Fred Merrick White

"GO TO DEATH; go to death; go to death; go to death. Your wife's a bride; your wife's a bride. Go to death; go to death; go to death; go to death. Your wife's a bride; your wife's a bride." The mad refrain was hammered into Newton Moore's brain by the clang and roar of the flashing miles. A vivid streak of gold and crimson, enveloped in a cloud of vapor, crashed on over the silver-white metals-the fiery trail that men called the South East European Express. The voice of the big compound engine spoke thus to Newton Moore. To all practical purposes he was going to his death, and was not his wife a bride still? The most valued and trusted servant of the British Secret Service Fund had kissed his wife once upon the lips, and turned his white face to the East at the bidding of his chief.

A Story of What Might Happen In the Days to Come, When Underground London is Tunnelled In all Directions for Electric Railways, If an Explosion Should Take Place In One of the Tubes. A short story in the "Doom of London" series. Excerpts: There was a sudden splitting crack as if a thousand rifles had been discharged in the ballroom. The floor rose on one side to a perilous angle, considering the slippery nature of its surface. Such a shower of white flakes fell from the ceiling that dark dresses and naval uniforms looked as if their wearers had been out in a snowstorm. ... "An earthquake," somebody said at length. "An earthquake, beyond doubt, and a pretty bad one at that. That accounts for the failure of the electric light. There will be some bad accidents if the gas mains are disturbed." ... A scared-looking policeman came staggering along. "My man," Lord Barcombe cried, "what has happened?" The officer pulled himself together and touched his helmet. "It's dreadful, sir," he sobbed. "There has been an accident in the tubes; and they have been blown all to pieces." ... Nobody knew what to do; everybody had lost their heads for the moment. It seemed hopeless from the very start.

Another in the "Doom of London" series, in which the author sounds a clarion call of potential disasters that may fall upon the great city. Here he relates a tale of air pollution. Excerpt: They crawled along through the black suffocating darkness, feeble, languid, and sweating at every pore.

The story of London fog that turned daylight into darkness for four days. The eather forecast for London and the Channel was "light airs, fine generally, milder." Further down the fascinating column Hackness read that "the conditions over Europe generally favoured a continuance of the large anti-cyclonic area, the barometer steadily rising over Western Europe, sea smooth, readings being unusually high for this time of the year." Martin Hackness, B.Sc., London, thoughtfully read all this and more. The study of the meteorological reports was part of his religion almost. In the laboratory at the back of his sitting-room were all kinds of weird-looking instruments for measuring sunshine and wind pressure, the weight of atmosphere and the like. Hackness trusted before long to be able to foretell a London fog with absolute accuracy, which, when you come to think of it, would be an exceedingly useful matter".

Six spy-stories published in the US edition of Pearson's Magazine, Jul-Dec 1900. This series features Newton Moore, the top agent of a fictitious branch of the British War Office called "The Secret Service Fund." All of the stories in this series were illustrated by Victor Venner.

A Story of What Might Happen In the Days to Come, When Underground London is Tunnelled In all Directions for Electric Railways, If an Explosion Should Take Place In One of the Tubes. A short story in the "Doom of London" series. Excerpts: There was a sudden splitting crack as if a thousand rifles had been discharged in the ballroom. The floor rose on one side to a perilous angle, considering the slippery nature of its surface. Such a shower of white flakes fell from the ceiling that dark dresses and naval uniforms looked as if their wearers had been out in a snowstorm. ... "An earthquake," somebody said at length. "An earthquake, beyond doubt, and a pretty bad one at that. That accounts for the failure of the electric light. There will be some bad accidents if the gas mains are disturbed." ...

The history of famous detectives, imaginary and otherwise, has frequently been written, but the history of a famous criminal-never. This is a bold statement, but a true one all the same. The most notorious of rascals know that sooner or later they will be found out, and therefore they plan their lives accordingly. But they are always found out in the end. And yet there must be many colossal rascals who have lived and died apparently in the odour of sanctity. Such a character would be quite new to fiction, and herein I propose to attempt the history of the Sherlock Holmes of malefactors.

A collection of 12 stories published serially in The Ludgate, London, Jun 1897 to May 1898, in which the criminal mastermind, Felix Gryde, conducts his nefarious criminal work -- theft, kidnapping, ransom, assassination, fraud -- and he never gets caught. The author's introduction: "The history of famous detectives, imaginary and otherwise, has frequently been written, but the history of a famous criminal-never. "This is a bold statement, but a true one all the same. The most notorious of rascals know that sooner or later they will be found out, and therefore they plan their lives accordingly. But they are always found out in the end. And yet there must be many colossal rascals who have lived and died apparently in the odour of sanctity. Such a character would be quite new to fiction, and herein I propose to attempt the history of the Sherlock Holmes of malefactors. "Given a rascal with the intellect of the famous creation in question, and detection would be reduced to a vanishing point. It is the intention of the writer to set down here some of the wonderful adventures that befell Felix Gryde in the course of his remarkable career."