The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits: Murder Mysteries from the Age of Bright Young Things

9 Dec

The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits: Murder Mysteries from the Age of Bright Young Things

The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits: Murder Mysteries from the Age of Bright Young Things

Language: English

Pages: 512

ISBN: 0786714166

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

In Chicago and New York, in sleazy speakeasies and on Easy Street, to the strains of jazz and the beat of the Charleston, the twenties roared. The horrors of the Great War behind it, the decade went mad with abandon—and mad over the movies, radio, telephones, and the motorcar. But beneath the froth and the folly, the razzle and dazzle, lay a darker world, a hard and often violent world, for the twenties belonged as much to the gangster as they did to the flapper. The stories in this vastly entertaining collection of whodunnits crafted by talents like Amy Myers, Robert Randisi, Jon L. Breen, Edward D. Hoch, Marilyn Todd, and Mike Stotter reflect the allures—and the deadly dangers—of both those worlds.














have see them. I can promise you that.” The Commissioner puffed out a huge sigh of relief. “Well, that would seem to eliminate the majority of the spectators,” he said. “The Cabinet Ministers along with the riff-raff from the free seats.” He sat in thought for a few moments. Then looked up, eyes bright with hope. “The waiters,” he exclaimed. “There’ll have been two or three of them at least in that tent, and you get some pretty dubious characters among such people nowadays with so many

The curtains were Chintz. There was a new Atwater Kent cabinet radio in the living room. Gas fixtures had all been converted to electricity. Over all, the house was the kind you’d expect of a two-bathroom Irish household, so I gathered that the erstwhile Mrs. Jack Diamond had either come down a bit in the world, or was laying low for reasons of her own. There must be a reason she preferred the Hupmobile to the Landau. I noted a card table in a corner of the kitchen, covered with a lavender

with that gun of hers on me; she had urged me to take it with me herself. “I’m going to get out of here,” she said. “First thing in the morning! He’ll find out sooner or later I told you –” “No he won’t,” I said. “He won’t come near you again, don’t worry.” “What are you going to do?” she asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “He’s – my friend.” The janissary came up with the car. I liked him; he didn’t want to kill anybody. I gave him fifty bucks downstairs in the lobby. He nearly sat down on his

customers out there, you know.” Banks stood at the urinal contemplating the pattern on the ornate green tiles in front of his face. He relieved himself of the beer he had had to consume while observing Rothstein’s meeting with the well-built man he hadn’t immediately recognized as Tommy Fields. It was the red, bloated face that had put him off. The man had obviously been drinking even before his session with Harry Rothstein. But the blond quiff had been familiar, and it was not long before Banks

up to these dos, most often only a quarter (and those usually only relatives and friends). Today the place was packed to the gunwales and, despite bloodshot eyes and an aversion to bright lights, he wasn’t looking half as bad as Fizzy expected. That, she supposed, was because the gallery stood to make a mint from the sensational publicity and give Boucard his due. The Frenchman knew how to play the press. “Not drinking, sweetheart? Splendid!” Kitty swapped her empty glass for Fizzy’s full one.

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