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When a lush brunette turns up unexpectedly dead in a stranger's bed, and an antique dealer (who is "mostly legit") settles down in an easy chair with a dagger in his back, and a big-time gambler drops all bets on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood--then Peter Chambers, fiction's most eye-catching, hard-boiled private eye, finds himself staked out as victim number 4 in a high-priced game of death and international intrigue.
A petulant blonde bombshell with a deadly taste for danger ... A ham actor who stars dramatically in his own murder ... A sharpshooting hoodlum who takes his killing casually ... And a lady Greek philosopher with "the longest, shapeliest legs in New York" ... These are only a few of the characters who mix it up with Peter Chambers, as fiction's most eye-catching private eye vaults from one lighting-paced, hard-boiled adventure to another.
Take a beautiful woman - no, take two or even three beautiful women, take some money, throw in a con man and a hustler or two, even a rich and respected publisher and a bank v.p. won't hurt. Add people's natural avariciousness, a couple of gruesome murders and sex-crimes, and mix well with Peter Chambers.The result: one of the most intriguing, fast-moving, exciting suspense thrillers of the year - all in the inimitable Henry Kane manner.This is one you won't ever forget.
''Are you a ladykiller?'' the vision asked. She had skin like cream, hair like jet, and a body that could turn any male into an instant sex-maniac. With a wicked little smile, she moved closer to Peter Chambers. ''I devour ladykillers,'' she murmured.A hot bout of serious slaughter and insincere sex in which Manhattan's sleuth-about-town Peter Chambers investigates the early death of a dancehall hostess who would do anything for love . . . and much much more for money.
Jason Touraine was irresistible to dissatisfied wives, lonely women, and roving females on the make. He had innocent eyes, an athlete s body . . . and a tape recorder fashioned to look like a busy man s attache case. This he always placed under the bed. And when the amorous antics were over, he ran a play-back for his love. After the play-back . . . came the pay-off. It was a great life. But it ended suddenly one night when a bullet from a lady s gun smashed right through Jason s head
Lady on the Make:She was a gorgeous Greek with a classic chassis. When she smoldered her way into a hot tumble with Peter Chambers, the fast-living private eye didn't know whether he was in heaven, or tangling with a torrid she-devil.
Beverly Crystal had a million-dollar idea and a circle of "friends" who would never force her to hunt around for enemies.The happy crew included:Danny the Dance: who waltzed his way through life like a man sliding down a banister made of razor-blades.Mickey Bokino: who let money flow through his fingers like the acid he kept ready for people who couldn't, or wouldn't, pay him back.Vinnie Veneto: who owned everything and everybody and had his fingers in more pies than a drunken pasty chef on the morning after.And:Peter Chambers: a private eye with a buck to make and more than a couple of murders to solve ... provided the law couldn't pin the couple already committed on one Peter Chambers.It was neck and neck all the way, with Death closing in in the backstretch and a loaded gun in an unknown hand waiting at the finish line.
The only uninvited guest was--murder!The host and the principal guests at the wildest, wickedest masquerade ball of the society season were:A playboy millionaire with more women than is good for the health of one man.A golden-limbed vixen who came masquerading as "Eve"--and wearing as little.A costumed killer with a murder in mind.And Peter Chambers, private eye ...
The game of murder: it's not a pretty game. The players are weird. They don't fit in with normal people, sensible people - people who don't get a kick out of shoving in the knife, ripping through the flesh, seeing the bright red spurt . . . Peter Chambers knows the game of murder. He's not a player - more of a referee. He sees them all: the murder for profit, the murder for fun. Sometimes he's on the receiving end. And when sex gets mixed with murder, it's almost enough to make a guy give up sex - for a day or two.
The proposition sounded like a pushover.All Peter Chambers had to do was find out where a teen-aged chorine had been for the past month and why. And for that information the girl's father, a prosperous banker, would pay Chambers a cool thousand dollars.It was a quick way to earn some easy money. So Chambers thought . . . until he found out that the fistful of cash carried a little something extra along with it - A FISTFUL OF DEATH.
Peter Chambers is a private richard who has a real affinity for trouble. He hasn't any notion at all who polished off the nasty blonde with the round hole between her eyes--or the little man swinging by the neck from a bedroom window. Peter has strong incentives for finding out the answers--partly because the only thing he can do is break the case wide open before the going gets too rough; but mainly because his fee is Miami Moonbeam, six feet of ravishing, red-haired woman.
"She turned her head, young, pale, with enormous black eyes. She looked at me, but she didn't see me. I saw her: the round smooth face and the deep black eyes and the full curved glossy mouth, a red underlip protruding in a pout that flicked at your libido despite the flung-about furniture and the dead man turned to the ceiling and the narrow wind pushing in through the broken window and the blue gun in both her hands. Meet Stella, whose eighteen-year-old cry is that Cleopatra was Queen of Egypt at seventeen. Stella, who makes the merely voluptuous seem passe. But then, she is only a teenager, and doesn't even a Private Richard have a conscience?
The first night with her led to a file of blackmail photographs worth a fortune.The second night with her led to danger, violence, and sudden death.The third night with her led to the one mistake no private eye should ever make ... not even Peter Chambers.
A leggy torch singer of bawdy ballads with an eye-opening dance routine to match . . .A lady jewelry designer with an exclusive - deadly - clientele . . .A sweet young bride with a drawerful of illicit letters that her husband never wrote . . .And murder - three lush man-traps mixed up in the murder of a fourth - all set to explode as Peter Chambers, fiction's most hard-boiled private-eye, dodges bullets on a murder trail from the plush retreats of high society to after-hours Greenwich Village!
Olga was the sexy young wife of an old millionaire. She wore black painted toenails, a small black Luger, and very little else.Anabel was a talented stripper with an act that drove the customers wild. She wore nothing at all--and got rich that way.When private eye Peter Chambers investigates a strange death and stranger blackmail, he winds up in a deadly duel with hoods, racketeers, vice-lords, and two females who are sheer murder!
A night-club owner gunned down at his own bar--an editor gutted with an antique switchblade--a smuggler who took five shots in the back--a millionaire whose "suicide" didn't make sense ...Each killing left the cops high and dry--fine. Because that meant someone had to hire me, Chambers, to find the killer. For a fat fee, and you can bet I earn every dollar. And with girls like Lola, Marcia, Kathy, Angelica, and the rest, each case has such nice fringe benefits ...
It's nice to be a millionaire.Money can buy you darn near anything. It can buy you things you're only supposed to get for love. It can buy you the best-looking women--in a city where good-looking women come high.It can buy a professional private eye--like Peter Chambers--to make sure the girls stay bough.It can buy you the roughest, toughest strong-arm men going--if the private eye gets too interested in his work.In fact, Chambers's millionaires can even buy a murder.The trouble is, he never knows when the murder is going to be his own.
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