Why do I get the sneaking suspicion Gardner wrote this over a quiet weekend, perked up on chai and chocolate biscuits?

Seriously, the 82nd Perry Mason novel (but my first) is murder by numbers. The dialogue is uninventive, the mystery intriguing but ultimately more of an exercise than a narrative, and things plod along smoothly with the clockwork sound of an expert pulp writer. There's nothing really wrong with it, and I like that Gardner is (very lightly) self-parodic in the denouement scene, where an eccentric judge somehow convinces all parties to bypass usual trial procedure and just tell their stories to one another.

Still, I doubt I'd go back to this well very much, even if the "golden era" novels are much more clever in their execution. It just has that feel of a jobbing writer churning out another volume. There's nothing wrong with that (I'm gradually moving into that field myself) but this book fulfills its function, nothing more. ( )

3.5* ( )

Perry Mason odhaluje pravého vraha milionáře na luxusní jachtě.

Wild, independent dame + rich entitled businessman + honest loyal farmer = classic dependable Mason mystery. I could read a million of these but I'll settle for the eighty-something that Gardner wrote.

I wonder if Delia ever gets some character progression. I'd love there to be a spinoff of Delia with her own law firm/detective agency. Also, what's with the weird characterisation of her in this book as someone who's bad at making analogies!? ( )