Safe Return Doubtful

published in 1954

Something I will always remember Jim Thompson for, which is of course the case here, is his quote..

There is only one plot – things are not as they seem.

Clinton Brown works as a rewrite man for the Pacific City Courier newspaper in a small town close to the Mexican border. His editor, Dave Randall, was his commanding officer during the Vietnam war and responsible for an order that meant Brown suffered injuries from a mine detonation, from which he became desexed.
At the beginning of the book Brown is working on a story on the Sneering Slayer murders, and as narrator, informs the reader that the last part of his story will need to be written by someone else. A hint at what is to come.
Unlike the books that Thompson is most renowned for, here Brown does not set out to be a serial killer, the first half of the book examines the circumstances that led him down that route. Similar though to most of Thompson’s work, is a protagonist creeping his way towards self-destruction, bad decision follows bad decision so that any hope the reader may have for him disappears. Brown is a good example of a Thompson protagonist in that he things he is smarter than he actually is, and has just run out of luck.
Something to admire in this particular novel is how the pace gradually increases to represent Brown’s growing casualness and ease with murder; descriptions of the kills become more detailed and graphic.
If there’s a disappointment, it is in the ending, which suggests Thompson himself wasn’t sure how to finish it. The ending of a book like this is important, as it tends to be that that readers remember most. The fun in reading Thompson though is far more than the plot, specifically for me, odd passages that stand-out, demand reading several times, and are unmistakably his work – worth quoting even..

“You’re very soft,” I said. “Very soft and warm, X.” “I don’t have any pants on,” she said. “I guess that’s why I feel that way.” “I’ll tell you something,” I said. “You’ll never die, X. There is no death in you, only life. So long as there is laughter, so long as there is warmth and light, so long as there is soft flesh, fresh and sweet-smelling like no perfume ever made, so long as there is a breast to cup and a thigh to caress… you’ll live, X. You’ll never die.” “That’s awfully pretty,” she said. “Want me to tell you something?” “Please do,” I said. “I don’t care if I do die. Not now, Brownie. Not after tonight.” We drove on to Pacific City. We got to my shack just before dawn. And I killed her.

and

X cooked with mayonnaise; it was her rod and her staff, kitchen-wise. Mayonnaise was to X as can opener is to a Newlywed. I felt reasonably sure that she had whole hogsheads of the stuff concealed in the cellar. If one could surprise her at just the right moment-catch her while she was dipping out a couple of ten-gallon pails for the evening meal-well… But probably she had become immune to it; probably she could breathe in it as a fish breathes in water. In any event there were other ways, and all very pleasant to contemplate. One might ash tray her to death, for example. You could place her at the end of a vast room while you sat at the other end. And you would be equipped with unlimited cigarettes and a thimble-size ash tray, and she with a pair of binoculars.

My GoodReads score 4 / 5