Death-Dance of the Broken Dolls E-Book

Arthur Leo Zagat

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Dime Mystery Magazine
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 47

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Death Lands a Cargo by Arthur Leo Zagat is a gripping tale of suspense that merges maritime mystery with dark intrigue. When a ghostly ship arrives at port with a cargo that spells doom, a harrowing investigation ensues. The authorities must decipher the cryptic messages and unexplained deaths linked to the mysterious cargo, but the closer they get to the truth, the more they realize they're dealing with forces beyond their comprehension. This story of high-seas danger, secrets, and an unstoppable menace will leave you on the edge of your seat. Will they uncover the deadly truth before it's too late?

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Death-Dance of the Broken Dolls

I. — OLDER THAN SIN

II. — OUT OF SPACE—OUT OF TIME

III. — TO HELL AND BACK!

Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

Death-Dance of the Broken Dolls

Dime Mystery Magazine

By: Arthur Leo Zagat

Edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

First published in Dime Mystery Magazine, March 1947

No part of this publication may be reproduced whole or in part in any form without the prior written permission of the author

I. — OLDER THAN SIN

IT was good Scotch and it was on the house, but I wouldn't be drinking it if I wasn't sure Paul Locker knew he couldn't buy me a drink—or a hundred cases. "Okay, Paul," I said, low-toned. "You know what I want." It was still early for the Silver Sandal. A tall girl sitting down at the other end of the bar was the only customer in the lounge and the attendant was mopping the counter in front of her. Neither was near enough to hear me. "What's happened to Stanley Forbes?"

Locker's fat-drowned little eyes went blank. "I don't know. So help me, Jim, I ain't—haven't got a notion."

"You lie," I murmured and took another sip.

"Someone," I thought, "has taught him that the owner of a swank supper club doesn't say 'ain't'. Someone's dressed him up in a two hundred dollar tux instead of the barkeep's apron that he used to wrap around his paunch. Someone's got him to scrape the stubble off his jowls till they're so pink they look peeled. But he's still a wrong finger, just like I'm still a dumb plainclothes dick in spite of the first-grade detective tag they've hung on me."

"You lie," I repeated. "If you want a sucker who'll believe that the heir to the Third National Bank can disappear from your dive without your knowing how and why, try telling it to the little she-imp in the wall behind you."

"The—!" His head jerked around to that wall, jerked back to me. Pale blue ice filmed his eyes again but it had shattered for an instant to let terror peer through. "Why from here, Jim? Who says it was from here?"

"I do." Why, I wondered, had my casual mention of the carnival gadget framed in the silk-draped wall hit him so hard? "Stan Forbes was here, alone, night before last. Wednesday." Granted that thumb-size houri strutting around behind picture-frame glass is a little eerie the first time you see her. Locker must know that she's only a trick done with mirrors. "He was still sitting at this bar when you started to close up at five Thursday morning. He wasn't seen leaving here." Not at least by the doorman, who's a police stool. The Silver Sandal's one of the night spots we find it convenient to keep a close watch on. "He hasn't been seen since, here or anywhere else."

I leaned forward a little. "His old man's keeping that quiet, Paul, but it got whispered around and the whispers got to me. You knew it already. Are you going to be smart and tell you know or do I have to get tough?"

The old Locker would have crumbled at that, or got nasty. The new one just said, tonelessly, "You won't get tough, Jim Corey. You can't play that way with me no—any more."

He'd called my bluff. When this joint was just another rowdy roadhouse we could toss him around all we cared to and the worst flareback would be a whine from some local ward-boss. That was before I'd swapped a badge for chevrons and put in a little time knocking around a different kind of crook. Today, if we so much as scratched the furniture here, we'd have a half-dozen columnists ripping our hides off in the papers and that would be only the beginning. How he'd done it was a puzzle, but you weren't a big shot in Parling City if you didn't rate a Silver Sandal ringside table and it was Paul Locker who decided that. He was aces with the top brass, from the mayor on down—unless we got him with something putrid.

What he didn't know, I hoped, was what Commissioner Gershon had said a half hour ago, "No, Corey. Harlow Forbes swings too much weight for me to order an investigation of his son's disappearance when he denies that young Stanley has disappeared. All I can do is give you twenty-four hours leave for personal business. It's not my responsibility what that business is, so long as it doesn't involve me or the department."

That meant I was strictly on my own. It meant that if this thing went sour, Gershon would chop off my head to save his own. "Okay," I yielded Locker's point. "So you're dug in solid. What's got you scared white-livered?"

"Me scared?" His eyes rounded with a look of innocence but he couldn't stop the pulse-flutter in his left temple. "That's funny, Jim. It's a scream. Know any more jokes?"

"Only that you think you're kidding me," I came back but I knew I wasn't getting anywhere. I put my glass to my mouth and drank slowly.