The Gallery Gods

William Beckwith has done something remarkable: he's murdered a millionaire and escaped to a tropical island beyond extradition's reach. He expects headlines, fanfare, his name on every lip. Instead: silence. The press ignores Hugh Conway's death entirely, and Beckwith finds himself in an unbearable position - he's gotten away with murder, but nobody cares. So he does the only logical thing: he returns to New York, walking straight into the trap Police Commissioner Wells has set. The gallery gods, it turns out, were always watching - they just wanted him to come to them. Murray Leinster's 1917 gem plays like a dark fairy tale for the narcissistic age. It's a fiendishly clever study of a man whose ego is so voracious that prison becomes preferable to invisibility. The prose snaps with ironic precision, and the twist lands like a trap door. This is crime fiction that understands fame and infamy are two sides of the same hungry coin, and that some men will commit any act - even the ultimate one - just to be seen.