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The Line Is Dead

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User: user11
The Line Is Dead
EVEN FOR the French Quarter of New Orleans, Jeff Carver's apartment was a conspicuous litter. A Smith & Wesson .38, a Crescent Agency badge, a blackjack, a fifth of Spanish brandy, and a file of patrol service reports competed for the space he had cleared to make room for working out his second installment of income tax. And what made him frown was not the figures on the paper, but the missing exemption, as he called Alma Foster

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