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Overview: Talmage Powell, pen names: Robert Hart Davis, Robert Henry, Milton T. Lamb, Milton T. Land, Jack McCready, Anne Talmage, and Dave Sands.
U.S. Author (1920 – 2000) Talmage Powell began his writing career in 1942. Mr. Powell created over 200 stories for the pulp fiction magazines writing in almost every genre and for all of the top magazines. After the demise of the pulps, Mr. Powell continued to write another 300 plus short stories for fiction magazines such as Ellery Queen, Alfred Hitchcock, Mike Shayne, Manhunt and Suspense.
Powell also had a number of successful novels published during the 1950s and 1960s. His Ed Rivers series is recognized as some of the best Private Investigator stories from that era. Mr. Powell also had written a number of novels under the Ellery Queen by line as well. He also contributed his creative talents to screenwriting and television work.
His Ed Rivers series is recognized as some of the best Private Investigator stories from that era. Mr. Powell also had written a number of novels under Powell also had a number of successful novels published during the 1950s and 1960s.
Genre: Fiction > Mystery/Thriller
The Killer Is Mine
The dirtiest killer of the year was the man private investigator Ed Rivers had to save from the chair. Wally Tulman, Florida socialite, had been convicted of molesting and murdering a young girl. Tulman’s lovely wife begged Rivers to take his case – to prove him innocent. Rivers wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. Then somebody tapped him over the head, just to make sure. Ed Rivers got the message. Somebody didn’t want him on the case. So he waded into it – with both fists flying.
The Girl’s Number Doesn’t Answer
Three people were dead, their heads bashed in, their bodies hacked with a samurai sword. All three victims were Japanese. The murder weapon was traced to Nick Martin, a veteran of Iwo Jima. Nick had spent fifteen pain-ridden years in and out of Army hospitals. He tried to drown his memories of the horror, but whisky only put him right back in the middle of that fierce battle. Nick drank a fifth the night of the killing. That’s the kind of case the police call ‘open and shut.’ But Ed Rivers, a private detective, was a friend of Nick Martin’s. And no one was shutting the door of a death cell on Nick – not while Rivers could still go after the real, fiendishly clever murderer.
Start Screaming Murder
I live in Tampa, Florida, where I work as a private cop. I’m six feet tall, weigh in at about one ninety, and am forty years old.
When I look in the mirror I see a heavy, bearish face, dark-tanned and creased, the thick lids giving the brown eyes a lazy look. Women either get a charge from that face or want to run from it. Men fear it or trust it to the hilt. It isn’t a face that ever meets a neutral reaction.
I’m not always happy about that, but it’s my face and I have to do the best I can with it.
With a Madman Behind Me
This one was for keeps. It started the night private eye Ed Rivers went to the rescue of a damsel in distress and almost ended up at the bottom of Tampa Bay. Ed knew who was lurking behind him. His name was Russ Leppert. Russ liked to kill people. Not for any real reason – just because he liked it. Then there was the man who had once been the business of hustling pornographic stag movies. He wanted to get back into the racket again, in a big way. And, of course, the middle-aged Dixieland musician named Straight Stuff Delaney. Was Straight Stuff blowing for kicks – or merely furnishing the fanfares for other murders to come?
Corpus Delectable
More than an hour had passed since Jean Putnam’s voice had promised on the phone that she would be there. As I started back to my office I gave a final look down the corridor, and suddenly she was there, framed in the stairwell. She was dressed in a very fetching pirate costume, the purposely ragged bottoms of her scarlet pants reaching to just below the hips. Her legs were bare from there on down to black oilcloth boots. She hadn’t moved, and a new sensation blew cold across the back of my neck. As I lunged for her she crumbled and fell backwards down the yawning stairwell. When I reached her on the next landing I saw that not all the redness was in her costume. A bullet had struck her in the back.
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