The latest enthralling, eye-popping, edge-of-the-seat, plot-deciphering, maze-like-intricate murder case for Inspector Cullot and his world-famous Murder Squad to unravel like a master knot-undoer, and dissect like a surgeon’s scalpel.
Three rich, old men are gruesomely murdered in the poshest London apartments imaginable. There are a whole host of potential suspects, nearly all of them, of whatever sex, of stunning beauty and gorgeous allure. Can Cullot and his Team find their way through the twisting maze of possibilities, and seize the foul fiend (or fiends) before it’s too late?
Greater urgency is given to Cullot’s investigatory pursuit when sexy Stephanie, his gorgeous love-child, is herself kidnapped… Can Cullot get to her in time? And is the love of Cullot’s life, the famed ex-movie star, Janice Butler, somehow involved?
Here’s the excerpt:
“Well, your job, Blunt, and a very important one it is, is to apprehend the person who is at this very moment hiding within it, and causing it to wobble ever so, so slightly which, to anybody who does not share my unique acuity of ocular perception, would be quite unnoticeable.”
“Who is it, daddy? Is it the murderer?”
Blunt advanced fearlessly towards the wardrobe, twirling his trusty British Police helmet in his hand as he geared up for whatever physical danger awaited him.
As he approached, the wardrobe’s left door was flung open, smashing into Blunt’s face, occasioning a yell of pain to issue from his bruised and battered lips.
A figure burst out from the wardrobe’s inner depths, colliding viciously with the stumbling Blunt, sending him flying to the right where he ended up on the plush carpet, all twisted limbs and groaning moans.
Sergeant Watkins moved swiftly to intercept the running figure as it made for the door and possible escape.
The figure was wearing a long, loose-shaped beige raincoat, and a wide-brimmed hat pulled low to hide its face, no doubt both handy items nicked from the wardrobe’s contents.
As Watkins neared the flying figure, a long-fingered hand shot out into Watkins’s face, causing a yelp of pain and an instinctive stumble as his hands moved to his cheek.
It seemed the route to the door was unhindered, but, just as the running figure was about to reach out for the welcome knob, Stephanie, who had expertly positioned herself, dangled a convenient high-heeled-shod foot in front of the figure, caught its shin and sent the figure crashing to the floor, fetching up with a wincing thud against the door itself.
Stephanie strode over to the crumpled figure and snatched off its now askew hat.
As the forlorn figure seemed for a moment to be about to resist, in a plaintive, anguished frenzy of itchy movement, Stephanie gave a vicious slap across the figure’s face, forcing its head to jolt against the door, thereby bringing into view a shock of long, blonde hair.
“OK, darling,” Stephanie warned in a sinister drawl, “I’d advise you to know when to quit.”
“My God, it’s a woman!” exclaimed Sergeant Watkins rather sheepishly, as he moved towards the figure sprawled on the floor, all the while clutching a handkerchief to his bleeding cheek.
The young woman glanced up at Stephanie, her indomitable conqueror, who was standing tall above her, legs astride, mini-black-dressed, firm-limbed and muscle-rippling. The young woman sighed and fell back against the door.
“Splendid work, Stephanie!” called out an elated Cullot, as he too neared the door.
Moans could still be heard emanating from the other side of the room, from the inert, lumpen mass that was PC Blunt.
“Go and help Blunt to his feet, will you, Watkins?” commanded the great man.
“And what’s your name, then?” Stephanie asked gruffly, as the young woman stirred herself into a sitting position, looking unsurely from Cullot to Stephanie and back.
“Hilda,” she replied in something of a whisper.
Stephanie stepped forward and roughly grabbed hold of the woman’s raincoat, causing her to wince at Stephanie’s menacing attitude.
Stephanie pulled hard at the raincoat, forcing the woman to rise falteringly to her feet as she was rudely divested of the coat, revealing a lithe, slim figure dressed in a tight-fitting, blue dress.
“A German whore, I would say, brought in to mete out some Teutonic pleasures to this apartment-block’s rich and demanding clientele,” opined Stephanie, with a glance at Cullot, who had now been joined by Watkins, and the stooping figure of PC Blunt, breathing heavily from his exertions, supported by Watkins’s hands gripped around his arm.
“Without doubt, Stephanie,” murmured Cullot. “Blunt, if you have managed to recover your senses, I want you to place Hilda under arrest and take her to Scotland Yard.”
“Of course, sir,” said Blunt. “Is she the murderer, sir?”
“Murderer of whom, Blunt?”
“Well, of the young lady on the sofa, sir,” said Blunt, turning round towards the sofa to have another swift gawp at her superb, if tragically inert body.
“Time will tell, Blunt,” answered the Inspector enigmatically.