W.T. Ballard:An Interview
by Stephen Mertz
Reprinted from The Armchair Detective, Winter 1979.
Reprinted by permission of the author
I first made contact with W.T. Ballard early in 1976. I was researching an
article on the detective pulp magazines for which Ballard wrote extensively during the
thirties and forties, and his response to my questions was generous, informative and entertaining.
Since I'd been a fan and collector of his work for some years, I felt that the next logical
step should be a piece dedicated to the man himself. This interview is
Willis Todhunter Ballard was born in Cleveland in 1903. His career as a professional
writer began in 1927 and since then he has produced 95 novels, about fifty movie and TV
scripts and more than one thousand short stories and novelettes which have appeared in
the pulps as well as such "slicks" as The Saturday Evening Post, Esquire,
This Week and McCall's. His most recent work has been primarily in the western
field. He is past vice-president of the Western Writers of America and his novel, Gold
in California, won that organization's award as Best Historical Novel for 1965. His
latest book is Sheriff of Tombstone (Double day, 1977) and he's presently at work
on a new one, also a western.
His importance to the mystery field is that he was one of the original contributors
to Black Mask, that famous detective pulp which, during the thirties under the editorship
of Joe Shaw, pioneered the then-revolutionary American hard-boiled detective form.
Ballard, along with Chandler, Hammett and Erle Stanley Gardner, was one of
that magazine's most popular contributors among contemporary readers. His series starring
Bill Lennox, troubleshooter for General Consolidated Studios, set the tone and laid the
ground rules for countless Hollywood-milieu mysteries to follow.
"My life is not particularly interesting," Ballard wrote me when
agreeing to this interview. "As Dash Hammett used to say, there are two types of people
in the world. Those who make news and those who write about them."
What follows is proof positive that W.T. Ballard is as self-effacing as he
is important to the development of the American detective story.
First, the traditional question: How did you come to be a professional writer?
As a child when I was asked what I wanted to do I said I would live in a library
and write books. At age
twelve I "sold" my first offering to Hunter Trader Trapper, the saga of a twelve-year-old
on vacation at a Canadian trout stream with my family. I received in return for it ten copies of the
issue in which the masterpiece appeared. However, the progress to writer was hit or miss for a long
time. My father owned an electrical engineering office. They also published a magazine electrically
oriented, on which I worked. When I got out of college I was taken into the office to be taught the
business, whether or not I liked it. They sat me at a drawing board. I was not a particularly good
draftsman. A whole set of handbooks told me
precisely what generators were required in any given situation. Thoroughly bored, I looked for another
Through a friend I found a job with a small group of local newspapers, the Brush-Moore
chain in the Midwest. It was a constant hassle. In eight months I was fired at least eight
times. Besides arguments with the printers I had them with the old battle-axe who ran the
front office. She had been secretary to the Brush boys' father and considered that she owned
the company more than the boys did. It became a routine. She would call me in and fire me,
but before I could clear out my desk one or other brother would show up from Europe and rehire
me. This went on until one time no one appeared and I stayed fired.
About that time the stock market crashed in '29 and we were sunk in the Depression.
Dad was forced to close his business and I was out of that job too. I couldn't find anything
in the East and decided it was a good time to go to California where at least it was warm
for sleeping on park benches. I got there on Armistice Day with twenty-six dollars. On the
way west I broke out with an infection in the lymph glands and spent three weeks in an Albuquerque,
New Mexico, hospital, which cost me most of what money I had.
I walked down Hollywood Boulevard like any tourist. There was a big parade in
downtown L.A. and the Hollywood streets were all but empty, most businesses closed. But a
cigar store newsstand was opened and I stopped to gawk in the window. I had been writing
and submitting copy to New York without much success, but there before me was a copy of Detective
Dragnet featuring a story I had written months earlier. I didn't take much notice. I
had been paid long before and the money was spent. I wandered on and was crossing Cherokee
Street when a voice called, "Tod. Tod Ballard. . . ." I looked down the side street
and coming toward me I saw Major Harry Warner.
