Publicity for the Corpse – Two Johnny Castle Novelettes by C.S. Montanye

Book Details

Publicity For The Corpse – Two Johnny Castle Novelettes – Johnny Castle was a New York sports writer. Castle was tougher than most sports writers and it’s a good thing he was – he always seemed to wind up in the middle of a murder.

Publicity For The Corpse (1944) – Johnny Castle, sports writer, seeks an interview with a South American Lightweight wonder—and finds a murder mystery that all but knocks him out for the count before the final solution bell rings!
Chapter I- KID FROM RIO
Chapter II- SUCKER
Chapter III- CRIMSON SPLASHED
Chapter IV- MULLIN CALLS
Chapter V- GREEN MOUSE
Chapter VI- SKELETONS RATTLE

Slight Touch of Satan (1944) – Sports writer Johnny Castle tries to protect famous ex-jockey Eddie Ring—and steps right into a diabolical murder maze of race-track bookies, criminal syndicates and notorious gangsters!
Chapter I- TRIGGER MORTIS
Chapter II- TIME: 10:27
Chapter III- JOHNNY IS FLOORED
Chapter IV- AT THE MACARIMBO
Chapter V- MIRACLE GUN
Chapter VI- CONFESSION A LA MODE

C.S. Montanye (1892-1948) was one of the most prolific writers of Pulp crime fiction.

Publicity For The Corpse – Two Johnny Castle Novelettes has 10 illustrations.

Files:

1. publicityForTheCorpse.epub

Excerpt: Slight Touch of Satan

Chapter I

TRIGGER MORTIS

THE semi-final came up after the main fracas—to make the exiting easier. But most of the cash customers, bored by the time the main bout concluded, began filtering out.

“Cauliflower Acres,” or the “Land of Dreams,” as I sometimes referred to Madison Square Garden in the sonnets I wrote for the Orbit, had a gallery of around twelve thousand that night. Which made the gate approximately forty grand.

I left the press department and shoved along with the others bound for the cool night air.

The star go hadn’t been much. A couple of second-rate welters had traded leather without a knockdown. There had been a minimum of gore. Which, of course, hadn’t set well with the fans who liked eyes gouged out and faces torn apart.

There was grumbling all around me.

“I issued out on Eighth Avenue, still hemmed in by the mob, and thinking about Harvey’s Chop House around the corner, when a hand came up and grabbed my arm.

“Mr. Castle! Just a minute—”

The party who put on the stop didn’t scale an inch over five feet in his nude feet. If he weighed a hundred and ten pounds, dripping wet, the scale was screwy. He had a wrinkled, young-antique pan, and a couple of worried eyes.

Also, he was perfumed with the rare, ripe odor of bottled goods.

I recognized him as Eddie Ring, an ex-jockey who, the year previous, had been ruled off the turf forever. The judges had gotten tired of setting him down. Eddie was an expert when it came to whaling heck out of a horse with one hand and choking him to death with the other.

He had plenty of pull, but it wasn’t the right kind!

Yet, the kid had been one of the best jocks the hide ovals had ever known. His judge of pace was beautiful.

He had a pair of unequaled hands, a daring in the saddle.

When he rode honest, he had brought in winners that looked like dray horses anywhere from the start to the four-furlong marker.

I was really fond of the little tosspot.

Once I had written quite a piece about Eddie Ring. It was the day after he had piloted Reggie Allerton’s great bay colt, Sir Rodney, first under the wire in one of the Belmont classics.

And that after Sir Rodney had been practically knocked to his knees as he was leaving the gate!

“Can I see you a minute?” Eddie’s straight Bourbon voice shook a little. He looked scared to death. “Any place! But— quick! I’ve got a tail on me!”

We ebbed out to the curb. Cabs came up in a long line.

I didn’t ask questions. I opened the door of the nearest taxi, pushed Eddie in and followed.

“Uptown, driver. Lenox Hill Apartments.”

Eddie took a gander through the back pane before he relaxed with a sigh.

“I think we slipped him.”

“What goes, kid?”

He twisted around. His teeth began to chatter like a couple of castanets. Now that he had shaken the one following him, the reaction left him jittery.

“Duke Kimball—somebody gunned him not thirty minutes ago!” He husked the words out, shivering. “I—I stopped in to see him! He was stiff and I ducked. There was a car in front of his place! Some guy got out and trailed me—”

I sat up straighter.

The Duke Kimball mentioned happened to be the trainer for the same wealthy Reginald Allerton who owned Sir Rodney. Kimball was the turf’s leading trainer. What Eddie Ring told me represented news—important news for anyone drawing weekly wages from a metropolitan newspaper.

In his own way, the Duke was as well known as the Brooklyn Dodgers, only nobody ever called him a bum.

“Hold it!” I grabbed the kid’s arm. “Where was Kimball bumped, what’s the address?”

Eddie spilled and I told the hackie to pull to the curb.

“You’re leaving!”

Eddie’s tone had a touch of hysteria when he saw me reach for the door handle.

I spoke fast.

“Look, kid. You go up there and wait. Apartment Four F. I’ve got something to nose into. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Roll, bud,” I directed the driver, handing him a couple of bucks. “Take this gentleman to where I told you. Get going.”

Then I cut across the avenue, flagged a southbound cab and hopped aboard.

Excerpt From: C.S. Montanye. “Publicity For The Corpse – Two Johnny Castle Novelettes.”