Shell Scott goes to Mexico City to investigate a horse racing fix—and finds himself getting ready to kill a killer.!

SHELL SCOTT, the shamus who has Sherlock whirling in his grave...the wacky knight-errant of gorgeous gals who leaves a trail of beautiful bodies behind him (not all of em dead)...the private eye who's every killer's public enemy. This is the first book in this action-packed mystery series. The Case of the Vanishing Beauty began when one beauty vanished from sight and another died in a hail of bullets. Next on the murder list was lovely Lina...Lina who was hotter than a welder's torch...and...

We were dancing, my client and I. But it was much more than just a dance. It was like doing the fox trot and getting your pants pressed at the same time. Or an anatomy lesson in four-four rhythm. I believe in the personal touch when it comes to a client a

“The strait jacket’s canvas held my arms tight. My six-two was horizontal on a stretcher and the two bruisers carried it and my 205 pounds easily down the long corridor. I was confused as modern art, and being in this stupid asylum didn’t help. I was dumped onto a bed, yelling like a fiend. A needle, a stinging sensation in my neck and it was lights out for me. I awoke with a light beaming upon my face. A blade moved upward through the beam of light. And suddenly I was wide awake, thinking...

Suspicious and dangerous accidents were happening. People were dying, including the private eye I had been sent to replace. I didn't like it. But hey, that's what I'm hired to do. I deal daily with murder and mayhem. The real problem was when I had to go

Amador Montalba, Mexico City guide, and good friend of Shell Scott, alerts Scott to a wealthy woman in Mexico City who needs help. Shell is in Mexico City winding up another case and decides to follow up on the lead. Senora Lopez, wife of a prominent Mexican General, was secretly filmed during an extra-marital sex liaison with another man. After several payoffs to a blackmailer, she decides to turn the case over to Shell Scott. But the case is not one of simple blackmail. Communists appear...

Every bloodthirsty hoodlum, every trigger-happy gunman in the state of California had that song on his lips. I didn't like it. I'm no music lover and, what's more, I was the rascal they were dying to kill. Me. Shell Scott.

A rash of hit and run deaths in Los Angeles has the press in an uproar. The police have no clue as to the primary cause and the deceased are all men who appear to have been brutalized prior to the time of the accident. But there are other aspects to the case and Shell Scott has been hired by a not so upstanding night club owner to investigate. When Shell discovers a murder for hire conspiracy with overtones of blackmail, he finds himself looking down the barrel of a .32 caliber automatic a...

J. Harrison Bing after receiving no word from his daughter in nearly a year, went to her home in L.A. only to find she had sold the home and left without a trace. He hired a Los Angeles P. I. named William Carter to track her down and after calling from Vegas, he also disappeared. Now it is Shell Scott's turn. Assuming a simple case of finding a missing person, Shell finds out the hard way that he has bitten into an elephant. When the hoods close in and the bullets start flying Shell disco...

Constanza Carmocha was unarmed, that is, she didn't have a gun. Well, she really didn't need one, either. Because she had all the weapons that have ruined men from time immemorial or better said - time immoral. One unlucky guy ended up with his throat slit because of her, and another was about to be bumped off. She was surrounded by a guy who resembled a shaved ape, and he looked as though he could pick himself up with one hand. But the hand isn't always quicker than the private eye, and S...

There were twelve of them. Bottoms, that is. Au naturel. The most eye-wrecking collection of derrieres ever to pop out of a printed page. The "WOW' pin-up girls...one for each month of the year. No faces, no names, not even swaddling clothes...

She yanked the door open with a crash and said, "Gran--," but then stopped and stared at me. She was nude as a noodle. "You're not Grandma!" I said, "No, I'm Shell Scott, and you're not grandma either!" She slammed the door in my face.