Warner. I had known him in Cleveland where his family was making movie trailers
for Community Chest and other local organizations. They came from Youngstown where the old
man was a tailor, a really sweet guy, and when I was with the Brush outfit I had handled
some publicity for them as a favor. That was my only connection with them. The Major wanted
to know what I was doing in Hollywood, a question I was beginning to ask myself. I hated
to admit that I was out of a job and nearly broke, that I had no real hope of finding work
in a strange town. Then I remembered the magazine in the window. I lied gracefully. "I'm
freelancing, working for magazines . . . here. I'll show you...." I led him back to
the cigar store, went in, bought the Detective Dragnet, took it out and presented
it to him.
Why the Major was impressed by a dime pulp I'll never know, but he was. The meeting
culminated in his offering me a job writing for the studio at seventy-five bucks a week.
A bonanza at that time. He and his brothers had just taken over First National Studios from
Commodore (Commy) Blackton who had gone broke in New York real estate. I lasted with Warners
for eight months, learning a lot about screenwriting from a couple of wise old-timers, before
I forgot to watch my back. I made a derogatory crack about Jack Warner, turned my head to
find him at my shoulder, and the pink ticket beat me back to my office.
From there I went to Columbia, an eye-opening experience. Sam Cohan, who owned
the studio with his brother, had worked out a crummy deal. A Hungarian, he had brought eight
of his relatives over to this country, with no intention of personally supporting them. Instead
he set up an ingenious company, gave each relative a share in the stock and titular title
of producer to make pictures as independents. Then he would buy these productions and divide
any profit with each contributing relative.
The snag was that the first man he made a "producer" spent more money
on his pictures than he could hope to realize from their "sale." I was hired to
recoup the losses, to bring in new films for a very low budget of ten thousand dollars each.
We were in the bottom of the Depression but the job still wasn't easy. I had to write the
script, direct, produce the picture and even move the sets and scenery... it was before the
days of powerful unions. The camera was housed in a heavy concrete booth mounted on piano
casters, the sound table in the same booth. When you needed to move the apparatus everyone,
grips, juicers, stagehands, actors including stars, put their shoulders to the booth and
wrestled it into the new position.
Most of our shooting was done inside. We couldn't afford to go out. The studio
was located on Gower Avenue, known locally as Gower Gulch because of the preponderance of
westerns being made on the lots that lined the street and the horde of unemployed actors
who gathered outside the gates. When we needed a couple of extras we opened the window and
yelled, then stood out of the stampede.
The job lasted six months and exhausted me. I never cared for studio work. I
hated having my scripts torn apart by producers, directors, even the actors who had any clout.
I returned to freelancing and made a living, but barely.
How did you come to write for Black Mask?
I caught The Maltese Falcon on radio. My uncle, with whom I was living,
was head of the West Coast Customs Bureau and would come home at night worn out, collapse
in his favorite chair, turn the radio up full and go to sleep. I wrote in a small study off
the living room and could not escape hearing every sound from the box. I had learned to tune
it out of my consciousness, but this night excerpts of dialogue forced themselves through
to me. Dialogue the way I had always wanted to write it. I had been trying to please Dorothy
Hubbard at Detective Story Magazine, a lady who favored the Mary Roberts Rinehart
and Agatha Christie styles and types of material. This was something else again. I went to
the living room and listened. What I heard was an ad, a teaser for a movie playing at Warner
Brothers' downtown theater. I caught a streetcar down and saw the show.
This was not the later Bogie version, but an earlier one starring Ricardo Cortez,
who took his stage name from a cigar and acted like it. But I had no interest in the acting.
It was the dialogue that enthralled me: Hammett's ear for words that sounded the way I thought
criminals and detectives should talk. It rang true, the way I wanted mine to do.
