By Roger Torrey
Reno, 1938. A wide-open little city rife with an collection of gangster/politicians working the playing, prostitution, dope, and, after all, "easy divorce" rackets. San Francisco detective Shean Connell is employed to remedy a divorce case within the captivating burg, yet quickly reveals himself within the thick of a frame-up, after having the end of his ear shot off whereas viewing the divorcee's corpse within the neighborhood morgue!
Originally released via Hillman-Curl as a "Clue membership Mystery" in 1938, forty two Days for homicide used to be the single novel released through Black masks author Roger Torrey in the course of his lifetime. Torrey was once one of many "mystery men" of the masks (along with Paul Cain and a number of other others), in that little or no is understood approximately his existence, even supposing, like his inner most eye hero Shean Connell, he was once it seems that an inveterate gambler, alcoholic and barrel-house piano participant, and he supposedly died within the palms of his mistress someplace in Florida within the overdue Forties. In any occasion, he may well write a hell of a hard-boiled story, and aficionados of the style gets a kick out of this fast paced and complexly plotted novel.
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Extra info for 42 Days for Murder
Talking about me, now. ‘‘Encouraging what she called creativity, but she meant secular art and fiction, just godless chatter. And I fell for it, and she ended up leading me to a dark, a very dark and powerful place. ’’ She nodded. ’’ ‘‘He . ’’ She looked at her feet. ‘‘He’s an officer in the navy. ’’ Silence. She might have been bragging that she bit the heads off kittens for sport. Paxton’s grip tightened on my collar, and his breath blew across my neck. When Tabitha looked up her expression mixed humiliation and defiance.
I arrived as the postfuneral gathering was winding down. Kids in dress-up clothes were playing basketball on the driveway, and reggae music was sauntering through the front door. Empty casserole trays sat on the dining room table. In the kitchen, cousins were washing dishes. Nikki was sitting on a black leather sofa in the living room, with her shoes off and her swollen feet propped on a coffee table. I gestured for her not to get up. She patted the sofa. When I sat down she rested her hand on mine and said, ‘‘Heard you went back for a second round with the Holy Rollers.
He followed me into the kitchen, bouncing on pogo-stick legs, black hair ruffling up and down. ’’ My brother had just transferred to a new posting, the Naval Air Warfare Center at China Lake, California. He needed a few days before I brought Luke to him. ’’ He smiled. He had dimples and a missing bottom tooth, a Tom Sawyer smile that just knocked me out. His hands pressed against the sleeves of my white blouse. His fingers were grubby, slivers of playground dirt under the nails. I knew I’d have to wash the blouse, but those hands—the fidgety fingers, the light touch—so enchanted me that I said nothing to him.
42 Days for Murder by Roger Torrey