heard mucking about down in the basement, and the lieutenant foolishly hollers down, asking if he is present. Lucien is frustrated by the lieutenant alerting the caretaker of their presence; Lucien leaps down into the dark recesses and comes face to face with a madman shoveling wads of dough into the furnace, cackling that money is a sin.

A very unusual novel, one with loads more plot twists and turns than I remotely came close to touching upon, but let me tell you, if you have an interest in British crime thrillers, and aren’t blinded by reading only bullshit New York Times bestseller big names, then have fun trying to track down a copy of So Only Mugs Work. I’d love to hear your own thoughts.