Hubbard Murder Mystery 10th Anniversary Book Collection (False Cargo, Hurricane, Mouthpiece and The Slickers)

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-61986-623-2
Verlag: Galaxy Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 592 Seiten

Reihe: Stories from the Golden Age

Do you love a good whodunit? Detectives and mobsters, newshawks and murderers-all ingredients for disaster in this murder mystery collection. Whether it was sending a detective after zombie killers on the prowl or chasing down headhunters at a grisly carnival, Ron knew how to thrill readers and keep them guessing until the end.
The 4-book collection includes 10 short stories along with illustrations from the original publications and glossaries of historical terms.
The titles and short stories in this collection are:
False Cargo (includes: 'Grounded'), Hurricane, Mouthpiece (includes: 'Flame City,' 'Calling Squad Cars!' and 'The Grease Spot') and The Slickers (includes: 'Killer Ape' and 'Murder Afloat').
'One of the great pulp writers, with colorful prose, lively action writing, exotic locales, fresh variations on standard characters and situations, and well-constructed plots.' -Ellery Queen

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hubbard, L. Ron

Leseproben

CHAPTER TWO Calloway’s Masquerade THE downtown section of Honolulu dripped in the dampness. The square white buildings were so many pale shadows behind the street lights. Streetcar rails were two small rivers running away through the mist. Brent Calloway stepped into the protection of a doorway, glancing behind him. He struck a match to a pipe, and in the flare his lean, controlled face seemed longer. His tapering fingers sent the dead match spinning to the gutter. Holding the pipe clenched between white teeth, Brent reached into his pocket and brought forth the packet he had taken from Spike O’Brien. Carefully noting that it contained a master mariner’s ticket and letters addressed to O’Brien from Ring and Talbot, shipowners, he replaced the sheaf and reached into another pocket. Bringing forth two sheets of paper, he opened one, slanting it out toward the street light. It was written on Lloyd’s Underwriters’ stationery and was addressed to himself at Shanghai. It read: CALLOWAY: Of course you can have a few months’ sabbatical or whatever. But we would rather you made this affair company business. After all, as long as we are unable to put our fingers on Ring and Talbot, we stand to lose respect in the Pacific, to say nothing of hundreds of thousands in hull and cargo insurance. This underhanded business of scuppering ships for their insurance must stop. But you realize, we are certain, the danger to which you expose yourself. We need not tell you that you are bitterly hated in Hawaii, that half a hundred men would enjoy shooting you down. It is therefore rather incomprehensible that you thrust yourself into this without apparent reason. But we have known you long enough to come to respect the Yankee logic behind your activities, even though we cannot quite understand at times. Let us remind you, Calloway, that should you fail to get the Barclay intact to San Diego, your shrift will be short. That crowd would hardly hesitate to kill you. And we do not believe that you can possibly get that ship to San Diego. You stated, further, that you also intend to locate the recently scuppered Bolivia. We remind you that the task of piloting the Barclay safely across the sea is enough for one try. CHEERIO,
Ltd. Calloway dragged at the pipe and refolded the letter, opening the second slip. This was a cablegram, also addressed to him at Shanghai. It was signed Dorothy Shannon. It said: The Barclay will follow Bolivia
at the hands of Mike Shannon’s
murderers. Please come. Very carefully, Brent tore the two papers into small bits and went to the gutter. The fragments fell, to be immediately swallowed up in the grate. The building across the street bore the legend of Ring and Talbot, Shipowners. Brent entered, clattered up the rickety steps and thrust open the entrance of the outer office. Inside the door was a railing of dark wood. Close against this was a rickety desk on which sat a dust-clogged typewriter. Papers were speared on rusty spindles. A picture of a schooner graced the dun-colored wall beside a metal filing case from which a handle was missing. Brent took all this in at a swift glance and then looked at the girl behind the typewriter. Her face was a study in ivory and teakwood, exquisitely carved. Her eyes were large and deep and black. Her dark hair caught and held the shimmering streams of light from above. Brent said nothing. His gaze was level, a little surprised. The girl looked at him and crept back a little in her chair. “Your … your business?” she faltered. Brent came to himself with a jerk. