Thursday, January 19, 2017

Now We Are 8: The Great Unknowns


The Skin Game, by Frank Bonham (Gold Medal, 1961).


It was eight years ago today that I somehow got into my mind the notion that I had just enough free time and more than sufficient energy to launch a companion blog to The Rap Sheet. The original idea for Killer Covers was to post images of vintage book fronts I liked—works of crime fiction as well as others—along with brief information and opinions about those façades. (My very first post here shows what I had in mind.) However, I soon found that I wanted to say more about both the artists responsible for the covers, and the authors behind the books themselves. So, as often happens with my editorial projects, this one grew well beyond what I’d imagined. Had I known from the start what Killer Covers would become, I might have been more intimidated by the prospect of launching the blog.

Nonetheless, I’ve enjoyed building this site, figuring out what works and what doesn’t, and how not to place excessively high demands upon myself. I’ve become fond of artwork executed by a variety of people I would never have known about had I not invested my time in Killer Covers. I’ve also been frustrated by the fact that some publishers of classic paperbacks didn’t see fit to identify the painters behind their cover illustrations. I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve expended trying to track down artist credits for the books about which I hope to write. Whenever I have to admit that I don’t know who painted a particular cover, it feels like a minor tragedy.

For this eighth anniversary post, however, I’ve decided to make the most of such ignorance. The eight lovely book fronts posted here (a convenient number, don’t you think?) are all by artists whose identities seem to have been forgotten, despite the manifest appeal of their efforts. If anybody happens to know more than I do about the parties responsible for these covers, please don’t hesitate to let me know in the Comments section at the bottom of this post.



Unfinished Business, by Cary Lucas (Dell, 1950).



Fausto’s Keyhole, by Jean Arnaldi (Corgi, 1971).



Paid in Full, by Peter Dale (Consul, 1965).



Flower Power, by Ernest Tidyman (Paperback Library, 1968). The first novel by the author of Shaft.



They Move with the Sun, by Daniel Taylor (Popular Library, 1950).



The Fatal Frails, by Dan Marlowe (Avon, 1960).



Nor Fears of Hell, by William Bennett (Fabian, 1959).


Thank you, everyone, for supporting Killer Covers over the years.

By the Numbers

With today being Killer Covers’ eighth anniversary (more on that soon), I thought it would be fun to check Blogger’s stats counter and see which of this blog’s posts have scored the most pageviews over the years. Here are the top 10, in descending order of popularity:
1.The Man Who Had Too Much to Lose, by Hampton Stone” (April 7, 2010)
2.Curious Catalogue of Carnality” (July 26, 2012)
3.Oh No, Mitchell Hooks Is Gone” (March 21, 2013)
4.Two-fer Tuesdays: What Was Your Name Again?” (August 11, 2015)
5.Whodrewit? I Like It Cool, by Michael Lawrence” (November 22, 2010)
6.Who’re You Callin’ Yellow?” (June 12, 2010)
7.Sweet Wild Wench, by William Campbell Gault” (May 31, 2010)
8.He Had a Way with Women” (January 26, 2011)
9.Brown Out” (May 6, 2010)
10.Crime on His Hands” (August 24, 2009)

Back to Fronts

In case you haven’t been paying close attention, note that The Rap Sheet has posted its 15 finalists for the title of “Best Crime Fiction Cover of 2016.” Over the last week, two of the nominees—Carl Hiaasen’s Razor Girl and Todd Moss’ Ghosts of Havana—have established early leads, though the British fronts of Thomas Mullen’s Darktown and E.S. Thomson’s Beloved Poison are in hot pursuit. You have until midnight next Wednesday, January 25, to make your own preferences known. What are you waiting for?

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Executive Showdown


(Above) Title page illustration by Joseph R. Veno.

Irving Wallace penned his fourth novel, The Man, at the height of America’s civil-rights movement, as battles were being fought (in the courts and in the streets) to curtail racial prejudice in housing, employment, education, and voting rights. The Man first reached print as a Simon & Schuster hardcover in 1964, the same year President Lyndon B. Johnson, a Democrat from Texas—once part of the slave-holding, breakaway Confederate States of America—signed into law a civil-rights bill that, as Wikipedia explains, “banned discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex, or national origin in employment practices and ended unequal application of voter registration requirements and racial segregation in schools, at the workplace, and by public accommodations.”

