Lemmy Caution e il Drago Blu è uno dei più famosi romanzi “gialli” di Peter Cheyney, pubblicato in Italia nel 1952. Lemmy Caution, un impertinente ma simpatico detective (agente federale), si trova a investigare nel losco mondo del porto e della Chinatown di San Francisco. Le indagini partono da una misteriosa lettera scritta dalla moglie di un avvocato, che viene trovata morta prima di essere riuscita a parlare con Lemmy Caution...

Intendiamoci bene... (Don’t get me wrong) è un romanzo thriller del 1939 dello scrittore britannico Peter Cheyney. È il quinto della serie di dieci romanzi con protagonista l'agente dell'FBI Lemmy Caution. Lemmy è in Messico, in incognito, con l'obiettivo di recuperare un collega che è scomparso nel nulla. Peter Cheyney (Londra, 22 febbraio 1896 – Londra, 26 giugno 1951), è stato uno scrittore inglese di romanzi gialli. Ebbe la sua massima notorietà fra il 1936 ed il 1951, anno della morte. È ricordato, tra l'altro, per avere creato il personaggio dell'agente federale statunitense Lemuel H. Caution, Lemmy per gli amici. Alcuni dei romanzi con protagonista Lemmy Caution sono stati adattati in film. Altro personaggio creato dalla penna di Cheyney è il detective privato Slim Callaghan.

Che tipo, quel Caution! è il secondo romanzo di Cheyney in cui il protagonista è Lemmy Caution. Il giallo venne scritto nel 1937 e comparve con il titolo originale Poison Ivy. In Italia fu pubblicato nel 1951.Reginald Evelyn Peter Southouse Cheyney, noto come Peter Cheyney (Londra, 22 febbraio 1896 – Londra, 26 giugno 1951), è stato uno scrittore inglese di romanzi gialli. Ebbe la sua massima notorietà fra il 1936 ed il 1951, anno della morte. È ricordato, tra l'altro, per avere creato il personaggio dell'agente federale statunitense Lemuel H. Caution, Lemmy per gli amici. Alcuni dei romanzi con protagonista Lemmy Caution sono stati adattati in film. Altro personaggio creato dalla penna di Cheyney è il detective privato Slim Callaghan.

CALLAGHAN— sole occupant of the downstairs bar at the Green Paroquet Club— tilted his chair back against the wall, put his hands in his pockets, gazed solemnly, with eyes that were a trifle glazed, at the chromium fittings of the bar-counter at the other end of the room. The bartender, warily polishing glasses, wondered when he would go.Callaghan was wearing a well-cut double-breasted dinner-jacket, a white silk shirt with a soft collar, a black watered-silk bow. His face was inclined to thinness and his jaw-bones stood out. His hair was black and unruly. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to a thin waist and slim hips.

Pubblicato nel 1940 con il titolo You’d be surprised, e in edizione italiana, nei Gialli Mondadori, nel 1948, Roba da matti! è il sesto romanzo della serie di Lemmy Caution, il detective dell'FBI creato dalla fantasia di Peter Cheyney.Peter Cheyney (Londra, 22 febbraio 1896 – Londra, 26 giugno 1951), è stato uno scrittore inglese di romanzi gialli. Ebbe la sua massima notorietà fra il 1936 ed il 1951, anno della morte. È ricordato, tra l'altro, per avere creato il personaggio dell'agente federale statunitense Lemuel H. Caution, Lemmy per gli amici. Alcuni dei romanzi con protagonista Lemmy Caution sono stati adattati in film. Altro personaggio creato dalla penna di Cheyney è il detective privato Slim Callaghan.

Affare fatto (Your Deal, My Lovely) è un thriller del 1941 dello scrittore britannico Peter Cheyney. È il settimo della sua serie di romanzi con protagonista l'agente dell'FBI Lemmy Caution. Gran parte dell'azione si svolge a Londra durante la Seconda Guerra Mondiale. Caution ha deve indagare sulla scomparsa di un eminente scienziato.Peter Cheyney (Londra, 22 febbraio 1896 – Londra, 26 giugno 1951), è stato uno scrittore inglese di romanzi gialli. Ebbe la sua massima notorietà fra il 1936 ed il 1951, anno della morte. È ricordato, tra l'altro, per avere creato il personaggio dell'agente federale statunitense Lemuel H. Caution, Lemmy per gli amici. Alcuni dei romanzi con protagonista Lemmy Caution sono stati adattati in film. Altro personaggio creato dalla penna di Cheyney è il detective privato Slim Callaghan.

