An Orange For The Killer by J. Lane Linklater

Book Details

An Orange For The Killer  – Four novelettes by J. Lane Linklater. From the California orange groves, to the melon fields around Mexicali, to the quiet neighborhoods off the main drags of Hollywood, there’s plenty of murder to go around.

An Orange For The Killer (1948) – The looting of the Jepson fruit groves was but the prelude to brutal murder—and Harry Masson needed all his vitamins when he confronted the guilty man!
Chapter I Death Threat
Chapter II Murder In The Grove
Chapter III Man At The Depot”
Chapter IV Closing Net
Chapter V Crafty Killer

Death At Both Ends (1947) – Lefty is alone when he undertakes combing Hollywood for the stolen Langman gems, but he soon has two corpses for company!
Chapter I Body On The Ground
Chapter II A Cut Throat
Chapter III On The Prowl
Chapter IV The $500 Clue
Chapter V Just Pals

Down to Danger (1946) – For the sake of Linda Hexton, business man Dick Graney sets a trap in the orange groves to snare a desperate assassin—and gets the biggest surprise of his life!
Chapter I Two Broken Heads
Chapter II Murder Suspect
Chapter III Setting a Trap
Chapter IV Killer at Bay

Mystery of the Mexicali Murders (1941) – Alan Rake, free-lance investigator, flew down to Mexicali on a mystery mission. But before Rake could line up his job, his client went out by the bullet route. And Rake’s only clue was a black bandanna—a bandanna that enshrouded the key to Rake’s own coffin.
Chapter I Five-Grand Fadeaway
Chapter II Satan’s Doorstep
Chapter III Desert Hideout
Chapter IV The Dust Clue
Chapter V Lady Double-Cross

J. (Joseph) Lane Linklater was the pseudonym of Alexander William Watkins (1892-1971).

An Orange For The Killer has 10 illustrations.

Files:

1. Linklater-AnOrangeForTheKiller.epub

Excerpt: Mystery of the Mexicali Murders

Chapter I

Five-Grand Fadeaway

THE small plane from the north circled and came down. It had one passenger, an undersized, stocky man in whose volatile fleshy face was explosive energy. His perspiring cheeks glistened in the light from the airport office as he walked toward it. He carried one very battered handbag. Billions of stars glared down at him from the sky over the great Imperial Desert.

The man got in a service automobile. In a voice that rumbled harshly like a freight car he told the driver: “Take me to the Hotel Worth, my boy.”

The driver said: “Sure.”

The man lighted a cigarette. His whiskered fingers protected the flame and threw the light into his restless eyes. Alan Rake, private detective, was a long way from home. A dozen miles south was the Mexican border. Just ahead was the miniature metropolis of Imperial County, El Centro.

It was dusty and very hot. The time was exactly eight thirty-five in the evening, but the temperature was still well over a hundred. They were passing into the outskirts of El Centro, and even the houses seemed to sprawl in sultry discomfort.

Alan Rake said to the driver: “I’ve got work to do and I like to work fast. I’ll probably have to run around the country and I need someone who knows his way around. Someone who don’t scare easy.”

The driver reflected. He grinned. “Slummer Smith is your man. Slummer’s been all around. Knows everybody. He’s got a car and free-lances.”

“Okay.”

At the Hotel Worth Alan Rake got out and stood on the curb. A lot of places were open all down the street and the lights were very bright. The town was alive. Rake gave the driver a ten-dollar bill and said: “I’m going in to register. Tell your pal Slummer to get here right away.”

He went in, registered, and was taken to a room. In the room he felt in his pocket, brought out a telegram. He read it:

WANT YOU FOR CONFIDENTIAL WORK STOP NAME YOUR OWN PRICE STOP MEET ME NINE O’CLOCK TUESDAY NIGHT AT 437 BOXER PLACE EL CENTRO STOP TELL NO ONE. BRADLEY WARNBECKER

Rake thrust the yellow paper in his pocket and went downstairs. He waited on the sidewalk. Soon a large sedan came alongside. The driver was a small man and very wiry. He might have been thirty-five, or forty-five, or fifty-five. His roundish face wore a fixed lugubrious look, and it was lined and blackened by hot desert winds.

“All right, all right,” said Rake. “We’re going to 437 Boxer Place. Know it?”

“Sure,” said Slummer Smith. “Hell of a place.” They drove off. Rake said: “You know Bradley Warnbecker?”

“Seen him around. Everybody knows him. Hell of a guy. Lots of dough. Head of a big fruit-shipping outfit. Don’t live here except this time of the year. Rest of the time lives up north.”

Slummer stopped on a deserted road on the south edge of town. There was a group of seven shacks. None of them showed light.

“I think this layout belongs to Warnbecker,” Slummer said. “Nobody lives here now. These places was put up a long time ago to rent to Mexicans. They’re falling to pieces now.”

Rake got out of the car. The shacks were arranged in a court, three on one side, three on the other, and the seventh at the rear. The seventh was Number 437. It was very dark. Rake rapped on the sun-cracked door.

The door opened and the split widened very cautiously. A muffled voice said: “Come in, Mr. Rake.”

RAKE went in. A lantern, turned low, stood on an upturned box in the corner. There was no furniture. The windows were boarded up. The man in the room was short. He had a prosperous middle. His face was surprisingly thin, giving the lie to his body bulk. The sharp eyes and the high cheekbones conspired to indicate a certain cunning, and an alert fearfulness.

Rake said: “So you’re Warnbecker! What’s up?”

Warnbecker’s chuckle was like a nervous maiden’s giggle. “Good Lord, but I’m glad you’re here!”

“What’s got you scared?” Rake said.

“A man named Curver is at the bottom of it, I think. He’s pretty sore at me. I think he’s up to something.” Warnbecker thrust a plump hand into his pocket. He said: “Last night my shipping shed checker, a chap named Steve Ongar, found this on Curver’s place. It belonged to a Chinaman—”

The flash was brief but bright. The report was sharp but very loud. The flash and the report came from a crevice in the boards of the window behind Warnbecker. Rake stepped aside quickly. Warnbecker fell on his face, as if he had been pushed.

Beyond the report, there was no noise. Rake stood still for a little while, then swiftly strode across the room. It was easy to see where the shot had come from. He returned to Warnbecker. The man of money was quite still. His back was a mess.

Rake muttered, “Rifle shot,” and went out.

Excerpt From: J. Lane Linklater. “An Orange For The Killer.”