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Zusatztext "The American private eye! immortalized by Hammett! refined by Chandler! brought to its zenith by MacDonald." -- The New York Times Book Review "An entertainment of almost Byzantine complexity in which practically nothing is as the facts would seem. . . . Highly satisfactory." -- The New Yorker "Lew Archer . . . is a crime-fighter of the old school; painstakingly searching out the twisting thread of suspense that leads him from the hint of one complicated drama to another." -- Christian Science Monitor Informationen zum Autor Ross Macdonald's real name was Kenneth Millar. Born near San Francisco in 1915 and raised in Ontario, Canada, Millar returned to the U.S. as a young man and published his first novel in 1944. He served as the president of the Mystery Writers of America and was awarded their Grand Master Award as well as the Mystery Writers of Great Britain's Gold Dagger Award. He died in 1983. Klappentext In The Chill a distraught young man hires private investigator Lew Archer to track down his runaway bride. But no sooner has he found Dolly Kincaid than Archer finds himself entangled in two murders! one twenty years old! the other so recent that the blood is still wet. What ensues is a detective novel of nerve-racking suspense! desperately believable characters! and one of the most intricate plots ever spun by an American crime writer. The heavy red-figured drapes over the courtroom windows were incompletely closed against the sun. Yellow daylight leaked in and dimmed the electric bulbs in the high ceiling. It picked out random details in the room: the glass water cooler standing against the paneled wall opposite the jury box, the court reporter's carmine-tipped fingers playing over her stenotype machine, Mrs. Perrine's experienced eyes watching me across the defense table. It was nearly noon on the second and last day of her trial. I was the final witness for the defense. Her attorney had finished questioning me. The deputy D.A. waived cross-examination, and several of the jurors looked at him with puzzled frowns. The judge said I could go. From my place on the witness stand I'd noticed the young man sitting in the front row of spectators. He wasn't one of the regular trial-watchers, housewives and pensioners filling an empty morning with other people's troubles. This one bad troubles of his own. His brooding blue gaze stayed on my face, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he might be willing to share his troubles with me. He rose from his seat as I stepped down and intercepted me at the door. "Mr. Archer, may I talk to you?" "All right." The bailiff opened the door and gestured urgently. "Outside, gentlemen. Court is still in session." We moved out into the corridor. The young man scowled at the automatically closing door. "I don't like being pushed around." "I'd hardly describe that as being pushed around. What's eating you, friend?" I shouldn't have asked him. I should have walked briskly out to my car and driven back to Los Angeles. But he had that clean, crewcut All-American look, and that blur of pain in his eyes. "I just got thrown out of the Sheriff's office. It came on top of a couple of other brushoffs from the local authorities, and I'm not used to that kind of treatment." "They don't mean it personally." "You've had a lot of detective experience, haven't you? I gathered that from what you said on the witness stand. In-cidentally, you did a wonderful job for Mrs. Perrine. I'm sure the jury will acquit her." "We'll see. Never bet on a jury." I distrusted his compliment, which probably meant he wanted something more substantial from me. The trial in which I had just testified marked the end of a long uninteresting case, and I was planning a fishing trip to La Paz. "Is that all you wanted to say to me?" "I have a lot ...
