combalt, The Devil in the White City looks interesting. I'll try to find a copy somewhere.
Not so interesting was The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell, Volume I (1967). It was shockingly bad, in fact. Mitigating circumstance: written when the writer/philosopher was pushing 100 (and he wrote two more volumes before he passed away three years later—I won’t be reading those). Incoherent anecdotes that lead nowhere and are connected to nothing, gossip about people who (I guess?) were famous in England in 1895 or thereabouts, quite a lot about his ***** (masturbating with it, falling on it, etc.), and at the end of every chapter several pages of dusty old letters written by, and to, Russell (very dull, I skipped over these sections almost right off the bat). A few chuckles here and there, mostly unintentional, kept me reading. For example, how Russell came to decide that he wanted to divorce his first wife: “I went out bicycling one afternoon, and suddenly, as I was riding along a country road, I realised that I no longer loved Alys.”