I wanted something cheap and easy to read; never read any Ross MacDonald.
It wasn’t bad — he is billed by some people as better than Chandler and Hammett, but he lacks Chandler’s wit; I can’t remember much about Hammett. MacDonald obviously likes his painters.
The plot was hard to follow, as the femme fatale appeared in about three different guises, which wasn’t apparent or guessable until quite near the end.
I don’t think I would bother with another one.
I see from inside the back cover that my Dad (I assume) finished reading this on 7th December 1991, so that is probably only its second read in 23 years. May well be it's last!
Comments