The ad gave a credit to Black Mask Magazine, which was the first I had
heard of the publication. I left the theater, walked to the corner, bought a copy of the
then current issue and read it on the ride back. I felt that I was coming home. The story
I most remember was written by a boy from Oregon whose family, I later learned, owned the
biggest whorehouse in the state. His work sounded authentic.
Bill Lennox was the first hard-boiled series character who worked exclusively
against a movie industry setting. Can you tell us something of how you went about creating
The heroes of most of the Black Mask stories were newspaper crime reporters,
which I thought could get monotonous. I scratched my head for an alternative and came up
with the idea of a troubleshooter working for a studio. I could use my experience in the
movie world for realistic background.
By the time I got back to my uncle's house around midnight I had worked out the
basic framework in my mind. A friend, Jim Lawson, was head of the foreign department at Universal.
Poor Jim. Every time Junior Laemmle or his sister Rose Mary got into trouble, which was often,
Jim had to get out of a warm bed, go to Lincoln Heights jail and bail them out. I couldn't
use the name Lawson so I went through the L's in the phone book and came by Lennox. I then
needed a name for the head of the studio and wanted something that sounded Jewish but not
obviously so. The phone book yielded me Spurk; there was only one of those. Much later I
learned Spurk was a lady and not at all Jewish, but she sufficed well for me. Just after
midnight I began the first Lennox story. It ran ten thousand words and I finished at five
in the morning. At seven-thirty I took my uncle to work, mailed the manuscript and went home
I had been nickel and diming along, selling an occasional story to Street & Smith,
Short Stories, Argosy and so on for a quarter of a cent to a cent per word, supporting
my parents and an aunt, long since regretting losing the regular salary from Columbia and
having quit my job, much as I had hated it. Along with writing I was looking for another
spot, with no luck.
A week after I mailed the story to Black Mask I received a letter from
Joe Shaw. He wanted some changes made, but he sent along a check with the letter, an unheard
of generosity and compassion among editors at the time. The major change he asked for was
that Bill Lennox not carry a gun as other fictional detectives did, even newspaper reporters.
That reporters went armed seemed odd to me, and that a troubleshooter should go naked seemed
odder, but it was not a time to argue with an editor. No one with sense argued with Shaw.
So Lennox went without a gun.
Joe Shaw was a strong guiding force where many of his writers were concerned.
Did you have any memorable experiences in your relationship with him as an editor?
I loved Shaw better the more I knew him. He was a curious bastard who wanted
to write himself and couldn't. He had been president of a highly successful manufacturing
company before the First World War. How he got to Europe for that I don't know, but Hoover
used him to deliver relief in Belgium after the armistice, then sent him to Greece.
When he came home he had a manuscript that he took to Phil Cody at Warners Publications.
He did not sell the story but he so impressed Phil that Cody hired him to edit Black Mask on
the spot, and he made a fine editor. He could point the way for his writers, contribute much
to helping work out their problems with sympathy and understanding, but he could not do the
same for himself though writing was what he most wanted to do.
He wrote two books both of which Knopf published, not because they were worthy
of publication but because Joe wrote them; he was that much appreciated. Both books were
bad. I can't remember both titles but one was Blood on the Curb. At his request I
worked over it with him trying to point out where he had gone off base, but I was not the
editor he was. It was an experience, believe me, trying to teach my "father" how
As I said, I loved him. I sold him more copy than anyone else did, an average
of ten stories a year, more than that including characters other than Lennox. Erle Gardner
never forgave that I sold one story more to Black Mask than he did during a given period.
Through the years I have worked with the leading editors of the business. Ray
Long, Fanny Ellsworth, Dorothy Hubbard. Erd Brandt. Ken McCormick. Ken Littaur, Ken White,
you name them. But none of them offered the help, the assurance, the patience that Joe Shaw
gave to his writers. It is too bad he has been so overlooked in the history of the craft.
