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Dynamite- Five Stories by J. Lane Linklater

Dynamite – Five Stories by J. Lane Linklater

Murder, kidnapping, and blackmail, on the high seas, in a private mountain compound, in the middle of the city. There’s always a crook who wants whatever he (or she) can take, and is willing to kill to get it.

Book Details

Book Details

Dynamite – Five Stories – Murder, kidnapping, and blackmail, on the high seas, in a private mountain compound, in the middle of the city. There’s always a crook who wants whatever he (or she) can take, and is willing to kill to get it.

Dead Men Aboard (1933) – Mystery and Romance on the High Seas
Chapter One – The Last Trip
Chapter Two – One in Seven
Chapter Three – No Evidence
Chapter Four – Reaching Back
Chapter Five – In Maple’s Cabin
Chapter Six – Miss Maple Explains
Chapter Seven – The Murderer Strikes

The Woman Brings Death (1936) – A G-Man Tries to Snare Lady Luck with a Seven Dollar Bauble
A three chapter novelet.

Dynamite (1929) – A get-away with reverse English

Homicide Landmark (1942) – The dick had to give up his job to get the real lowdown on a suicide rendezvous

Four Sly Men (1944) – Radio Engineer Tobias Tyler suddenly tunes in on death and discord when a startling conspiracy of grim murder and puzzling intrigue stalks a mysterious mansion in the wilderness!
Chapter I – Strange Welcome
Chapter II – Surprise Visitor
Chapter III – No Alibi
Chapter IV – Suspect List
Chapter V – A Mexican’s Pride
Chapter VI – Corpse of Mystery
Chapter VII – See Nothing, Know Nothing
Chapter VIII – Menace in the Dark
Chapter IX – Change All Around

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.

Dynamite – Five Stories contains 25 illustrations.

Files:

  1. Linklater-Dynamite.epub
Read Excerpt

Excerpt: Dead Men Aboard

Chapter One

The Last Trip

FIRST MATE JACK COBB last saw Captain Snow alive about eleven o’clock that Tuesday night, just before the captain turned in. Jack ran into him on the after-deck, where the captain was taking a last turn about. The captain stopped and spoke to him. Usually the old skipper was not particularly sociable, but tonight a dreary mood seemed to have settled on him, and it thawed the stiffness out of him.

“Well, Mr. Cobb,” he said, with a sort of mumble, “we’ll be parting company with her soon.”

“Yes, sir,” said the first mate, not without sympathy.

The captain was referring, of course, to the boat, the Pacific Beacon. She was a small craft, as ships go, carrying mostly freight, with a few passengers, but Captain Snow had been in command of her for a good many years. And this was her last trip.

The owners had decided that the Pacific Beacon had out-lived her usefulness. The captain would have contended that she was good for years yet, but the owners regretted that they could not agree with him. To their own sorrow — looking at it from a cash point of view — they had come to the conclusion that the captain’s pride and affection outweighed his judgment.

So, for the last time, the Pacific Beacon had sailed from San Pedro at seven o’clock that evening on its last regular run to San Francisco, after which it was destined for the bone-yard. Small wonder that Captain Snow was melancholy. His life was in those old sagging decks which his feet had trod for nearly a quarter of a century.

The captain had stopped pacing and was staring at the hazy outline of the California coast, as if he never expected to see it again. He was a great navigator, even if his command was small. His men often said that he could sense danger ahead for his ship without chart or compass, and avoid it. Perhaps he even then sensed danger for himself — although he could not avoid that.

There was an awkward pause. The captain said nothing. First Mate Jack Cobb was silent, too. Suddenly the captain turned on his heel and strode forward.

“Good night, Mr. Cobb,” he said thickly, over his shoulder.

“Good night, sir,” said Jack Cobb.

The captain disappeared, evidently going directly to his cabin. Jack, tall and spare, his pale, lean young face troubled, stared after him. Unbending, and a trifle hard, was old Captain Snow, but a great navigator and a fine man, and his young first mate nursed an unspoken affection for him.

Just before daybreak the next morning, a little before four bells, Fred Cary, quartermaster, rushed up to the bridge. Cary looked badly shaken.

“What’s up?” snapped Jack.

“The — the captain, sir,” stammered Cary.

“What about him?”

“Captain Snow, sir, is — is dead!”

“What sort of a joke is this?” roared Jack.”

“He’s dead, sir,” repeated Cary solemnly. “One of the deck hands just found him. Down on the well-deck, sir. He — he must have slipped and fallen from above, sir.”

His face dead white, his heart almost stopped, Jack raced forward and down the stairway to the well-deck. There a little knot of seamen, in the murky gloom just preceding dawn, were gathered about a tall, gaunt form flung on the deck in a pitiful heap. With the seamen was one of the passengers.

Jack bent down and touched the body reverently. It needed no technical examination to confirm the quartermaster’s tale. Captain Snow was dead.

Gently and with great care, Jack lifted his head and turned it about. There was blood, still fresh, in the gray hair. There were streaks of blood down the sides of his face.

Jack straightened.

“Carry the captain,” he said hoarsely, “to his cabin.”

Quietly, several of the men picked him up and carried him up the stairway and put him on his bed in the cabin which had been his for a large part of his life. Jack; accompanied them. The men stood about a bit, respectfully, until Jack waved them out, giving one of them a message for the radio operator. And soon he was left with the dead man.

He sat in a chair and looked at his dead chief. His eyes were hard and his heart was bitter. For years Jack Cobb had looked forward to the day when he would have a command of his own, when he would be master of a ship. That day had come! But under what circumstances! He was master of a ship which was on its last trip, and its old master dead!

And how dead? Accident? Had the old skipper really slipped and fallen? First mate — now captain — Jack Cobb knew better. Captain Snow would not have slipped and fallen. And there, on that fine old head, was evidence of a blow which had been made by a brutal instrument in human hands.

“Murdered!” Jack muttered savagely.

“Murdered!”

Excerpt From: J. Lane Linklater. “Dynamite – Five Stories.”

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