S.S. Van Dine : The Canary Murder Case, 1927

 

  

An analysys with spoilers of The Canary Murder Case by S.S. Van Dine

The Canary Murder Case is one of the finest detective novels from the Golden Age of crime fiction.

By the time he wrote it, Willard Huntington Wright had already published The Benson Murder Case (1926), a novel that had achieved considerable success. Yet, it was undoubtedly with The Canary Murder Case (1927) and subsequently The Greene Murder Case (1928) that he established himself as the preeminent author of his era—two novels that set the standard for the genre.

It is worth noting that they are antithetical: while The Greene Murder Case is a tale of death unfolding claustrophobically within a mansion—where the heirs to a fortune are compelled to live, and where a heavy, leaden atmosphere lingers from the first moment to the last—The Canary Murder Case presents an atmosphere that is, by contrast, frivolous and sophisticated, far lighter in tone, yet no less complex.

Together, these three novels form an ideal trilogy.

In my view, one could argue that this is among the greatest detective novels ever conceived. Today, given that the solutions devised by Van Dine have been adopted—and subsequently surpassed—by many great writers who followed him, he might appear somewhat diminutive, like Tom Thumb; to some, his plot resolutions might even seem laughable. And yet, one cannot consider the detective fiction of the 1930s without bowing reverentially before Van Dine. For without him, there would have been no Ellery Queen, no Charles Daly King, and no early Rex Stout.

Among Van Dine’s works, it was precisely The Canary Murder Case and The Greene Murder Case that exerted the greatest influence on those who came after him. The Canary Murder Case, in particular, had a disruptive impact at the time: it topped the bestseller lists for several months.

Julian Symons in his most famous critical work, Bloody Murder, reported the opinion of another critic, Howard Haycraft, writing that “ ..his second book, The Canary Murder Case 1927, broke all modern publishing records for detective fiction at the time” (Julian Symons, Bloody Murder, Penguin Books, 1985, page 101).

Further on, to testify to the huge success achieved by this novel and the following novel, which upset the detective literature of the time, dominated by British authors, Symons stated that “It was said that he had lifted the detective story on to the plane of a fine art, and by his own account he was the favorite crime writer of two Presidents” (op. cit. pag. 102).

 But why was The Canary Murder Case  such a success? Let’s examine the story.

First of all, who is the "Canary"? To borrow the very prose of Willard Huntington Wright— Margaret Odell had received the sobriquet of Canary as a result of a part

she had played in an elaborate ornithological ballet of the Follies, in which

each girl had been gowned to represent a variety of bird. To her had fallen the

role of canary; and her costume of white and yellow satin, together with her

mass of shining golden hair and pink and white complexion, had

distinguished her in the eyes of the spectators as a creature of outstanding

charm. Before a fortnight had passed—so eulogistic were her press notices,

and so unerringly did the audience single her out for applause—the "Bird

Ballet" was changed to the "Canary Ballet," and Miss Odell was promoted to

the rank of what might charitably be called premiere danseuse, at the same

time having a solo waltz and a song interpolated for the special display of

her charms and talents.

She had quitted the Follies at the close of the season, and during her

subsequent spectacular career in the haunts of Broadway's night life she had

been popularly and familiarly called the Canary. Thus it happened that when

her dead body was found, brutally strangled, in her apartment, the crime

immediately became known, and was always thereafter referred to, as the

Canary murder.

“The Canary” is Margaret Odell, a minor actress and performer in low-end venues and nightclubs, who eventually gained great fame within certain Broadway circles. She is well aware of her role, as well as the judgment passed upon her by the bourgeois circles for whom she serves as a draw: in her act, she does little more than mimic a bird and show off her legs. Yet, she harbors the illusion that she can climb the social ladder and secure a significant place for herself. Her situation is much like that of a prostitute in a high-end brothel—who might dream of an impossible love with a handsome client, hoping he will not only use her for his own pleasure but also introduce her into the "normal" world. Once the show ends, Margaret Odell finds herself back in the drab reality of everyday life—a life she escapes only temporarily during her performances, where wealthy men in spats, top hats, and tailcoats line up to watch her—perhaps swaying on a swing or perched on a stand—as she, "The Canary," displays her legs.

