“Leave this affair alone, Martinson—Jean Hallison is dead!” and the mysterious caller rang off, leaving Inspector Jim Martinson with a headful of worries. Had Jean been savagely murdered, or was it a bluff to put him off the scent? But it was no bluff, and mystery piled on mystery. Where did the suave, grinning Montoni fit in? Accused of assaulting two women—yet at the time of the alleged attack, Jim himself had been watching him elsewhere. Could a man be in two places at once? And the playing...
Tim Ryan was walking slowly past Cellini’s nightclub in Soho when the tinkle of glass and the crash of opening doors made him pause. In the darkish deserted street Ryan’s cigarette stub glowed. He took it from his mouth and shielded it with his cupped hand. Then he stepped back into a convenient doorway.<P> From a low basement door of the nightclub a man dashed into the street like a wild animal. As he passed under an adjacent lamp standard Ryan saw his coat was half-ripped from his back...
