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    Apartment 2A: Marshall Drummond Case Files, #5
    Apartment 2A: Marshall Drummond Case Files, #5
    Apartment 2A: Marshall Drummond Case Files, #5
    Ebook59 pages51 minutes

    Apartment 2A: Marshall Drummond Case Files, #5

    By Stuart Jaffe

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    About this ebook

    When Marshall Drummond is called to a local apartment building because tenants are complaining of a ghost, he thinks it will amount to nothing. Turns out, there is a ghost. And when it locks Drummond in the building, he has only one way to get free - solve the ghost's murder.

    Welcome to the Marshall Drummond Case Files. These stories explore the dark mysteries and thrilling adventures of 1940s PI, Marshall Drummond, before he died and became the ghost detective found in the bestselling Max Porter Paranormal Mysteries.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStuart Jaffe
    Release dateMar 23, 2018
    ISBN9781386007609
    Apartment 2A: Marshall Drummond Case Files, #5

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      Book preview

      Apartment 2A - Stuart Jaffe

      Apartment 2A

      A Marshall Drummond Case File

      Stuart Jaffe

      Also by Stuart Jaffe

      Max Porter Paranormal Mysteries

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      Southern Charm

      Southern Belle

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      Southern Haunts

      Southern Curses

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      Southern Craft

      Southern Spirit

      Southern Flames

      Southern Fury

      Southern Souls

      Nathan K thrillers

      Immortal Killers

      Killing Machine

      The Cardinal

      Yukon Massacre

      The First Battle

      Immortal Darkness

      A Spy for Eternity

      Prisoner

      Desert Takedown

      The Malja Chronicles

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      The Way of the Sword and Gun

      The Way of the Brother Gods

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      The Parallel Society

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      For more information, please visit www.stuartjaffe.com

      SOME DAYS, MARSHALL DRUMMOND WANTED nothing more than to say No to a new case. But as the only private investigator willing to look into the weird, other-worldly problems of Winston-Salem, those tended to be the kinds of cases that came his way. And though the analysts promised that 1934 would show serious improvement to the economy, Drummond’s empty wallet did not agree. That was how Marshall Drummond found himself standing in the entrance way of a three-story walk-up on West 7th Street.

      If you ask me, this whole thing is hogwash. The landlord, Mr. Cornstall, barely came up to Drummond’s chest. He had a squat body and more hair poking out of his shirt collar than on the top of his head. He smelled of cigars and the lunch that stained the belly of his shirt — strong onions and garlic. I don’t believe a word of it. But everybody in this building won’t shut up about it. They’re saying I got to get a priest, I got a get a rabbi, somebody — Ms. Olson in 1B even made me call a psychic. What’s a fortune teller gonna do?

      So you called me, Drummond said, tipping his Fedora back.

      You’re the cheapest. And since this is all really a big song and dance to get my tenants off my ass, I figured you’re worth it.

      Thanks for the confidence booster.

      Look, fella. The only reason I’m doing any of this is because these people still pay their rent. You know how rare that is these days? I can’t afford to let any of them leave because they’re scared of some kind of noises in the walls. So you go in there, you look around, make a couple hand motions or whatever it is you gotta do, and you tell them everything’s okay. Hell, you do a good enough job that they shut up, and I’ll pay you ten percent extra.

      From the outside, the place resembled any other building on this row of dilapidated apartments. Did you gather everybody together?

      Yeah. They’re all in Sullivan’s apartment — second floor, 2B. With a sneer, Mr. Cornstall added, Any other requests?

      That’s it. As Drummond moved toward the stairs, he noticed Mr. Cornstall staying at the front door. You’re not coming?

      Thrusting his hands in his pockets, the landlord gazed up at the ceiling as if he expected ghosts to come flying out — though he probably imagined them to be of the two holes in a sheet variety.

      Tell you what, Drummond said. I’ll do my work, and I’ll stop by your office later when I’m done. You can pay me then.

      Sounds good to me. I got to check on some of my other buildings. Without another word, Mr. Cornstall scurried off.

      Until that moment, Drummond had been of the same mind. He thought he was being paid to come in and put on a little show. He had not been given many details — only that the tenants complained of strange noises. Nobody would go on record beyond that. In his experience, real hauntings, real problems with magic, resulted in such fear that the victims willingly blabbed far more than they should.

      Perhaps the landlord simply took cowardice to a new level — running away based on nothing but a few words. However, the back of Drummond’s

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