It didn’t seem possible back then, almost half a century ago before the rise of Barack Obama, that an African American could be elected as president of the United States. Few people would have even bothered imagining such a thing. But Wallace was one of them.


Douglass Dilman is sworn in as president.

The Chicago-born Hollywood screenwriter turned author had previously produced novels about a straying husband frustrated by impotence (The Sins of Philip Fleming, 1959), female sexuality (The Chapman Report, 1961), and the annual awarding of Nobel Prizes (The Prize, 1962). He was well on his way to becoming a best-selling author of sex-drenched potboilers, such as 1974’s The Fan Club. As The New York Times remarked in its 1990 obituary of Wallace (who died of pancreatic cancer at 74 years of age), his fiction offered “a judicious sprinkling of adultery, rape, kidnapping, old-fashioned romance, suspense, babbitry, alcoholism, intrigue and assorted examples of venality”—and sold in excess of 120 million copies during his lifetime.

The Man—a 1965 Reader’s Digest condensed version of which supplies the artwork decorating this post—is something different from its predecessors. There isn’t a great deal of carnal cavorting in its 750-plus pages, but plenty of political chicanery; not much romance, but more than enough white-privilege arrogance and vicious bigotry for most anyone’s taste.

(Left) Secretary of State Eaton gets acquainted with Sally Watson.

It begins with an official visit to Frankfurt, West Germany, during which a freak accident takes the lives of both the U.S. president and the speaker of the House. The vice president has recently perished from a “massive coronary,” and in the absence of the Twenty-fifth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution—which in 1967 would set forth procedures by which America’s top political offices were to be filled in the event of death or physical disabilities—the presidency falls to Douglass Dilman, a former college professor and junior senator from a Midwestern state, who also holds the ceremonial post of president pro tempore of the Senate. Dilman has no White House aspirations; as actor James Earl Jones (who portrayed Dilman in a 1972 film based on Wallace’s book and scripted by Twilight Zone’s Rod Serling) observed in his introduction to the 1999 edition of The Man, Dilman is “a quiet, rational man trying his best to do a difficult job in daunting circumstances. Thrown into the center of a political earthquake, he is an apolitical creature, and something of a Milquetoast. He is an intellectual, and a good man with a commitment to principles but no appetite for political battles.” Wallace described his protagonist as someone “who was not white and who was afraid of being black, and who was without armor or grace.” Yet this is the guy who becomes the new president.


White House cronies plot against Dilman.

Unlike Harry Truman or Lyndon Johnson, who also acceded to the Oval Office after the untimely deaths of popular 20th-century chief executives, “the country doesn’t rally around” new President Dilman, recalled Florida English professor Ariel Gonzalez in this 2011 review of The Man: “sixty-one percent disapprove of him.
Dillman can’t fault them; he holds a low opinion of himself too. Racial insecurity bedevils him. “I am a black man,” he says, “not yet qualified for human being, let alone for President.” Though a widower, he is reluctant to pursue a relationship with a biracial woman because he fears the lightness of her skin will raise the specter of miscegenation. To calm people’s worries, he agrees to play the role of a figurehead. He doesn’t even veto a clearly unconstitutional bill prohibiting him from removing any member of his predecessor’s Cabinet.
Only slowly, with almost painful hesitation, does Dilman grab hold of the reins that have been thrust into his hands, raising the rancor of his opponents on all fronts. There’s an assassination attempt in the White House Rose Garden; African-American radicals protest against Dilman as a “black Judas,” “a Jim Crow president” who refuses to stand up for his race; and the imperious, Ivy League-educated secretary of state, Arthur Eaton—convinced that he deserves the presidency more than Dilman—conspires with his worshipful, younger mistress, White House social secretary Sally Watson, to glean information for use against Dilman. The president’s enemies finally manufacture pretexts on which to commence Congressional impeachment hearings against him; and then, employing some of the most racist verbiage heard outside of a Ku Klux Klan rally, they go on public attack against Dilman’s morality and fitness for office.

(Right) Black students protest Dilman’s sudden rise.

