The first novel by husband-and-wife team Kelley Roos, Made Up to Kill (1940) was one of about 30 or 40 books I purchased from the now sadly-defunct Rue Morgue Press, who did such excellent work keeping Golden Age novels in print long before it was cool. And this debut sets the tone for (what I’ve read of) the series that would result very well: Jeff Troy and Haila Rogers — not yet married, that would come soon — stumble into a murder mystery by proximity and end up investigating the various Types who seem to exist within its boundaries. Narrator Haila is good for an eerie turn of phrase now and then, and happy-go-lucky Jeff will tend to bound around like a spaniel until almost accidentallying his way into the path of the murderer.
Sometimes you just have to bite a bullet: following the 
There are times when it’s possible to pinpoint the exact moment when a novel doesn’t fulfil its promise, and given the intricacy of many novels of detection these can sometimes be very keenly felt. Perhaps the detective is an absolute duffer (an accusation frequently levelled at Freeman Wills Croft’s Inspector French), or the guilty party comes disappointingly out of nowhere (as in John Dickson Carr’s The Blind Barber), or perhaps the solution offered up to a brilliant problem is a shade on the simplistic side (the disappearance from the locked bathroom in John Sladek’s otherwise-superb 
