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Nicolas Bentley

Crime & Mystery Fiction Books for Sale

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The Tongue-Tied Canary SIGNED by Nicolas Bentley
1948 UK hardback first edition, first impression published in London by Michael Joseph
Beautifully, and amusingly inscribed by the author on the title page
"To Vernon from Nick, a bedside book, i.e. one that is guaranteed to send you off to sleep"
A VG++ book in VG+ unclipped dust jacket
No previous owner names etc, tight and square
The dust cover has very light wear to spine ends otherwise clean and still very bright

The author's first novel and the son of E.C. Bentley

A lovely copy

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The Tongue Tied Canary - Nicolas Bentley
1950 UK hardcover Thriller Book Club edition London
A VG book in VG unclipped dustwrapper
No previous owner names etc, tight and square
The jacket shows shallow loss to spine ends and light edge wear
IT WAS JUST AFTER TWO; I HAD AN HOUR AND A HALF TO KILL before I needed to be at The Honeypot. Whenever I've got time on my hands I usually go to have a look at some pictures; so this time I thought, why not at Wirth's?
A solid period copy of the authors second book

For Sale at £7.50 (approx $15) *DF2 - Delivery Information ~ Free & Subsidised ~ Please Check

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Author Biography ~ About Nicolas Bentley
Son of E. C. Bentley, author of Trent's Last Case, etc., and originator of the clerihew. Aged forty, married, and has one daughter. Lives at Kensington and in hopes of a bloodless revolution. Non-smoking snuff-taker; anti-anti-vivisectionist.
Fairly free thinker, but greatly enjoys church dignitaries. Fond of sport, if not asked to participate. Professions: illustrator (of some forty books, etc.), author, journalist, advertising tout, civil servant, clown, business man, fireman, film extra, factory-hand.
Would prefer to paint—if possible, like Renoir. Elected Fellow of the Society of Industrial Artists, 1947. Pastimes include Mozart, Sid Field, Queen Victoria, Maurice Baring and Ginger Rogers. Enjoys also reading in a rather circumscribed way; browsing for junk; music; films; calligraphy; good cooking and good works. Has read only five thrillers in thirty years.

If the pictures up in his room at the Astoria were anything to go by, I might run into something quite interesting: might even run into trouble. So I walked down through Soho, and as I went along I first got a whiff of roasting coffee, and then of baking bread; and sometimes the smell of an epicene smelling like they smell in France. It was cold, and the wind had swept the pavements clean and dry. All it had left were those little polygot groups which seem to sprout without the slightest encouragement all along Greek Street at any time of the day or night. Going from Soho to St. James's isn't just exchanging one social milieu or one set of habits for another: it's a long distance journey between the cosmopolitan and the English temperament. The neighbourhood of Wirth's gallery was the antithesis of Greek Street. It was in a secluded well-bred little thoroughfare, and the gallery had just one picture in its window—a big warm Vuillard, and I wanted it. I went inside and looked round. There was a large room in the front and a smaller one behind it; and at the back, up a few stairs, there was what I imagined was the office.


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