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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
Corpses on Account by Arthur Leo Zagat is a riveting mystery that combines intrigue with dark humor. When a series of inexplicable deaths begin to plague a small town, a sharp-witted detective is drawn into a web of deception and danger. Each corpse appears to be linked by a cryptic clue, leading to an enigmatic account that ties the murders together. As the detective delves deeper into the investigation, he uncovers a trail of secrets that could unravel the very fabric of the town. With every turn, the stakes rise, and the killer remains just out of reach. Will the detective solve the case before more lives are claimed, or will the corpses continue to mount? Prepare for a thrilling ride full of twists and turns in this gripping whodunit.
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Seitenzahl: 28
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
Corpses on Account
Synopsis
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Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
Corpses on Account
Synopsis
It was an eerie, blood-chilling procession Doc Turner saw in the night—fiends marching in single file to attend a murder. Somehow, Doc had to find a way to break up that racket that made a cash profit out of men who died on the cross!
The Spider, November 1938, with "Corpses on Account"
1
IF a certain piece of filter paper, four inches in diameter, had been perfect, Death might have held High Holiday on Morris Street without let or hindrance.
The filter paper was the one Doc Turner set over the orifice of the slope-sided, inverted glass cone of a percolator, tamping down above it exactly the right quantity of fine-ground wild cherry bark intimately mixed with just as exact a quantity of sugar. First thing in the morning he had hung this contraption above a half-gallon graduate and poured into the percolator a quart of distilled water.
All day the water seeped through the ground bark and sugar, dissolving the sugar, extracting from the wood the healing elements a beneficent Nature had matured there, dripping, ruby-glinting now, drop by slow drop through the filter paper at the bottom and into the graduate.
A younger, and more impatient, pharmacist would have laughed at Andrew Turner had he seen this. He would have boiled up the sugar and water and bark to concoct this syrup of wild cherry in an hour—or, more likely, ordered a gallon from some manufacturer. Listening, Doc's thin lips would have moved in a faint and tolerant smile beneath the bushy white droop of his mustache. In a rare, talkative mood he might have explained that he trusted no one but himself to compound the medicaments he had, for more years than he cared to remember, dispensed to the slum-dwellers.
At midnight the old druggist extinguished the electric bulbs in his display window and those that shed a somewhat grimy luminance over the shelves and showcases of his ancient store. His slight, feeble-seeming figure stooped, aquiline countenance deep-lined with weariness and age, hair a silken-white aureole—he shuffled toward the store's back-room to bottle the syrup that must now be ready. Then he would go home to a well-earned rest.
He went through the shabby curtain in the partition doorway, turned left to the long, white-scrubbed dispensing counter, and halted in dismay.
The filter paper at the bottom of the percolator had split, and on top of the liquid in the graduate, that should be clear and red and shining, now floated a scum of ground bark.
