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Don’t Tell Anyone by J. Lane Linklater

Don’t Tell Anyone – Four Stories by J. Lane Linklater

Don’t Tell Anyone – Four Stories by J. Lane Linklater about frame ups, jewel heists, gambling, horse races and murder.

Book Details

Book Details

Don’t Tell Anyone – Four Stories by J. Lane Linklater about frame ups, jewel heists, gambling, horse races and murder.

Souvenir From Saipan (1947) – Pete Lawton, returned war hero and ex-bookie, heads straight for the racetrack to repay some debts, but when his longshot ticket comes home he finds the payoff’s made in murder coin!
Chapter I Dead Man in the Suite
Chapter II Planted Evidence
Chapter III The Blue Stallion
Chapter IV A Long Shot Wins

One Small Clue (1945) – It’s an exciting furlough for Jim Latman when he runs into a murder case and solves a mystery that puzzles him mightily!

Mr. Brown’s Bare Feet (1950) – Three strange visitors create mystery at Digger’s Hollow, mystery that young Peter Rhoades must solve—in a hurry!

Don’t Tell Anyone (1948) – When Private Detective Walt Bonner arrived at the racetracks, he was there to help a pretty night club owner make a killing— but he didn’t expect the type of “killing” that was going on!
Chapter I. Easy Assignment.
Chapter II. Sudden Popularity.
Chapter III. Adams’ Atom.
Chapter IV. Missing Lady.
Chapter V. Assorted Corpses.
Chapter VI. Set for the Final Act.
Chapter VII. Tickets to Perdition.

J. (Joseph) Lane Linklater was the pseudonym of Alexander William Watkins. Watkins was born in North London, England in 1892, and died in Los Angeles in 1971.

Don’t Tell Anyone contains 11 illustrations.


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Excerpt: Don’t Tell Anyone

Chapter I.

Easy Assignment.

I  WAS within a few steps of the entrance of the Heathers Hotel when the little man came out.

I stopped for a moment, and watched him. I recalled vaguely seeing him at the McBains’ party the night before. Arthur Detman, his name was. He had been quiet at the party and had left early.

A strange little man. He was very neat, in a blue-black suit; very precise, very courteous. He was not over five feet tall, with narrow shoulders and an impressive-looking paunch. He wasn’t old, I thought; probably not over forty, yet his face seemed shriveled.

Arthur Detman stepped briskly into a taxi and was driven rapidly away.

I felt a queer sense of eagerness as I pushed through into the large lush lobby. Maybe the girl’s voice had had something to do with that. I didn’t think much about it, having inherited a headache from the party.

I felt grateful for the soft lights, as I moved through the acres of palms toward the far southwest corner of the lobby, which was where she had told me to go.

“And,” she had added, “don’t tell anyone you are going there.”

I spotted her instantly, a smooth slim article reclining in a big leather chair, smoking a cigarette. I was standing over her almost before I realized it—and before she realized it. Her head was tilted back, and her upturned face showed fine straight features, the blue-gray eyes lively, and the full lips warm.

“Good morning, Miss Savoy,” I said. “Cocktail parties don’t appear to leave any scars on you.”

She straightened in her chair and glanced up at me swiftly, looking me over.

The one thing she could see in me was length; long legs, long arms, long face.

She smiled. “You look okay yourself, Walt Bonner.”

“Except for the face.”

“That’s okay, too. I like them grim.”

I sat down close to her. The spot was screened by a row of potted palms. The windows in front of us looked out on a side street.

“Did you see Arthur Detman?” I said.”

She frowned. “Detman?”

“Yes. Funny little guy who was at the party last night. I just saw him leave the hotel.”

“Oh, I remember him now. No, I didn’t see him. Why?”

“I don’t know. You know him well?”

“Oh, no. I’ve seen him around several places in the last few weeks, now that you mention it. But he always keeps in the background. He has some kind of a little business, I think someone told me. An accountancy office, or something of the kind.”

SO I shunted Arthur Detman out of my mind.

“I got a little fuzzy at the party last night,” I said. “I seem to remember there was a young lady present—a smash hit for looks —by the name of Reva Savoy. I had never met her before. I didn’t have much chance to talk to her, but I spent a lot of time looking at her.”

“Kind of you,” Reva Savoy said primly.

“Not at all. Then, quite late, this beauty came to me and asked me to call here at eleven o’clock this morning.”

“And here you are!”

“Yes. But it’s not a good idea—unless it’s strictly business.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“The obvious folly of a guy who has nothing getting tangled up with a dame who has plenty,” I said briskly, and peered at her anxiously. “This is business, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is.” Reva’s laugh was only faintly nervous. “So you’re broke, Walt?”

“Practically. Before the war, I had a father, and the father had cash a-plenty. I came back from distant lands to find that good old Dad had passed on, and somehow he had lost his cash first. So that’s why I happened to remark, at the party, that I was figuring on opening a private agency. I haven’t even got a license yet, but it appears that you already want to make use of my gifts. Let’s get to work.”

“I think,” Reva said thoughtfully, “I should tell you that I want you for only a short assignment, which will pay you well— if you’re lucky. I should also mention that it might be dangerous.”

“My head still aches,” I said. “Please make it simple.”

She snapped open a small, modish brown purse. Her long slender fingers plucked at something inside.

“Hold out your hand,” she said.

I did, palm up. Casually, she counted eleven one-hundred-dollar bills into the hand. I looked at the cash. “What do I do with all this wealth?”

“You go out to the track this afternoon,” she said. “And you wager the money on a horse named Adams’ Atom. This horse is number three in the seventh race.” She smiled brightly. “And, since you appear to be curious, Adams’ Atom is a small horse with lots of power, owned by a man named Adams.”

I had a folded copy of the morning Times in my pocket. I unfolded it to the racing page, ran my finger down the tabulated entries for the day.

“This journalistic tout,” I said dubiously, “doesn’t think much of your Adams’ Atom. Doesn’t even give him a chance. His comment is that the Atom hasn’t shown anything yet.”

“He hasn’t,” conceded Reva calmly. She lowered her pleasant voice. “The few times he’s been entered he’s finished well at the back of the pack. He wasn’t ready anyway— but, even so, he could have done better.”

“Tut,” I said disapprovingly. “You mean he was deliberately held back?”

“No. But the owner, Jack Adams, used the poorest jockeys he could get. Today, the Atom is ready, and Adams will use the best he can get. Makes a difference.”

“I hope you can afford to lose,” I said doubtfully.

“That,” Reva said tartly, “is beside the point. I know perfectly well that there’s always a chance of losing, no matter how good the set-up. I’m taking that chance. The Atom will go to the post a long-shot, probably about fifty to one. That means a thousand will bring me fifty thousand. I can use the extra money.”

I eyed the girl skeptically. She was smooth, she was smart, she had nerve. But it was obvious she wasn’t telling me everything.”

Excerpt From: J. Lane Linklater. “Don’t Tell Anyone.”

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