It is clear, then, that Margaret Odell—much like any kept woman—seeks someone who can provide her, at least within her world of glitter and sequins, with a semblance of respectability and the illusion of having ascended into a society that, in truth, will never accept her. This is the society of the 1920s—an era when the Great Depression left tens of thousands destitute, while simultaneously allowing those who were already wealthy to become even richer. "La Canarina" has many male friends, and she makes no secret of it: her companions show her off much like one might display a Ferrari Testarossa today. Other women—one can easily imagine—either envy her or speak ill of her; yet, she believes she can leverage these friendships to further her own ambitions—namely, to advance her career. Having gathered the intimate confessions of the men who have been between her legs, she one day decides to take a bold step: she resolves to force the hand of one of her lovers, backing him into a corner. It is easy to guess—as eventually becomes clear—what "La Canarina" aspires to: she no longer wishes to be "La Canarina," but rather a lady of the jet set—to belong to that very world whose "prominent figures" she has come to know so well. The trouble is, she fails to grasp one very simple thing: who would ever marry a "Canarina"? But she remains under an illusion—and, as a result, falls victim to her own dreams.

One fine day, “The Canary” is found dead—murdered, strangled.

The picture Van Dine paints of this is chilling:

Her head was turned backward, as if by force,

over the silken tufted upholstery; and her hair had come unfastened and lay

beneath her head and over her bare shoulder like a frozen cataract of liquid

gold. Her face, in violent death, was distorted and unlovely. Her skin was

discolored; her eyes were staring; her mouth was open, and her lips were

drawn back. Her neck, on either side of the thyroid cartilage, showed ugly

dark bruises. She was dressed in a flimsy evening gown of black Chantilly

lace over cream-colored chiffon, and across the arm of the davenport had

been thrown an evening cape of cloth-of-gold trimmed with ermine.

There were evidences of her ineffectual struggle with the person who had

strangled her. Besides the disheveled condition of her hair, one of the

shoulder straps of her gown had been severed, and there was a long rent in

the fine lace across her breast. A small corsage of artificial orchids had been

torn from her bodice, and lay crumpled in her lap. One satin slipper had

fallen off, and her right knee was twisted inward on the seat of the davenport,

as if she had sought to lift herself out of the suffocating clutches of her

antagonist. Her fingers were still flexed, no doubt as they had been at the

moment of her capitulation to death, when she had relinquished her grip upon

the murderer's wrists.

The police investigation at the scene reveals that certain pieces of jewelry—which, according to the housekeeper, should have been there—are missing. This leads the authorities to conclude that the murder was the result of a robbery or a burglary gone wrong (for Odell).

However, this is the official police assessment, as voiced by New York District Attorney F.X. Markham, who is leading the investigation. Philo Vance—a friend of the District Attorney, an impartial observer, and a man of brilliant intuition—takes a different view. Once again, he saves the police from embarrassment by exploring a line of inquiry that no one else had even considered.

Philo Vance represents a radical evolution of the Sherlock Holmes archetype. While he inherits Holmes’s keen attention to detail and clues, he does not merely apply them in a rigid, mechanical fashion. Instead, he insists that any evidence pointing toward a particular conclusion must also align with a psychological reconstruction capable of resolving every remaining mystery. To achieve this, Vance—unlike Holmes—delves into the human soul and mind, with a level of focus that Arthur Conan Doyle never envisioned for his own detective. Thus, two distinct ideals are contrasted: the humanistic approach of Philo Vance—deeply attuned to psychology and the arts born of passion and taste (painting, sculpture, music)—and the scientific, analytical approach of Sherlock Holmes.

Ultimately, by observing specific details and looking beyond the mere physical evidence, Philo Vance provides an explanation that causes the theory of a murder resulting from a botched robbery to collapse entirely.

Typically, when this novel is discussed, everyone points to the subtlety of Van Dine’s reasoning regarding the "locked-room" mystery—a truly imaginative solution. The challenge lies not so much in how the killer and the witness managed to enter, but in how they managed to leave; the doorman, upon departing, always secures the small door leading to the building’s inner courtyard (the rear exit) with an internal bolt. This ensures that anyone entering the building after his departure must necessarily pass by the switchboard operator—a detail that is striking, and one that made a profound impression at the time.

Even more striking to readers (and critics) was the invention of a method to delay the actual commission of the crime—making it appear to have occurred later, even though it had already taken place—by having the victim speak and respond to questions from her evening companion and the switchboard operator while they stood outside her door.

