The Tragedy of Z

I have enjoyed several of Ellery Queen's novels (Ross is another pseudonym), but this one was terrible. Written–or more accurately, overwritten–in a morbidly melodramatic and pretentious prose, hobbled by both a lack of pace and crippling lack of credibility, its one redeeming feature is a closely reasoned explanation of the logic of the deduction of the killer's identity. The story is narrated by the daughter of a retired NYC police inspector, and it serves as a clear demonstration of the author's lack of understanding of women, while trying to ascribe deductive powers to her. Drury Lane is absent for much of the book, drafted in in the last quarter to supply an embarrassingly incredible soliloquy to an execution chamber in a prison. Really bad, and it pains me to say so. But it is truly awful.