Some time ago you warned me against writing short stories. You stressed that the public didn't like them, and that I would be heading for a big flop if I persisted. Your views have always proved sound, so I've laid off until now. My present activities don't permit me to tackle a full-length novel, but as I have a number of situations up my sleeve I have been tempted to turn them into shorts. Have a little flutter on the book. Personally, I think it'll go. Not because it is better written than those which have flopped, but because the stories have got enough dynamite in them to make the average guy forget the blackout and the blitz--which, after all, is what we all want to do at this moment.
Anyway, here's the manuscript, and when you're not too busy--Get a load of this!
Originally published in 1941. The nightmare tale of the life and death of Dillon, American gangster. From the first to the last page, the ruthlessness of an inhuman killer is set down with stark realism. Chase's second book.
He Knew He Was Right describes the failure of a marriage caused by the unreasonable jealousy of a husband exacerbated by the stubbornness of a willful wife. As is common with Trollope's works, there are also several substantial subplots. Trollope makes constant allusions to Shakespeare's Othello throughout the novel.
NO BUSINESS OF MINEAmerican foreign correspondent Steve Harmas returns to post-WWII London to visit his old flame, Netta Scott, but quickly learns that Netta has just committed suicide. Harmas is so sure that Netta couldn’t possibly have killed herself that he starts investigating, enlisting the aid of Scotland Yard Inspector Corridan. The first thing they discover is that Netta’s body has disappeared from the morgue. Then Harmas is attacked outside her flat. Could her nosey neighbor, Julius Cole, be involved? He certainly seems to know more than he’s telling the police. And then there’s Madge Kennit, a neighbor who offers to trade information for a bottle of whisky. And what of Netta’s sister, Anne, who also seems to have disappeared? Harmas and Corridan soon find themselves at odds as they both investigate a suicide that begins to look at lot more like murder. MISS SHUMWAY WAVES A WANDIt all starts when Ross Millan, newspaper reporter at large, is assigned to find Myra Shumway, who may or may not have been kidnapped by Mexican bandits. His boss wants it to look like she’s been kidnapped anyway, so that Millan can rescue her. It’s all supposed to be a big publicity stunt. Millan finds Myra alright, and then runs into Doc Ansell and Bogle, two con artists who are understandably miffed that she has just pickpocketed them. Things get interesting when the four of them pool their resources around a better scheme involving an Indian cure for snake bite. That’s when Myra encounters some genuine Naguales magic, and the four of them run into real Mexican bandits. Before long, Myra is levitating, a dog starts talking, a bandit turns into a sausage … and all hell breaks loose.
Crazed millionaire Kester Weidmann believes money can buy everything - even life and death. So when his brother dies, Weidmann seeks the services of a voodoo expert to bring him back to life. He finds Rollo, a crooked nightclub owner who seizes the opportunity for the biggest con of the century. But Rollo had not reckoned for the involvement of Celie, his exotic mistress, and Butch, the nightclub's bouncer. And he had certainly not reckoned they would decide the Weidmann fortune was more important than his own neck....
George Fraser, a lonely, timid fellow, lives in a dream world of gangsters, gunfights and beautiful women. He begins to imagine himself as the toughest gangster of them all to bolster up his feeling of inferiority. But George boasts once too often - and to the wrong person.
Harry Duke had a reputation both as a gambler and someone you didn't mess with, as he'd once killed a man. Then someone tries to make it look like he's killed again. A neat frame up. But Duke's still got some aces in his hand. Aces, and a gun
Tu vas te tirer d'ici et me faire le plaisir de ne plus y remettre les pieds, dit le costaud en m'agrippant par le gilet. On n'a pas besoin de vermines dans ton genre pour venir nous espionner. Je lui pris le doigt par lequel il m'avait agripp et le lui retournai comme un rien. Le gros lard s'affaissa sur ses genoux comme une marionnette avec un hurlement de douleur. T'es une vraie frangine, dis-je en l'aidant se relever. Alors... Si on ne peut plus plaisanter...