No Way to Treat a Lady – William Goldman (1989)

No Way to Treat a Lady by William Goldman was originally published in 1964 under the pseudonym Harry Longbaugh. Though perhaps better known for his screenwriting achievements, Goldman’s darkly comic psychological thriller stands out for its unique narrative voice and macabre humor. Set in New York City, the novel follows a cat-and-mouse game between a flamboyant serial killer and an underappreciated detective, offering a chilling yet often comically absurd meditation on identity, attention, and the human need for validation.

Plot Summary

A city on edge. That’s how it began. A woman named Alice Mulloy opened her apartment door to a shy, soft-spoken priest. He smiled sweetly, spoke gently, and asked for no more than a moment of her time. She invited him in, amused by his awkward charm, oblivious to the hands that would soon close around her throat. When he was finished, he painted a red kiss on her forehead with her own lipstick, arranged her on the toilet like a grotesque porcelain doll, and staged a robbery with almost clinical precision. Then he left, humming a show tune, pleased with himself and the artistry of his performance.

The papers gave it a paragraph, maybe two. That enraged him. No page-one spread, no media frenzy, no recognition of the effort he’d poured into his work. He wanted more. Needed more. The man once known as Father MacDowell became Ronald Mulloy, and later Dorian Swisher, and countless others. Always charming, always playing a part. But no matter how he changed his face or name, he remained the same – a man desperate to be noticed, to be adored, to outshine a memory too large to ignore: his mother.

Morris Brummell, the detective who caught the case, lived another kind of performance. He was a good man stuck in a bad script. Unmarried, balding, and burdened with a mother who wielded guilt like a saber, Morris spent his days fielding insults and potato pancakes, his nights scribbling thoughts into his diary. Franklin, his golden brother, loomed large in every conversation, a successful surgeon with three kids and a perfect wife. Morris, by contrast, was just a cop. A Jewish cop, no less – not Irish, which meant even his badge came with an asterisk.

When Clara Muldoon opened her door to a soft-voiced young man claiming to be a college student selling magazine subscriptions, she saw a bald head, a kind face, and a story full of struggle. Her Catholic heart softened. She invited him in. He complimented her figure, smiled at her warmth, then wrapped his fingers around her neck and squeezed until all that remained was silence. Another kiss on the forehead. Another body on a toilet. This time, he made sure someone would find her in time for the evening news.

And someone did. Morris answered the killer’s call. The voice on the line teased and laughed, offered clues and compliments, and took perverse pleasure in the performance. Morris, caught between admiration and horror, listened carefully. There was something personal in the killer’s tone. Not just a taunt. An invitation.

In the apartment two floors below Clara Muldoon lived Sarah Stone, a young woman with a quick tongue and a lazy clump of footsteps. When Morris knocked on her door that night, she answered in pajamas and a haze of sleep. She didn’t know anything about the murder. She hadn’t heard anything unusual. But she looked him in the eye – really looked – and he saw something in her gaze he hadn’t felt in years. Kindness. Curiosity. A spark.

He tried not to think about her. But he did. He hung up the phone after calling her. Then called again. He imagined her laughing at his name, his face, his job. But when he knocked again, she opened the door. She saw him. She didn’t flinch.

And still, the bodies piled up.

Belle Roginsky was next. A widowed reader of bestsellers, mother to Herman the Neiman-Marcus executive, and proud owner of a twenty-seven-inch waist. Dorian Swisher, the flamboyant hairdresser from Dallas, rang her bell begging for sugar. He cried. She scolded. He charmed. She relented. He made her feel beautiful again before he pressed his hands to her throat and left her still and silent, her lips forever sealed by a red smear on her forehead.

By now, the press was listening. Page three. Psychological profiles. Talk of mother issues and sexual dysfunction. The killer read every word. He raged, then laughed, then called Morris again, furious that they’d misunderstood him. He had loved his mother, he insisted. She had been his everything. The world just didn’t understand.

Morris understood. Or he was beginning to. The pattern was emerging. End of the month. Middle-aged women. Lonely. Familiar. Always personal. He listened to the calls. Followed the breadcrumbs. And somewhere between the killer’s narcissism and theatricality, Morris began to see the man behind the masks.

