Raoul Whitfield (1896–1945) was a pal of Dashiell Hammett, who weighed in on Green Ice for the New York Evening Post. “The plot doesn’t matter. What matters is that here are 280 pages of naked action pounded into tough compactness by staccato, hammer-like writing.” It’s an impressive blurb, and now that I’ve read the novel it’s easier to unpack.
Perhaps Hammett dismissed the plot rather than try to explain it. It’s complicated. Green Ice, which was Whitfield’s first novel, is packed with a large cast even for a mystery novel. It was intentional because there’s a high body count and many of the yeggs and fatales only live to see their end rather than The End.
Mal Ourney is a newshound sucked into the charms of bad girl Dot Ellis. So much so, he takes a rap on her behalf and serves of two-year bit without remorse. Green Ice opens with a bang as the two are reunited upon Ourney’s release, and plunges him head-first into a confusing and complicated mystery littered with bullets, bodies, and booty. Dot is the first casualty of this rapid-fire fracas.
Ourney’s been out of circulation so it takes him a considerable chunk of pages to figure the potential angles and motives of a dynamic cast that enters and exits as he attempts to unravel the shreds of information he extracts or extorts. His opponents and allies shift throughout. And there’s more than one crook who knows more than our hero. Plus, there’s the cops. Somehow, Ourney prods or plops himself into the middle of every single thing and is repeatedly duped, dumped, or detained for interrogation.
The plot is important, but not so important that readers need keep every detail and actor in mind. The plot is the framework upon which Whitfield showcases his command of action, 1920’s slang, and descriptive magic. This is one rocket-powered street race, drenched in a shower of hardboiled prose.