By Charles Williams
A widow and a constitution captain scour the sea for a stolen yacht.
When Ingram lands in Miami, he doesn’t also have time to complete his bathtub prior to the police come knocking. The out-of-work constitution captain has simply again from Nassau, the place he was once looking at buying a ship on behalf of a millionaire. however the day after he toured the seventy-foot Dragoon, his “millionaire” disappeared, and the yacht went with him. Ingram convinces the police officers that he was once in simple terms an unwitting associate in stealing the boat, and provides to assist get better it for the landlord, a stunning widow with secrets and techniques of her personal. He in simple terms has 8 thousand sq. miles of open ocean to go looking. discovering the send is the straightforward half. Escaping it will likely be tougher, as Ingram reveals himself stuck in a tangle of lust, smuggling, and homicide, surrounded by means of never-ending miles of the main attractive water on earth.
Charles Williams (1909-1975) was once one of many preeminent authors of yankee crime fiction. Born in Texas, he dropped out of faculty in 10th grade to enlist within the US service provider Marine, serving ten years ahead of leaving to paintings within the electronics undefined. on the finish of global struggle II, Williams started writing fiction in San Francisco, the place the luck of the “backwoods noir” Hill woman (1951) allowed him to give up his activity and write complete time for the remainder of his life.
Williams’ fresh and just a little informal narrative type distinguishes his novels, which diversity from hard-boiled noir to suspense thrillers, set within the sea and the Deep South. even if released by way of pulp homes, his paintings received nice severe acclaim, with Hell Hath No Fury (1953) turning into the 1st paperback unique to be reviewed via mythical ny occasions critic Anthony Boucher. a lot of his novels have been tailored to the display, together with lifeless Calm (1963) and Don’t simply Stand There! (1966), for which Williams wrote the screenplay. He died in 1975.
Unknown resource epub, fresh with operating bankruptcy breaks.
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Extra info for Aground
A stickler for the observances, our gallant Colonel. I am walking down Station Road. So much of life was stillness then, when we were young, or so it seems now; a biding stillness; a vigilance. We were waiting in our as yet unfashioned world, scanning the future as the boy and I had scanned each other, like soldiers in the field, watching for what was to come. At the bottom of the hill I stopped and stood and looked three ways, along Strand Road, and back up Station Road, and the other way, toward the tin cinema and the public tennis courts.
Todd bade us sit. I could not tolerate the thought of settling myself on a chair and went instead and stood at the glass wall, looking out. Directly below me there was an oak, or perhaps it was a beech, I am never sure of those big deciduous trees, certainly not an elm since they are all dead, but a noble thing, anyway, the summer’s green of its broad canopy hardly silvered yet with autumn’s hoar. Car roofs glared. A young woman in a dark suit was walking away swiftly across the car park, even at that distance I fancied I could hear her high heels tinnily clicking on the tarmac.
She said something and he put his head on one side and shrugged, and smiled, showing numerous small white even teeth. Behind him the girl, still under the towel, discarded her bathing suit that she had freed herself of at last and, turning her back, sat down on the sand with her legs flexed and made the towel into a tent around herself and rested her forehead on her knees, and Myles drove his stick into the sand with disappointed force. So there they were, the Graces: Carlo Grace and his wife Constance, their son Myles, the girl or young woman who I was sure was not the girl I had heard laughing in the house that first day, with all their things around them, their folding chairs and tea cups and tumblers of white wine, and Connie Grace’s revealing skirt and her husband’s funny hat and newspaper and cigarette, and Myles’s stick, and the girl’s swimsuit, lying where she had tossed it, limply wadded and stuck along one wet edge with a fringe of sand, like something thrown up drowned out of the sea.
Aground by Charles Williams