Particularly venomous, during and outside of those hearings, is Congressman Zeke Miller, a newspaper publisher and “Southern redneck mouthpiece,” who denounces Dilman as an “all-fired ignoramus of a nigger … fixing to make [the United States] into another Africa.” Appealing to Eaton for his assistance in bringing down the accidental president, Miller reveals the odious depths of his contempt for Dilman:
“We’re going to put old Sambo on the hot seat good, and we’re going to roast his ass plenty, until he yells enough, and begs us to get him off it. I’m going to force him to resign, to resign because of disability or whatever, but to resign, and if he refuses, I’m going to resign him by force.”
It would be comforting to think that such hidebound attitudes and low-minded hatreds were things of the past, that by the 21st century America had come to realize the value of its population diversity. But as eight years of racially charged and increasingly ludicrous impeachment talk against Democratic President Barack Obama demonstrated, and as Republican Donald Trump’s divisive recent White House campaign confirmed, this is still a country held hostage by ethnic and sexual prejudices, all of them lurking just below the surface, barely held at bay by public norms.


An attempt on Dilman’s life in the Rose Garden.

According to Jones’ introduction, “in 1963, as background for The Man, [Wallace] accepted an invitation from President John F. Kennedy to spend several days observing life in the White House, from the Oval Office to the Cabinet Room to the private family quarters.” The result is a tale redolent of authenticity, with details of the president’s Pennsylvania Avenue residence and business habits tossed off with all the studied casualness one might have found in an episode of The West Wing. While the back-and-forth of Dilman’s impeachment proceedings can be tedious at times, burdened with the turgid declarations of politicians seeking the limelight, Wallace does a fine job of ratcheting up tensions between Dilman’s treacherous accusers and the sharp but shy president. “The writer keeps you angry long enough to make the retribution sweet,” wrote reviewer Gurdas Singh Sandhu in this 2007 post for his blog, Guldasta. “The sheer audacity of lies, the shameless hatred veiled in goodness, and the vocal mudslinging is just perfect to get the reader angry. And angry I was! So much so that while reading the book, there were instances when I had to keep it aside and allow the torrential anger inside me (at the injustice meted out to Doug) to subside.”

Although The Man doesn’t achieve the heights of American political fiction reached by, say, Robert Penn Warren’s All the King’s Men, or rival Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird as a literary exploration of racial injustice, it certainly forced readers of the ’60s to confront the possibility of someone other than a white man occupying the Oval Office. Furthermore, it was prescient in envisioning the ugly belligerence that would greet an African American like Douglass Dilman or Barack Obama ascending to the presidency.

I didn’t catch up to The Man until 35 years after its initial publication, purchasing a paperback edition that was released by ibooks in 1999. I didn’t get around to actually reading the novel until 2015. And only last year did I happen across the illustrations peppering the length of this post. As I mentioned earlier, they were featured in a 1965 Reader’s Digest edition of Wallace’s yarn, which was combined in a single volume with condensations of William B. Walsh’s A Ship Called Hope, Joseph Hayes’ The Third Day, and John Ehle’s The Land Breakers. Aside from the title page, shown atop this post, the other paintings were done by Robert K. Abbett, an American artist I’ve mentioned a number of times in Killer Covers. You should find a full set of those illustrations here.

SEE MORE: At least for the time being, you can watch the 90-minute ABC-TV film based on The Man by clicking here.

Thursday, January 5, 2017

The Twelve Dames of Christmas, #12

Celebrating this festive season with brassy bombshells.



Dangerous Dames, selected by Mike Shayne (Dell, 1965).
Illustration by Robert McGinnis.

Wednesday, January 4, 2017

The Twelve Dames of Christmas, #11

Celebrating this festive season with brassy bombshells.



Dames Play Dumb, by Bart Barnato (Edwin Self & Company, circa 1951). Illustrator unknown. According to the Ash Rare Books site, Dames Play Dumb—in which a character named Nicky Folan “is released from jail looking for vengeance”—was “an early Bart Banarto title, here using the variant Barnato spelling.” Banarto was an Edwin Self house-name, but “most of the Banarto titles appear to have been written by Albert Edward Garrett (1917-1968).” (Hat tip to Art Scott.)

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

The Twelve Dames of Christmas, #10

Celebrating this festive season with brassy bombshells.



The Dame’s the Game, by “Al Fray,” aka Ralph Salaway (Popular Library, 1960). Illustration by Harry Schaare.

