Resultados narrador por "John Rayburn" en Todas las categorias

Outside was the red dust, a foot deep on the highway, and the burning sun. The fountain before the mission splashed lazily; down at the beach it seemed that the tide had not its usual energy. Neophytes slept in the shadows cast by the mission walls. Here and there a robed friar went about his business despite the heat and the hour. There was no human being travelling El Camino Real—the king’s highway—as far as a man with good eyes could see. You can hear the whole story.

The weekly mail had just arrived at the Flying U ranch. Shorty, who had made the trip to Dry Lake on horseback that afternoon, tossed the bundle to the “Old Man” and was halfway to the stable when he was called back peremptorily.

Wallace, a master British storyteller, creates a fascinating tale. It tells of the fictional mystery author, John Lexdale, who is caught in a plot concocted by an unscrupulous millionaire. The fictional author is entrapped in the strange circumstances, becomes charged with murder and sentenced to prison. At one point he is told his wife has been killed and pledges revenge.

Here is a land where a man, to live, must be a man. It is a land of granite and marble, strong stone and gold—and a man’s strength must be as the strength of the primeval hills. It is a land of oaks and cedars and pines—and a man’s mental grace must be as the grace of the untamed trees. It is a land of far-arched and unstained skies, where the wind sweeps free and untainted, and the atmosphere is the atmosphere of those places that remain as God made them—and a man’s soul must be as the unstained skies, the unburdened wind, and the untainted atmosphere.

The idea that the extraordinary narrative which has been called the Joyce-Armstrong Fragment is an elaborate practical joke evolved by some unknown person, cursed by a perverted and sinister sense of humor, has now been abandoned by all who have examined the matter. The most macabre and imaginative of plotters would hesitate before linking his morbid fancies with the unquestioned and tragic facts which reinforce the statement. Though the assertions contained in it are amazing and even monstrous, it is nonetheless forcing itself upon the general intelligence that they are true.

The ferry-boat was waiting when Rebecca Flint got off the train with her bag and lunch basket. When she and her small trunk were safely embarked she sat stiff and straight and calm in the ferry-boat as it shot swiftly and smoothly across stream. There was a horse attached to a light country wagon on board, and he pawed the deck uneasily. His owner stood near, with a wary eye upon him, although he was chewing, with as dully reflective an expression as a cow.

In truth the mastery of flying was the work of thousands of men—this man a suggestion and that an experiment, until at last only one vigorous intellectual effort was needed to finish the work. But the inexorable injustice of the popular mind has decided that of all these thousands, one man, and that a man who never flew, should be chosen as the discoverer, just as it has chosen to honor Watt as the discoverer of steam and Stephenson of the steam-engine.

The fiction world of today needs a “Saint” more than it ever did. For years now that scene has been dominated by the “anti-heroes"—those grim gray operators in a sunless sub-culture where global issues are worked out with totally unemotional pragmatism, those hapless uninspired puppets manipulated and expended by ruthlessly dedicated little brothers of Big Brother. It made morbidly fascinating narrative, but it never gave anyone a lift until it climaxed in the hyper-gadgeted parodies of 007 extravaganzas.

The chief character, Lord Peter Wimsey, goes to the Bellona Club to have a meal with an old friend of his, ninety-year old General Fentiman. In great surprise, he finds the aged man fully dressed by the fire in full rigor mortis. A question arises concerning the time of death and the situation develops into a serious murder investigation. Wimsey sometimes seemed to have a supercilious attitude as a monocled aristocrat and sometimes became a sort of professional detective. His family motto was, “As my whimsy takes me.”

One January day, many years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown away. A mist of fine snowflakes was curling and eddying about the cluster of low drab buildings huddled on the gray prairie, under a gray sky. The dwelling-houses were set about haphazard on the tough prairie sod; some of them looked as if they had been moved in overnight, and others as if they were straying off by themselves, headed straight for the open plain. None of them had any appearance of permanence, and the howling wind blew under them as well as over them.

