The Thirteenth Guest

District Attorney Gerard Winston is beckoned to the abandoned Morgan mansion by a mysterious note. Arriving late, he discovers the glooming shadows hold a dining room set for thirteen-and a body. Winston and his colleague, Detective Grump, set out to solve the mystery of the Morgan house, as it soon becomes clear that others have set their sights on a hidden inheritance.

Maurice Coons (July 18, 1902 - October 10, 1930) often wrote as Armitage Trail. While he is best known for his 1930 novel, Scarface, it was preceded by this 1929 mystery, The Thirteenth Guest, and a couple dozen short stories (both detective fiction and gangster fiction) in The Underworld Magazine, Detective Tales, and other pulp magazines. Coons' gangster material was informed by his socializing with Chicago gangsters in the 1920s. When Howard Hughes bought the rights to Scarface (adapted into the 1932 film), Coons moved to Los Angeles. Coons did not adapt well to fame and fortune, as alcoholism and luxurious living quickly took a toll-he died of a heart attack at age 28.

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From Chapter 1:

"Is this Mr. Gerard Winston?" came a voice in response to his hurried "Hello." It was a soft, cultured feminine voice.

"Yes." His heart was pounding until he could barely hear the sound of his own voice.

"This is Marie, Mr. Winston. The girl of the notes, you know. Don't fail me tonight, please. It's a matter of life or death."

He spluttered half a dozen questions into the instrument before he realized that he was talking only to himself. He waited. There was no response. He jiggled the hook and the operator inquired with irritating calm: "Number, please?" He growled an oath and set the instrument back on the table. The girl had hung up.

He hurried upstairs, his face grimly purposeful, and changed into a dark suit. A dark cap and a revolver completed his equipment for the journey. Two minutes later his trim, low-hung roadster swept out of the driveway. As he drove through the business section of the small city he considered stopping at police headquarters and taking an officer with him. But his pride quickly vetoed such a proposal and he went on alone.

His car sped easily and quickly beyond the business district, through the residential section and on into the sparsely settled region beyond. The Morgan home was but a mile away. He allowed his powerful car to slow down. It was ten minutes before twelve. He intended to arrive exactly at the stroke of midnight. There was ample time- Then one of his tires blew out with a loud explosion. The left rear one, an examination disclosed. He swore lustily as he took off his coat and reached for tools. Then a little twinge of fear caught him under the short ribs. What if this puncture was a part of the plan?

His keen glance swept his surroundings suspiciously. The road there descended sharply in conformity with a ravine, then ascended as steeply as it came down. His car was at the very bottom. Not another headlight showed in any direction. The road was deserted and on either side were solid walls of blackness that he knew to be dense woods. It was an ideal spot for an ambush. He laid his revolver on the ground beside him as he started to change the tire.