Monday, January 2, 2017

The Twelve Dames of Christmas, #9

Celebrating this festive season with brassy bombshells.



Dame in My Bed, by Michael Storme (Archer, 1950; Kaywin, 1951). Illustration by Reginald Heade.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

The Twelve Dames of Christmas, #8

Celebrating this festive season with brassy bombshells.



Just Like a Dame, by Walter Standish (Brown Watson UK, 1948).
Illustration by J. Pollack (who also created this cover).

Saturday, December 31, 2016

The Twelve Dames of Christmas, #7

Celebrating this festive season with brassy bombshells.



Dames Don’t Care, by Peter Cheyney (Pan, 1960).
Illustration by Sam “Peff” Peffer.

READ MORE:Cheyney’s Dark Times,” by Michael Keyton
(The Rap Sheet).

Friday, December 30, 2016

The Twelve Dames of Christmas, #6

Celebrating this festive season with brassy bombshells.



Dames, Danger, Death, edited by Leo Margulies (Pyramid, 1960).
Illustration by Harry Schaare.

Thursday, December 29, 2016

The Twelve Dames of Christmas, #5

Celebrating this festive season with brassy bombshells.



Exit for a Dame, by Richard Ellington (Pocket, 1953).
Illustration by Clyde Ross.

READ MORE:Two-fer Tuesday: Take That, Sucker!” by J. Kingston Pierce (Killer Covers).

Wednesday, December 28, 2016

The Twelve Dames of Christmas, #4

Celebrating this festive season with brassy bombshells.



A Dame Called Murder, by “Robert O. Saber,” aka Milton K. Ozaki (Graphic Mystery, 1955). Illustration by Walter Popp.

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

The Twelve Dames of Christmas, #3

Celebrating this festive season with brassy bombshells.



The Sixpenny Dame, by Eaton K. Goldthwaite (Pennant, 1954).
Illustrator unknown.

Monday, December 26, 2016

The Twelve Dames of Christmas, #2

Celebrating this festive season with brassy bombshells.



Hot Dames on Cold Slabs, by Michael Storme (Leisure Library, 1952). Illustration by Reginald Heade.

Sunday, December 25, 2016

The Twelve Dames of Christmas, #1



Foolish me. Not being a religious person, I have always figured that the 12 days of Christmas sung about in that old English carol (“On the First day of Christmas my true love sent to me/a partridge in a pear tree”) were those leading up to December 25. It seemed logical that the biggest present (12 drummers drumming) should be received on the actual holiday. Au contraire. According to Wikipedia:
The Twelve Days of Christmas, also known as Twelvetide, is a festive Christian season to celebrate the nativity of Jesus. In most Western Church traditions Christmas Day is the First Day of Christmas and the Twelve Days are 25 December–5 January. For many Christian denominations, such as the Anglican Communion and Lutheran Church, the Twelve Days period is the same as Christmastide; for others, such as the Catholic Church, Christmastide lasts a little longer; the Twelve Days are different from the Octave of Christmas, which is the eight-day period from Christmas Day until 1 January. In Anglicanism, the term “Twelve Days of Christmas” is used liturgically in the Protestant Episcopal Church in the US, having its own invitatory antiphon in the Book of Common Prayer for Matins.
OK, got all that? Regardless, the 12 days of Christmas idea got into my head as I was thinking about how to celebrate this festive occasion in Killer Covers, and it combined with something my clever niece, Amie-June, has said about the vintage crime-fiction fronts I feature on this page—how the women shown in them are so often “dames.” No, not “dames” in the noble sense of that word, but “dames” in the brassy, confident, take-no-shit-and-you’d-better-like-it sense; in the sense that the women actress Mae West so often played on the silver screen were “dames,” full of “bawdy double entendres, and breezy sexual independence.”

And I got to thinking about how often the word “dame” appears in the titles of those classic paperbacks I’ve come to treasure over the years. Could I find enough such books to fill a tribute to the dozen days of Twelvetide? As it turns out, there are many more than 12 available, especially if you include covers with “dame” in their teaser lines. So beginning today and running through January 5, Killer Covers is celebrating “The Twelve Dames of Christmas.”

