The Zenith the Albino Page

by Jess Nevins

The text here, except where otherwise credited, is © copyright 2002 Jess Nevins, and may not be duplicated, in part or in whole, without my permission.

Thanks to: Alicia, as always; Rick Lai; the good people at Savoy Books.

Zenith the Albino, in case you don't know, is one of many enemies of Sexton Blake. This site aims to provide some information about him. (The images above and below, by the way, are taken from Savoy Books' site on Zenith, and are copyrighted by them.)

Zenith, as I said, is an enemy of Sexton Blake. If you aren't familiar with Blake, you should really go my page on him (the link is given right above) to familiarize yourself with Blake and provide the context for the following. If you are familiar with Blake, well, go to the page anyhow, you might learn something.

Now then. Zenith the Albino was not Blake's arch-enemy, Blake didn't really have one of those, having too many recurring enemies for any one of them to be supreme, but Zenith is the best- and most fondly remembered of all of Blake's enemies. Zenith was created by "Anthony Skene," aka George Norman Phillips, and debuted in "A Duel to the Death," Union Jack #837, 21 November 1919. Phillips, by his own account, was inspired to create Zenith in this way:

In 1913, I encountered, in the West End, a true albino, a man of about fifty-five.

He was a slovenly fellow: fingers stained with tobacco, clothes soiled by dropped food. Yet he was dressed expensively, and had about him a look of adequacy.

I should have forgotten him in a day or so; but when, an hour afterwards and five miles away, I sat down to have my lunch, he walked in to the restaurant and sat himself within a few feet of me.

This coincidence made an impression upon my mind, and when I needed a central figure not quite so banal as Blake for the Union Jack series, I re-created this albino fellow 'moulded nearer to the heart's desire.'

snow-white hair, leprous skin, pink-irised eyes; his opium-soaked cigarettes, ivory-headed swordstick, melancholy disposition (in this, not unlike his creator), and the bizarre habit (considering he was an eternal fugitive from the police) of wearing, even in broad daylight, immaculate evening dress.

'Zenith's crimson-irised eyes were reflective. He stood there long of leg and broad of shoulder, immaculately dressed, groomed to perfection, cold as an icicle; and dangerous; transcendently dangerous.'

Monsieur Zenith is an albino. Craving excitement because it brings forgetfulness; thrust into crime by his abnormality, by his illimitable egotism, by the caprice of his recalcitrant nature, he finds himself involved in the quest for a mysterious something on the finding of which life--and more than life--depends.

Indifferent to gratitude or reward, asserting--and, perhaps, believing--that he seeks only the final diversion of the damned, to dice with death; threatened on the one hand by the police, and, on the other, by political chicanery, this strange creature crashes through.

Monsieur Zenith is the strangest, most bizarre, character ever devised in thriller fiction.

Better still, I've found "The Box of Ho Sen," from Detective Weekly #8, 15 April 1933, a prime example of Zenith (and Phillips) at the top of his game. I'm going to push the Fair Use doctrine as far as it will go and provide as many good passages as I can from the story, so you can see why Zenith is just too cool for words.

The story's beginning:

Upon a couch in a room of black and silver a figure of white marble came to life.

A bell rang; and a Japanese pushed the curtains aside to stand down in front of the couch.

'You rang, excellency.'

The figure of white marble opened crimson-irised eyes. Instantly his strange exotic charm became apparent; the debonair recklessness of his face; the fact that he was a true albino.

'Put out some clothes, Oyani.'

'His excellency will dine at home?'

The eyes of the albino turned towards a yen-hok, the pipe in which opium is smoked.

'I have dined already; I am going out. I have had sad dreams, Oyani. I need to amuse myself.'

