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Murder Is My Dish von Marlowe, Stephen (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 10.12.2014
  • Verlag: Bastei Lübbe AG
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Murder Is My Dish

A kidnapped intellectual and a dead partner take Drum to South America. When Andy Dineen tires of the FBI, he jumps ship for Langley and joins the CIA to fight the Cold War in Berlin. After years in the spy game, he grows sick of the paperwork, and is considering his options when an old friend, private detective Chester Drum, offers him a job. Drum is surprised when his old academy classmate takes him up on it, and shocked when it gets Dineen killed. Dineen's first and last case is a stint as a bodyguard for a South American intellectual who's writing an exposé of his nation's savage dictator. When the strongman's thugs kidnap the author and bludgeon Dineen, Drum rushes to the hospital just in time to watch his friend die. Avenging Dineen will mean a trip to South America, and infiltrating a palace whose secret police are not half as dangerous as the despot's daughter. Review Quote: 'Hard-boiled ... in both action and telling.' - The New York Times Book Review 'A great pulpster ... always one of my favorites.' - Ed Gorman, author of The Poker Club 'Marlowe's buoyant skill and credibility lie in the way he has put breath into [his] characters.' - The Atlanta Journal-Constitution 'Langton's sparkling prose and inimitable wit offer a delectable feast for the discriminating reader.' - Publishers Weekly 'Like Jane Austen and Barbara Pym, Langton is blessed with the comic spirit - a rare gift of genius to be cherished.' - St. Louis Post-Dispatch Biographical note: Stephen Marlowe (1928-2008) was the author of more than fifty novels, including nearly two dozen featuring globe-trotting private eye Chester Drum. Born Milton Lesser, Marlowe was raised in Brooklyn and attended the College of William and Mary. After several years writing science fiction under his given name, he legally adopted his pen name, and began focusing on Chester Drum, the Washington-based private detective who first appeared in The Second Longest Night (1955). Although a detective akin to Raymond Chandler's characters, Drum was distinguished by his jet-setting lifestyle, which carried him to various exotic locales from Mecca to South America. These espionage-tinged stories won Marlowe acclaim, and he produced more than one a year before ending the series in 1968. After spending the 1970s writing suspense novels like The Summit (1970) and The Cawthorn Journals (1975), Marlowe turned to scholarly historical fiction. He lived much of his life abroad, in Switzerland, Spain, and France, and died in Virginia in 2008.

Produktinformationen

    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: none
    Seitenzahl: 172
    Erscheinungsdatum: 10.12.2014
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9783958591936
    Verlag: Bastei Lübbe AG
    Größe: 1693 kBytes
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Murder Is My Dish

Chapter One

T HE MAN was dying.

They had inserted a tube in his nose and another in his arm. A bottle of bright red blood hung suspended overhead. Bandages made his broken hands seem too big for the body under the sheet. A third tube trailed out under the sheet and into a gleaming metal tank alongside the bed.

"Andy," I said.

"He can't hear you," the resident said.

"He got a chance?" I asked mechanically. The ward smelled of antiseptic, alcohol, and death. They had erected portable screens around the dying man's bed, as if to isolate death from the rest of the ward.

"We're doing all we can," the resident told me. He had a young face, pale in the glow of the night lamp and splotched with freckles. The man on the bed was breathing with difficulty: a drawn out sigh, then a quiver of his lips, then an explosive exhalation like a lunger's last cough. Against the white of the sheet and pillow case his face looked green. It was beaded with droplets of sweat and swollen out of shape with contusions.

"But it won't be enough," I said. "Will it?"

The resident spoke, staring at the gleaming metal tank. "Both his kidneys are smashed. He has broken ribs and a punctured lung. He's bled a lot internally. If he hadn't been brought here to Bellevue, he'd be dead already. There aren't many artificial kidneys in New York. It's keeping him alive."

The bed was at the far end of the ward, away from the corridor. I got out from behind the screen and walked over to the window. It was dark outside, but you could see fat, wet, windless snowflakes falling in front of the windows of the building across the hospital street. After a while I turned around and stuck an unlit cigarette in my mouth.

"How did it happen?"

"I couldn't tell you that."

"Then who could?"

"Receiving, maybe."

The man on the bed said: "... mistral."

We both went over there. The resident dabbed at the dying man's face with a wet cloth. It came away pink. "Go ahead, Andy," I said. "It's Chet. I'm listening, boy. Go ahead."

"He can't hear you. He's mumbled that before."

"Mistral?"

"Yes. Isn't it some kind of a wind?"

"Andy," I said, leaning down over the bed. "Go on, boy."

His eyelids fluttered but did not lift. His lips worked. "... mistral," he said again. His mouth opened and blood poured out. Beyond the screen a bedspring creaked and a man moaned in his sleep as if death, coming this way, had brushed his cheek.

A rattling noise came from Andy's throat. He lifted one of his bandaged hands and let it fall. When the noise was over, he wasn't Andy any longer. He was just a number which would be assigned a box in the Bellevue morgue until burial arrangements could be made.

I turned away. The resident squeezed my shoulder and asked if I wanted some hot coffee. I shook my head and shook his hand off irritably and went out through the dim ward to the corridor. Two attendants wheeled an empty stretcher off the elevator. I thought they were psychic or able to smell death or maybe I was projecting and the stretcher wasn't for Andy's body at all. I went downstairs to Receiving.

"Go along with you, O'Hara," the nurse on duty said to a nervous little man shuffling his feet and holding a battered fedora in his hands and looking down at the floor. "It's a bed to sleep in you're wanting, and a good hot meal."

"It's bleeding," O'Hara insisted, holding up a slightly scratched finger.

"I do wish we could be helping you, O'Hara, on a cold night like it is. But we just don't have enough beds."

O'Hara looked up at her with sudden defiance. He was dressed shabbily and needed a shave almost as much as he needed a bath. He smelled like every drunk tank in every county jail from here to Spokane, Washington. "I'll get blood poisoning and die," he predicted.

"Go along with you, O'Hara," t

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