Shore Road has a bunch of auto thefts outside Bayport, home territory of the Hardy Boys, Frank and Joe. They find out that one of their friends, Jack Dodd and his father, have been accused of the thefts. This bothers the lads because they feel certain there has been a big mistake and they intend to do something about it. As a result of their intentions and investigation the Hardy Boys wind up helping in capture of the actual car thieves who had framed and kidnapped their friends. It’s exciting listening as they work hard to aid the Dodds, father and son.

Frank, age sixteen, and Joe, age fifteen, are confronted with one of their most baffling cases. It becomes truly exciting to follow them as they seek a solution. Will they get it? If so, how? It becomes very exciting to follow them in their efforts as they try to live up to the exceptional detecting abilities of their professional detective father.

The Hardy boys looked at one another regretfully. They had just received a letter from their father, Fenton Hardy, an internationally famous detective, who had been called West but a fortnight previous on a mysterious mission. The letter gave the boys their first inkling of the nature of the case that had summoned their father from Bayport, on the Atlantic coast, to the mining country of Montana.

Part of a mystery series featuring renowned detective Fleming Stone. He is called on to decide whether it was suicide or murder in the case of a future college president. Stone has remarkable ingenuity for unraveling cases. Can he do it again? A young girl student is suspected. Was she guilty or was it just rumor? Several clues point both ways. Small footprints in the snow lead to a boarding house where the mystery girl is lodging and love letters between the two point to her guilt. Listening to the unusual tale will have you thinking both ways.

Once upon a time there were four men—all bad. That is, they were each bad, but none was entirely bad. Nobody is. The four were closely associated in their interests and were of varying types and varying degrees of badness. Basically, one was the Cat’s-paw; one was the Brutal Ruffian; one was the Arch Villain behind it all; and one was the Judas Iscariot, who carried the bag, and who betrayed the whole bunch. A millionaire is battered to death on an ocean liner by a bronze hand modeled from Rodin’s original.

The author once worked as a dairy farmer in Canada, but returned to his home in Kent, near London, and became a broadcaster, journalist, novelist, and short story writer. He specialized in tales of the supernatural and was described as “Unquestioned master of weird atmosphere,” as he told of incredible adventures. He often used first person narrations, as you will hear … and, very likely feel an abnormal phantom presence. Come along … If you dare!

This captures the spirit of the American west: It is a classic tale of heroism and romance, with a struggle to survive in a harsh and unforgiving environment. It has the breezy charm of “Cattleland,” as a young cowboy has a major task of saving his ranch from ruthless cattle rustlers. He has a romance as the fast-moving action makes its way through stampedes, shooting and bronc riding in the midst of the rugged and wild landscape of Wyoming.

A most unusual request for insurance was made to Lloyds of London. It was outre enough to bring on what can best be described as something of “improbable dimensions.” The request was made by a young Brirtish Lord. He was engaged to an American heiress and was worried she might back out. An added part of the story is a guarantee there would be a sizeable payout if the ceremony stalls. The story of same can easily be called a delightful romantic comedy and it wouldn’t be surprising if you laugh out loud, or at least chuckle frequently.

Victoria Van Allen was the name she signed to her letters and to her cheques, but Vicky Van, as her friends called her, was signed all over her captivating personality, from the top of her dainty, tossing head to the tips of her dainty, dancing feet. Young lawyer Chester Calhoun liked her from the first, and if her “small and earlies” were said to be so called because they were timed by the small and early numerals on the clock dial, and if her “little” bridge games kept in active circulation a goodly share of our country’s legal tender, those things are not crimes.

A young lawyer who is a bachelor by choice winds up as consulting attorney for a beautiful woman, who is considered perhaps guilty of the murder of her wealthy uncle. He is Otis Landon, who lives with his sister in an apartment next to scene of the crime. Otis is very intelligent and works with a collection of clues found at the scene of the murder. In doing so, he becomes involved and winds up trying to clear the young woman he finds he’s falling in love with. He reaches the limits of his abilities, with the case winding up in the hands of renowned detective Fleming Stone.