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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
Doc. Turner's Bottle Trap by Arthur Leo Zagat is a riveting mystery that unfolds with a blend of suspense and cunning. When a renowned chemist, Doc Turner, is found dead under mysterious circumstances, his latest invention—a bottle trap with seemingly inexplicable properties—becomes the center of a high-stakes investigation. As detectives delve into Turner's life and work, they uncover a web of deceit, hidden agendas, and dangerous secrets. With each twist and turn, the true purpose of the bottle trap is revealed, leading to a shocking conclusion. Can the secrets behind the bottle trap be unraveled before more lives are lost? Prepare for a thrilling ride in this ingenious tale of murder and mystery.
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Seitenzahl: 25
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
Doc. Turner's Bottle Trap
Synopsis
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Table of Contents
Cover
Doc. Turner's Bottle Trap
Synopsis
They were two old fools, most people agreed. Old Doc Turner, the druggist, and Old Doc Reid, the physician. But they believed that the teeming humanity on Morris Street had certain sacred rights, and they were willing to die to defend their people...
1
DR. ROBERT REID straightened, his gaunt, raw-boned frame unfolding until, even though the shoulders from which his frayed coat loosely hung were wearily age-stooped, his silver-thatched head towered high above the man and woman who watched him. His faded eyes rested on his small patient for a moment, then wandered somehow covertly around the room.
The baby whined weakly; very tiny, very pathetic on the great double bed whose once-white iron posts were stippled by flyspecks. The flush on the infant's chubby cheeks, the gray patch around his wee, heat-cracked lips, betrayed a fever that robbed him of strength to more than whine in petulant, incessant protest against uncomprehended discomfort.
The splintered, unscrubbed floor had no covering. The rumpled bed and a rickety, paint-peeled kitchen chair summed up the chamber's furnishings. Despite a window open on a narrow, dusk-filled airshaft, the atmosphere was heavy with the rancid odor peculiar to penniless habitations, and even the light from a single un-shaded bulb was grimy and starved. In Morris Street's teeming slum warrens, the long years had shown Reid numberless such rooms—which was exactly why certain otherwise small incongruities fairly shouted at him a warning that something besides illness menaced the fretting, helpless babe.
"Well, Doc?" the woman asked. Her lips moved very slightly, as though she feared to crack the enamel of rouge and powder that made of her countenance a bedizened false-face. "What's wrong with the brat?" The artificial yellow glitter of her hair was no harder than the agate hardness of her eyes. "Nothing much, is there?" There was anxiety in her tone, but the aged physician sensed that it concerned not so much the child as some secret, selfish interest of her own.
"Nothing much," he agreed, his gaze going back to the infant. The fine-textured flannel of his nightie, its precise, delicate hand-stitching, were as utterly out of tune with the surroundings as a diamond tiara would have been on the head of one of the women tending the Morris Street pushcarts on a Saturday night. "Only an upset stomach. You've changed his diet recently, haven't you? His water?"
