Afford / Allam The Dead Are Blind

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-4397-4415-4
Verlag: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 280 Seiten

The Dead Are Blind by Max Afford is a riveting mystery that will keep you guessing until the very end. When a renowned detective is called to investigate a series of chilling crimes where the victims appear to have been targeted by someone who knows their every move, he is drawn into a labyrinth of deceit and hidden motives. As the detective delves deeper, he discovers a sinister connection between the victims and a powerful, elusive figure who seems to be manipulating events from the shadows. With each revelation, the case becomes more tangled, and the line between hunter and hunted blurs. Will the detective uncover the truth before the killer strikes again, or will he become the next victim in this deadly game? Dive into this thrilling tale of suspense and uncover the secrets that lie behind the veil of blindness.

Max Afford (1906-1954) was an Australian playwright, radio producer, and mystery novelist. He gained recognition for his crime fiction, particularly for the Jeffrey Blackburn series, which featured a resourceful detective solving intricate mysteries. Afford was also a pioneer in Australian radio drama, producing popular shows during the golden age of radio. His contributions to both literature and broadcasting helped shape early Australian entertainment. Despite his relatively short life, Afford left a lasting legacy in Australian mystery fiction and radio storytelling.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Afford, Max

Allam, Rafat

Leseproben

I. GENERAL NEWS SESSION

"What if it be a poison, which the friar

Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead?"

—Romeo and Juliet. Act IV.

* * *

To Jeffery Blackburn, it is the case.

Recalling the abrupt manner in which Blackburn was pitchforked into the murder of Judge Sheldon, and the foreboding events that preceded the raising of the curtain on the frightful business of the Dolls of Death, there is a certain irony in the fact that his chances of being connected with the case under discussion were, in the ordinary course of events, exceptionally remote. He stepped into the business merely as a spectator, a rather reluctant witness who paused momentarily to scoff and remained to ensnare his hands in a net of crime that was to enmesh innocent and guilty alike.

Spring came early to London that year. But the city was not caught unaware. There was entertainment and amusement for all classes in the varied programme of attractions that spread through a thawing muddy March and well into leafy June. Yet with these and a hundred other diversions to capture his wandering fancy, William Jamieson Read, Chief Detective-Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard, must turn his inquisitive mind to the business of broadcasting.

On this particular Monday night an early dinner had been served at the flat. The two men sat with coffee and cigarettes over the faint sternutation of the gas-fire. The conversation had turned to radio plays in general. A commercial station at Luxembourg had made a feature of the broadcasting of "dinner-hour thrillers," presented to the listening world by courtesy of the Widdis Wonder Wash-cloth, and, as far as the Chief Inspector was concerned, no evening meal was complete without this accompaniment of mystery and mayhem. Since Mr. Blackburn's appetite was stronger than his prejudices, he was forced to lend an unwilling ear to these presentations and so their postprandial conversation centred about the theme of the play heard on that evening.

"A very fair production," announced Read, pushing back his coffee-cup and reaching for his pipe. In the background, tuned down to a barely audible whisper, the radio hissed in a defeated monotone.

"A very stupid production," commented Jeffery. "Wash-cloths and obscure toxicology! O tempora! O mores!"

Read gave a dry chuckle. He was teasing the tobacco in his pipe with a match-end. "You can save your breath by addressing such constructive criticism to the fountain-head," he announced. As Jeffery stared at him, he continued: "D'you remember Nickerson, the young man who was programme director at the B.B.C.? He approached you a few months ago to do a series of talks over the air on the subject of criminology—"

"Which I refused," interrupted Blackburn. "Yes, I remember George Nickerson. What about him?"

"He's appointed manager of the new subsidiary station built near Portland Place—somewhere in Wigmore Street, I understand. It's the official opening tonight." Read paused and bent to fiddle with the tap of the gas-fire. "He's sent along an invitation for two," he concluded rather lamely.

"As a matter of fact," said Jeffery calmly, "I'd rather like to come with you. Since criminology has completely absorbed my time and talents, I have relinquished all ambitions regarding that epochal treatise on the binomial theorem." He sighed. "Consequently I find the evenings rather dull since all the super-criminals appear to have turned their nefarious attentions to dinner-hour radio thrillers. Yes, Chief, I'll come along with you."

The sudden buzz of the house telephone cut into Read's rejoinder. He heaved himself from the low chair and moved across to the instrument. Jeffery heard him bark a gruff "hello" into the mouthpiece and there were curious guttural sounds.

