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- Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Velda Bellinghausen is a down-on-her-luck private eye barely scraping by in her run-down apartment building. When her elderly neighbor, an antiquarian book dealer named Mr. Arkady, falls ill, Velda agrees to help with his errands in exchange for some much-needed cash. As she delivers rare books to Arkady's eccentric clients, Velda begins to suspect that someone may be deliberately trying to harm the old man in order to get their hands on one of his valuable tomes.
With the arrival of a shady new tenant in the building, the mystery deepens. Velda must use her street smarts and detective skills to unravel the puzzle before it's too late.
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Seitenzahl: 22
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
VELDA DOES A GOOD DEED, by Ron Miller
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2024 by Ron Miller.
Original publication by Black Cat Weekly.
blackcatweekly.com
VELDA DOES A GOOD DEED,by Ron Miller
I’ve got to get out of this business. It’s not that I don’t like it, which I sometimes do, it’s just that I can’t seem to make any money. If it weren’t for Joe letting me eat on the house and the Loewensteins being nice enough to let my rent ride for the last three months, I don’t know what I’d be doing. Probably shedding feathers back on the runway at Slotnik’s, God forbid. I really don’t want to give up detecting, though—the Hawkshaw course cost me twenty bucks and I’d hate like anything to waste it. That twenty bucks wasn’t easy to come by.
Besides, I wasn’t quite ready yet to get the old hoo-ha from my erstwhile pals at the Follies. So I wasn’t too proud to say, sure, you bet, when Mr. Arkady offered me a sawbuck to run some errands for him. He’s the old coot that deals in antiquarian books who lives in the apartment directly across the hall from me on the third floor. I’d hardly ever seen him—which was OK by me since he’s looks like a vampire on a crash diet—let alone spoken to him, so I was surprised when he asked me to give him a hand. I said “sure” partly because I need the cash and partly from guilt. When Volume Seven of my course arrived—“Picking Locks and Performing Searches”—I’d used Arkady’s apartment to practice on. I was very pleased because he never knew I’d been there. Or at least I hoped not.
I’d found a note in my mailbox when I got back from the beach after caging lunch from my reporter pal, Chip. I still had my camera and the bag with my swimsuit with me, but figured I might as well find out what the old man wanted.
There was only a kind of distant croak in response to my knock, so, taking this as an invitation, I opened the door and went in. As I’d half expected, the place didn’t look any different than when I’d last seen it. It was dark—Arkady always kept the shades pulled—and smelled of mildew and decaying leather. A dump with about four million old books piled everywhere.
“Mr. Arkady?”
In response to my question there was a kind of honk from the direction of the bedroom (all of the apartments in the Zenobia Arms are laid out alike), that might have been, “In here, Miss Bellinghausen” and might have been, well, just a honk.
