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eStar Books LLC
A Shot In The Dark
A Shot In The Dark
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An ingenious detective finds the fatal chord in a fugue of death!
Excerpt
“Dear me, Kit, this visitor certainly is in a hurry.”
It was eleven P.M. the front door of Dr. Feather’s apartment was ringing with steady violence. In his faded old dressing gown and carpet slippers little Dr. Feather sat expectant, while Kit, his small, dark-haired young daughter, went to the door.
The visitor was Detective-sergeant Blaine, a plainclothes police detective. Dr. Feather had known him for many years.
“Well, well, Sergeant. Come in. Sit down—or are you in a rush? You sounded—”
“Murder case,” Blaine said. “Mighty glad you haven’t gone to bed, Dr. Feather. I sort of hated—”
“Oh, that’s all right, Sergeant. Murder—”
“Right around the corner from here. So I thought, instead of phoning—”
“Of course, Sergeant. You think I can be of help? That’s fine. Get my shoes, Kit. Hurry, child—can’t you see the sergeant is in a rush?”
“Yes, Father.”
“An old musician got murdered,” Blaine was saying. “It happened only an hour ago. Captain Mac phoned for me—looks like an inside job. If it is, we got the murderer.”
“Musician, Sergeant? A musician got murdered?”
“Yeah. Maybe you’ve heard of him, an old-timer. Antoine Giorni. Never heard of him myself, but—”
“Antoine Giorni! Dear me, Sergeant, why of course I’ve heard of him. Twenty years ago, before my girl Kit was born, he was a famous concert pianist. Good gracious, how that takes one back! Why, I can I remember then Antoine Giorni was—”
“Yeah. Well, that’s him. We got four suspects—two young men an’ two young women. They was paired off when the shot was fired. Damn queer layout, Dr. Feather. Looks to me like one couple is innocent an’ the other is lyin’ its head off. But I’ll be dogged if I can figure out which is which.”
Excerpt
“Dear me, Kit, this visitor certainly is in a hurry.”
It was eleven P.M. the front door of Dr. Feather’s apartment was ringing with steady violence. In his faded old dressing gown and carpet slippers little Dr. Feather sat expectant, while Kit, his small, dark-haired young daughter, went to the door.
The visitor was Detective-sergeant Blaine, a plainclothes police detective. Dr. Feather had known him for many years.
“Well, well, Sergeant. Come in. Sit down—or are you in a rush? You sounded—”
“Murder case,” Blaine said. “Mighty glad you haven’t gone to bed, Dr. Feather. I sort of hated—”
“Oh, that’s all right, Sergeant. Murder—”
“Right around the corner from here. So I thought, instead of phoning—”
“Of course, Sergeant. You think I can be of help? That’s fine. Get my shoes, Kit. Hurry, child—can’t you see the sergeant is in a rush?”
“Yes, Father.”
“An old musician got murdered,” Blaine was saying. “It happened only an hour ago. Captain Mac phoned for me—looks like an inside job. If it is, we got the murderer.”
“Musician, Sergeant? A musician got murdered?”
“Yeah. Maybe you’ve heard of him, an old-timer. Antoine Giorni. Never heard of him myself, but—”
“Antoine Giorni! Dear me, Sergeant, why of course I’ve heard of him. Twenty years ago, before my girl Kit was born, he was a famous concert pianist. Good gracious, how that takes one back! Why, I can I remember then Antoine Giorni was—”
“Yeah. Well, that’s him. We got four suspects—two young men an’ two young women. They was paired off when the shot was fired. Damn queer layout, Dr. Feather. Looks to me like one couple is innocent an’ the other is lyin’ its head off. But I’ll be dogged if I can figure out which is which.”
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