I first heard of The Deadly Percheron (1946), John Franklin Bardin’s debut novel of identity and madness, when Anthony Horowitz called it his favourite crime novel in an interview (which I’ve been unable to find, so [citation needed] that for now). And then Kate loved it and Brad loved it and so, with this Penguin reprint newly available, I had to check it out. And, honestly, I don’t see it. It opens well — a man visits a psychiatrist, telling stories of leprechauns who have hired him to perform bafflingly inane tasks — and entertains for the first three chapters, but once the key thrust of the plot is reached it grinds to a halt, and only really comes alive again in a closing monologue that brushes most of the things that don’t make sense under the carpet.