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Death Set-Up in Yellow by Arthur Leo Zagat is a masterful blend of suspense and mystery set in a world of intricate deception. When a high-stakes game of deception and intrigue unfolds against a backdrop of enigmatic yellow clues, the stakes are raised to life and death. A seemingly innocuous event spirals into a deadly plot, drawing an unsuspecting detective into a web of murder and manipulation. As the detective pieces together the cryptic clues, they uncover a chilling conspiracy that threatens to turn everything they thought they knew upside down. Will they solve the puzzle before it's too late, or will the sinister design of the "death set-up" claim another victim? Dive into this thrilling tale and unravel the secrets hidden in the shadows.
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Death Set-Up in Yellow
Synopsis
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In the crime-shot murk of Morris Street, where alien tongues mingled, Doc Turner could count up to three in any language—and fight the Living Death and the Scroll of Ancient Tortures at the drop of a hat.
The Spider, December 1936, with "Death Set-Up in Yellow"
ANDREW TURNER'S fleshless lips tightened under his bushy white mustache. A muscle twitched in his age-seamed face and his frail, stooped figure was abruptly taut. His veined eyelids drooped to hide the sudden flare in the faded blue orbs beneath them.
"That's queer," the old druggist muttered. "Damned queer."
In the deepening dusk, Morris Street presented its usual picture of bustling activity. Along the slum thoroughfare shawled housewives chaffered with leathery countenanced, hoarsely abusive pushcart hucksters. Grimy, half-clad urchins screechingly escaped certain destruction under the juggernaut wheels of rushing traffic. A homecoming Sicilian laborer breasted the swirling throng, and two long-bearded old men plodded their ancient path toward the sunset minyan in the synagogue on Hogbund Place.
On the other side of the debris-strewn gutter, a van-like truck stood against the curb, Yee Gow Steam Laundry lettered in gilt on its high green side. From the doorway of his dusty pharmacy Doc Turner had been idly watching a stocky Chinese in overalls carry one huge white bundle after another into a steamy-windowed shop across the sidewalk. He had been only half aware of the Oriental and his shouldered burdens...
Until a bundle had moved, grotesquely, as though it contained something alive!
The truckman vanished into the dim obscurity within the store. Dim figures moved briefly among half-seen shadows. Then the Mongolian was out again. He sprang, amazingly lithe for his muscle-bound bulk, to the truck's driving seat. The great vehicle lurched, roaring, into instant motion.
The nostrils of the old pharmacist's big nose flared, momentarily, as if through the familiar reek of decomposing refuse, of burned gasoline and sweaty, unwashed bodies he had detected the odor of some circumstance obscurely evil. A vague excitement stirred within him.
Maintaining the appearance of a casualness now entirely counterfeit, Turner stared at the shop across the street. Relic of the tree-shaded suburban road Morris Street had been when he first came to it, more years ago than he cared to recall, a two-story, ridge-roofed wooden structure was crushed between two tall tenements. Between the upstairs windows that were blinded by black shades never raised, over the door through which the weirdly animate bundle had been carried, a square, red signboard creaked from a rusted iron bracket. Ching Foo Laundry, read its faded legend.
Even in this neighborhood of aliens the dweller in that ramshackle structure was set apart in a singular isolation. Micks and Heinies, Polacks, and Wops, Jews and Gentiles were united in a common distrust of "th' Chink."