The life
E. Phillips Oppenheim worked in his father's leather business for twenty years while writing at night, and then produced something like a hundred and fifty novels. He effectively invented the international thriller of diplomats, secret treaties and hotel lobbies. His world is Monte Carlo, the Riviera and the sleeping-car express: a Europe of conspirators in evening dress where the fate of nations turns on an intercepted letter. He wrote fast, often by dictation, and lived very nearly the life his readers imagined. The books matter more than their frivolity suggests. They taught a whole century of spy fiction its furniture.
The Zeppelin's Passenger
192 pages — the shortest way into Oppenheim, not the greatest.
“Never heard a sound,” the younger of the afternoon callers admitted, getting rid of his empty cup and leaning forward in his low chair.