Following that first Black Mask sale I wrote and sold seven more within
three weeks, Joe buying everything I submitted until Phil Cody told him to quit Lennox for
a while. At Joe's suggestion I began a new series and wrote six Red Drake stories about a
race course detective working for the state racing commission. When that wore thin I switched
to several manuscripts on Don Tomasa, a Mexican adventurer working out of Tijuana.
Finally Shaw left Black Mask because Warner and Cody decided to cheapen
the quality of the content. Fanny Ellsworth took over and I went along. It was a living.
But although Fanny was a good editor it was never the same as with Joe. At the risk of sounding
euphoric, there never was a relationship between editor and writer to equal my connection
with Cap Shaw.
Your reminiscences of Raymond Chandler are quoted by Frank MacShane, in his
biography of Chandler. Did you know Dashiell Hammett?
Yes, and quite well. Until the time he took off with Lillian Hellman. She saw
to it that he was cut off from his old friends, even Horace McCoy who had been closest to
him. McCoy had been a police reporter in El Paso, a genuine tough guy. He and Dash shared
an apartment in San Francisco and at one time were virtually broke. Dash was, as many writers
are, a compulsive gambler. Joe Shaw finally sent them a check for $250. Their funds were
so low they didn't even have a bank account and Dash took the check downstairs to the Chinese
restaurant below their rooms to get it cashed. He did not show up for so long that McCoy
became worried enough to go looking for Hammett. He arrived at the restaurant just in time
to see Dash put the last dollar into the claw machine and lose again. The Chinese felt so
bad about the loss that he unlocked the box and gave Dash a tin cigarette case from it. Thereafter
McCoy called the tin piece Hammett's $250 extravagance.
McCoy wrote They Shoot Horses, Don't They? Jane Fonda made a picture from
the story a few years ago. He married some dame who owned a couple of apartment houses at
Vine Street and Beverly Boulevard and I lost all track of him. He was a nice guy and a good
Jumping to the other end of the spectrum, did you know Robert Leslie Bellem?
He's been called "the worst writer of the pulps," yet I've always viewed his
Dan Turner, Hollywood Detective series as superb private eye parody.
Yes, I knew Bob I suppose as well as anyone. I can't give you the exact date
of our meeting, sometime in the mid-1930's. Soon after that we took adjoining offices in
an old corner building on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena and worked there until I left for
Wright Field during the Second World War, in 1942. During that period we collaborated a lot
on Frank Armer's Super Detective Stories and a number of other mags. Bob was always
a good word man but had trouble with story, which was my field, and he did not work well
under pressure. Frequently he would blow up, come apart and throw the thing in my lap. That
was especially true when the longer pieces became popular. His best work was in short material.
He was a pugnacious, small man but easy to collaborate with, never pretentious about his
prose, and we edited each other without many battles.
After the end of the war I returned to the Coast and we again got together writing
the Death Valley shows for Ronnie Regan and also a number of magazines. But that market was
sinking, TV taking its place. TV was never my forte. It was too restrictive and I had not
the patience to go around and around on endless story conferences with producers who didn't
know what they wanted but had to have an oar in. On the other hand Bob loved it and thrived
on it. He was great at talking, but was never what they called a "talking writer." He
was one of the hardest workers in the field, kept as regular office hours as if he punched
a time clock and stayed at his machine until he finished a predetermined number of pages
a day. He had a delightful sense of humor that relied a lot on play on words. I recall one
lunch-long game we played using the names of American Indian tribes, using the verbal sounds
for different word meaning. An example: "Shawnee(ds) more action in this story," Shaw
being Cap Shaw. I guess we used up every tribe in the land.