While the solution to the locked-room mystery and the ruse used to misrepresent the timing of the murder—the very means by which the investigator traps the killer—are routinely highlighted by anyone analyzing this novel, few, if any, have examined other aspects of Van Dine’s deductive process.

In my view, another moment where Van Dine truly impresses the reader is when he has Vance construct a highly subtle argument based on the position of the victim’s body and the tears in her clothing. If Margaret Odell had truly been involved in a physical struggle—during which one would assume she fought back with all her might—why was a small, innocent bouquet, found in her lap, not cast aside elsewhere? On the floor, for instance? Furthermore, had that been the case, the neck would not have been turned backward; instead, the victim would have fallen forward. Therefore, the crime did not unfold in this manner—a staged scene was created to lead the investigation astray. The strangulation occurred from behind, at a moment when the victim did not expect the person behind them to commit such an act—implying, in other words, that the victim trusted their assailant. But what about the tears in the clothing? Another part of the ruse: the tears were inflicted post-mortem to mislead the investigators’ line of reasoning.

 A second, highly subtle line of reasoning concerns the key to the wardrobe: why was it found inside the wardrobe, when it ought, in the normal course of things, to have been inserted into the lock from the outside?

There were, therefore, three people in that room that evening: Margaret Odell and two others—one of whom was hidden inside the wardrobe. Which of them was the murderer, and which the witness? Did the murderer also commit a theft later on, or was it the other person who did the stealing? The presence of these two individuals, and the distinct roles they played, ties into another point that emerges when Philo Vance observes that a document case is empty and that a steel jewelry box appears to have been forced open with a cast-iron fireplace poker. Had a genuine thief been at work, they surely would have used a more suitable tool to pry open the lid. This is further corroborated by an expert consulted by Vance, who confirms that the break-in occurred in two distinct stages: an amateurish attempt with the poker—which achieved nothing beyond denting the lid—and a highly professional effort, carried out with a steel instrument, likely a lock pick. Why, one might ask, would someone bring an inadequate fireplace poker from the next room when a lock pick was available to do the job?

In short, Vance posits that the events unfolded in two separate stages, involving two different people. This establishes a crucial, verified fact: two individuals were present in the apartment that Saturday evening—likely after the "Canary" had already been killed. This does not, however, necessarily imply that both were complicit in the murder. The fact remains that the second unknown visitor will be killed, and only after his death will Vance—by identifying the stratagem used to delay the killing—be able to unmask the murderer. In this instance, the stratagem is directly linked to the murderer’s modus operandi.

 In my view, it was precisely this device—rather than the "locked-room" mystery element—that accounted for the novel’s success. The reason? The device was tied to an object that, back in the 1920s, was enjoying a spectacular rise in popularity and served as a status symbol for affluent families—or, at the very least, those of the bourgeois class. It was an object associated with music. It was highly unlikely—if not outright impossible—for a working-class or impoverished family to cultivate an interest in music; conversely, for families of the upper-middle class, music functioned as a social marker, a means of distinguishing themselves from those of a lower standing.

It is no coincidence that Philo Vance takes an interest in this object—an object dismissed by other representatives of law enforcement, from the obtuse Sergeant Heath to the overly conformist District Attorney Markham.

But why does Philo Vance care, while the others do not? Because Philo Vance is an aesthete; he is drawn to the arts—pursuits that, for poor Markham, offer no pleasure whatsoever. Vance is a superior being—a cavalier, a Renaissance prince—who stands above everyone, even District Attorney Markham. The only person who could truly be considered his equal is Van Dine himself, who remains concealed behind the persona of the secretary-squire—the narrator who chronicles Vance’s exploits.

His devotion to the arts places him on a higher plane than the common folk with whom he interacts.

Philo Vance embodies the Nietzschean *Übermensch*—a concept with which Willard Huntington Wright was intimately familiar, having edited the first complete American edition of the German philosopher’s works. It is precisely these arts or games that he practices (the game of chess—an instrument of the art of thought and reasoning—will form the basis of *The Bishop Murder Case*, while poker will play a specific role in the psychological profiling of the murderer in The Canary Murder Case).

