Frank Packard – författare

An incredible collection of the world''s best classic mystery novels, proudly presented by Serapis Classics! Featuring: THE ABANDONED ROOM, by Wadsworth Camp THE SHRIEKING PIT, by Arthur Rees THE NEW TENANT, by E. Phillips Oppenheim THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE, by Frank Packard THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND CANDLES, by Meredith Nicholson THE DOCTOR HIS WIFE AND THE CLOCK, by Anna Katharine Green THE MYSTERY OF THE SECRET BAND, by Edith Lavell

A tale of gambling and mystery.Excerpt:A wild and prolonged roar came from every quarter of the race track. It swelled in volume. It came again and again. Pandemonium itself seemed loosed. Outside the enclosure, a squat, fat man, the perspiration rolling in streams down his face, tugged at his collar with frantic, nervous jerks, as he leaned in over the side of a high-powered car, and with his other hand gripped at the arm of the young man in the driver''s seat. "Dave, listen to ''em! My God, listen to ''em!" snarled the fat man. Dave Henderson, with the toe of his boot, moved the little black satchel that the other had dropped on the floor of the car farther to one side; and, by way of excuse for disengaging his arm, reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

A hansom cab, somewhat woebegone in appearance, threaded its way in a curiously dejected manner through the heart of New York''s East Side. A fine drizzle fell, through which the street lamps showed as through a mist; and, with the pavements slippery, the emaciated looking horse, the shafts jerking and lifting up at intervals around its ears, appeared hard put to it to preserve its footing. The cabman on his perch drove with his coat collar turned up and his chin on his breast. He held the reins listlessly, permitting the horse to choose its own gait. At times he lifted the little trap door in the roof of the cab and peered into the interior; occasionally his hand, tentatively, hesitantly, edged toward a bulge in his coat pocket--only to be drawn back again in a sort of panic haste.

"There is a Valley called the Valley of Illusion, but beyond it, sun-crowned, is the Peak of Eternal Truth.and the Way from the Valley to the Peak is sore beset, for the Way is the Understanding of Things Real, and its Achievement is the Fullness of Life. It was a wilder gust than any that had gone before. It tore along the beach with maniacal fury; and, shrieking in a high, devilishly-gleeful falsetto, while the joints of the little inn, rheumatic with age, squeaked in its embrace, shook the Taverne du Bas Rhône much after the fashion of a terrier shaking a rat. And with that gust, loosening the dilapidated fastening on the casement, a window crashed inward, shattering the pane against the wall."

His name was somewhat confusing. It might be either French or English, according to the twist that was given to its pronunciation.and Three-Ace Artie could give it either twist with equal facility. He confessed to being a Canadian.which was the only confession of any nature whatsoever that Three-Ace Artie had ever been known to make. He spoke English in a manner that left no doubt in the world but that it was his native language.except in the mind of Canuck John, the only French Canadian in the camp, who was equally positive that in the person of Three-Ace Artie he had unquestionably found a compatriot born to the French tongue.

Set in New York''s shady underbelly of crime, we follow Rhoda Gray, alias The White Moll, as she strives to do good but finds herself framed by criminals who also blame her for ruining their schemes. Rhoda Gray devoted her life protecting the poor and weak in the underworld of New York City, and became known as The White Moll, a fearless crime fighter. But when she helps Gypsy Nan, who turns out not to be what she seemed, The White Moll is accused of a crime she didn''t commit. Pulled into the criminal world and on the run from the police, she plays against fearful odds to beat the most notorious crime gang in New York City.

Two switch lights twinkled; one at the east, and one at the west end of the siding. For the rest all was blackness. Half way between the switch lights, snuggled close against the single-tracked main line, the station, little more than a shanty and too insignificant to boast a night operator, loomed up shadowy and indistinct. Away to the westward, like jagged points sticking up into the night and standing out in relief against the skyline, the Rockies reared their peaks. And the spell of the brooding mountains seemed to lie over all the desolate, butte-broken surrounding country -- for all was utter silence.

He was a misshapen thing, bulking a black blotch in the night at the entrance of the dark alleyway-like some lurking creature in its lair. He neither stood, nor kneeled, nor sat-no single word would describe his posture-he combined all three in a sort of repulsive, formless heap. The Flopper moved. He came out from the alleyway onto the pavement, into the lurid lights of the Bowery, flopping along knee to toe on one leg, dragging the other leg behind him-and the leg he dragged was limp and wobbled from the knee. One hand sought the pavement to balance himself and aid in locomotion; the other arm, the right, was twisted out from his body in the shape of an inverted V, the palm of his hand, with half curled, contorted fingers, almost touching his chin, as his head sagged at a stiff, set angle into his right shoulder. Hair straggled from the brim of a nondescript felt hat into his eyes, and curled, dirty and unshorn, around his ears and the nape of his neck. His face was covered with a stubble of four days'' growth, his body with rags-a coat; a shirt, the button long since gone at the neck; and trousers gaping in wide rents at the knees, and torn at the ankles where they flapped around miss-mated socks and shoes.