: Fred M. White
: Rafat Allam
: Blackmail!
: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
: 9781122415842
: 1
: CHF 5.60
:
: Spannung
: English
: 280
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
Blackmail! by Fred M. White is a riveting tale of dark secrets and hidden agendas. When a prominent politician falls victim to a blackmailer, a web of deceit, manipulation, and treachery unfolds. With reputations on the line and stakes higher than ever, those involved must race against time to uncover the blackmailer's identity before everything is destroyed. But as the tension builds, it becomes clear that no one is truly innocent, and every secret comes with a price. Will they outsmart the mastermind, or will they fall victim to the shadowy force pulling the strings? A gripping story that will leave you guessing until the very end.

Fred M. White (1859-1935) was a British author known for his prolific output of mystery, adventure, and speculative fiction. He is most famous for his early science fiction disaster novels, particularly 'The Doom of London' series, which depicted catastrophic events befalling the city. White wrote hundreds of short stories and serialized works, which were popular in magazines during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. His works contributed significantly to the development of early science fiction and thriller genres.

I. — A MAN OF LETTERS


A pool of light cast by the shaded lamps on the dinner table picked out the points of old silver and the ruby lakes in the cut-glass decanters. A pile of filberts stood up russet warm against gleaming mahogany. The cloth had been drawn, as was the post-prandial custom at Broadwater. Narcissus might have lingered lovingly over that polished, flawless board. Lancelot Massey put his claret down somewhat hastily, and Sir George sighed. The thought of a scratch on that mahogany poisoned his after-dinner cigarette.

"My dear boy," Sir George said, plaintively,"it cannot, must not be. Excuse me; your glass seemed to grate somewhat. I hope you haven't—"

Lance hastened to assure his uncle and his host that no damage had been done. The thin, handsome, white face opposite relaxed into a smile. Sir George looked upon himself more as the curator of a priceless gallery of art than the master of Broadwater. The big oak-panelled dining-room might have been looted for the Wallace collection, with advantage to the latter. Five generations of Masseys had been collectors. There were pictures beyond price, china with a history, intaglios of spotless pedigree. The prints and engravings at Broadwater had a national reputation. And Sir George was a man of letters. He published slim volumes of essays, poetry faintly clear on large margins. At present he was engaged on a play that would revolutionise the stage. That his mind was slightly going only Lancelot and the family physician knew. At 65 most of the Masseys became insane, in a highly-bred, gentlemanly way, the result of too much inter-marrying. Lance's mother had been a robust North Country girl, and Lance was very little of a Massey, as Sir George frequently reminded him. Still, he had all the refinement and artistic sense of the race; his novels were slowly lifting him to the front rank, and a recent comedy had brought him a reputation. And now he was down at Broadwater, re-writing a drama that had been going the rounds in England and in America for years.

It would not go begging now, though it required considerable alteration. Lance could see that in the light of recent experience. But the great novel idea was there. Some day that play was going to become classic.

"I tell you it cannot be," Sir George repeated.

Lance started guiltily