In this novel, I identify four distinctive characteristics of Philo Vance: deduction (solving the "locked-room" mystery), psychology (reasoning derived from a game of poker), curiosity (discovering record packaging in a wastepaper basket), and artistic sensibility.

Indeed, beyond his irrefutable demonstration of how one could exit through a door while leaving the bolt locked from the inside—and beyond his use of psychological insight, gleaned from a poker game, to suggest a particular individual’s guilt—he would never have been able to substantiate his accusations had it not been for a purely chance occurrence.

Can a factor left to chance truly prevail over Philo Vance’s refined psychological insight and superior deductive powers? That is the question. The answer is no.

And yet, in this instance, one might argue that his superiority is indeed affirmed. I would emphasize, however, that Philo Vance’s personality is defined by a combination of various factors—the four aforementioned characteristics—among which his artistic sensibility carries significant weight; in this specific case, it proves absolutely decisive. While this artistic sensibility appears only fleetingly throughout the novel—as if deliberately keeping a low profile to avoid being labeled as a defining trait—it ultimately plays a pivotal role in the conclusion.

What is the point of all this? Simply to assert that in this novel—a detail culpably overlooked by many critics—the most crucial factor in establishing the guilt of a specific individual, relative to others, is none other than Philo Vance’s artistic sensibility. This entails a literary sensibility—evidenced by a wealth of quotations from Latin, French, and German works—as well as a sensitivity toward the visual arts, sculpture, and other types of artistic artifacts, such as carpets and porcelain. And, perhaps even more—or at least more overtly—in this novel, Vance’s artistic sensibility manifests as a musical one.

Throughout the investigation, one can discern the significance of Vance’s artistic sensibilities—from his observations on the absurdity of using parchment to fashion a wastepaper basket, to his remarks on the craftsmanship of the rugs, and finally, his assessments concerning music.

Philo Vance finds himself in the "Canary’s" apartment, searching for something—though he does not yet know what. He believes he knows the identity of the murderer—he is, in fact, certain of it—having played poker with the men who feature in this drama: the Canary’s lovers. Yet, knowing the culprit’s identity is not enough; at that moment, he has no way to prove the individual’s guilt. A seemingly irrefutable fact stands in his way: a person—someone outside the circle of suspects—was with the murderer at a critical time and would, in all good faith, swear under torture that the killer was in their company. This is why Vance, accompanied by Markham, ends up lingering at the victim’s home—and it is precisely here that the pieces of the puzzle fall into place for him.

Among all his various tastes, Vance’s musical knowledge proves decisive; had he not been well-versed in classical music, the solution would have eluded him. Conversely, it is worth noting that had the murderer followed a different line of reasoning, Vance would surely have been unable to establish his guilt.

Thus, another element enters the equation of accountability: Fate—from which there is no escape.

1.         It is Fate that dictates the murderer’s decision to toss a package into a wastebasket; yet, had it been an ordinary bin, Vance would have taken no notice of it—but he observes that it is made of parchment. To anyone else, this detail would mean nothing, but to a man like him—possessing an innate sensitivity toward all that is beautiful and refined, in an aesthetic sense—such a parchment wastebasket is an affront. Consequently, he decides to look inside, where he discovers a crumpled sheet of wrapping paper and a large, square, brown parcel.

2.         Were Vance not a music enthusiast—did he not frequent theaters or attend concerts—he would never have deduced that the parcel contained phonograph records. At this juncture, the specter of music emerges: it is the musical inclinations and tastes of both the murderer and the detective that ultimately hold the key to solving the enigma.

 Vance asks Markham where the gramophone is (because if there's a record, there must be a

gramophone ). Knowing the answer, he looks for it. The gramophone is in the antechamber;

on top of it is a small rug topped with a flowerpot.

3. If Vance hadn't been an art expert, he would never have been interested in that rug. But it's also worth noting that if the murderer hadn't placed a rug and a flowerpot to prevent anyone from

looking into the gramophone, Vance's attention probably wouldn't have been caught. He notes, in fact, that it is “Anatolian—probably called a Caesarian for sale purposes. Not very valuable—too much on the Oushak type”.

Disgusted by an exterior devoid of any artistic merit and dictated solely by the law of appearances, Vance wonders what kind of music the Canary might have listened to:

“Wonder what the lady's taste in music was. Victor Herbert, doubtless”.

