Death of a Dastard (Peter Chambers, Book 20)
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Jason Touraine was irresistible to dissatisfied wives, lonely women, and roving females on the make. He had innocent eyes, an athlete's body ... and a tape recorder fashioned to look like a busy man's attaché case. This he always placed under the bed. And when the amorous antics were over, he ran a play-back for his love. After the play-back ... came the pay-off. It was a great life. But it ended suddenly one night when a bullet from a lady's gun smashed right through Jason's head!
drunkeness: it was then the Touraines decided to come to New York. “All in all,” I said, “the guy doesn’t come out quite so black as I expected. Weak, perhaps …” “Mr. Chambers, I’ve only given you a very sketchy outline. I’m not one for intimate details.” “If it was that bad, I can’t understand why this marriage didn’t break up a long time ago. I’m sure he provided sufficient grounds for divorce.” She stood up, moved about restlessly, gracefully; spoke in a low ruminative tone. “A habit
stuck-out bosom because that was all that was left to me in my restricted line of vision: bosom, slack red lips, nervous eyes, and beige-colored hair. She kept plumping out her chest and sneaking glances at me: I was a very important person. Obviously, this was a very busy day at Gil Formals, Inc. I longed for a cigarette but skipped it because I would have to fight my way into my clothes to get at the package. I leaned back in my foam-rubber cell, stretched my legs, crossed my ankles, closed my
American. Eight-thirty promptly.” He blinked, nodded, smiled, strode to the door, twisted the knob, and we returned to the party. Chapter Two THE TRIP to Chicago was uneventful. Harvey was uncommunicative and I did not press him. Once I said, “Do you go to Chicago often?” “You know we have a branch office there, don’t you?” “I’ve heard,” I said. “I go on an average of once a month. Sometimes more, sometimes less.” “This trip business?” “Partly.” And that was about it. I slept most
with no publicity we did as we were told and were sentenced as scheduled.” “And the final paragraph to the sentence as scheduled?” She mashed the stub of her cigarette. “We did our time and scattered, all except Claire Williams. She committed suicide. Last I heard of Eva Madison she had married an Englishman and was living in Australia. Me, I lit out for New York. Jason went back to the little theaters, was spotted by a movie producer, and he and Karen went to Hollywood. There they legally
wake the dead. “I don’t like to talk in front of the patient,” said the man in white in a whisper that shook the walls. “He’s asleep,” said Parker. “You can talk.” “Probably his last sleep. Actually, a coma.” “That serious, doctor?” said Parker. “Critical. The man’s dying. He has an hour. Perhaps less. There’s nothing further medical science can do. Excuse me, Lieutenant. I have patients who can use my services. This man … there’s nothing further we can do….” The rasp from the bed grew