By Philip Kerr
While he brought Bernie Gunther within the unique Berlin Noir trilogy, Philip Kerr instantly demonstrated himself as a mystery author on par with Raymond Chandler. His new Bernie Gunther novels have gained him comparisons with Alan Furst, John le Carré, and Graham Greene. A Quiet Flame unearths Gunther in Argentina, circa 1950, the place he- falsely accused of Nazi conflict crimes-has been provided a brand new existence and a fresh passport by way of the Perón govt. however the difficult, fast-talking detective doesn't have the posh of laying low whilst a serial killer- whose crimes could achieve again to Berlin earlier than the war-is mutilating younger women. Taut, gritty, and loaded with evocative historic aspect, A Quiet Flame is between Kerr's top paintings but.
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Additional info for A Quiet Flame (Bernard Gunther, Book 5)
I had not supposed Mycroft Holmes possessed such eloquence as he displayed on that bizarre occasion. Moriarty protested at first, darting little ferret-like glances from one to the other of us, his blue eyes pale in the light of the single turned-down lamp. But Mycroft convinced him. I did not know then what power the bulky giant held over the little scarecrow, but it was to Mycroft he deferred. Finally, on our promising to pay his way in the business, he at last assented, reminding us fervently what explanations we must make to Headmaster Price-Jones so that his position at the Roylott School should not be forfeit by absence.
To one side, a thin black bannistered staircase led up to a charming little balcony that ran in a semi-circle over our heads. "Please, this way—come," the maid gestured, still smiling openly, and she ushered us into a cramped study which opened off the vestibule. When we had seated ourselves, she offered to take Toby and find him something to eat. " But I argued that the professor would never dare any manoeuvre so precipitate. "Oh, very well, perhaps you are right," he agreed, considering the matter while smiling icily at the grinning maid, who waited for our decision.
Fog, is it? Must be a regular corker if I haven't 'ad a shillin' on account of it. " He sighed again and appeared to look about him, a ghastly exercise in view of his deficiency. " I enquired. "No, no—bless you, sir, for offerin', but I don't. Why, it's all the same to me, in't? All the same to me. " And with this he scooped out the money I had placed in his hat and deposited it in his pocket. I bade him farewell and he shuffled off, using his stick before him to feel his path—no different from any ordinary man in the midst of this cursed fog—except that he was singing again, his voice dying away as he disappeared from view and was swallowed up by folds of smoke.