I found this to be decent enough pulp fiction. Quality literature this is not. Even the publishers agree that it is not quality literature: it came out in 1962 and is already in the public domain. Generally, to be in the public domain, a book needs to be something like 40 years older than this. Whatever, I found it to be an interesting enough read.
It's about a policeman who pulled a nutty whilst interrogating a hot, red-headed suspect, and almost choked her to death. As a result, he gets kicked off the force. He vows to find the jewel thief, whose whereabouts the red head was shielding, so as to get back into the good graces of the force, and, thereby, be reinstated into the only job he's ever wanted. Over the course of his investigations strangles several more hot, red heads. Along the way, we have flash backs to his youth and find therein the seeds of his madness. It doesn't help his recurrent bouts of madness that he drinks a lot, an unimaginable lot, seemingly endless glasses of double whisky shots.
This is a guy's book, perhaps the male equivalent of harlequin romances. The attitudes toward women and toward sex in general would make any sensible feminist want to choke the first handy man they find. I wouldn't blame them. It's surely a reflection of our benighted past. It's also interesting how they have to dance around the sex issues implicitly, given that writing about explicit sex was still a no-no back in the day. I'm not sure that's a bad thing. It seems quaint but veils to some extent the mindless, and not really necessary, crudity people feel compelled to inject into today's literature.