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There was nothing about the supper party on that particular Sunday evening in November at Daisy Villa, Green Street, Streatham, which seemed to indicate in any way that one of the most interesting careers connected with the world history of crime was to owe its very existence to the disaster which befell that little gathering. The villa was the residence and also - to his credit - the unmortgaged property of Mr. David Barnes, a struggling but fairly prosperous coal merchant of excellent character, some means, and Methodist proclivities. His habit of sitting without his coat when carving,…mehr

Produktbeschreibung
There was nothing about the supper party on that particular Sunday evening in November at Daisy Villa, Green Street, Streatham, which seemed to indicate in any way that one of the most interesting careers connected with the world history of crime was to owe its very existence to the disaster which befell that little gathering. The villa was the residence and also - to his credit - the unmortgaged property of Mr. David Barnes, a struggling but fairly prosperous coal merchant of excellent character, some means, and Methodist proclivities. His habit of sitting without his coat when carving, although deprecated by his wife and daughter on account of the genteel aspirations of the latter, was a not unusual one in the neighbourhood; and coupled with the proximity of a cold joint of beef, his seat at the head of the table, and a carving knife and fork grasped in his hands, established clearly the fact of his position in the household, which a somewhat weak physiognomy might otherwise have led the casual observer to doubt. Opposite him, at the other end of the table, sat his wife, Mrs. Barnes, a somewhat voluminous lady with a high colour, a black satin frock, and many ornaments. On her left the son of the house, eighteen years old, of moderate stature, somewhat pimply, with the fashion of the moment reflected in his pink tie with white spots, drawn through a gold ring, and curving outwards to seek obscurity underneath a dazzling waistcoat.
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Autorenporträt
Edward Phillips Oppenheim was an English author who lived from October 22, 1866, to February 3, 1946. He wrote a lot of best-selling genre fiction with glamorous characters, international drama, and fast-paced action. They were popular forms of fun because they were easy to read. In 1927, he was on the cover of Time magazine. Edward Phillips Oppenheim was born in Tottenham, London, on October 22, 1866. His parents were Henrietta Susannah Temperley Budd and a leather merchant named Edward John Oppenheim. He went to Wyggeston Grammar School until the sixth form in 1883, but had to quit because his family couldn't afford it. For almost twenty years, he worked in his father's business. His father helped pay for the release of his first book, which did just enough to cover its costs. It was under the name "Anthony Partridge" that he released five of his books from 1908 to 1912. To help Oppenheim's writing career, Julien Stevens Ulman (1865-1920), a rich New York leather merchant who liked Oppenheim's books, bought the leather works around 1900 and made him a paid director. He quickly came up with a method that worked and made a name for himself. John Buchan, who was just starting out as a suspense writer, called Oppenheim "my master in fiction" and "the greatest Jewish writer since Isaiah" in 1913.