We start off here with a front of particular interest. Atop this post you will see the façade from the 1954 Gold Medal release Death Is a Lovely Dame, written by “Matthew Blood,” aka Davis Dresser, author of the Mike Shayne private-eye series. The cover artwork—showing a young brunette reclined on a bed, her nudity concealed only partially by what appears to be a set of green pajamas draped across her derrière—is credited to the renowned Barye Phillips, and continues onto the book’s own back side.

Happy holidays, everyone! And stay tuned for more.

Friday, December 9, 2016

Friday Finds: “The Voyagers”

Another in our growing line of vintage book covers we love.



The Voyagers, by Dale Van Every (Bantam, 1959).
Illustration by Stanley Zuckerberg.

In a newspaper column syndicated by Indiana’s Anderson Daily Bulletin on September 4, 1957, Associated Press writer Hal Boyle introduced then 61-year-old author Dale Van Every with these words:
Most writers dream of turning out a novel they can sell in Hollywood and become rich.

Dale Van Every, a top authority on America’s early frontier, did it the other way. He quit a $75,000-a-year job in Hollywood in 1943 to become a historical novelist.

“I was making $1,500 a week—which made me a working picture writer, not a celebrity,” he remarked drily. “My only regret is that I didn’t quit sooner.”
Born on July 23, 1896, in Emmet County, Michigan—located atop that state’s Lower Peninsula—Dale Baron Van Every subsequently moved with his parents to Southern California, graduated in 1914 from a San Bernardino high school, and went on to attend Stanford University in Palo Alto. According to this short notice, published in the San Bernardino Sun back in 1922, his college education was interrupted by World War I, when he “enlisted with the Stanford ambulance unit, serving overseas for about three years, first in the ambulance corps, later as a commissioned officer in the Convois Automobils and finally closing his European sojourn with an art course at the University of Lyons” in France. With the war at an end, Van Every returned to Stanford, finally won his diploma in 1920, and took a job with the United Press newswire service in New York City. His U.P. assignments included working as a staff correspondent in Washington, D.C., covering the summer activities of President Calvin Coolidge, and serving as the bureau chief in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. In April 1922 he wed Ellen Mein Calhoun. The daughter of a Seattle family, she had also matriculated from Stanford, and had for a time been the women’s editor of the Daily Palo Alto. After bringing two children into the world, the couple would divorce in 1935.

Van Every resigned from the U.P. sometime during the mid- to late-1920s, and co-authored (with Morris DeHaven Tracy) a biography of aviator Charles Lindbergh, which was published in 1927—the same year
Dale Van Every, 1928
Lindbergh made his famous non-stop flight from New York to Paris. Van Every’s debut novel, Telling the World, followed soon afterward, and was made into a 1928 silent film of the same name, starring William Haines as journalist Don Davis, whose romantic tendencies involve him in a murder case that takes Davis all the way to China. In short order, Van Every’s face became familiar in Los Angeles, and especially at the Hollywood film studios, as he undertook the creation of screenplays for 1931’s East of Borneo, 1932’s Murders in the Rue Morgue, 1937’s Captains Courageous (which earned him an Academy Award nomination), and 1951’s Sealed Cargo, among numerous other productions. His résumé, as recorded at the Internet Movie Database (IMDb), can be found here.

Wikipedia says that by 1934—in the midst of the Great Depression—Van Every was being paid “a salary of $52,500 by Paramount Pictures, $250 less than Mary Pickford and $1,000 more than Walt Disney.” That was income enough to keep him living in high style and make sure his name appeared on party guest lists; but it was apparently insufficient to win from him a lifelong commitment to screenwriting. Van Every remained in the biz till 1957, but by that time he had begun penning novels again. Long fascinated by American history (one of his grandfathers was allegedly a Tory combatant during the Revolutionary War), and after employing some of his Hollywood proceeds to amass an extensive library of resource volumes, Van Every put his name to a string of yarns about America’s 18th-century frontier, ranging from The Shining Mountains (1948) and Bridal Journey (1950), to The Captive Witch (1951), The Trembling Earth (1952), and The Scarlet Feather (1959). On top of those, between 1961 and 1964 he sent to bookstores a four-part non-fiction series called “The Frontier People of America.”

“I use fiction only as a kind of sugar-coating for the facts,” Van Every told the AP’s Boyle. “It is the facts that interest me. My pleasure in writing is the delight in re-creating a lost world—the period between 1780 and 1811, when America really became a nation.”