The servant bowed and withdrew. Although, like everybody else who came in contact with Zenith the Albino, he had a deep affection for the strange character who was his master, he knew better than to expostulate. It was no use saying to Monsieur Zenith: 'You have had neither breakfast nor lunch. Would it not be wise to eat before the evening begins?' Because Monsieur Zenith suffered no sort of dictation from anybody on earth. He was a law unto himself. What he desired, that was all that mattered; and tonight he desired to go out and, as he called it, amuse himself.

The servant brought clothes and a porcelain cup filled to the brim with Turkish coffee.

The albino bathed and dressed. In his evening clothes, with white vest and tails, the white camellia in his buttonhole, and his crisp white hair brushed back from his almost colourless face, he looked startlingly perfect, like a piece of sculpture endowed with life. With his long legs and small waist and his broad shoulders, he wore his clothes to perfection.

He took his silk hat from the Japanese and allowed the yellow man to place a cloak around his shoulders. Gloves and an ebony stick, and Monsieur Zenith was ready to amuse himself.

The irony of that phrase might well have brought to his lips that melancholy smile of his. To be amused! To forget--that was another matter. By risking his life in some crack-brained scheme, which only his genius could make plausible, that was the only pleasure which the albino knew.

Tonight he was wilfully encountering a terrible danger because it gave him distraction; because it enabled him to forget for a little while that he was a monstrosity, as abnormal as a white crow or a five-legged sheep.

Sooner or later someone, whether it might be a police constable on the beat or his arch-enemy, Sexton Blake, the private detective of Baker Street, would succeed in arresting him and conducting him towards a police station. Then he would simply smoke one of the tiny opium cigarettes which he carried in a platinum case within his waistcoat pockets. Nobody smoked those cigarettes save himself, and one of them was marked by a crimson ring. That was death; and if all else failed and he saw that he was doomed to imprisonment, there was always that cigarette which he might smoke and thus obtain release. What did it matter? Only those who enjoy life fear death; and to Zenith life was a constant reminder of his abnormality.

He turned to the Chinaman, raising his hat, which he still wore, and smiling pleasantly.

'Why the delay, Ho Sen?'

Something like apprehension glittered in the Chinaman's eyes.

'Monsieur Zenith knows me?' he breathed.

Zenith smiled.

'Why, yes, Ho Sen. I have known you for a long time. You are in the opium racket. Making some money, I fancy; but, unfortunately for you, not intelligently. I am afraid you will find Inspector Coutts knows about those barges upon the Lower Pool. The River Police have been talking to him.'

Ho Sen's face was bland, but his hands opened and closed nervously. He had not supposed that anybody on earth knew of his association with those barges in the Pool.

He said that he did not know what Monsieur Zenith was referring to, at which Zenith only smiled.

'I know other things,' he said, 'equally interesting. I know about the Box!'

To the Europeans around him his remark meant nothing, but to Ho Sen it seemed to mean a lot. The Chinaman blinked his eyes and made nervous movements which were obvious to everybody.

He said, 'My friend knows a great deal.'

Zenith yawned. 'Much too much, shall we say, to live?'

Ho Sen half bowed. 'The river,' he said, 'comes to the sea.'

'And the fever of living to a sheep,' supplemented Zenith, thus completing the proverb from Confucius which the Chinaman had begun.

'It's a pity,' said the Oriental sententiously, 'that one who knows how to live should die!'

'It would be a pity,' corrected Zenith, 'if the one of whom you speak were to die. But what are dogs that they should pull the tiger down?'

The Chinaman turned away, and, with a sort of shame, gave a signal.

The Chinaman rose and bowed.

'Possibly,' he said, 'his excellency would honour me?'

He waved his and towards the chair opposite to his own in an invitation that Zenith should take it. He gave the albino the title 'excellency' in imitation, perhaps, of the form used by Zenith's own Japanese servants. Whether the albino was in any way entitled to the rank implied by the term excellency it is impossible to say--he may have been. For in his time the albino, prince of crooks, had served and had the friendship of important people. In the lapel of his coat, just under the white camellia which he wore, was the ribbon of a foreign order. The insignia of another such distinction depended from his neck upon a ribbon, and was visible just beneath his white bow. Some said that he had royal blood in his veins, but it is doubtful whether anybody really knew anything. It is a matter about which Zenith himself would not have spoken.

