Doc. Turner's Subway Suicide E-Book

Arthur Leo Zagat

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Doc. Turner Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 34

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Doc. Turner's Subway Suicide by Arthur Leo Zagat is a gripping mystery that plunges readers into the depths of urban intrigue. When Dr. Turner, a respected physician, is found dead in a subway station, the initial conclusion is suicide. However, as detective John Barrett digs deeper, he discovers unsettling anomalies that suggest a sinister plot. With each clue leading to more questions, Barrett unravels a complex web of deceit involving powerful figures and hidden agendas. As the investigation unfolds, the truth behind Doc. Turner's death becomes a perilous journey into the darkest corners of the city. Can Barrett expose the real cause before more lives are lost? Dive into this suspenseful mystery where every detail counts.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Doc. Turner's Subway Suicide

Synopsis

1

2

Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

Doc. Turner's Subway Suicide

Doc. Turner Series

By: Arthur Leo Zagat

Edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

First published in The Spider, June 1937

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

Synopsis

One deadly bullet threatened grimy diggers with racket slavery—and shoved Paul Melwin into the shadow of the chair. Then Doc Turner took up the murder hunt where the police left off.

The Spider, June 1937, with "Doc Turner's Subway Suicide"

1

IN the past week a new odor had been added to the conglomerate stenches of Morris Street. It mingled with the tart-sweet smells of the fruit piled high on the pushcarts lining the bustling slum thoroughfare. It overlaid the aroma of rotting debris; of unwashed sweaty bodies; of breath insistently redolent with the memory of alien foods. The salt tang of the muddy River to the East was tainted with it. It seeped through the grimy tenement windows, finding the chinks between their warped frames and paintless sashes. It drowned the spicy fragrance of old herbs, of esoteric tinctures and fluid extracts in Andrew Turner's drugstore.

Through the pervading fetor was that of illuminating gas, it came from no leak in a main. It was exuded from the black-brown, crumbling earth walling the trench, narrow and deep as a grave, that bordered the curb of Hogbund Lane from the corner of Morris Street to the River.

Andrew Turner, his frail form a little stooped with age and the weariness of the long years, lounged before the big window of his pharmacy and watched the rhythmic rise and fall of overalled, muscled shoulders in and out of the long gut, the cadenced gushing of dirt from skillful shovels. A vagrant breeze stroked his silky-white mane. His gnarled fingers tugged at his drooping mustache, and his bushy brows did not hide the brooding worry in his faded blue eyes.

A honking stream of traffic thundered West on Hogbund Lane. Florid-faced, sweating, the drivers of canvas-covered lorries carrying produce from the riverside warehouses swore at slab-sided trucks stationed beside the trench to receive dirt from flying shovels. The square-jawed chauffeurs of the dirt trucks swore back at them. The air was sulphurous with profanity, but there was no rancor in the bandied epithets. Why should there be? Everyone was happy in the knowledge that this Friday night, and every Friday night, there would be money for corned-beef and cabbage, for pasta and ravioli, for gefilte fish and blintzes. The depression was still too close for these sweating sons of toil to have forgotten the dreary, mind-wrecking days of 'on the relief.'

A shiny black limousine was as incongruous in that clamorous procession as a man in top hat and tails would have been in the trench. Its sleek hood nosed into a space between two of the dirt-filled trucks and its fat tires whispered to a halt. Before the liveried driver could move the limousine's back door opened and Paul Melwin leaned out.

"Hi, Doc," Melwin called. "What's good for heartburn?"

Doc Turner smiled a little, going toward him across the sidewalk. "Try eating potato bread and onions and cabbage soup for a while, instead of poulet à la Française and pommes de terre à la holcha. You had no heartburn when you were Pavel Melwiczn, with no seat in your pants and no idea of where your next meal was coming from." The old druggist had no awe of the wealthy contractor for whom these men and a thousand others labored. Melwin was just one of the Morris Street boys to him. One of his children.