(2 of 4)
James McClure's stories about two policemen in his native South Africa, one white and one black, have been noteworthy in equal measure for their poignant evocation of that land, their perception of partnership and their acute sense of sexual obsession. The last is at the core of a novel that otherwise breaks new ground for him. Imago (Penzler; 244 pages; $16.95) is a mystery that offers no real mystery, no official detective, no police action of consequence and no crime -- yet is flavored with an authentic elixir of suspicion and dread. The central character is a radiologist caught up in what his psychiatrist colleagues would label a mid-life crisis: thunderstruck by the nubile daughter of old friends, he undertakes a frenzied search for signs of reciprocity. The result is either hysteria or someone's genuine plot to drive him crazy. Imago lacks the sociological acuity and command of character of McClure's best work, but it vividly portrays the emotional peaks and troughs of infatuation.
At the other end of the scale of seriousness are two works notable for their sheer larkish effrontery. In George Baxt's The Tallulah Bankhead Murder Case (St. Martin's Press; 228 pages; $15.95), the ferocious actress is joined by such other real-life viragoes as Dorothy Parker and Lillian Hellman. Baxt's comic turn mingles the actual and the imaginary like a pun-obsessed spin-off of E.L. Doctorow's Ragtime, and has a similarly political bent. Set in 1952, it sketches deft parallels between the paranoia induced by a serial killer and the mania generated by McCarthy-era blacklisting. The plot is merely serviceable and the cast of characters sprawling rather than sharply defined, but the machine-gun barrage of witticisms from its formidable ladies is either a well-researched compendium of bons mots or a wholly convincing imitation.
Peter Lovesey's Bertie and the Tinman (Mysterious Press; 212 pages; $15.95) features a first-person amateur detective who is none other than the Prince of Wales, Queen Victoria's son and heir. Lovesey proved himself the world's foremost concocter of latter-day Victoriana in his series of mysteries built around Sergeant Cribb, then echoed the early 20th century in the nostalgic Hollywood story Keystone and the brilliantly plotted thriller The False Inspector Dew. Here he returns to 19th century London and, as always, to a subtle but relentless dissection of Britain's unjust social-class system. The rueful, candid voice he gives to the fleshy prince rings true, the details of the horse-racing and music-hall worlds are vivid, and much of the tale is sweetly funny -- as when His Royal Highness, disguised to investigate a murder, is accosted by a streetwalker who addresses him amiably as "Tubby."