Judas Journey. Lee Roberts
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Название: Judas Journey
Автор: Lee Roberts
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Зарубежные детективы
isbn: 9781479439782
isbn:
LOVE HER? SURE . . .
BUT COULD HE TRUST HER?
Her name was Sara Colvin. She danced pagan numbers in a Texas cabaret . . . and passed heroin on the side. But she had principles. She’d waited, she told Rack Ramsey, until the right man came along . . .
Rack believed her. Only it didn’t jibe — not the way she cuddled up to her boss, Blake Bowen . . . not with a murder she knew more about than she was telling.
And then came that night on the beach when at last he knew her for what she was!
“A swift, passion-filled story packed with excitement and surprise.” —Durham HERALD
FROM THE REVIEWS
“This is a suspenseful murder story in which gamblers and other racketeers play fast and loose, and the police enter only after all is settled.”
—Chattanooga TIMES
“JUDAS JOURNEY has that rare quality, bridled realism. The author has nicely blended adventure, mystery and passion into a credible narrative . . . Perhaps the most notable feature of JUDAS JOURNEY is that it is definitely in the ‘tough’ category, without reading like a neurotic adolescent’s daydream. Anyone who enjoys a really good detectve novel can find excellent entertainment in JUDAS JOURNEY.”
—Sioux City JOURNAL
“A swift, passion-filled story packed with excitement and surprise.”
—Durham HERALD
“Exciting enough to please the most avid whodunit fan . . . Swift pace, colorful characters and bright dialogue make it entertaining.”
—Fort Wayne SENTINEL
A SUSPENSE NOVEL
JUDAS JOURNEY
LEE ROBERTS
AUTHOR OF “THE PALE DOOR”
For Marde and Jo
The characters, places, incidents and situations in this book are imaginary and have no relation to any person, place or actual happening.
Judas Journey
Copyright © 1956 by Lee Roberts.
All rights reserved.
Published by Wildside Press LLC
CHAPTER 1
THE TAXI DRIVER said, “Along here some place?”
Ramsey peered out of the window. Ahead he saw the curving drive leading up to Marcia’s place, and through the rain he could make out the dark outline of the big house on the hill. “Yes,” he said, “the next drive.”
The taxi turned, swung up the hill and stopped before the terrace. Rain bounced and spattered on the tile and Ramsey remembered the first afternoon when he’d sat on the terrace in the wind with Marcia. Light glowed through the French doors beyond and through the rain-streaked glass he saw a dim, slowly moving figure.
The driver said, “Want me to wait, Jack?”
“No.” Ramsey paid him and got out. He stood in the rain until the taxi had circled the drive back down to the highway. Then he ran across the terrace and rapped softly on the door. It opened immediately. He stepped inside, kicked the door shut and removed his rain-spotted hat.
She looked marvelous, he thought, as she had always looked. Erect and slim, with glossy black hair falling over her shoulders. Her lips were parted and her dark eyes searched his face. She was wearing a pale blue silk robe, long and sheer and clinging, and in one hand she held a tall glass, the ice in it tinkling gently. The rain beating on the windows reminded Ramsey of another night three months before.
“Rack,” she whispered, “oh, Rack . . .” With a trembling hand she placed the glass on a low table, and then stepped into his arms.
“You’ll get wet,” he said. “My coat is wet . . .” Her lips were on his, clinging fiercely, and he forgot the rainy night and the marvelous forest of mahogany, and he forgot the jungle and Nevil Simpson; he even forgot the sight of the fer-de-lance and its fangs clinging to Pete Davos’ wrist. He forgot Sara Colvin and Phil Stark and Blake Bowen, and all those people in the past, and he remembered only the last three days with Marcia, before he’d gone to Mexico.
She whispered against his lips, “I’ve missed you, Rack. Hold me . . .”
Abruptly the moment of forgetfulness was over, and Ramsey pushed her roughly away. She stared at him, her eyes bewildered, her mouth trembling. “I still love you, Rack. Really, I do. Let me explain . . .”
“You wrote me a letter—remember?” He unbuttoned his raincoat, took a folded paper from an inside pocket and held it up. “You said you weren’t the waiting kind.”
“I—I didn’t mean it, Rack. I was so lonesome for you, but Jeff, he—”
“You’re married to Jeff now,” he broke in, trying to keep his voice steady. “Why did you ask me here tonight? What do you want of me now?”
She gazed at him with sad, brooding eyes. “I had hoped you would understand. I remember . . .” She made a small helpless gesture and turned away.
He knew what she was remembering. He was remembering, too. He saw the smooth arch of her back beneath the thin robe and the way her hair fell over her shoulders, and something inside of him seemed to coil slowly.
She stooped, took a cigarette from a silver box on the low table and turned, holding the cigarette and gazing at him expectantly. It was an old gesture; she was asking him to light her cigarette. He stepped forward, picked up a booklet of matches lying beside the silver box and struck a light. As she lowered her gaze to the flame, he glanced at the match cover. It was black and silver and embossed words jumped out at him: The Starlight Club . . . Phil Stark, Owner . . .
She stepped back a little and watched him with grave eyes. Smoke from her cigarette drifted upward in the silent room. He tossed the match folder to the table. “So you know Phil Stark?”
“Yes. He was here tonight. That’s why I couldn’t see you earlier.”
“Friend of yours?”
“No. He was here on—business.” She drew on the cigarette, watching him. “Do you know Phil?”
“I СКАЧАТЬ