Bob was also a mighty hypochondriac, forever taking pills, medicines, asthma
inhalations, anything he could find. He fell into the clutches of the Beverly Hills "heart
attack doctor," a man who treated many writers and studio people, all of whom he diagnosed
as having had or soon to have heart attacks, and some even did. Most did not. However, Bob
decided he was a prime candidate and suffered realistically for a couple of years. I never
took his complaints seriously-until the day he died of a heart attack in the new home he
had worried himself to death building.
Incidentally, Bob was not nearly as bad a writer as you make him out. He looked
over the markets, chose one he could handle fast and easily, and hewed to the line. And was
highly successful in so doing. When he went into television, he was one of the most successful
story editors in the trade. He was a generous man, even professionally. Always busy with
his and our work, when Cleve F. Adams had a grave illness while in the middle of a detective
book manuscript Bob suggested that the two of us finish it for him. We did that. Cleve was
a father figure to the fiction writing group, much loved but a porcupine nevertheless. His
comment on reading the finished copy: "It's a beautiful...typing job."
For all his popularity with private eye readers during the forties, surprisingly
little is known about Adams.
I met Cleve in '31. He and his wife, Vera, had a candy store in Culver City but
he had always wanted to write, and broke in with the old Munsey magazines. With varying
success he continued selling the pulps until he wrote his first book, Sabotage. That
was an instant hit and on the strength of it he did seven or eight others. He was good, though
hardly in a class with Ray Chandler. He had an exalted regard for his own ability and seldom
discussed his work with anyone, including family. I knew him intimately until he died. His
son phoned me at four o'clock that morning to tell me Cleve had had a heart attack. He was
dead before I could drive over.
He and Glen Wichman and I founded the Fictioneers organization, selecting some
twenty men as original members. It was an entirely social group with neither rules nor by-laws.
Cleve ran it through the first years as secretary, the only office we had, sending out notices
of where and when the next meeting would be held. We paid for cards and postage. I have no
idea how many members there were for we kept no records and charged no dues, but I would
say the number ran into the hundreds. Any writer, fixed or just passing through, was welcome
if he cared to join and at times we had more members than the Authors' League. However, our
monthly dinners seldom turned out more than thirty or forty at one gathering. It held together
until the war when a lot of the boys went into the services. Although several efforts were
made to revive it after the war they were largely unsuccessful because most of us had moved
into the slick markets and the book field, and had scattered.
One Black Mask writer who seems shrouded in obscurity is Raoul Whitfield,
who just seemed to vanish at the height of his career.
He died in North Hollywood in the early forties. I don't recall what he died
of or what he was doing at
Would you tell us something about the lifestyle of a pulp writer living in
L.A. during the thirties and forties?
We all worked hard, played hard, lived modestly, drank but only a few to excess,
gambled some when we had extra cash. Most of our friends were other writers. In the Depression
when any of us got a check he climbed in his jalopy and made the rounds to see who was in
worse straits than he and loaned up to half what he had just received.
More and more interest is being shown these days in the detective pulps and
those who wrote for them. Are there any pulp writers who are generally ignored today whom
you think deserve recognition?
Here are a few from memory. Norbert (Bert) Davis was one of the best with a light
style and humor. He killed himself in the odd-forties. John K. (Johnny) Butler who wound
up at the studios. Dwight Babcock. Carroll John Daly. Fred Nebel, who was very good.
What was your yearly average word output for the pulps?
My files are at the University of Oregon library, but a shotgun guess would be
about or over a million words per year.
Would you tell us something about your work habits both then and now?
I tried to do about ten pages a day after that first Black Mask flush,
sometimes more, sometimes less. I tried to work regularly, something every day even if I
later threw it away. These days my wife, Phoebe, does the typing since I'm a lousy typist
and in so doing edits the copy. I seldom objected to requests for rewrite but sometimes stood
my ground. A late example is a western called Sheriff of Tombstone. Both my agent
and my Doubleday editor, Harold Kuebler, held their noses at the first submission and Harold
only accepted the altered copy grudgingly. Both let me know in no uncertain terms that they
considered it a bad work. It has outsold all my more recent books and is rated second from
the top of the list in Western Writers of America's scoring for the last year.
