(adapted from my blog post about the author and his book Whistle up the Devil)

The more I read the book [Whistle up the Devil], the more I asked myself the question: “Who was Derek Smith?” There was so little I could find out about him, yet he had more than his fair share of ingenuity and his heart was certainly in the right place. Why the neglect? It just didn’t seem fair. And so I set out to find out as much as I could about Derek Smith.

Born on July 4^th of 1926, Derek was an avid fan and collector of British boys’ books. (One, The Schoolboy ‘Tec by Charles Hamilton, even makes it into his novel, as Algy Lawrence reads it to briefly take his mind off the problem at hand.) He was born in the borough of Lambeth, South London, and it seems he lived in the same house he grew up in all his life. After his parents separated, Derek lived with his mother until her death. In a letter to Doug Greene from 1980, he mentions her poor health— “I’m having a bad time at the moment, as my poor old mother is ill in hospital and I’m spending most of my free time at her bedside to encourage her.” I’m not sure when she died, but after her death, Derek (who never married) remained in the same house.

It seems that Derek was drafted into the army at the end of WWII (he would have turned 18 in 1944) and developed some kind of a lung problem. He lived on disability for the rest of his life.

The very first line of Whistle up the Devil is: ‘“Telephones,” Algy told himself drowsily, “are the devil.”’ As Doug Greene recalls, Derek had no telephone. When calling him, Greene had to use the number of the neighbours, who would then summon Derek to the telephone. Whether this was done out of a personal prejudice against the instrument is unclear.

No matter who I’ve gotten in touch with, everyone agrees that Derek was a generous man with a heart of gold. He would often give away books, including copies of the ultra-rare first edition of Whistle up the Devil. Several people have informed me that they got their copies straight from Derek himself. So here’s the central question: why is the book so hard to find? Well, the first edition was published by John Gifford, which was simply an arm of Foyles. Their contracts with authors would give them book club rights for next-to-no costs. After a few copies under the Gifford imprint (which was more or less done as a formality) it was on to the “Thriller Book Club” edition. As far as I know, the book hasn’t been reprinted, although Doug Greene unsuccessfully tried convincing IPL to do so.

Derek’s book collection was simply enormous. Ralph Spurrier described it so excellently that I could do no better than quote his words:

I knew Derek slightly and would often see him at London book fairs. He was always wearing the same clothes and looked somewhat down at heel. After he died it turned out that he had left his book collection to a London dealer ... When the dealer went to collect them he found a house that was not only literally falling down but also rammed packed with tens of thousands of books. There was hardly any space that was not taken up by books… The door to one room was opened outwards and the dealer was faced with a sea of books piled up to eye level that ran from the door to the back wall. At the back of the room was a glass case with more books in it which couldn't have been opened for decades. Every conceivable Golden Age book was found in the collection including dustwrappered Agatha Christies from the 30's. A lot of the books had to be dumped because the roof leaked and water and damp had ruined them but the better part of collection was dispersed to the four corners of the world to grateful readers who had searched for some of these scarce titles for many years.

Bill Pronzini adds that after Derek’s death, part of the second floor of his house actually collapsed due to the weight of the books and dry rot. As a result, several rare first editions were lost.

Bill Pronzini met Derek at the 1990 London Bouchercon, where they spent some time discussing books and locked-room mysteries. They also managed to get lost on the stairs, and Pronzini feared that Derek would collapse. He recalls that Derek looked quite frail at the time, but he lived for a good many years still (Derek died in late December 2002) and they exchanged letters during that time. Derek sent him an inscribed copy of the first edition of Whistle up the Devil for Pronzini’s book collection.

Derek was extremely knowledgeable about the mystery genre. It shows in Whistle up the Devil, where Algy Lawrence, following a rant of Uncle Russell’s, starts lecturing him about the book he is reading, The Man of the Forty Faces: “Did you know it was reissued in 1913 as Cleek, The Man of the Forty Faces, with three of the original stories left out, and a new one included? In the USA, oddly enough, the amended text was published five years before the original finally appeared as Cleek, the Master Detective.” To this, Uncle Russell respectfully declares: “My boy … I see I’ve misjudged you. Have another drink.”

Interestingly, Derek did not drink himself. Doug Greene recalls an occasion where he went with him to a pub, having acquired some John Dickson Carr texts. Greene indulged in a pint of bitter, while Derek was content with an orange juice, as he skimmed the pages with glee. In this respect, he differed considerably from John Dickson Carr, some of whose books read like a tribute to alcohol (such as The Case of the Constant Suicides, which has marvellous drinking scenes). Although Algy Lawrence in Whistle up the Devil is not a teetotaller, he is described as “the mildest of drinkers.”

Besides Whistle up the Devil, Derek Smith also wrote a novel called Come to Paddington Fair and a Sexton Blake novella called Model for Murder. He did not find a publisher for either, and entrusted the manuscript of Come to Paddington Fair to Mr. Mori Hidetoshi. It was published in a very limited release in Japan (but published in English). From what I can tell, Come to Paddington Fair is not a locked-room mystery, although it appears that it is a book in which all the suspects are cleared, so it seems impossible for anyone to have committed the crime.

The image I’ve gotten of Derek Smith is a fascinating one: though somewhat reclusive he had a generous heart and a kind spirit, always willing to give. It is a shame that he was, in a sense, hoodwinked by the publishing industry. They got a good price for Book Club editions of Whistle up the Devil, but this came at a price— the book was simply never given the opportunity to achieve the success I believe it deserved, and afterwards, Derek couldn’t find a publisher. I wonder if things would have turned out differently if he’d gotten an endorsement from someone like John Dickson Carr. An unashamed fan of mysteries and an aspiring writer of them, Derek Smith’s heart was in the right place. He truly deserves to be better known today.

Patrick.

See also: http://moonlight-detective.blogspot.com.au/2012/07/where-devil-slumbered.html