È arrivato Lemmy Caution! è uno dei più famosi romanzi “gialli” di Peter Cheyney, pubblicato in Italia nel 1947. Lemmy Caution, un impertinente ma simpatico detective (agente federale), si trova a investigare in un intricato giro di falsari. L’indagine lo porta a Palm Springs, dove deve stanare i colpevoli di due omicidi, uno dei quali lo riguarda da vicino… molto da vicino...

Mai un momento di quiete! (Never a Dull Moment) è un romanzo thriller del 1942 dello scrittore britannico Peter Cheyney e rappresenta l’ottava storia in cui è protagonista il detective federale Lemmy Caution.Peter Cheyney (Londra, 22 febbraio 1896 – Londra, 26 giugno 1951), è stato uno scrittore inglese di romanzi gialli. Ebbe la sua massima notorietà fra il 1936 ed il 1951, anno della morte. È ricordato, tra l'altro, per avere creato il personaggio dell'agente federale statunitense Lemuel H. Caution, Lemmy per gli amici. Alcuni dei romanzi con protagonista Lemmy Caution sono stati adattati in film. Altro personaggio creato dalla penna di Cheyney è il detective privato Slim Callaghan.

VALLON came out of his bedroom; closed the door; stood for a moment in the corridor. The scent hit his nostrils— Narcisse Noir. Vallon, who had a nose for perfume, wondered when he had last smelt Narcisse Noir. He thought it might have been in Paris. He wasn't certain. He walked slowly down the curving staircase into the hotel lounge; stood at the bottom looking about him, watching the people.He wore a dark blue, double-breasted suit that had been cut by a good tailor, a cream shirt, a blue tie. He was just under six feet and thin. His face was long, triangular shaped; his eyes sombre, deepset but with a sardonic light lurking in them. He was dark and his well-kept hair was inclined to wave. He weighed a hundred and seventy pounds and kept his weight well forward on the balls of his feet like a boxer. He looked tired.Everything about Vallon was quiet. He moved lazily; talked in a quiet voice with a peculiarly attractive timbre to it. He preferred to remain unnoticed but never succeeded in this. In spite of himself an odd and engaging personality came out of him and affected most people with whom he came in contact. Especially women. Women found him fascinating because he never tried to be like that. He had spent a considerable portion of his life trying to avoid them. With little success.

THE yellow mist seeped into the Place des Roses; bringing an almost evil quality to the cul-de-sac; rising only a few feet from the ground; creating the impression that there were no foundations to the small, dirty dilapidated houses.At the end of the cul-de-sac a thin knife-edge of light showed under the door of the wine shop. Inside the shop, which was dimly lit by an oil lamp, Fours leant over the counter at the end; regarded the board floor. About the place was the acrid smell of wine intermingled with the indescribable odour that came from his Mexican cigar—one of those things consisting of some indifferent leaves of tobacco rolled round a straw spinal column. From time to time he spat over the counter with precision into a tin can set in the middle of the floor.Fours was big, fat, greasy, vaguely evil. His baggy brown velveteen trousers were tied up with a piece of string. His shirt, once of middle blue colour, was now dark blue with dirt. Through the open neck one could see his swarthy hair-covered chest.

THE office was a small, square room on a third floor near Golden Square. It was sombre and unassuming. The furniture was nondescript. A suggestion of efficiency was provided by a steel filing-cabinet.Outside, between this office and the corridor, was another even smaller room. In it MacMurray, a big, broad-shouldered, truculent-looking man, dozed over an evening paper. He wished Fenton would go home.MacMurray— who had been "lent" by C.I.D. Central Office, and who spent most of his time wishing he was back there— divided his attention between the Greyhound Racing news and wondering about Fenton. MacMurray was curious about Fenton. Damned curious. He wondered why it should be necessary for him to stay put in the outer office for twenty-four hours at a stretch whilst Fenton sat at the desk in the other room waiting for telephone calls that seldom came, or spent an odd hour going through the filing-cabinet making pencil notes on folders. Folders which MacMurray never saw.