Then came Joanna. Young, lonely, new to the city, and waiting for a call that never came. She had written Michael, the man she followed to New York, but he hadn’t called. When her phone finally rang, her heart lifted – for a moment. The man on the other end was gentle, apologetic, sweet. He asked to come up. Just to talk. She let him.

But Morris was already closing in. He had traced the pattern, connected the dots, and knew the killer was nearing his next date. When the call came again, Morris was ready. The killer teased, as always, but this time the line didn’t go dead. This time, there were footsteps already climbing the stairs.

The confrontation wasn’t a blaze of glory. No gunshots or heroic speeches. Just a quiet moment when the masks came off and the man stood bare. A killer not driven by lust or greed, but by a need to be noticed, to be applauded, to be immortal.

Morris returned home to find his mother waiting with more judgments, more comparisons. But this time, something had changed. He had seen real darkness, touched its pulse. He no longer needed her approval to believe in his worth. He was still ugly. Still ordinary. But he had mattered. For once, he mattered.

And somewhere in a quiet café, Sarah Stone waited with two cups of coffee. She didn’t need him to be handsome. She didn’t need him to be perfect. She just needed him to show up. And this time, Morris did.

Main Characters

Christopher Gill (a.k.a. Ronald Mulloy, Father MacDowell, Dorian Swisher, etc.): Gill is the story’s twisted antagonist – a charming and theatrical serial killer who adopts multiple disguises to infiltrate the lives of his victims. He is intelligent, narcissistic, and obsessed with being recognized for his “artistry” as a murderer. Beneath his charm lies a deep psychological need to outshine his late, famous mother and a growing frustration with the lack of recognition from the media and the public.

Detective Morris Brummell: A self-deprecating, Jewish detective in his thirties, Morris struggles with his physical appearance, low self-esteem, and a critical, overbearing mother. Despite his personal insecurities, he is intuitive, kind, and driven by a strong moral compass. His pursuit of the killer becomes both a professional challenge and a path toward personal redemption, especially as he becomes emotionally entangled with a witness.

Sarah Stone: Sarah is an independent and insightful young woman who becomes romantically involved with Morris. Her intelligence and emotional depth provide a stark contrast to the emptiness of Gill’s victims. She helps Morris find the courage to believe in himself and pursue happiness beyond the shadow of his overbearing mother.

Flora Brummell: Morris’s mother is a classic representation of maternal suffocation. She is domineering, critical, and constantly compares Morris unfavorably to his successful brother Franklin. Flora serves as both comic relief and a poignant symbol of the emotional prisons people often carry from childhood.

Theme

Identity and Performance: At its core, the novel explores the idea of identity as a performance. Gill constantly reinvents himself with costumes and personas, using acting as a tool for manipulation and control. His need for applause reflects the darker side of performative identity – where acknowledgment becomes synonymous with existence.

Mother-Son Relationships: Both Gill and Morris are shaped by their relationships with their mothers, though in drastically different ways. Gill’s toxic dynamic with his mother becomes the psychological root of his violence, while Morris’s strained but non-lethal bond with Flora reflects the emotional baggage many adults carry. The juxtaposition serves to explore how similar origins can lead to divergent paths.

Recognition and Obscurity: Gill’s obsession with media coverage and Morris’s longing for respect mirror one another. The novel poses uncomfortable questions about what people are willing to do to be seen and valued in a society that overlooks quiet effort in favor of sensationalism.

Dark Humor and Irony: The novel is laced with black comedy, often using absurdity to deflate the horror. From Gill’s theatrical personas to Morris’s internal monologues, Goldman uses irony to highlight the banality and surrealism of evil and heroism alike.

Writing Style and Tone

William Goldman’s style in No Way to Treat a Lady is brisk, sardonic, and cinematic. He intersperses straightforward third-person narration with intimate diary entries and monologues, most notably those of Morris Brummell. These entries provide psychological insight and emotional rawness that contrast with the often clinical depiction of Gill’s killings. Goldman’s background in screenwriting is evident in the sharp dialogue, punchy scenes, and well-timed reveals.

The tone balances between grim suspense and mordant humor. Goldman never trivializes the violence, yet he finds comedy in the human behaviors surrounding it – from Gill’s theatrical murder rituals to Morris’s tragicomic home life. This balance of tension and levity allows the novel to transcend typical thriller fare, achieving a biting commentary on modern alienation and the absurdity of social roles.