Murder Marches By E-Book

Arthur Leo Zagat

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

Seitenzahl: 25

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Murder Marches By by Arthur Leo Zagat is a riveting mystery that combines intrigue with an explosive pace. When a series of brutal murders disrupts a seemingly quiet town, the residents are gripped by fear as a shadowy killer moves through their midst. The only clue left behind is a cryptic symbol that points to a sinister and secretive group with a dark agenda. As the body count rises and tensions escalate, a determined investigator must navigate a maze of deception and danger to unmask the murderer before the town is plunged into chaos. Can you piece together the clues and uncover the killer's identity before it's too late?

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Murder Marches By

Synopsis

1

2

Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

Murder Marches By

Doc. Turner Series

By: Arthur Leo Zagat

Edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

First published in The Spider, July 1940

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

Synopsis

To those terrified slum-dwellers, the weird sound of marching, invisible feet bespoke of countless, horrible European purges. Doc Turner, shrewd benefactor of the poor, looked for a material solution—even though he must virtually join the ranks of the Dead to find it!

The Spider, July 1940, with "Murder Marches By"

1

A SOUND of marching thudded into Andrew Turner's ancient drugstore on Morris Street and it was not the pulse-stirring rhythm of a parade—drums and martial brasses—but merely the thud, thud, thud of many feet.

Working in his prescription room at the rear of the store, Doc's bony, acid-stained fingers tightened on mortar and pestle. His meager, age-stooped frame was taut. His head lifted, light shining in his white hair. His lips were hard-pressed beneath his bushy, white mustache. His old, faded blue eyes peered at the bottle-laden partition before him as though they could see through it and out through the store into the street whence came that thud, thud, thud of marching.

There was fear in this sound. There was inexplicable threat in this measured impact of hundreds marching through an appalled hush. There was in it a paralysis of panic that the old druggist had to throw off before he could make himself go out past the old-fashioned showcases to the door.

The sidewalk was crowded with white-faced slum dwellers. The hucksters stood motionless, staring out into the roadway that was roofed by the black-barred trestle of the "El." Unshaded bulbs cast pallid light over their pushcarts.

The sound of marching, slow-cadenced and terrible, came from that cobbled thoroughfare—yet the street was empty!

Empty of marchers—that is. A sedan was slewed in the middle of Morris Street; the hood of a truck jammed against its rear-end. There were other cars, other trucks, in the roadway, halted, their drivers blank-countenanced and goggling, but the thud, thud thud of marching tramped past them—seemed to tramp through them, for there were no visible marchers in Morris Street.

A rumble grew in the distant sky and became the racketing roar of a train overhead; it drowned out the tramp of the marchers. The thunder faded as the train slowed for the station three blocks away. It left a silence behind, a hush out of which the tramp of the phantom marchers was gone.