'Some day,' he said, 'Mr. Blake and myself will meet on equal terms for the last time. Which of us will survive I cannot say. But if it should be myself, I should take off my hat at the passing of an enemy whom I respect. I will not drink that toast with you, Ho Sen, because you are not a worthy adversary for Sexton Blake. You know that a gentleman does not lose honour by refusing to fight with canaille. Therefore the idea of a duel between Mr. Blake and yourself is unthinkable. Mr. Blake has done me the honour to cross swords with me, and I hope he will do so again. That is another matter. Frankly, if I saw the detective in danger of a knife in the back from such as you, I would step between him and it. We have a code, Ho Sen, which you would not understand.'

If he could have been seen there in the darkness, immaculate in his evening clothes, his silk hat back on his head, his cloak over one arm, and his ebony cane in the hand of the other, it would have been observed that the expression of his face was almost happy. Danger gave him a thrill which he failed to obtain even from opium.

The other held up a hand.

'I spoke hastily,' he declared. 'There's no need for us to quarrel, Monsieur Zenith. I suppose we can be friends?'

Zenith's eyes flashed. He seemed to increase in height. The expression in his face was so terrible that the other recoiled as if he had received a blow.

'Did you say friends?' hissed the albino, with deadly deliberation. 'Did you say friends?'

'A figure of speech,' faltered the other. 'Just a figure of speech, my dear sir.'

Zenith did not relax. He still appeared tensed for a blow as rapid and almost as deadly as that of a striking rattlesnake.

'You will not address me as "My dear sir." You will apologise.'

The other apologised hastily.

Monsieur Zenith was not one to turn the other cheek to the smiter. Far from it. Always he struck back with a minimum of delay.

Blake handed him the weapon, without the formality of removing the cartridges. He knew Zenith. The man's code would not  allow him to use the weapon against Blake at that moment. Later on, it might be another story. But now the man's personal honour was involved. And Zenith's honour, which would allow him to steal or even, upon occasion, to kill, would not permit of treachery.

Zenith's weltanschaung:

He was well aware that gutters were not constructed to bear the weight of a man, and that, if this one came away under the strain which he was putting upon it, he would go down to almost certain death; but such considerations had no influence upon his conduct. What was life to him, he might have asked, that he should fear to lose it?

Zenith has swung in at the window and drops upon the balls of his feet. His cape has gathered itself behind his shoulders, leaving his arms free. Two rapid strides and he is within hitting distance of the other. The man in shirt sleeves begins a powerful right-handed blow. He begins it; no more than that. Zenith's quickness is the quickness of a coiled spring. In striking he expresses himself. In the vindictive forcefulness of his riposte is the abnormal reacting against the instinctive hatred of the herd.

'What do you want?' breathed Adler.

'I want tribute from you. You are giving to your clumsy depredations the appearance of being my own. For that you must pay.'

'Speak more quietly, you fool.'

'You call me a fool!'

'I am sorry. I apologise.' Adler was very humble. Anything to get rid of this lunatic who was risking discovery with every word. 'You go,' he went on, 'and I'll see you later, anywhere. I'm your friend, I--'

'My friend!' Zenith did not appear to his believe his ears. 'Did you call yourself my friend? I do not have friends!'

He had spoken in his natural voice, deep and resonant; and, in an effort to secure his silence, the panic-stricken Adler aimed a blow at his head.

'Ah, that is better.' Zenith had stepped backwards. 'That is a language which I understand.'

Adler struck again, and Zenith steadied him with a flush left on the mouth. 'I use it myself.'

