Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
Doc. Turner's Death Package by Arthur Leo Zagat is a gripping mystery that delves into the dark side of medical science and intrigue. When a renowned physician, Dr. Turner, is discovered dead under suspicious circumstances, the case takes a chilling turn. His death is linked to a mysterious "death package" containing incriminating evidence and a cryptic message. As investigators dig deeper, they unravel a web of deception, greed, and hidden agendas that leads them to question everyone involved. With each clue revealing a new layer of danger, can the truth be uncovered before more lives are claimed? Dive into this enthralling tale where medical mystery and murder collide in a high-stakes game of survival.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 35
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
Table of Contents
Doc. Turner's Death Package
Synopsis
1
2
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
Doc. Turner's Death Package
Synopsis
Doc Turner, kindly old protector of the downtrodden, proves that he knows his chemistry as well as his crooks, when he devises a new kind of third degree.
1
AN "EL" train rattle-banged along the girder-stilted trestle that darkened Morris Street. Pushcart peddlers raucously shouted their wares, or engaged in shrill, vituperative chaffer with beshawled, vociferous women, playing in the New World the ancient barter-game born in the ghettos and bazaars of the Old. Half-naked, grimy youngsters darted perilously under the lunging hoods of lumbering trucks, shrieking their delight at the drivers, and the drivers bawled curses, as brakes squealed and gears clashed.
The blasting clamor of the slum impacted only dully on Andrew Turner's ears. Stooped, feeble and gray, he stood in the doorway of his shabby-fronted corner pharmacy, a faint smile edging the thin lips under his bushy white mustache, a faraway look in his eyes of faded blue.
Doc Turner was thinking of the long-ago day when Morris Street was an elm-shaded suburban lane and he had first opened the brightly painted door of the drugstore where he surely would make his fortune.
If success is measured in dollars, Andrew Turner was a failure. But wealth of another kind was his full measure. The consciousness of long service was his, the memory of selfless ministry to the denizens of the rabbit-warren tenements that replaced the white cottages of that distant time. His treasure was the trust and affection and love of poverty-stricken aliens, bewildered by the strange customs of a strange land that belied the Promise that had brought them adventuring here. Andrew Turner had never married, but these were his children; these friendless poor, young and old, whose only friend he was. Now, in the evening of life...
A sudden silence, startling and ominous, jerked Doc Turned out of his reverie.
A hot-corn seller's mouth gaped, his cry frozen, his glittering, appalled eyes staring... A wizened hag rigidly held an apron across her scrawny breast, her fingers dough-white against the gaudy print, her beady eyes dilated...
A quarter-block away a blue sedan, front door open, was skewed sidewise to the pushcart-line curb. Jammed against its side, a squirming figure struggled voicelessly, hopelessly, to get free of the thick, hairy fingers that had slammed him there. The burly, blunt-jawed captor's free fist, hamlike, brass-knuckled, flailed at his victim's writhing face...
Plock! The meaty thud was sickening. Plock! The face against the car side was no longer a face. It was a scarlet smear... A scream gibbered through Morris Street's hush. The beaten man sprawled, hurled into a pile of black muck. The sedan door slammed—the car surged away, its horn blaring a hastily cleared path for it.
A broken, twisted form flopped in the debris-strewn gutter, for all the world like a landed fish, save that a fish cannot scream in agony. Morris Street came alive, its thirty seconds of startled paralysis over. Running feet pounded. A mass of rushing, jabbering humanity screened from Doc the form in the gutter.
"Ai!" a small boy's voice chattered at his elbow. "Ai, Meester Toiner." It was his errand-boy, Abie—swart-countenanced, hook-nosed, his tight black curls a kinky cap. "Vot ees? Vot heppendt?"
"Abe! Here's a nickel." Turner thrust the coin into the youngster's grimy paw. "Get the police. Tell them to pick up a sedan, license 1V246, and hold the occupants for assault."
"Vun wee two fordy-zex," the urchin repeated, whirling back to the store entrance. Abie Ginsburg was trained to instant obedience. More than once had his quick wit come to Doc's aid in his forays against the wolves that prey on the helpless poor. "Shoor. I..."
