Going to the Dogs is set in Berlin after the crash of 1929 and before the Nazi takeover, years of rising unemployment and financial collapse. The moralist in question is Jakob Fabian, “aged thirty-two, profession variable, at present advertising copywriter . . . weak heart, brown hair,” a young man with an excellent education but permanently condemned to a low-paid job without security in the short or the long run. What’s to be done? Fabian and friends make the best of it—they go to work though they may be laid off at any time, and in the evenings they go to the cabarets and try to make it with girls on the make, all the while making a lot of sharp-sighted and sharp-witted observations about politics, life, and love, or what may be. Not that it makes a difference. Workers keep losing work to new technologies while businessmen keep busy making money, and everyone who can goes out to dance clubs and sex clubs or engages in marathon bicycle events, since so long as there’s hope of running into the right person or (even) doing the right thing, well—why stop? Going to the Dogs, in the words of introducer Rodney Livingstone, “brilliantly renders with tangible immediacy the last frenetic years [in Germany] before 1933.” It is a book for our time too.

DIVDIVDuffy is summoned to a country manor for his hairiest case yet/divDIV Vic Crowther’s housekeeper found the body. Ricky bled out after crashing through the French windows of the manor’s library. Crowther doesn’t know who did this to Ricky, but he does know whom to blame. Duffy, the security consultant who installed the dodgy burglar alarm, will have to answer for this murder./divDIV When Duffy rushes out to the country to smooth things over, he finds more than one surprise. First of all, Ricky was a dog. And Braunscombe Hall is filled to capacity with strange folks—even by Duffy’s rarefied standards. His country sojourn is extended—as are his headaches—when he finds that each of the eccentric guests has a problem that needs his expertise./divDIV/div/div

Going to the Dogs is set in Berlin after the crash of 1929 and before the Nazi takeover, years of rising unemployment and financial collapse. The moralist in question is Jakob Fabian, “aged thirty-two, profession variable, at present advertising copywriter . . . weak heart, brown hair,” a young man with an excellent education but permanently condemned to a low-paid job without security in the short or the long run. What’s to be done? Fabian and friends make the best of it—they go to work though they may be laid off at any time, and in the evenings they go to the cabarets and try to make it with girls on the make, all the while making a lot of sharp-sighted and sharp-witted observations about politics, life, and love, or what may be. Not that it makes a difference. Workers keep losing work to new technologies while businessmen keep busy making money, and everyone who can goes out to dance clubs and sex clubs or engages in marathon bicycle events, since so long as there’s hope of running into the right person or (even) doing the right thing, well—why stop? Going to the Dogs, in the words of introducer Rodney Livingstone, “brilliantly renders with tangible immediacy the last frenetic years [in Germany] before 1933.” It is a book for our time too.

A Deirdre Quinn Nightingale mystery.

You’ll never look at your dog the same way again. Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war! Seven dogs are adopted by families all across the country who do not know their history… “Of one thing I am sure,” Glenn declares. “These dogs are perfectly harmless.” Frank knew it wasn’t true. He would never forget walking into that trailer. He saw it in his mind every time he closed his eyes. He woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, seeing those eyes and those teeth, screaming soundlessly, gasping for breath. “He never saw those dogs. How could anyone make such a stupid a decision, knowing what they did?”