And now Sally Mynor raised her face from her hands and stared at Monsieur Zenith with sudden hope. In a matter of seconds a trifle of colour came back into her face. 'You mean that you might--that you might--'

'If madam would tell me what it is she requires--'

The actress sprang to her feet and seized Monsieur Zenith's hand. 'If you do, it is salvation for me--no, not for me--for civilisation.'

A strange look came into the Albino's face. Before that moment his expression had been bored but benevolent. Now it became frigid with contempt. 'I,' he said, 'serve civilisation! And why?'

Monsieur Zenith, wearing a black dressing-gown over pyjamas of the same colour, resorted to the downstairs apartment containing the day-bed. There, for his own amusement, he played the violin. Another means of forgetfulness, less efficacious but no less stimulating than danger. He was a superb musician, and some of his improvisations were masterly. His melodies, however, were inaudible beyond the confines of his specially sound-proofed room; and, as the approbation of his fellows was nothing to him, he was content that they should be forgotten when they had served his own purpose of forgetting.

'This object which you have lost,' he said, 'means trouble in some way which I do not understand. That is nothing to me; but I have become involved in a way which is, alas, only too familiar. After leaving you last night I was inconvenienced by a certain Franz Haake, and by men in his employment. They have taken the liberty of assuming that I, whom they regard as an enemy, am powerless to interfere with their plans. That is a liberty which shall be punished. They imply that there is something which I dare not do. That is a challenge. It promises une divertissement.'

'Do you ever have ever have fun?' she said, with childish simplicity.

The Albino looked almost startled.

'Fun!' he said, as if he had never heard the word before. His eyes became reflective. He laughed a little mockingly at and to himself.

Fun! He went back in thought over his childhood; saw a vision of himself at thirteen; how his life was ordered then by taskmaster after taskmaster. Everything in it, even recreation; calculated; arranged to a time table for the purpose of improvement. He saw this slender, but steely muscled and imperturbable, boy of thirteen changing for dinner; tended by an old valet with a crinkled face who perhaps loved him but would never dare to give expression to the fact. Then the boy descending a wide sweep of staircase into a banqueting hall. A huge table lighted by candles--many candles, in candelabra of heavy silver--seating himself there. A footman, pushing a chair into the crook of his knees; his only companion a broad-shouldered grey man, who sat remote and austere at the far end of a large table. The grey man his father. A long sequence of elaborate dishes. The pacing of a marble corridor by his father's side; statuary; frescoes; pictures; tapestry. The touch of his father's hand upon his shoulder. 'Good night, my son.' The learned pale face of his tutor come to take over; reading; conversation, calculated to improve.

'Fun,' he repeated for the third time, 'no, I missed that somehow.'

'I am going to play,' he said. And added, with grim discourtesy, 'to myself.'

He played brilliantly, but what he played was not recognisable to Sally Mynor, although she herself had a passion for music. Now and then her mind seized upon a cadence which appeared to be about to lead to something which she had heard somewhere before; but while her perceptions still strove for its identity the mood of the melody had changed.

She realized at length that, without intention to do so, Monsieur Zenith was achieving a revelation. It was himself that he was playing; his own wistful, wilful immposture of success. His futile imposture of success. A marche funebre for one who lived on, a valse triste for one who danced with devils. Fleurs du Mal of music.

'I will talk to you with my violin.'

'But,' gasped Mr. Smith, 'the neighbors!'

With a wave of his white hand Zenith banished the neighbors into oblivion.

'Cattle!' he said. 'What care I--I, Zenith the Albino--for cattle?' Assuredly the opium had him enthralled, for, normally, Zenith was the most cautious of men. 'Cattle,' he repeated. 'If they hear me, they also may discover, as you shall discover before I am done with you, what it is to have a soul!'

Bending his flexible wrists, he raised violin and bow; and, as he had promised, talked--literally talked--by means of the music he made with them.