How about the marketing of pulp fiction? I've heard that many of the magazines
(such as Frank Armer's) were closed to most freelancers. Was this a widespread practice?
How did we market pulp fiction? Like selling any other commodity. No magazine
I remember was tightly closed to submissions, although a couple of them were written entirely
by one or two men for long stretches. It was largely governed by how lazy the editors were,
how much they were willing to read.
Frank Armer was no worse than others, but his editor's were crooked. They were
pulling old copy out of the files, slapping a current writer's name on as author, and drawing
checks to the new names, cashing them themselves at the bar on the corner. Bob Bellem and
I combined to send them to Sing Sing for five years each. We discovered the ploy after I
received a notice from the IRS that I had failed to report $35,000 paid me by Armer Publications.
Since I had sold them no copy for that year I checked with Bob. He had sold to them but he
was being charged with not reporting twice what he had been paid. We contacted Frank, then
blew the whistle. Armer was an open market but Bob did have the edge by a large margin.
After a highly successful career in the detective magazines under your own
name, much of your later work has been pseudonymous. Why the switch?
Frankly, the market for detective, especially from picture studios, became very
slim and when I was forced into westerns I chose to use my middle name, Todhunter, to begin
with. But unlike the detective publications the westerns would not absorb enough copy under
a single byline to support me. Especially when I jumped to books. The houses would take only
one a year and a name was tied up solely by one house. Therefore the shift to a long series
of pseudonyms under which I could work for several houses at once. They didn't like it. But
the practice became common and they had to go along or do without sufficient submissions.
Later, resales to paperback as they have reverted to me have been reissued under only one
or two noms.
The private eye series starring Tony Costaine and Bert McCall, which you did
for Gold Medal Books during the fifties and sixties under the pseudonym of Neil MacNeil,
was unusual in that it featured two lead protagonists instead of one. I thought it was
a good idea, well executed. What happened to the series?
I developed the idea and editor Dick Carrol was enthusiastic. Then he died and
Knox Burger took over. Burger was chary of the MacNeil byline because he knew the real Neil
MacNeil of Washington. D.C., and my use embarrassed him although it was an honest family
name for me. Knox did his best to kill the series. However, the books were popular and went
back into reprint over which Knox had no control. It dragged on until Knox felt it was safe
and then did kill both the nom and the series. I had no recourse. Knox left the house soon
afterward, but the series was gone.
I did two books for Fawcett on the Mafia under my wife's initials, P.D. Ballard.
We already had a couple of titles out under P.D. which were highly successful. Then the Mafia
market collapsed, the old-time editor, Ralph Deigh, retired, a woman came in as managing
editor and my boy who had replaced Knox was fired.
Is there a single work you look back on as the highlight of your career?
The single piece of my work that gave me much satisfaction is called Gold
in California. It's a good book. It sold over 30,000 copies, which is a huge sale for
a western and I am proud of it. I like also a sort of sequel, same locale and time frame,
called The Californian.
Do you prefer writing westerns over mysteries?
In a way, yes. Most crime fiction is phoney. Hammett made it believable because
he wrote about people he knew from his experience with the Pinkertons in Baltimore and San
Francisco. He avoided the mistake Chandler and his imitators made and make in going psychological,
with Little Sisters sucking their thumbs. Westerns are of course exaggerated but there are
many classics, and the better recent books such as Elmer Kelton's Time It Never Rained are
as near factual and convincing as you can get. When I wrote my first western I knew practically
nothing about the West and its history. Since then I have researched. Learned a lot and had
a lot of fun doing It.
For nearly fifty years you've remained popular to a most precarious profession
while other careers have come and gone. To what do you attribute this staying power? Would
you share some of your views on the writing business with us?
My views on writing as a business? That it is not much different from any other.