Who was Victor Herbert at that time? A composer and a driving force in the musical life of New York, in particular; an author of operettas as well as well-known pieces—such as "Serenades of All Nations," which featured singing and dancing—his work represented an alternative to "serious" music. At this juncture, the hand of Fate intervenes, setting the murderer’s poor choice (but why poor, exactly?) against Vance’s own musical curiosity: "My word! The Andante from Beethoven's C-Minor Symphony!" he exclaimed cheerfully. “You know the movement, of course, Markham. The most perfect Andante ever written." He wound up the machine. "I think a little music might clear the atmosphere and volatilize our perturbation, what?”

Vance’s surprise is all the more striking given that, up to this point, he has found the "Canary’s" aesthetic sensibilities to be utterly objectionable; thus, Odell’s musical taste—Beethoven—comes as a shock to him... a positive one. And so, he decides to listen to the record.

As it turns out, the Canary’s musical tastes were likely those originally surmised by Vance. It was not she who put on the record labeled "Beethoven," but rather her murderer. Yet, the killer could never have foreseen that—in the misfortune of having met the Canary, becoming her accompanist and lover, and subsequently being blackmailed—he would suffer a further stroke of bad luck: making a choice that, under ordinary circumstances, would have been a perfectly happy one. His misfortune lay in crossing paths with someone like Vance—a refined aesthete and true connoisseur of art and music. Had anyone else been accompanying Markham—someone with more conventional aesthetic tastes—it is almost certain that, in 99% of cases, they would never have chosen to listen to Beethoven. The murderer’s ill fortune, therefore, was to be pitted against a man who happened to be drawn to those very same musical preferences.

This is why, in the resolution of  The Canary Murder Case, Vance’s inclination toward artistic—and, above all, musical—sensibility plays a fundamental role. A role, as we have seen, that is inextricably linked to the element of chance, preordained by Fate.

Fate—the force to which both men and gods are subject; Fate—which, like an invisible yet inexorable mechanism, binds individuals to their actions; Fate, ultimately, as the quintessential driving force of great Greek tragedy. The story of  the Canary is not a grand tragedy, but a minor one—yet a tragedy nonetheless, not merely a drama. A drama allows for an outcome—be it positive or negative—whereas a tragedy offers no positive resolution; it is invariably negative, for the innocent and the guilty alike. Here, the guilty and the innocent perish in the very same way: is Odell the innocent one and X the guilty party? Or is it the other way around? It is neither: in this novel, the guilty and the innocent are not clearly demarcated; rather, they blur into one another.

As players in a tragedy, the characters often move as if enthralled by a will that transcends them—a force from which there is no escape.

To my mind, Fate is also linked to the musical reference explicitly mentioned on the record label: the Andante in C minor from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The key of C minor—inherently somber and frequently employed in Requiems (alongside the more common D minor)—becomes, in Beethoven’s hands, the key of the hero. Moreover, this symphony is often described as the one in which "Fate knocks at the door"—another allusion to Fate, to Destiny, to something on the verge of coming to pass.

At the end of the novel the murderer himself will admit that “It occurred to me that if anyone should, by any chance, open the phonograph before I could return and destroy the record, he wouldn't be as likely to want to hear the classics as he would a more popular selection."

"And one who detests popular music had to find it! I fear, Mr.****, that an unkind fate sat in at your game."

"Yes. . . . If I were religiously inclined, I might talk poppycock about

retribution and divine punishment.”

There are, however, other musical references scattered here and there.

For one, there is an allusion to Mozart. In Chapter VII, we read that Odell’s maid is formally questioned by Markham in the presence of Vance; she speaks of a certain man—a former lover of Odell’s—who “He wore his hair smoothed down, Spively continued, "and you could see it was kind of long; but it was cut in the latest style. And he had a small waxed moustache; and there was a big carnation in the lapel of his coat, and he had on chamois gloves. . . .”. Shortly thereafter, while discussing this with Markham, Vance uses an Italian adjective “amoroso”—which anyone with a certain degree of culture, especially in music, would immediately associate with Mozart. Vance remarks: “Nearly every modern Delilah has an avaricious amoroso.”

