It is interesting to me that I’ve delved into the career of Walter S. Masterman somewhat contemporaneously with that of Edgar Wallace; the men were briefly literary contemporaries, of course, but they also share a looseness of structure that means you’re never sure if you’re on the verge of a masterpiece, always one sentence or clever idea from being wrong-footed…but equally you always feel one sentence away from what seems to have the seeds of genius turning out to be utter codswallop. It’s a tightrope I’m not sure either man meant to walk, no doubt genuinely trying their best with everything they wrote, but the similarity helps for some reason when, as with The Wrong Verdict (1937), all the promise collapses in a heap.