Rudolph Fisher’s 1932 novel The Conjure Man Dies evokes both the Harlem Renaissance and Golden Age mysteries as well as embodying in important ways the more authentic voice of the streets that Dashiell Hammett had begun to make sing. Of course Fisher’s voice remains distinct from all of these: a polymath who studied to be a physician and took up research in radiology (alas, it probably caused his early death), he also dove into writing and music.

I wish I could remember how I stumbled upon the book–whether it was from the crime fiction milieu or the occult (I suspect the latter, as I have spent more time there lately). Cut loose of the moorings of regular employment my mind has more freedom to dance around and follow any shiny thing that crosses my path hence forgetting how I got to where I ended up.

Not that it hasn’t been the habit of a lifetime.

Fisher’s novel can only make me sad that he had so little time to write more. While a note at the start of the book warns that the language of the book has not been sanitized for modern sensibilities — and yeah, some of it is wow raw — that was the right choice because it is all of a piece with the voice of his contemporary world. Not that I know much as a middle-aged white lady of my times about Harlem in the early 20th C, other than of course the other Harlem Renaissance novels I have read. But Fisher’s characters have a crisp vivacity that feels so alive. And so completely in their own world.

I think of Dorothy Hughes, Godmother of Noir, writing against the grain and offering us sympathetic and rounded characters of colour in the early and mid-20th C: good stuff. But no comparison to the world Fisher opens up for us, chockfull of slang and misapprehensions — and for this novel, loads and loads of superstitions, folk lore, and cultural practices. The short story included also, ‘John Archer’s Nose’ adds to this treasure trove (and makes me wonder where I put Ishmael Reed’s Mumbo Jumbo–hmmm…). The ‘conjure man’ at the centre of the mystery defies all tropes and expectations and there is so much more mystery than the initial death suggests.

At the heart of the novel and the short story, is the relationship between the doctor John Archer and the detective Perry Dart, which is just wonderful. Women don’t play much of a role except as objects of desire or dismay, but these two men and the way they spar and test each other in an almost instant bond of friendship is so enjoyable to eavesdrop on. Likewise they are mirrored in the very different but equally fun dialogues between Bubber and Jinx, two men in more precarious positions (who apparently debut in Fisher’s first (and only other) novel The Walls of Jericho (1928). This book would make a great film with most of the dialogue already in place.

Why hasn’t it got more traction? It might be the mix of Golden Age and hard-boiled which might seem jarring to some readers. There are parts of the mystery itself that I am still going ‘Hmmm, did that work…what about…?’ but you know many a book less well written with far more problems that nonetheless (am I the only one who finds Edmund Crispin insufferable?) remain popularly read.

I’m going to guess it’s the testicles. I’m sure most men will wince at that aspect of the story and be weirded out. Whatever. Some of you, on the other hand, will be ordering the book based on that alone. Heh. The introduction by Stanley Ellin in the Collins Crime Club edition I read (thanks Claverack Library for getting it) is excellent and thorough.

I recommend this to crime fiction fans and occult fiction fans who will both find much to enjoy in its pages and will join me in lamenting that Fisher died at only 37 probably from the exposure to X-ray machines in his lab. A pity.