By Larry Karp
It is a attractive June day in long island, yet now not for Thomas Purdue. His pal Edna Reynolds calls to assert she's simply murdered Marcus Wilcox, a tinhorn inside clothier who is been harassing her. whereas attempting to try out an strange song field his pal Broadway Schwartz has sighted in an area vintage shop, Thomas is instructed they've got no such field. after which he will get an pressing ER name to return deal with his buddy Frank the Crank, who is been badly overwhelmed up.
Dead our bodies gather; so do sightings of the mysterious song field. Edna makes a decision Thomas wishes her support and calls in octogenarian music-box broker Sophie Soleski, safecracker Cleveland Gackle, super-antiques-picker Broadway Schwartz, and Jitters Levitsky, a tender guy with an strange yet worthy neurological ailment. massive Al Resford flies in from London, bringing his personal specific services.
In this complicated, considerate sequel to The tune field Murders and Scamming the Birdman, Thomas must healthy jointly a few very oddly-shaped puzzle items -- yet disastrously misses an important clue of all!
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Additional resources for The Midnight Special: A Thomas Purdue Mystery
I wondered how he managed to put up with it, day after day after endless day. He was either a saint or a con artist; tough sometimes to tell one from the other. Or he and Lettie might've both been grifters—but if they were, they were good. " Here his voice broke, cheeks went red, eyes filled. He wiped a shirtsleeve across them. Was he putting me on? Didn't think so. His pictures were undeniably those of the music box Lucas Sterne appraised and Schwartz later saw, spruced up, in Wilcox's shop. That little cinnamon-chomping slimesack must have cuddled up with Barton Moss, certainly anyone's match in an oozing contest, got Hartmann's music box spiffy, men sold it on the spot to a Mr.
About your music box. " At my elbow I felt Schwartz freeze. I held my breath, hoped Hartmann'd be sufficiently curious or concerned that he'd give us a better reception than Moss had. The old man ran eye tape over us. Finally he nodded. "I'll buzz you in. " He vanished, then the buzzer sounded. I pushed through the doorway, Schwartz right behind me. By the time the door closed Hartmann was waiting for us in his open doorway. He was big, six-two or three, about two hundred well-packed pounds. Nicely dressed: light-blue silk shirt, crisp dark-blue summer worsted pants.
We pushed past the rusty gate, walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door. No bell. I knocked once, then again, harder. Nothing. Schwartz pointed to me shed. " We picked our way through the piebald meadow, trying to keep to bare spots, the better to avoid the dog turd concealed in the high grasses. Barton didn't own a dog, never did, but it was as if the neighborhood pooches had gotten together and designated Barton Moss's yard as their regional drop point I put my ear to the shed door, heard nothing.
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