The Voyagers, which was published originally by Henry Holt & Company in 1957, fit squarely within those historical parameters, being set in the Ohio River valley in 1788. Kirkus Reviews called the novel “another tale of derring-do against the background of the American frontier,” and went on to note:
The story begins and ends in Traners Landing, below Pittsburgh [Pennsylvania]. And the central figure is Abel Traner, the only responsible one of the family, who breaks away from responsibility to shift for himself on the river he knows and loves. His adventures included some brushes with Wilkinson, of the grandiose schemes; [as well as] some give and take—mostly take—in acquisition of riches beyond his dreaming, and their equally undreamed-of loss. Of women, [the story’s cast ranges from] the exquisite Madame Baynton, for whom he ultimately paid the price of his own freedom, to the undependable Magda, to Hagar, who won her man, and back to Eather, at home, grown up and ready to give him the security he’d learned to want. Good period adventure.
The rear side of the 1959 Bantam edition of The Voyagers (shown on the right) quotes Virginia’s Richmond Times-Dispatch newspaper as promising that among this tale’s attributes are “river pirates, spies, Indian massacres, murders, thefts, chicanery, rapes, last-minute rescues, beautiful and amorous women.” It adds, “The Voyagers has everything.” While I’m not sure many copies of Van Every’s book were sold on the basis of it incorporating “rapes,” I can understand the draw of those other plot turns.

The cover of that Bantam paperback, too, was a significant attraction. As displayed atop this post, it shows a man with what appears to be a flintlock rifle, pulling a nude and curvaceous young woman into a small boat. Or maybe he’s just protecting her from the party of canoe-borne Native Americans firing arrows in their general direction; it’s hard to be sure. What I do know is that this quite striking painting was done by Stanley Zuckerberg, an artist born in Long Beach, New York, circa 1920. According to a boilerplate biography found several places on the Web (for example, here), Zuckerberg “began to draw at age 6. He received an Art Scholarship to [the] Pratt Institute of Fine Arts beginning [in] 1939. He also studied at the Art Students League with Khosrov Ajootian, William Gorham, Thomas Benrimo, and Alexander Kostellow. … Some of the authors whose books he illustrated were John Dos Passos, Somerset Maugham, Sinclair Lewis, James Michener, Vladimir Nabokov, Irving Stone, and Norman Mailer.” This Web site adds that Zuckerberg was “among the most accomplished of the [mid-20th-century] James Avati-influenced cover artists who strove for an emotional-realistic style.”

I’ve featured Zuckerberg’s work in several Killer Covers galleries over the years, and focused on one excellent example—the 1957 front from Robert Wilder’s Flamingo Road—four months ago. However, this artist deserves greater attention. So I am embedding, below, 30 book façades credited to him. They include the 1961 movie tie-in edition of Wirt WilliamsAda Dallas; the 1953 Signet release of Mailer’s Barbary Shore; the 1962 Crest version of Charles Gorham’s controversial McCaffery; the ever-captivating 1957 edition of Jonathan Craig’s The Case of the Body Beautiful; the 1963 Gold Medal issue of Message from Marise, by “Paul Kruger,” aka Roberta Elizabeth Sebenthal; and Zuckerberg’s 1958 front for Silver Spoon, by Edwin Gilbert.

Click on any of these images for an enlargement.
































From what I can tell, Zuckerberg’s single contribution to Dale Van Every’s oeuvre was that illustration he did for The Voyagers. Yet that 1957 romantic adventure wasn’t Van Every’s final offering. He went on to compose works of both fiction and non-fiction, such as Our Country Then (1958), Disinherited: The Lost Birthright of the American Indian (1965), and The Day the Sun Died (1971). According to this bookstore Web site, he married at least twice more during his life, and left behind a daughter, Joan Van Every Frost, who made her own mark on the world as a novelist before passing away in 2012.

Dale Van Every, himself, died on May 28, 1976, in Santa Barbara, California. He was just short of 79 years old. Given how hard he had labored during his later years to re-establish himself as a novelist, rather than as a screenwriter—someone whose imaginative explorations of the old American frontier set the stage for later authors on the order of Douglas C. Jones and Allan W. Eckert—it was a bit sad that obituaries tended to focus on his Hollywood years.