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to stare. Are Ring and Talbot in?” “Yes … yes … both of them.” She rose and hurried to the inner door. “Who shall I say is calling?” Brent’s eyes were still on her face. “Spike O’Brien.” He spat the words as though they were distasteful. His eyes were tense. But no sign of doubt came across the girl’s face. Instead, her black eyes widened. She swallowed hard and thrust back the door. In a moment she returned and nodded to Brent. He walked forward, and as he passed her she pressed herself as close to the railing as possible, as though afraid he might touch her. For some unaccountable reason, Brent Calloway felt as though he had struck her. In a welter of papers, charts, lading bills and cigar smoke, Ring and Talbot were waiting for him. Henry Ring was big and gaunt, with a yellow complexion, sunken eyes, and a vulturelike nose. George Talbot was in direct contrast to his partner. Talbot wore no coat, and his blue-striped shirt was almost black with dirt, surmounted by a celluloid collar over which hung the folds of his face. He needed a shave, and the gray bristles glittered in the light. His hair was almost gone, but those strands which were left stood in disorderly array above the narrow forehead. Talbot, leaning back in his swivel chair and snapping a pair of once-white suspenders, spat out his cigar stump and said, “So you got here, huh?” Ring stood up and gave Brent a limp hand to shake. The skin felt scaly. “We’ve been waiting for four hours,” said Ring in a creaking voice. “Waiting while you were out getting drunk.” Brent’s watchful eyes studied them. His impassive, saintlike face did not change expression. “Can’t a man get drunk if he wants to? If you don’t like it, you know what you can do.” Talbot thumped both feet on the floor and leaned forward, jowls shaking. “Remember who you’re talking to!” he commanded. Brent reached inside his coat and brought forth a packet wrapped in oilcloth. Looking inside, he selected a letter and threw it on the desk before Talbot. “There’s my identification,” he said. “Spike O’Brien,” Talbot read. “Yes, that’s all right.” He peered back at Brent, raising his eyes and lowering his head. “I didn’t think you’d look like you do, O’Brien.” “Are you saying anything about my looks?” demanded Brent. “No, no!” hastily. “I thought from what we heard of you that you were a bigger man. I mean thicker and heavier. I’m telling you right now, O’Brien, that we ain’t going to have anything to do with weaklings in our company.” “What’s that?” snapped Brent. Ring laid a hasty hand on Brent’s shoulder. “He doesn’t mean anything, Mr. O’Brien—nothing at all. It’s just his way. Isn’t it, George?” “Humph!” George grunted. “And now,” said Ring, “won’t you sit down, Mr. O’Brien, so that we can fully understand each other?” Brent took a chair and sat on the edge of it, with his back away from the door. Ring cried, “Miss Shannon!” The outer door opened and the girl stepped nervously into the room. She stared at Brent, her white hands restless. Ring’s voice was peevish. “Look alive—don’t stand there like a ninny!” “What do you want?” said Miss Shannon bleakly. “Humph!” said Talbot. “Tell her what we want, Ring. And make it plain, so she’ll understand.” Talbot chuckled. Ring’s creaking voice had an edge. “Get me the files on the Barclay cargo. And I want the bills of lading, all of them, and the clearance papers we got this afternoon. Hurry!” Miss Shannon closed the door softly behind her. A file case creaked in the outer room and presently she was back with her arms full of papers, which she deposited on Ring’s desk. With another glance at Brent she went on out. “Wonder she didn’t bring in the telephone directory,” Talbot grunted. “That girl’s no good. Fire her as soon as I can get us another.” Brent, making his voice as casual as possible, said, “Where did you get her?” “Her?” snapped Ring. “Get your mind off women, O’Brien. We’ve waited four hours to give you this, and I’m not going to wait any longer.” Talbot, with a glance at his partner, turned to Brent. “Don’t pay any attention to him; he’s nervous, O’Brien. About that girl, she’s running around with Carter. We don’t have any of that in these offices.” “But where did she come from?” said Brent. “As if that made any difference!” said Ring. Talbot shrugged. “Her brother was captain of the Bolivia, and after the Bolivia went down, his sister was left on the beach. Ring got softhearted and gave her a job.” “I didn’t!” creaked Ring. “You did!” Talbot snapped. “Gave her a job at ten dollars a week, and she’s not worth fifty cents. Ring hired her, but I’m going to do the firing the next time she pulls something. If we fired her, we’d have to give her two weeks’ pay.” Brent nodded. “The Bolivia—that’s the cargo ship which went down off Mexico, isn’t it? Lost with all hands. Only left some wreckage floating on the water. I didn’t know it was your boat.” “Almost bankrupted us,” whined Ring. “He didn’t know it was our boat! But come on, come on, let’s get at these papers!” “Wait,” said Talbot. “I hear Carter coming.” Ring muttered under his breath. Talbot went toward the door. The footsteps had stopped outside and the...