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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
The Axeman's Necklace by Arthur Leo Zagat is a spine-chilling mystery that delves into the dark history of a cursed relic. When a gruesome necklace, once belonging to a notorious executioner, resurfaces, it brings death and terror to anyone who dares to wear it. As bodies begin to pile up, a relentless investigator races against time to uncover the truth behind the necklace's deadly power. Each clue unravels a twisted tale of vengeance and dark magic, leading to a final confrontation with the forces of evil. Can the curse be broken, or will the Axeman claim yet another victim? Enter a world of suspense where the past and present collide in a deadly game of fate.
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Seitenzahl: 26
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
The Axeman's Necklacel
Synopsis
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Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
The Axeman's Necklacel
Synopsis
The mysterious axeman came to America to accomplish the one kind deed which might help to balance the horror he had spread in a country ruled by the Devil. But his own brand of death overtook him—leaving Doc Turner to carry the blood-red torch!
The Spider, January 1940, with "The Axeman's Necklace"
1
FROM behind the sales counter at the rear of his ancient pharmacy, Andrew Turner watched a tall man open the door to the street, hold it open as if hesitating whether to enter or not. The hurly-burly of a Morris Street Saturday night roared in; raucous cries of pushcart peddlers, the gabble of housewives chattering in a half-dozen tongues, the racketing thunder of an "El" train on the trestle that roofed this slum thoroughfare.
A tiny muscle twitched in the white-haired pharmacist's cheek.
The man was intent upon the scene outside, as reflected in the door's plate-glass panel. His raw-boned countenance was taut with terror.
A long sigh quivered through the drugstore's dingy dimness. The man closed the door and started back towards Doc, between the ponderous-framed showcases that once had been painted white. He was half-stumbling as though he were very tired. Or as though fear had robbed his huge body of its strength.
On the bare boards of a floor rutted by uncounted feet, his shoes made heavy, clumping sounds. They were thick-soled shoes, oddly shaped. His black ulster, buttoned to the neck, was too long, too wide-skirted, to have been styled in this country. His felt hat was black, wide-brimmed, high-crowned. What hair showed beneath its edge was gray, but the eyebrows and lashes were blonde, and the face, square in outline, did not belong to a man past his late thirties.
The eyes, blue-irised and bloodshot, were those of one who has seen too much, endured too long. They were the eyes of one who is driven by some personal devil to a doom he sees but cannot escape.
"Good evening," Doc said. His own eyes, themselves blue but faded by his long years, were expressionless. His right hand, long-fingered and sensitive, a dark net of swollen veins showing through its almost transparent skin, tugged at his bushy white mustache. Frail, a little stooped, he was dwarfed by the giant who had reached the other side of the sales counter and leaned against it for support.
"Good evening. I—I am Kurt Boehn." The intonation was precise, cultured, but unmistakably foreign. "Kurt Heinrich Boehn." The man repeated the name with a curious emphasis, as though he expected it to be recognized; as though he expected it to evoke some definite, familiar reaction. It meant nothing to the druggist.
