Three Strikes You're Dead

Dear Readers,

Many years ago I discovered one of the greatest talents of the fiction industry. I read my first Nero Wolfe novel by Rex Stout. Time passed and each book I read drew me deeper into the web of the rotund genius of fiction fame.

Being a mystery novice, I reached the end of the line all too soon... or so I thought. Rex Stout was deceased. No more Nero Wolfe? Gasp! Then a gentle little woman in a used bookstore offered me a gift. She handed me a novel by Robert Goldsborough and I found new pleasure.

Now, years later, I can proudly say that I am the owner of copies of the ongoing series of Nero Wolfe novels written by Mr. Goldsborough. So imagine my surprise when a referral brought Robert Goldsborough and me together. I owe a huge debt of appreciation to Augie Aleksy of Centuries & Sleuths of Forest Park, IL for introducing us.

Mr. Goldsborough’s talents run as deep as Mr. Stout’s, and Echelon Press is proud to bring you the newest novel by this master of storytelling. Three Strikes You’re Dead takes readers back in time to 1938 Chicago and introduces a new kind of hero.

Echelon Press is always pleased to hear your thoughts and suggestions for how we can make our publishing house your publishing house! Please send your comments to echelonpress@gmail.com.

Happy Reading!

Karen L. Syed, President

Echelon Press

Prologue

The rain had stopped, but the cold, damp wind knifed from all directions. Traffic on Broadway had dwindled to the occasional taxi slushing along the wet pavement. The figure huddled against the brick wall of one of the buildings flanking the parking lot, beyond the faint light from a single bulb mounted on a telephone pole.

Neither the wall nor a turned-up coat collar and pulled-down hat kept out the March night. The waiting figure ached, from wet face to throbbing calves to numbed, cold feet that made squishing noises inside soaked shoes. The chimes of a nearby church tolled a single note, marking yet another quarter-turn — 11:15.

More than three hours. The blowhard’s probably babbling on about how he’s going to clean things up. Make the city safe. Right.

The dark green ’35 Lincoln Le Baron roadster with its side-mounted spare tire was one of only five machines left in the dingy parking lot wedged between two darkened buildings. The rest of the local do-gooders must have taken taxis or streetcars. Not everybody had the kind of money in these hard times to afford a car, let alone a snazzy Lincoln. Now if he only came out by himself...

As the chimes struck the half-hour, footsteps came from the direction of the restaurant. The figure drew in air and struggled to keep from shaking, then tensed when a man reached the circle of light. Slender... wearing a fedora... him? Yes! No, not tall enough. The man walked toward a black Chevrolet coupe as the waiting figure edged back into a recessed doorway of the building. The Chevy started with a cough and pulled out onto Broadway, and the figure relaxed the grip on the cold, nickeled steel nestled in a coat pocket.

Another quarter hour passed. More footsteps. This time it had to be him. Yes. The confident, self-assured stride, long arms swinging at his sides, his ego fed by the mindless adulation of the group in the restaurant. The love of being at center stage and hearing the applause. He headed for the sporty roadster. And he was alone.

The figure emerged from the alcove, slowly but with purpose. The shivers of a few minutes ago had passed, replaced by resolve, and the hand that gripped the automatic was dry and steady. Any lingering doubts were erased by memories and hatred.

The tall man stopped just short of his car and cocked his head as if he’d heard something. The waiting figure’s hand tightened on the gun. The tall man pivoted deliberately, noticed the figure, then leaned forward at the waist, raising a hand tentatively, as if in recognition.

The heavy, damp night muted the single shot.