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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
Murder Percentage by Arthur Leo Zagat is a taut, edge-of-your-seat thriller that delves into a chilling world where murder is not just a crime but a calculated statistic. In a city gripped by fear and suspicion, a shadowy organization manipulates crime rates for profit, with each murder contributing to a macabre tally. As the body count rises, a determined investigator stumbles upon the horrifying truth behind these orchestrated killings. Racing against time, they must unravel the mystery and stop the sinister scheme before it's too late. Dive into this pulse-pounding tale where every death counts and the stakes are life or death.
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Seitenzahl: 33
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
Murder Percentage
Synopsis
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Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
Murder Percentage
Synopsis
To Morris Street it was a bus accident, but to Doc Turner, grey old champion of the toiling poor, the death of Mamie Lissano was cold-blooded, calculated murder. He had just one chance to beat the killer—by offering himself as a target for the garrote of greed...
The Spider, May 1937, with "Murder Percentage"
1
IT happened abruptly and without warning of any kind. One moment, late that summer Saturday afternoon, Morris Street was the usual tumultuous, tawdry artery of a slum neighborhood. An instant later the raucous cries of its pushcart peddlers, the polyglot chatter of its shifting, alien throngs, were overwhelmed by the crash of splintering wood, the shriek of tortured metal and screams shrill with terror and sudden agony.
There had been a twinkle in Andrew Turner's faded old eyes, a smile on the thin lips under his bushy white mustache, when the roar of the crowded bus's motor and the happy songs of its occupants had reached him. At the door of his ancient drugstore for a breath of air, he had heard an outburst of cheers and singing, had seen the crowded vehicle surging toward him under the sprawling "El", had made out the scarlet letters emblazoning a white banner that fluttered:
EMPLOYEES OF SUPERCLEAN
LAUNDRY ANNUAL OUTING
"They're tired and sweating from the long ride, Jack," he said to the barrel-chested, carrot-topped youth who had come to the pharmacy entrance with him, "but those girls have had a grand day on the beach. They've bathed in water still tingling with the tang of the open sea. They've picnicked on white sand in the sun and they've breathed air untainted by the rancid smell of unwashed clothing or the acrid sting of bleaching compounds. They've..."
"Look!" Jack Ransom exclaimed, interrupting. "That right front wheel. It's...!"
He didn't finish. He didn't have to finish. The huge wheel fairly leaped away from its hub, crashed into the foundation of an "El" pillar, rebounded. The axle end that it deserted instantly pounded the cobbles, whitened a long furrow, its steel end fraying. The pillar smashed the careening bus side, smashed the human bodies behind it. Window glass shattered into a myriad, pointed, gleaming stiletto points gashing human flesh.
Jack and Doc Turner were perhaps the only ones to see exactly what occurred. But all Morris Street saw the broken-backed bus sinking against the undisturbed steel column in a spray of its own splinters.
As if the catastrophe were a magnet and they were scattered steel filings, all the swart, alien denizens of Morris Street leaped at once into motion toward that common point, shouting in a dozen strange languages, screaming in response to the horrid cacophony of screams, of high-pitched yells wrung by terror and torture out of the inchoate jumble there in the shadow of the "El".
In the mad rush a vegetable cart was overturned, its load pouring across the gutter. The pallid white of celery, the vivid scarlet of radishes flashed against the damp-black cobbles and were trampled at once into pulped garbage. But more pallidly white were the frantic faces screaming from the jagged windows of the smashed bus; the arms writhing out of those serrated openings; the fingers clutching at the shattered sills; and more vividly crimson too, with spurting blood.
"The door's against that pillar," Doc gasped, his slender, frail-seeming form darting ahead of the converging mob. "They can't get out."