"It's Nickerson." His voice was controlled. "He's calling on his way to the studio—wants to know if we're going. He'll be up here in a moment. And," said the Chief Inspector heavily, "if you frighten him off with any of that Oxford-and-Cambridge stuff, I'll break your damn neck!" At that moment the door-bell shrilled, announcing the new arrival. Jeffery rose to meet the guest.

George Nickerson was not unlike an electrical impulse himself. He spoke in short staccato barks and such was his energy that he was rarely in the same position for more than a few minutes at a time. Jeffery, however, was interested and not a little amused by the attitude of Read. The Chief Inspector had pulled a third chair to the fire and was busy with the whisky tantalus. Blackburn, who knew from experience how rarely it was that his companion troubled to be even amiable to strangers, speculated wonderingly on the change. Having greeted the new-comer, he sat back to listen. The first remark, however, was addressed to him. Nickerson leaned over the back of his chair.

"About those talks, Mr. Blackburn—haven't changed your mind? Good opportunity! Wonderful publicity! Imagine it—your voice reaching tens of thousands of listeners!"

"I'd rather not imagine it, thanks," Jeffery said dryly. He smiled. "It's very good of you to offer, but honestly, I had enough publicity over the Mannikin Murders to last me for the rest of my life."

Nickerson shrugged his shoulders. "As you like." He turned to take a glass from the Chief Inspector. "I suppose we couldn't interest you sir?"

Read's expression was wistful. "Couldn't do it—official capacity—never allow it," he mumbled. "But, there's nothing to stop the young chap from doing it, except silly prejudice."

Jeffery looked hurt. "At least I've sunk my prejudices to the point of accompanying you to this opening tonight, Chief. You might give me credit—"

"Sssh—!" Read silenced him fiercely. He was standing with one ear cocked alertly, then his eyes dropped to his wrist-watch. Abruptly he turned. "The news session," he announced, jerking his head toward the radio. "We've already missed half of it! Never miss the general news session," he explained to Nickerson as he crossed and twisted the tuning dials.

A cheerful disinterested voice floated into the room, retailing tabloid descriptions of the outstanding news events. The three men listened in silence. There came a rustle of paper as the voice paused. A few moments later, the precise clipped tones were heard again:

"We are in receipt of the latest news concerning the condition of Miss Agatha Boycott-Smith, well-known philanthropist, who lies seriously ill at her home at Royston Towers, Hertfordshire. We are pleased to announce that her condition has improved slightly. She has been forbidden to see friends and her sole relative, a nephew, has been recalled to the Towers...

"That completes our first news bul—"

The voice was choked into silence as the Chief Inspector clicked the master-switch and returned to the fire-place. "Who is this woman?" he demanded. "They've been giving out bulletins regarding her illness over the past week! I've never heard of her."

Jeffery grinned. "Shows your laudable single-mindedness of purpose, Chief. Certainly the lady has never appeared in your Illustrated Circular or been featured in Informations. But if you took the trouble to emerge from your official shell occasionally, you couldn't help but encounter the name!"

Read was settling in his chair. He glanced up. "Why is that?"

"There's a Boycott-Smith wing in half a dozen country hospitals, a Boycott-Smith Free Library in the East End, and a Boycott-Smith scholarship in at least three of our universities. Only last year, the lady gave an immense sum to the unemployment relief." Jeffery smoked for a moment. "And they say she is still worth a cool million!"

The Chief Inspector grunted. "She must have bought a half-interest in the wireless stations by the way they keep harping on her condition!"

George Nickerson, who had been following this conversation with nervous bird-like movements, shook his head. He grinned. "I don't think you'll find Miss Boycott-Smith putting any more money into entertainment. Not since her disastrous venture with that film company!"

"What was that?" asked Jeffery.

"Didn't you hear about it?" asked Nickerson. "It happened about six months ago. Andrew Newland, her nephew, was partly to blame. He's a friend of mine and a good sort of chap—but a perfect bonehead when it comes to business—"

"Newland?" repeated the Chief Inspector. "There was an Andrew Newland played rugger for England against Australia—"

"That's the lad," their guest cut in. "It was following his success in that game this film company offered him a contract. Of course, his aunt's money was the attraction, but the novelty of the stunt appealed to Andrew. They were going to make a series of sporting films, wild and woolly adventures that would appeal to the kiddies, with Newland as a kind of sporting Buffalo Bill! Newland persuaded his aunt to sink a packet of money in the company and I believe they made about three films with Andy playing lead."

"And what happened?"

Nickerson grinned. "They were so bad that they were never shown. Then the aunt's attorney got to hear of the business and told her that she'd been stung. She stopped paying out money and the...