検索キーワード： 著者 "John Holt" すべてのカテゴリー

Whittaker passed the drinks over. “Anyway, it seems that he’s got himself into a bit of bother,” he continued. “A very serious bit of bother.” “Bother?” repeated Kendall. Whittaker heaved a sigh. “Yes you know,” he replied. “Trouble.” Kendall nodded. “Oh trouble, I get you,” he said. “So what sort of bother are we talking about?” Whittaker took another drink. “Well it’s a case of murder I’m afraid.”

Fritz Marschall knew that neither he, nor his friend, should really have been there. They, like many others before them, had been attracted to the lake by the many rumors that had been circulating. He thought of the endless stories there had been, of treasures sunken in or buried around the lake. He recalled the stories of the lake being used to develop torpedoes and rockets during the war. Looking out across the dark water, he wondered what secrets were hidden beneath the surface.

“Mr. Kendall, in the past few months there have been a number of doctors who have mysteriously disappeared, or whose deaths were either alleged to be accidents, or were suicides, or they were actually murdered.” Kendall made a mental note to find out about these "other doctors". “A number of doctors you said. How many are we talking about?” Mrs. Eaton thought for a few moments. “To my knowledge there have been at least eight cases in the past six months. There may be a whole lot more that I know nothing about.”

The Marinski Affair began as a dull, mundane case involving a missing husband. Okay, so he was a rich missing husband, but he was nonetheless, still only a missing husband. The case soon developed into one involving robbery, kidnapping, blackmail, and murder. But was there really a kidnapping? All is not as it seems. Tom Kendall, private detective, had the task of solving the mystery. He was usually pretty good at solving puzzles, but this one was different, somehow. It wasn’t that he didn’t have any of the pieces. It was just that none of the pieces seemed to fit together.

On the night of April 14th 1865, President Abraham Lincoln attended a performance at the Ford Theatre in Washington. A single shot fired by John Wilkes Booth hit the President in the back of the head. He slumped to the floor, and died a few hours later without recovering consciousness. Was Booth a lone assassin? Or was he part of a wider conspiracy?

I'm not a gambling man. I mean, life's one big gamble, ain't it? The odds are stacked against you; you just can't win. You know there are some people who will do anything to make sure that they win, even if it means eliminating anyone or anything that stands in their way. They only bet on a sure thing...a Dead Certainty.

The name's Daniels, Jack Daniels - just like the whiskey you know. I'm a private detective. And I can't help butting my nose into other people's business. It's what I do. You get used to it. It becomes a way of life almost. After a while it comes natural to you, automatic, like breathing, or eating, although not quite as enjoyable. It's a habit that I just can't break. I just can't help it. But sometimes it can lead you into trouble....

Have you ever noticed that things aren't always what they seem? Life will always throw you a curved ball when you least expect it. We see only what we expect to see, and sometimes we could be in for a big surprise. And I sure got a surprise I can tell you, in spades. A surprise that lead to blackmail and murder. That's when I really got...Trouble in Mind.

Business is slow, and Kendall is persuaded to take a short holiday. Mollie takes on a missing person case, without his knowledge. He won’t be too happy about it, but what can go wrong? The missing person winds up dead, and Mollie is missing, and no one knows where she is. Is there a connection with a bank robbery and a murder a few weeks earlier … Does it add up to Murder Times Two?

Kendall podía ver la pantalla de televisión. Había una fotografía del gobernador Frank Reynolds. En la parte inferior de la pantalla, el teletipo anunciaba en grandes letras negras «Gobernador Reynolds asesinado».

De naam is Daniels, Jack Daniels - net als de whisky die je kent. Ik ben een privédetective. En ik kan het niet helpen mijn neus in andermans zaken te steken. Het is wat ik doe. Je went er aan. Het wordt bijna een manier van leven. Na een tijdje gaat het natuurlijk voor je, automatisch, zoals ademen of eten, hoewel niet zo plezierig. Het is een gewoonte die ik gewoon niet kan doorbreken. Ik kan het gewoon niet helpen.

"Whittaker distribuyó los tragos y bebió el suyo.–En fin, al parecer tiene dificultades− continuó. –Y una muy grave. −¿Dificultades? −repitió Kendall Whittaker lanzó un suspiro. – Sí, ya sabe−respondió. –Problemas. Kendall asintió. −¡Oh, problemas! Ya entiendo.−exclamó. −¿Y de qué clase de problemas estamos hablando? Whittaker tomó otro sorbo. –Bueno me temo que es un caso de homicidio. −¿Homicidio? −repitió Mollie. Whittaker no hizo más que asentir con la cabeza. Otro homicidio, pensó Kendall. Justo lo que necesito. –Sólo deténgase allí por un momento y vuelva a empezar, ¿Puede? −le sugirió."

It was that door, that solitary door. The door was somehow connected to an event that had occurred one hundred years ago. Somehow it was a portal to another time and place. And that made it worrying, frightening even. Was it even possible for someone, anyone, to exist in two time periods at the same time?