Crime Fiction

L.H. Hart

UK First Edition Books

This L.H. Hart bibliography checklist includes only the crime fiction titles by the author.
We are always interesting in buying pre 1942 books, UK first editions in dust jacket
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Title Publisher Date Issue Points - Notes
Court of Last Resort Macdonald 1943 Dust jacket priced 8/6
You'll End Up dead Macdonald 1945 Blue cloth, red titles, DW 7/6
Venus Died at Dawn Macdonald Mar 1947 Dust jacket priced 8/6. Artwork by Stein
Murder at Cost Price Gerald Swan Aug 1947 Dust jacket priced 5/-
All page content Classic Crime Fiction

Dust Jacket Artist: Unsigned

Further Information
LH Hart is something of a mystery to us, if you can help with information please do contact us - thank you.

HE was doing fifty when the sickness hit him again. This time he knew he was going to faint. Knew, too, that he had to do something quickly, or be killed as surely as the murdered girl lying under the rug in the back of his car. His headlights picked out a railway bridge rushing towards him. The concrete supports seemed to waver, then blurred together as his eyes failed to focus. The sickness from his stomach was like a fist, reaching up and hammering at his brain. Steel groped blindly for the brake with his foot. Scorched rubber stank in his nostrils. He had a brief, crazy impression of his car slewing across the road, and tearing into a hedge, then blackness swept round him in a roaring flood. It was the gnawing toothache pain in his skull that finally brought him back to consciousness. For a dragging interval he lay unmoving, aware only of the steady pound of blood to his throbbing head, and of the heavy inertness of his legs. It came almost as a surprise when he found he could move. He did so, tentatively, and gagged as nausea returned. Cursing the ache in his head, he levered himself upright, and opened the near door with difficulty, His headlights were still on, cut twin paths through a field of stubble, bathed in a knee-high mist. Perspiration made a coldness on his forehead as he leaned against the side of the car and looked around him. Twenty yards away he could see the broken hedge, and, farther down the road, the stiff loom of the bridge. With a steadily increasing roar, a train hauled a line of freight cars from out of the distance, pounded over the bridge, then rattled out of hearing, the red glow from its firebox bright with hurry. Memory returned then, to bite chillingly into Johnny Steel's thin composure. He swallowed painfully, then stood up straight, squaring his shoulders. He was tall, with a pleasant ranginess,


Classic Crime Fiction

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