KALEIDOSCOPIC pictures of last night's party presented themselves between myself and the ceiling. One or two faces— one of them was certainly Sammy's face, the other that of an attractive woman— flashed across my memory. I felt a little sick and did not want particularly to think about them. In fact I did not want to think about anything.You wouldn't get any funny ideas about me, would you? You wouldn't come to the conclusion that I was just another of those people who've become bored with the war and try to "sublimate" their annoyance by getting cockeyed all the time? I'm not a bit like that. But— and I think I should point this out now— when one has been in the sort of racket that I've been playing around in for the last few years, it's a very good thing for a man to relax occasionally— if you get me— just to stop himself going entirely nuts.

FOURTEEN miles off the tail end of Andros Island in the Bahamas lies the island called Dark Bahama—which, says the guide book, is a natural paradise.Day and night the golden sand beaches, the calm inlets, the palms, the cats-tail trees, are bathed in sunlight and moonshine—especially moonshine. It is always summer except when a half-hurricane strikes in the season and the drunks have another excuse for nerve troubles.

A FILM director, seeking a ghostly scene for some macabre film, would have acclaimed the location of the Box of Compasses.It stood, set back fifty yards from the deserted cross-roads, one arm of which dwindled away past the wooded crest of the hill; turned itself into a footpath and disappeared amongst the scrub on the cliff top. One arm ran into the moorland; the other wound past the inn and broadened on its way to the town. There was no shelter from the wind. The ramshackle building stood on a bare plateau surrounded by scrubland. On the other side of the woods the cliffs descended steeply, disappearing into sand-dunes running down to the long shelving beach of the bay.

SHAUN ALOYSIUS O'MARA came round the shadow of the low wall that bounded the end of the little church. He stepped unsteadily over the wall; began to walk through the small graveyard towards the yew-tree grove.It was hot. The sun beat down pitilessly; there was no air. O'Mara stumbled over a low headstone, cursed horribly; saw over his shoulder the short figure of the curé; the dingy worn and shiny soutane; the thin white face.He began to laugh. He laughed at the priest. He began to sing a ribald song in the Breton tongue. The curé shrugged his shoulders; disappeared into the cool darkness of the porch. O'Mara heard his footsteps die away. He thought that the sound of worn shoes on the stone flags was a strange sound.

LADIES and gentlemen, I present to you Vincente Maria Jesu Callao.The business of a personal introduction seems necessary because he was the spring— however unconscious— that set in movement the rather peculiar actions of most of the people concerned in the business of the Dark Wanton.A relatively uninteresting person, he becomes interesting, not for what he was, but rather for what he was not. Callao was born in Andalusia in 1913. There appeared to be some doubt about his parentage— a matter which repercussed on his mother, who was adequately catered for by her husband with a seven-inch Spanish sailor's knife five days after the birth of the child. His education was nondescript, but with the passage of years he developed certain attributes, many of which made him attractive to women. He developed little else except perhaps the one sincere thing in his life— an honest love of music and the making of music.

EFFIE THOMPSON was asleep. She was wearing an eau-de-nil satin nightgown. Her red hair, draped over one shoulder, tied with a ribbon, made an effective contrast.She was dreaming in a rather agitated manner. She dreamed that she was dreaming about Callaghan. When the telephone at her bedside jangled she woke up and spent ten seconds considering if she were awake or asleep. She decided she was awake, took up the telephone, shot a quick glance at the clock on the table. It was two o'clock. The call, she thought, would be from Callaghan. 

CALLAGHAN awoke and looked at the ceiling. The fire sent grotesque shadows flickering across the white expanse above him. He yawned, turned over, kicked off the bedclothes, swung his legs to the floor. He sat, his tousled black head in his hands, looking at the fire.His lips were dry and his tongue felt like a yellow plush sofa. Outside he could hear the rain pattering on the windows. He looked at his wrist-watch. It was eight o'clock.He got up and began to walk to the bathroom, when the telephone bell jangled. It was Effie Thompson. He growled into the receiver.'All right,' she said primly. 'Is it my fault if you've got a head? Forgive me for troubling you, but are you ever coming back to this office? Things are happening down here.'

CALLAGHAN turned the corner into Chancery Lane. A gust of cold wind met him, blowing back the flaps of his not-so-clean raincoat, sending the rain through his threadbare trouser legs.He was five feet ten and thin. He had sevenpence halfpenny and a heavy smoker's cough. His arms were a little too long for his height and his face was surprising.It was the sort of face that you looked at twice in case you'd been mistaken the first time. The eyes were set wide apart over a long, rather thin nose. They were a light turquoise in colour and seldom blinked. His face was long and his chin pointed. He was clean shaven and women liked the shape of his mouth for reasons best known to themselves.