It was not a message that could be translated into words; nevertheless, this message, which welled into the far depths of that rabbit-warren, which its poor people called a street, was a message which Mr. Smith and many others who were within hearing of its mystery could comprehend.

The tragedy of the white rook, which, because it is not of their own colour, the other rooks must set themselves to exterminate, of the abnormal bird against whom everything that lives is inimical, and must remain so. The triumph of the abnormal creature that fights, and fights successfully, against the world. The success, which in itself is doubly and trebly a tragedy because it only emphasises that he can never be as they, only makes more marked the difference between the abnormal creature and its fellows.

It also inspired the unworthy Mr. Smith until the man, ridiculous in his bare shanks and flimsy nightshirt, wept unashamedly.

'Ah,' said the Albino at length, triumphantly tossing violin and bow into the corner, 'so you, too, have a soul...."

If and when I gain access to other stories involving Zenith I will provide further quotes.

Zenith, though a criminal many times over ("he was wanted for more crimes than there was room upon a charge sheet to tabulate"), did on occasion help the police, but only to catch some truly nasty and brutal criminals, the kind who were without honour. Usually, though, he was a thief, the "prince of crooks." He was responsible for an interesting variety of crimes, usually finance-related; on one occasion in the early 1920s Zenith panicked the stock market by having a group of newspapers print a false declaration of war, thus aiding Zenith's bank accounts by no small measure. Sometimes he teamed up with some of Blake's other enemies to capture and kill Blake (and on one occasion Mademoiselle Yvonne de Cartier, the best of Blake's adventuress "loving enemies"), but most of the time the crimes were designed to enrich Zenith.

Most often he worked by himself, but on occasion he deigned to team up with others. On at least one occasion he was a member of the Black Trinity, which consisted of Zenith, Princess Astra and Prince Oscar. Princess Astra is a "...peerless woman in late twenties whose remarkable ash-blond hair framed a pale face distinguished by lustrous green eyes," and Prince Oscar is "...a short man with a large head...profuse curling hair, bushy brows...a pointed beard...all completely and beautifully white." The pair are the children of the King of the Central European country of Millenia. Zenith had at some point in the past performed a "signal service" for Millenia, and so he was treated with honor in that country and not as the internationally-wanted criminal that he was. (This is likely what the narrator was referring to in the passage above about Zenith's background.) As the Black Trinity Zenith, Astra and Oscar were international criminals, although Zenith was the only practical one of the three. At other times Zenith was employed by or teamed with other criminals, including the Crook Crusaders, the elderly man who used the Persian "Death Plant," and with Max Lupus (see the Sexton Blake page for a little more information on them). On various other occasions Zenith teamed up with Prince Wu Ling and the Brotherhood of the Yellow Beetle, Leon Kestrel (the Master Mummer), and the Crook Crusaders.

Alas, Zenith's end was not a particularly happy one (but then, as a criminal, what else could he expect?); according to Michael Moorcock he was killed, or appeared to have been killed, during the London Blitz in "The Affair of the Bronze Basilisk." Hardly a dignified ending for such a great character, but them's the breaks, sometimes.

A Checklist of Zenith the Albino stories:

"A Duel to the Death," 25 Oct 1919, Union Jack Library #837. (I own this.)
"The Tenth Case," 29 Nov 1919, Union Jack Library #842. (I own this.)
"The Case of the Man in Motley," 13 Dec 1919, Union Jack Library #844. (I own this.)
"The League of the Cobbler's Last." 3 Jan 1920, Union Jack Library #847. (I own photocopies of most of this.)
"The Beggars' Hotel, " 27 Mar 1920, Union Jack Library #856. (I own this.)
"The Five Clues," 6 Mar 1920, Union Jack Library #867. (I own photocopies of most of this.)
"The Case of the Four Statues," 12 Jun 1920, Union Jack Library #871. (I own photocopies of most of this.)
"The Death Spider," 17 Jul 1920, Union Jack Library #875. (I own photocopies of most of this.)
"The Case of the Crystal Gazer," 23 Oct 1920, Union Jack Library #889. (I own this.)
"The Strange Case of the Elsingham Legend," 27 Nov 1920, Union Jack Library #894. (I own photocopies of most of this.)
"The Case of the Toxic Tulips," 25 Dec 1920, Union Jack Library #898. (I own this.)
"The Roumanian Envoy," Jan 1921, The Sexton Blake Library (First Series) #156.
"The Thirteenth Bowl," 21 May 1921, Union Jack Library #919
"The Return of Zenith the Albino," 23 Jul 1921, Union Jack Library #928.
"The Corner in Quinine," 24 Sep 1921, Union Jack Library #937. (I own this.)
"The Case of the Five L's," 21 Jan 1922, Union Jack Library #954. (I own this.)
"Threatened By Three," 4 Feb 1922, Union Jack Library #956.
"The Affair of the Sacred Fire," 15 Apr 1922, Union Jack Library #966.
"In League Against Him," 6 May 1922, Union Jack Library #969. (I own this.)
"The Case of the Atwell Aircraft Factory," 11 Nov 1922, Union Jack Library #996. (I own this.)
"The Albino's Double," 14 Nov 1922, The Sexton Blake Library (First Series) #255.
"The Thousandth Chance," 9 Dec 1922, Union Jack Library #1000.
"On Secret Service," 10 Mar 1923, Union Jack Library #1013. (I own this.)
"The Case of the Crimson Curtain," 12 May 1923, Union Jack Library #1022. (I own this.)
"Plague," 2 Jun 1923, Union Jack Library #1025. (I own this.)
"X-Ine," 1 Sep 1923, Union Jack Library #1038. (I own this.)
"The Living Mask, or, Zenith's Masquerade!" 13 Oct 1923, Union Jack Library #1044. (I own this.)
"The Train of Tragedy," 8 Mar 1924, Union Jack Library #1065. (I own this.)
"The Strange Case of the Jig-Saw Puzzle," 5 Jul 1924, Union Jack Library #1082. (I own this.)
"The Man in Steel," 6 Sep 1924, Union Jack Library #1091. (I own this.)
"The Wizard of Wurtz," 25 Oct 1924, Union Jack Library #1098.
"The Amazing Affair of the Renegade Prince," Feb 1925, The Sexton Blake Library (First Series) #370.
"Absolute Authority," 28 Feb 1925, Union Jack Library #1116. (I own this.)
"A Problem of Proof," 23 May 1925, Union Jack Library #1128. (I own this.)
"The Strange Affair of the Mantel Register Grate," 8 Aug 1925, Union Jack Library #1139. (I own this.)
"The Mystery of the Swanley Viaduct," Oct 1925, The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #13.
"The Affair of the Crumpled Paper," 2 Jan 1926, Union Jack Library #1160. (I own this.)
"Threads of Fate," 16 Jan 1926, Union Jack Library #1162. (I own this.)
"The Plant of Prey," 21 Mar 1926, Union Jack Library #1171. (I own this.)
"Zentih Declares War," 10 Apr 1926, Union Jack Library #1174. (I own this.)
"The Mystery of the Masked Rider," 8 May 1926, Union Jack Library #1178. (I own this.)
"A Mystery in Motley," 5 Jun 1926, Union Jack Library #1182. (I own this.)
"The Mystery of the Mechanical Man," 17 July 1926, Union Jack Library #1188. (I own this.)
"The Affair of the Were Wolf," 29 Jan 1927, Union Jack Library #1216. (I own this.)
"The Trail of the Nameless Three," 7 May 1927, Union Jack Library #1229. (I own this.)
"The Case of the Friend of May Cubitt," 23 Jul 1927, Union Jack Library #1240. (I own this.)
"The Case of the Grey Envelope," 31 Mar 1928, Union Jack Library #1276. (I own this.)