You have to keep swinging, rolling with the punches, keep alert and attuned to the changes
that take place suddenly or gradually, but always constantly. Copy written in 1930 would
not sell today because it is dated and shows it glaringly.
In Say Yes to Murder you describe the library of one character as containing
books "kept by one who loved reading for the joy that only reading can afford." What
do you read for enjoyment?
What I read now is very little. I enjoy history but my eyes don't take kindly
to too much strain. I try to keep abreast of the current best sellers to sample the wind
and let it go at that. Very few current mysteries, only an occasional John or Ross Macdonald,
and neither of those men give me much pleasure.
What can you tell us of your current projects? Is there any chance of a new
Lennox yarn or has Bill's day come and gone?
Currently, I have done nothing since a major operation a year and a half ago.
I have been long in regaining strength or enthusiasm. I have just begun another western .
. . not a Bill Lennox who, I fear, has outlived his usefulness. We'll let him rest in his
own time frame.
W.T. Ballard: A Checklist
(Including Miscellaneous Reading Notes)
This checklist concerns itself only with Ballard's crime and detective fiction.
A complete listing of his novels may be found in the library reference work, Contemporary
The best of Ballard's novels, such as Say Yes to Murder, are highlighted
by a crisp, clean prose style, vivid characterization, rapid plot development and a singular
The Death Brokers is a prime example of his talent for introducing
complex, fully dimensioned characters who get under your skin and make you care about them
after only one page, involved in a twisty, imaginative story line. Originally packaged
to cash in on the Mafia fad, which infested paperback publishing during the early seventies,
the book stands on its own as a superb evocation of the all-pervasive fear, treachery and
moral decay that is life in the Brotherhood.
Murder Las Vegas Style is neo-Black Mask; a beautifully
written private eye novel that Raymond Chandler would have enjoyed. This one is highly
Many of Ballard's books are set either completely or partially in Las Vegas
and he always does a convincing job of portraying this fascinating, seldom utilized desert
locale with its swinging casinos, its moral ambiguity and the uneasy alliance between gamblers
A. The Bill Lennox Series
- 1. Say Yes to Murder. Putnam, 1942. Penguin pb, 1945. Also published as The
Demise of a Louse (as by John Shepherd). Belmont pb, 1962.
- 2. Murder Can't Stop. McKay. 1946. Graphic pb, 1950.
- 3. Dealing Out Death. McKay, 1948. Graphic pb, 1954.
- 4. Lights, Camera, Murder (as by John Shepherd). Belmont pb. 1960.
B. The Tony Costaine/Bert McCall Series
(by Neil MacNeil)
- 1. Death Takes an Option. Gold Medal pb, 1958.
- 2. Third on a Seesaw. Gold Medal pb, 1959.
- 3. Two Guns for Hire. Gold Medal pb, 1959.
- 4. Hot Dam. Gold Medal pb, 1960.
- 5. The Death Ride. Gold Medal pb, 1960.
- 6. Mexican Stay Ride. Gold Medal pb, 1962.
- 7. The Spy Catchers. Gold Medal pb, 1966.
C. The Lieutenant Max Hunter Series
- 1. Pretty Miss Murder. Permabooks pb, 1962.
- 2. The Seven Sisters. Permabooks pb, 1962.
- 3. Three for the Money. Permabooks pb, 1963.
D. Non-Series Books
- 1. Murder Picks the Jury (as by Harrison Hunt). Curl, 1947.
- 2. Walk in Fear. Gold Medal pb, 1952.
- 3. Murder Las Vegas Style. Tower pb, 1967. Unibooks pb, 1976.
- 4. Brothers in Blood (as by P.D. Ballard). Gold Medal pb, 1972.
- 5. The Kremlin File (as by Nick Carter). Award pb, 1973.
- 6. The Death Brokers (as by P.D. Ballard). Gold Medal pb, 1973.
Copyright 1979 by Stephen Mertz.