His output was extraordinary and he would finish a standard length novel in less than a week. Many of his stories were filmed and he even became involved in directing.

His flamboyant lifestyle continued, however, and he was to be seen arriving at race meetings in a yellow Rolls Royce and to be heavily involved in gambling. Nonetheless, and possible because of a knowledge of his own failings, as chairman of the Press Club he thought about others when inaugurating a fund for impoverished journalists. In 1931, he stood for the Liberal party at the general election, opposed to the National Government, but the electors of the Blackpool constituency were not convinced and he was heavily defeated. Undeterred, he turned his sights towards America and accepted a job as a screenwriter with RKO Studios in Hollywood.

However, for some time his health had been causing him concern and the following year he was diagnosed with diabetes. Within days of this he died suddenly from double pneumonia brought about by the disease. At the time, he had been working on the film King Kong.  His body was repatriated and he buried near to his home in Bourne End, Buckinghamshire.

One further surprise awaited relatives as it transpired Wallace’s estate was in fact heavily in debt – in death as in life - but continuing royalty payments eventually enabled this to be cleared and his daughter Penelope thereafter ran a successful enterprise based upon the literary estate.

Wallace completed 175 novels, over 20 plays and numerous short stories, in addition to some non-fiction and countless journalistic articles. Literally hundreds of films and TV shows have been made of his work (more than any other twentieth century writer) and he continues to be very popular with new generations of readers.

1

Over the grim stone archway were carved the words:  PARCERE SUBJECTIS.

In cold weather, and employing the argot of his companions, Johnny Gray translated this as ‘Parky Subjects’ – it certainly had no significance as ‘Spare the Vanquished’, for he had been neither vanquished nor spared.

Day by day, harnessed to the shafts, he and Lal Morgon had pulled a heavy hand-cart up the steep slope, and day by day had watched absently the red-bearded gate-warder put his key in the big polished lock and snap open the gates. And then the little party had passed through, an armed warder leading, an armed warder behind, and the gate had closed.

And at four o’clock he had walked back under the archway and halted whilst the gate was unlocked and the hand-cart admitted.

Every building was hideously familiar. The gaunt ‘halls’, pitch painted against the Dartmoor storms, the low-roofed office, the gas house, the big, barn-like laundry, the ancient bakery, the exercise yard with its broken asphalt, the ugly church, garishly decorated, the long, scrubbed benches with the raised seats for the warders…and the graveyard where the happily released lifers rested from their labours.

One morning in spring, he went out of the gate with a working party. They were building a shed, and he had taken the style and responsibility of bricklayer’s labourer. He liked the work because you can talk more freely on a job like that, and he wanted to hear all that Lal Morgon had to say about the Big Printer.

“Not so much talking today,” said the warder in charge, seating himself on a sack-covered brick heap.

“No, sir,” said Lal.

He was a wizened man of fifty and a lifer, and he had one ambition, which was to live long enough to get another ‘lagging’.

“But not burglary, Gray,” he said, as he leisurely set a brick in its place; “and not shootin’, like old Legge got his packet. And not faking Spider King, like you got yours.”

“I didn’t get mine for faking Spider King,” said Johnny calmly. “I didn’t know that Spider King had been rung in when I took him on the course, and was another horse altogether. They framed up Spider King to catch me. I am not complaining.”

“I know you’re innocent – everybody is,” said Lal soothingly. “I’m the only guilty man in boob. That’s what the governor says. ‘Morgon,’ he says, ‘it does my heart good to meet a guilty man that ain’t the victim of circumstantiality. Like everybody else is in boob,’ he says.”

Johnny did not pursue the subject. There was no reason why he should. This fact was beyond dispute. He had known all about the big race-course swindles that were being worked, and had been an associate of men who backed the ‘rung in’ horses. He accepted the sentence of three years’ penal servitude that had been passed without appeal or complaint. Not because he was guilty of the act for which he was charged – there was another excellent reason.

“If they lumbered you with the crime, it was because you was a mug,” said old Lal complacently. “That’s what mugs are for – to be lumbered. What did old Kane say?”

“I didn’t see Mr Kane,” said Johnny shortly.

“He’d think you was a mug, too,” said Lal with satisfaction – “hand me a brick, Gray, and shut up! That nosey screw’s coming over.”

The ‘nosey screw’ was no more inquisitive than any other warder. He strolled across, the handle of his truncheon showing from his pocket, the well-worn strap dangling.

“Not so much talking,” he said mechanically.

“I was asking for a brick, sir,” said Lal humbly. “These bricks ain’t so good as the last lot.”

“I’ve noticed that,” said the warder, examining a half-brick with a professional and disapproving eye.

“Trust you to notice that, sir,” said the sycophant with the right blend of admiration and awe.