The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
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Contents
DEATH IN THE BACK SEAT, by Dorothy Cameron Disney
THE SIXTH SENSE, by Stephen McKenna
NO CLUE, by James Hay
THE WINNING CLUE, by James Hay, Jr.
The MEGAPACK® Ebook Series
COPYRIGHT INFO
The Classic Msytery Novel MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2016 by Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.
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The MEGAPACK® ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.
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The Sixth Sense, by Stephen McKenna, was originally published in 1915.
Death in the Back Seat, by Dorothy Cameron Disney, was originally published in 1936.
No Clue, by James Hay, was originally published in 1919.
The Winning Clue, by James Hay, was originally published in 1920.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
For this volume, we are pleased to present 4 classic mystery novels, originally published between 1915 and 1936. Hours of great reading await you.
Enjoy!
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidepress.com
ABOUT THE SERIES
Over the last few years, our MEGAPACK® ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”
The MEGAPACK® ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Sam Cooper, Helen McGee and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)
RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?
Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK® ebook series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://wildsidepress.forumotion.com/ (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).
Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.
TYPOS
Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.
If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected] or use the message boards above.
DEATH IN THE BACK SEAT, by Dorothy Cameron Disney
Copyright © 1936 by Random House, Inc.
DEDICATION
For Mac
CHAPTER ONE
Hilltop House
Jack and I returned to New York a month ago. It is dull but we like it. Our friends come to see us, crowd our small apartment, drink our liquor and talk endlessly of books and plays and life and generalities. No one ever mentions our stay in the country. So far as the crowd is concerned, the entire State of Connecticut has fallen under a conversational ban.
But, as is natural, everyone thinks and wonders about those confused and dreadful events which occurred so long ago and yet so recently. I think, too. Memories get in my way and spoil my sleep. I pound my pillow and close my eyes, and there rises before me in the darkness a big white house, gaunt and stark against a barren hill; there comes to my ears the ghostly echo of a dog’s wild barking: and I fancy that I can smell once more the peculiar, unmistakable odor of earth, freshly dug.
Small things bother me: the unexpected rustle of a newspaper, the stir of a curtain at the window, the sound of a footfall in the hall outside our living room. I find it hard to sit quietly when the doorbell rings, and I’ve developed a passion for buying lamps and keeping them brightly lighted.
My nervous system isn’t what it was, Jack, my husband, who is sensitive, imaginative and, in addition, a grand guy, knows that. It was he who suggested I write this story. We talked the matter out, and borrowing from the psychologists, finally decided that for me perhaps the best way to forget would be first to remember. Once I set down on paper a record of everything which occurred between the 20th of last March and the 9th of April. I trust and believe my mind will be free at last.
On the second day of January, exactly six months ago, Jack and I changed our post-office address from New York City to Crockford, Connecticut. Our plan, and a good plan it seemed, was that Jack should paint, that I should write, that we should live simply and save large sums of money. We knew very little about Connecticut, and our first information concerning Crockford was gathered from the following dignified advertisement in The Nation:
Colonial cottage, dating back to 1760, charmingly furnished, modern conveniences, 35 acres of beautiful hilly country, advantages of Long Island Sound, $30 a month—Luella Coatesnash, Hilltop House, Crockford, Conn.
In print the proposition sounded perfect. We favored both price and location. Our budget wouldn’t cover guests, and we hoped to avoid expensive and riotous weekends. At the tag end of two city years, we had wearied of liquor bills, hangover mornings and Bohemia’s doubtful pleasures, and longed for the reputed peace and quiet of country life.
Crockford, Connecticut, 27 miles beyond New Haven, is more than 100 miles from New York and is difficult to reach except by motor car, although buses do leave New Haven twice daily. The cottage described in the advertisement was six miles from Crockford, long, country miles along a rutted country road. On a December afternoon, accompanied by a dyspeptic, melancholy real-estate agent, we inspected the cottage. It was a small square house of the salt-box type; it sat primly at the foot of a steeply climbing hill; it looked very clean, sedate and beautiful against the snow-white landscape. Enchanted by our first glimpse of an unspoiled New England, Jack and I caught each other’s hands and stared open-mouthed. Yellow pines encircled the cottage; a flagged path led to its lovely fan-light door; a stone fence neatly framed the cottage, the pines and a minute patch of land. In recollection the whole day stands forth as singularly gay and foolish.
“What’s the fence for?” Jack asked.
“Maybe it’s to keep out wolves.”
“What if there aren’t any wolves?”
“Never mind. We’ll have each other.”
Ten days later we moved in. The loneliness and isolation were pleasant in the beginning. We enjoyed owning a telephone which seldom rang and looking out upon a road where the simultaneous passage of two cars constituted a traffic jam. We delighted in undressing shamelessly, with no thought of lowering the window shades. Everything was different, fresh, exciting—the sweeping distances of hills and trees, the sparkling air, the deep cathedral quiet, the early darkness which fell swiftly like a curtain.
The modern conveniences turned out to be a small, undependable bathroom and electric lights. Floor plugs were entirely absent and the fixtures were horrible, bulbous affairs hung from ceilings so low that for a time Jack, who is tall, threatened