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Was the youth elixir the panacea that mankind dreamed of-or a bitter and ironic joke? To Alexander Ward, his discovery could have meant fame, wealth, the Nobel Prize. But his 70-year-old lab assistant stole it and turned herself into a teenage sex kitten, a nursing home into a brothel-and the world into a madhouse.

They call him the Creep. He's savagely assaulted three victims, and Detectives Frank Vandegraf and Athena Pardo are working tirelessly to find him before he claims a fourth. Their search uncovers an exhausting trail of human misery: as one tragic individual puts it, sometimes life is just a different kind of dead. So when a journalist friend asks Frank to look into the accidental death of a tech executive, he only sees it as a needless distraction. He plans to give it a cursory inspection and return to the Creep. But, as disturbing discoveries unfold, Frank and Athena are reminded that nothing in the world of Personal Crimes is ever quite what it appears to be.

This fine "Golden Age" mystery novel with a New England setting features bootlggers-and murder. Introduction by John Betancourt.

Pimping? Why kid himself? From time to time some of the male tourists he ran into would furtively ask his advice about picking up a professional. Invariably, Shell gave good advice, even though the man was most often married. Occasionally, the girls offered him a cut. Wasn't that pimping? Just because he didn't stand on a corner whispering to passing men didn't mean he wasn't pimping. And what came next, when you'd gone this far? Tout, gigolo, pimp. What was preventing that final step, out-and-out thief? He emerged from the gardens onto the Quai des Tuileries and turned left, passing the endless bookstalls along the quayside with their mélange of second-hand books, old prints, decorative maps-and pornography. Some of the stall owners nodded or called to him. Shell got a fifty per cent kickback from these peddlers of filth in print. It could mount up. A smirking, half-ashamed American tourist would spend fantastic amounts for the privilege of reading four-letter words, or looking at completely nude photographs. The French had some strange ideas pertaining to dirty books. They were strict about such material written in French, but couldn't care less what you published in English or some other foreign language...

There wasn't any reason Maggie could see for leaving the comfortable, big town house in the middle of night, and traveling over bumpy roads until morning. Presumably Miss Dolly, romantic and sad-eyed Miss Dolly, knew what she was doing. But when their destination came in sight, Maggie was more certain than ever that the whole thing was a mistake. A ramshackle and rather dirty cottage by a lake-that is what they had taken such pains and insisted on such secrecy to reach. There were only two young men in it, of whom Maggie instantly disapproved, and no one else around-until the lawyer appeared. But then, he was only there so short a time....Mrs. Holding's talent for creating endearing and completely credible heroines, who manage to involve themselves in really sinister situations, has never been more admirably demonstrated than it is here.

"My guiltiest pleasure is Harry Stephen Keeler. He may been the greatest bad writer America has ever produced. Or perhaps the worst great writer. I do not know. There are few faults you can accuse him of that he is not guilty of. But I love him." -- Neil GaimanFrom 1935 comes this thrilling novel about five odd people who happen to buy tiny jade figurines of a non-smiling Buddha. Only Harry Stephen Keeler could have come up with this plot!

"My guiltiest pleasure is Harry Stephen Keeler. He may been the greatest bad writer America has ever produced. Or perhaps the worst great writer. I do not know. There are few faults you can accuse him of that he is not guilty of. But I love him." -- Neil Gaiman It all started with a murder 20 years earlier. A ragpicker was found in a closet, stabbed in the back with a jewelled dagger-through an ace of spades! There's a reward for the solution to this old murder and Bill Chattuck, driver for MacWhorter's Motorized Circus, must get that reward-and prove the legitimacy of his girl, Melody-or they'll never get married! But first, there's the matter of that rare copy of Beowulf with a secret coded message in it, and the windingest road in the world, Old Twistibus, standing between Bill and happiness.It's a crazy contretemps only Harry Stephen Keeler could unravel.