To me, the adjective “amoroso”immediately brings to mind an aria from Mozart’s opera Le Nozze di Figaro—the piece that concludes the first act—which begins: “Non più andrai, farfallone amoroso, notte e giorno d’intorno girando; delle belle turbando il riposo, Narcisetto, Adoncino d’amor.” It is almost certain that Vance intends to evoke this Mozartian “farfallone” even though he elsewhere uses the term “gigolo”—a fitting choice, given that the man in question would solicit money from Odell (though he did not blackmail her).

There are, however, other musical references scattered here and there.

For one, there is an allusion to Mozart. In Chapter VII, we read that Odell’s maid is formally questioned by Markham in the presence of Vance. She speaks of a certain man—a former lover of Odell’s—who dressed in the latest fashion, visited her often, and always managed to extract money from her. Shortly thereafter, while discussing this with Markham, Vance uses an Italian adjective (the term appears in Italian in the original text)—a rather unusual word that anyone with a certain level of culture, including musical knowledge, would immediately associate with Mozart. Vance remarks: “...Almost every modern-day Delilah has a greedy “amoroso”...” .

To me, the adjective “amoroso” immediately brings to mind an aria from Mozart’s opera Le Nozze di Figaro, which concludes the first act and begins with the lines: “Non più andrai, farfallone amoroso, notte e giorno d’intorno girando; delle belle turbando il riposo Narcisetto, Adoncino d’amor.” Vance is almost certainly making an implicit reference to this Mozartian “farfallone” (philanderer)—even though he elsewhere uses the term “gigolo”—in light of the fact that the man in question would ask Odell for money (though he was not blackmailing her).

Hidden within that same sentence, there may be yet another musical reference: Vance associates the name “Delilah” with Odell. We all know that Delilah was a Philistine—a sort of Mata Hari of her day—who used her beauty to make Samson fall in love with her. However, this reference might also allude to Camille Saint-Saëns’s opera Samson et Dalila, which was performed at the Metropolitan Opera in New York during the 1915–16 season, featuring Margarete Matzenauer as Delilah and Enrico Caruso as Samson.

But the musical references do not end there.

First, there is a piece for solo piano. Before Vance turns his attention to the wastepaper basket, he notices a piano; he sits down and plays the opening of Brahms’s Capriccio No. 1.

Capriccio No. 1 is the first of eight pieces in Op. 76. It is in F-sharp minor—a key one might describe as "painful," perhaps even "harrowing." The sharp seems to intensify the sorrow inherent in F minor, pushing it to a point of no return. One could even argue that, for some, F-sharp minor is the key of tragedy, though that might be reading too much into it. Let us, therefore, stick to the piece itself. It is a work built on arpeggios and is quite technically demanding. What does this tell us? It suggests that Vance is not merely an amateur with a taste for beautiful things, nor just a learned dilettante, but a sophisticated professional: he knows how to play the piano—and, what’s more, he plays a difficult piece. In other words, even in the case of music—much like painting, sculpture, or his expertise in areas such as porcelain and carpets—Philo Vance’s engagement is never merely superficial; rather, it is always marked by a level of knowledge that distinguishes him not only from the uneducated masses but also from other aesthetes like himself.

The second musical reference concerns something that struck me as glaringly obvious—yet which I failed to notice years ago when I first read the novel: the—surely intentional—resemblance between Margaret Odell, a rapidly rising dancer, and the alter ego of Princess Odette from the famous ballet set to Tchaikovsky’s music: Odile, the Black Swan, daughter of the sorcerer Rothbart, who seeks to replace Odette and steal the love of Prince Derek.

Odile and Odell are not merely similar in name; they are also linked by their associations with birds—a swan and a canary, respectively. Just as the Black Swan uses magic to make Derek perceive her as Odette—with evil disguising itself as good—Odell, who might appear as pure as her own singing voice, actually possesses a soul as black as sin.

Both Odile and Odell can thus be related to Odette, forming an ideal triad: Odile–Odell–Odette.

Both Odile and Odell aspire to identify with Odette. While we have already touched upon Odile’s identification, there is also a hidden one at play with Odell: the "Odette" that Odell embodies is a version of herself transformed into a positive figure—one accepted and recognized by society.

When considering these three characters—both individually and in terms of their mutual relationships—one can apply René Girard’s "Theory of Mimetic Desire," (from Mensonge romantique et verité Romanesque, 1961) particularly when examining the specific roles of “Subject, Object, and Mediator”.

