Ian Handford: The fastest pen in crime fiction was weak for cigarettes and tea

The president of Torbay Civic Society concludes his study of Edgar Wallace.

The postman had confirmed: "Wallace considered himself a commercial writer who gave a certain public what they were willing to pay for." I also noted his long black cigarette holder (always questioned by some historians), which was regularly used when smoking at leisure, and he informed me "he would return to Torquay the following year in order to go fishing with me." Yet on his return to London, he apparently produced a play that was a failure and then never fulfilled his promise.

On the next occasion Mr Wallace came to Torquay, he became acquainted with local resident Mr Greville Page. He stayed at the Palace Hotel on Babbacombe Road (now, of course, demolished) and, with Greville, a regular visitor to his new friend Edgar. Much later, after his death, it was Greville's heirs that confirmed he cherished his connection to Wallace and that he had even dedicated one of his books, “The Clue of the New Pin,” to his latest friend in Torquay.

We also now know Greville visited Wallace many times at his Haymarket office in London, where, like the postman in Torquay, he recorded observing an interesting incident, and not the one involving a cigarette holder. It appears he was at the London offices when Bob Curtis—Edgar’s personal stenographer—called to request a new manuscript. Our star author, unphased by the immediate urgency, quickly gave him a new manuscript, amusingly removed to Greville from a filing drawer holding literally dozens of new “stories of varying types suitable for all sorts of publications" filed systematically in advance” to meet any request at any time, by anybody on any subject. It appears Wallace would spend hours alone at the dictaphone, inventing newly made-up yet ingenious plots that later would be purchased by thousands of his avid followers after being published. Greville also said that Bob was apparently the world record holder for stenography, so likewise he was unphased by the actions of Wallace. He left us one final fact about his amazing friend again when visiting the London offices. When another request for a rather special article was received. I was told to “buzz off now, old man” as I asked him for how long—his reply, having negotiated a fee of one hundred and fifty guineas, being "Oh, say about half an hour”. Greville's final comment confirmed his friend's "great weakness for cigarettes and weak tea, and at intervals of half an hour or so, a servant would bring him a large cup of weak tea so weak it was little more than diluted water”. This becomes significant as Edgar nears death—as you soon read.

Meanwhile, over these many years, Edgar’s writings were pouring from his pen, and after his death, it was actually discovered he could produce books and indeed a drama script in as little as four days. That ensured that during the thirties he was regularly earning over £50,000 per annum, a quite astonishing sum of money at the time. The characters in his many plots and plays have little depth, although his main detective in crime novels was J G Reeder who appealed to thousands of his regular readers. Yet as Wallace confirmed, his intention was never to instruct or uplift, merely to entertain his readers and make money. Finally, it was even more amazing on reflection that here was a man that had deliberately left school at a very early age. 

Richard Horatio “Edgar Wallace” would marry twice in his life before leaving his former typist and their four children encumbered by debt even after having had high earnings. Having died in Hollywood at age 57 while writing “King Kong,” he was finally diagnosed with having had pneumonia and diabetes mellitus, said to have been induced by the habit of working in superheated environments while constantly imbibing copious quantities of weak and heavily sweetened tea.