Barr courched down to get out of the sea spray. The rock bulking over his head was wet and slick in the darkness, cold. But it was a measure of protection against the wind and the spray that lashed up from the shallow bay.

Larry Flynn was a special investigator for hotels. And though the swanky Surfside Lodge was not in his bailiwick, he was willing to answer the call for help from the pretty widow that ran it.He'd owed her husband a personal debt, and it looked like a good opportunity to repay it. Besides, there was something mighty strange about her sudden telegram.Now, as he pushed his fast sports car towards the plush resort, he tried to think of what the mystery might be. When a truck came along, rammed him, and tried to force him off the mountain road at the cliff's edge, Flynn had at least part of the answer. It was murder, and it looked as if instead of resting at the Surfside that night, he'd be taking the long sleep at the cliffside bottom.

Paul Knox, secret agent for the U.S. Government, had been around. But never had he seen anything as vicious as this new twist in the blackmail racket. Wealthy and prominent people were being exposed to international scandal, the kind that could give not merely themselves but their nation a black eye, and it had to be stopped. Further, it was known that the criminal ring was about to expand.But when Paul found his only contact had been stabbed through the eye with an icepick, he realized several things: first, his own life was in immediate peril; second, he could trust no one on either side of the law; and third, with no more leads to follow, his only hope was a Stab in the Dark.

There was room enough in the valley, but Ike Quarles didn't think so. Now he and his hired killers had served notice on Brad - drift or die! "I'm about through drifting," Brad said slowly. "I was thinking about taking up a homestead." Then he was silent, watching them sit their horses, waiting for the abrupt twitch of a hand - the sudden, lunging move that would explode this whole valley into murderous, bullet-screaming range war!

Martin Zane thought he was all finished with his routine report on the freighter Temoc for Marine Mutual, but the lush blonde suddenly changed his mind. He just couldn't say no to her delicious smile, her shapely figure, or her tiny but deadly gun aimed at the middle of his clean white shirt.Zane realized that a fraud was about to be pulled, but he didn't know how. When he tried to discover what connection the golden Amazon had with his investigation, he realized too late that he had walked into a hornet's nest buzzing with con men and killers ...

It is the smell of death ...The Oxnan hotel stank with the stale odor of cheap whiskey, cheap two-bit racketeers, cheap unwashed women. But behind the rotting front, behind the peeling-plastered walls, a big time syndicate did its filthy business. The payoff was in the millions.Edna Loomis—and there was nothing cheap about her—set out to get it all. Her method was simple ... she used the weapon of her flesh. But she made one mistake. His name was Peone, of the drugged eyes and the slender knife. Edna Loomis was beautiful, ambitious woman. Peone was a coked-up killer!

A cool, slim, beautiful girl drove up to Mark Warren's service station in the California desert and asked to have her gas tank filled so she might continue on her flight from some men who insisted on shooting at her. Intrigued, Mark, an ex-newspaper reporter who had gone West for his health, followed the girl to a luxurious date ranch.Murder followed Mark, who set out to discover: Why had James Link's body been dragged to the swimming pool after he had been poisoned in his room? Where were the missing dates? And what did the burial of the yellow canary have to do with the crime?