Girard identified a common thread throughout literature: desire. Desire is never a direct expression of the subject; rather, it is a reflection of someone else’s desire for a particular object. In its manifestation, two alternative scenarios emerge: when the object of desire is distant, the subject (who desires what the mediator desires) and the mediator can coexist peacefully; conversely, when the object of desire is close—situated on the same plane as both parties—conflict arises.

Thus, we can apply the Theory of Mimetic Desire to the novel in question.

First, let us examine the triad: Odette is the desired object—sought by Odile, who aspires to identify with her in order to steal Derek’s love, and also, metaphorically, by Odell, who wishes to transform from a dull "Canary" into a Swan and possess the love of a prince, just as Odette does. In this instance, we have "external mediation": Odell desires to be Odette, with Odile acting as the mediator of this desire—Odile herself aspiring to transform into Odette. Both the mediator and the subject are, in a sense, incomplete; as such, they strive to become the object of desire through deception (Odile transforms into Odette via an illusion, while Odell seeks to become Odette through blackmail). Because Odette—as an object of desire—remains distant, the two characters do not come into conflict on an ideal plane.

However, if we examine these two individual cases, the mediation becomes even more apparent:

In Tchaikovsky’s work, for instance, the desiring subject is Odile, the desired object is Prince Derek, and the mediator of this desire is Odette. According to René Girard, this would constitute what is known as “internal mediation”—a dynamic characterized by an escalating conflict that grows increasingly violent and paroxysmal as the two spheres—the two desires directed toward the same object—come into contact. A similar characterization can be found in Van Dine’s novel, specifically in the relationship between Margaret Odell and her object of desire. Here, too, “internal mediation” is at play: Margaret Odell (the subject) craves a particular object—namely, economic and social stability—which is also the object sought by the mediator, “X.” The subject (Odell) and the mediator (“X”) find themselves in conflict over this object; the intensity of this clash is directly proportional to the strength of the subject’s (Odell’s) desire to possess it. Thus, the aspiration for a new social status collides with the mediator’s (“X’s”) determination to preserve the stability of the existing order—an order bound up with “X’s” own familial ties. The conflict is all the more profound and intractable because, in order to break down “X’s” defenses, blackmail is employed.

Odile and Odell are linked by yet another connection: both are dancers, though their relationship to dance is antithetical. For the former, Odile, dance emerges from tragedy; for the latter, Odell, tragedy emerges from dance—specifically from the relationships she forged through her life as a dancer. Also linked to music is the use of the gramophone—an object that, until then, had been associated with a frivolous, salon-dwelling world, one that had emerged from the First World War yet had not yet encountered the Great Depression of 1929. Up to that point, no one had ever considered using it for any purpose other than playing music; but after Van Dine, things changed…

First, I would like to mention Agatha Christie and her 1939 novel And Then There Were None. Here, the mechanism underlying the use of the gramophone is reversed. In Van Dine’s work, the gramophone is used to create an illusion—specifically, to convince the hotel porter that "the Canary" was still alive at a certain hour, when, in fact, she was already dead (a device one might colorfully describe as "a voice from beyond the grave"), in Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None, however, the voice of Mr. Owen (the host)—recorded on a disc and amplified by a gramophone—serves the opposite purpose: it is intended to convince the ten people present that the speaker is not physically among them, when in reality, he is.

While Christie adopts this Van Dine device and adapts it to her own ends, there is an earlier instance—predating Christie’s novel—in which the "gramophone illusion" is recreated using a device that had largely supplanted the gramophone by the 1930s: the radio. Clayton Rawson employs this to create a different kind of illusion in his 1938 novel Death from a Top Hat. Even earlier, in 1930, another novel—The Invisible Host by Bristow & Manning—utilized the radio as a device, though in this case, it was linked to concealed gramophones.

Finally, Vance occasionally displays his erudition. One such instance occurs in Chapter VIII, as Vance and Markham discuss footprints left in the snow: Grau, teurer Freund, ist alle Theorie, Philo Vance declares—a line taken from one of the most famous passages in Goethe’s “Faust”. But what Vance quotes is only half of it. The full passage would be: “Grau, teurer Freund, ist alle Theorie, und grün des Lebens goldner Baum”—literally: “Dear friend, all theory is gray, and green is the golden tree of life.” Vance, however, cites only the first part, adapting it to the conversation he is having with Markham—a discussion centered on the absence of footprints in the snow and the lack of any account of who might have left them; in other words, the fact that Markham possesses neither direct nor circumstantial evidence (=the theory is gray).

