Doc. Turner Makes Death Medicine E-Book

Arthur Leo Zagat

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Doc. Turner Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 32

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Doc. Turner Makes Death Medicine by Arthur Leo Zagat is a riveting blend of medical thriller and dark intrigue. Dr. Turner, a brilliant yet unconventional physician, develops a groundbreaking treatment that promises to cure the incurable. But when patients start dying under mysterious circumstances, suspicion falls on the good doctor. As Turner delves deeper into the sinister plot behind his own creation, he uncovers a web of deceit that puts his own life at risk. With time running out, can he expose the truth before it's too late? This suspenseful tale will keep you guessing and leave you questioning the ethics of scientific advancement.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Doc. Turner Makes Death Medicine

Synopsis

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Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

Doc. Turner Makes Death Medicine

Doc. Turner Series

By: Arthur Leo Zagat

Analyzed, summrized, and edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

First published in The Spider, June 1934

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

Synopsis

A ragged, redheaded little urchin whispered a few dread words to Doc Turner after a Morris Street bambino had been spirited away. And when Doc found the kid's body with a stiletto piercing the dead lips, he vowed to stamp out the hidden terror—though his own life was forfeit!

1

FEAR brooded over Morris Street; creeping fear that painted a gray film over olive-tinged, leathery faces, fear that lurked in dark eyes where ordinarily the glint of their owners' native sun laughed at hardship and unceasing labor. A shadow lay along Morris Street that was blacker, more ominous, than the shadow of the elevated snaking between the grimy facades of its tenements.

And Doc Turner's face, as he stood in the open doorway of his ancient drugstore, seemed more deeply lined than ever with age and tiredness. The thin lips under his bushy white mustache smiled wearily in response to the many greetings called to him by the shambling, stoop-shouldered passersby. These were his people, these shirt-sleeved men, dark-skinned or bearded, these beshawled, wrinkled women in whose countenances still dwelt uncomprehending bewilderment at the cruel strangeness of the Promised Land whither they had migrated with high hopes only to meet with defeat and despair. Only in the old druggist had they found sympathy and understanding, only in Andrew Turner had they found a protector against human wolves spawned in this new country and rapacious man-beasts pursuing from the lands they had fled.

Now once more Doc sensed a need for him, and his weary thoughts played with temptation. Mario Pellegrino, Battista Marone, Antonio Lansino and the others of their dark-skinned ilk had said nothing to him of their trouble; he had read it only in the expression of their faces, in their furtive avoidance of his questionings, and—in the hunger-lines that for weeks had more and more tautened the wee faces of the Beppos and Angelinos and Francescas who scuttered tonight, half-naked to the heat, between the legs of their chattering forebears. The bambini, usually so well-fed even when their elders must deny themselves, were starving. Something, someone, was sucking the last hard-won cent from the slim purses of the Italians on Morris Street. But they had not come to him for help. Why should he offer it? He was tired, so tired...

"Meester Toiner," a voice shrilled in his ears. "Ah customer Meester Toiner."

Turner jerked out of his absorption, blinked dazedly, and turned. His dim-lit store was apparently empty save for the under-sized, black-haired and hook-nosed errand boy at his elbow. "What—what is it, Abie. Where's the customer?"

"Right dere," the urchin pointed a finger whose nail was black-edged. "Right dere by de counter."

Doc was aware of movement far back in the recesses of the shop, peered more carefully and made out a tot whose one nondescript garment displayed squirming, dimpled arms and bowed legs encrusted with dirt. "Oh, there you are, Peppina! How did you get past me without my seeing you?"

The three-year-old slid a sticky thumb into a round mouth, and fastened on him great lustrous eyes that were black jewels in the face of a cherub—a very dark, very dirty cherub.

"So you want your mother's prescription do you? Well, well. It's all ready for you. Did mamma send the money?"