"The Mystery of the Shot P.C.," Jun 1928, The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #155.
"The Affair of the Great Seal," 8 Sep 1928, Union Jack Library #1299. (I own this.)
"The Problem of the Broken Stick," 24 Nov 1928, Union Jack Library #1310. (I own this.)
"The Case of the Crook M.P.," Dec 1928, The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #173.
"The Humber Woodyard Mystery," 9 Mar 1929, Union Jack Library #1325. (I own this.)
"The Man Who Squealed," Apr 1929, The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #188.
"The Case of the Fifth Men," 15 Jun 1929, Union Jack Library #1339. (I own this.)
"Gangsters' Gold," 1 Feb 1930, Union Jack Library #1372. (I own this.)
"The Gangster's Revenge," Apr 1930, The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #233.
"The Crook's Accomplice," Jul 1930, The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #246.
"Killers' Creed," 30 Aug 1930, Union Jack Library #1402. (I own this.)
"Green Men," 8 Nov 1930, Union Jack Library #1412. (I own this.)
"Crooks' Fortune," 27 Dec 1930, Union Jack Library #1419. (I own this.)
"Night Birds," 3 Jan 1931, Union Jack Library #1420. (I own this.)
"The Vault of Doom," Apr 1931, The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #281.
"The Death of Four," June 1931, The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #291.
"Crook Crusaders," 9 Apr 1932, Union Jack Library #1486. (I own this.)
"The Fatal Mascot," Apr 1932, The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #331.
"The Rain Maker," 20 Aug 1932, Union Jack Library #1505. (I own this.)
"The Gold Maker," 24 Sep 1932, Union Jack Library #1510. (I own this.)
"The Derelict House," 5 Jan 1933, The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #368.
"The Box of Ho Sen," 15 Apr 1933, Detective Weekly #8. (I own this.)
"The Seven Dead Matches Mystery," 27 May 1933, Detective Weekly #14.
"Seeds of Sleep," 15 July 1933, Detective Weekly #21. (I own this.)
"The Crime Zone," 19 Aug 1933, Detective Weekly #26.
"The Case of the Shuttered Room," 24 Feb 1934, Detective Weekly #53.
"The Clue of the Corsican Collar," 30 Jul 1934, Detective Weekly #71. (I own this.)
"The Blinding Clue," 20 Oct 1934, Detective Weekly #87.
"The White Trinity," 18 Jan 1936, Detective Weekly #152.
"The Secret of the Six Locks," 25 April 1936, Detective Weekly #166. (I own this.)
"The Clue in the Blue Sampler," 11 July 1936, Detective Weekly #177.
"The Mystery of the Swanley Viaduct," 1 July 1937, The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #582. (Reprint of The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #13.)
"The Case of the Crook Oil-King," 2 Apr 1938, Detective Weekly #267.
"Zenith the Albino!," 29 Apr 1939, Detective Weekly #323. (I own this.)
"The Mystery of the Shot P.C.," Jan 1940, The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #703. (Reprint of The Sexton Blake Library (Second Series) #155.)
"The Case of the Grey Envelope," 6 April 1940, Detective Weekly #372. (Reprint of Union Jack Library #1276.) (I own UJ #1276.)
"The Affair of the Bronze Basilisk," Apr 1941, The Sexton Blake Library (Third Series) #49. (I own photocopies of the last two pages of this.) (that way I know Zenith's final fate)

And that was Zenith the Albino, one of the great fictional villains of all time. I'm always interested in learning more about Zenith, so if you know something that I don't, or if I made an error, please write me and tell me about it.

Monsieur Zenith the Albino
Savoy Books, blessings be upon them, has reprinted Zenith's 1936 novel, formerly an exquisite rarity. This is their site. Do them a favor and order the book. It's a very handsome package, well made as only a conscientious British bookmaker can do, and containing a novel about Zenith. It's very nice.