This is not the only such passage; there are several others.

For example, at one point in Chapter 10, it says: “Perhaps so. He might well be a modern Cayley Drummle.” Who is Cayley Drummle? One would need to be familiar with Arthur Wing Pinero’s play The Second Mrs. Tanqueray to know, but neither Van Dine nor the translators explain it. Van Dine omits the explanation because the meaning of his remark is clear enough within the context of his conversation with Markham; furthermore, if his references weren’t somewhat cryptic, one couldn’t truly appreciate the extent of Van Dine’s encyclopedic erudition. As for the translators, they likely leave the mystery unsolved either because they don’t know the answer themselves or because they see no reason to take on the extra, uncompensated burden of research.

The point, however, is that the average reader of Van Dine—confronted with these digressions, learned allusions, and quotations—cannot reasonably be expected to possess the same encyclopedic knowledge as Van Dine or his character, Philo Vance. Consequently, either the translator must be diligent enough to do the necessary research, or the reader must either undertake that research to fully grasp what Van Dine is saying—or simply skip over these awkward references entirely.

This serves to highlight the fact that, contrary to popular belief, S.S. Van Dine’s detective novels are not at all easy to read; quite the opposite!

“It's latish, I'll admit, but why not, as Pittacus advised, seize time by the

forelock?

Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find:

Occasion once past by, is a bald behind.'

But the elder Cato anticipated Cowley. In his 'Disticha de Moribus' he

wrote: Fronte capillata.

Come!" pleaded Markham, rising. "Anything to dam this flow of erudition.”

We understand that the distich attributed to Pittacus must be linked to Cowley. But who is this man—as Don Abbondio might ask? No one mentions that he is one of the greatest English poets of the seventeenth century.

Fortunately, Chapter 10 concludes with Cato the Elder—or at least the source of the reference is cited: The Distichs (though some contemporary critics question whether Cato the Elder is truly the author).

Thus, we learn that Vance—wishing to seize the favorable opportunity, the opportune moment—cites neither Lorenzo the Magnificent nor Horace (for the “favorable opportunity” or “opportune moment” associated with Fortuna is not quite the same as the Carpe Diem found in those two authors), but rather Abraham Cowley and Marcus Porcius Cato. The reference to Cowley stems directly from the Catonian distich: “Rem, tibi quam noris aptam, dimittere noli: Fronte capillata, post est Occasio calva” (“Do not let go of what you know to be good for you; Occasio [Opportunity] has hair on her forehead, but is bald at the back”—Distichs, Book 1, 2.26).

Why? Van Dine does not explain this either. He expects his reader to know or to surmise it: the point is that the Catonian distich is to be understood in relation to the Roman conception of the Goddess Fortuna—the hair on the forehead and the bald nape of the neck signify not only youth and old age, but also good and bad fortune. However, “occasione=occasio” is expressed using a Latin noun—capitalized—signifying a proper name: it refers to a goddess, Occasio, who is linked to the Greek Kairos (καιρός), a minor deity of time representing “the opportune moment.”

A brief, separate discussion is warranted for the following passage:

“Perhaps because he was in love with her,’ Markham smiled.

‘A bit like Abra, eh?…

Abra was ready before I even called her:

Abra came, though it was another I was calling.”

Van Dine—through his character Vance—offers no explanation for this inserted couplet.

The source is : “Solomon on the Vanity of the World”, Book II, by Matthew Prior—a great English poet who lived at the turn of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, just preceding Alexander Pope.

Philo Vance, then, stands as a paragon of elegance, artistic sensibility, musical expertise, and literary knowledge—all these qualities distilled into a single term: erudition. And in this novel (or rather, throughout the series) by S.S. Van Dine, such erudition is present in abundance. It can be entertaining and intriguing, yet at times, it may also prove irritating.

Indeed, as we find ourselves immersed in the adventures of Philo Vance, might we not echo the very sentiment expressed by the character speaking to him?

“Come!" pleaded Markham, rising. "Anything to dam this flow of erudition.”

Thus ends the tenth chapter of the novel, and with it my analysis—which I hope will be well received.

Pietro De Palma