The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps
- Автор: Anderson Lars, Barr Randolph
- Год: 2007
- Язык: английский
- Год: Vintage Books
- ISBN: 978-0-307-28048-0
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps». Краткое содержание книги:
Weighing in at over a thousand pages, containing over forty-seven stories and two novels, this book is big baby, bigger and more powerful than a freight train — a bullet couldn’t pass through it. Here are the best stories and every major writer who ever appeared in celebrated Pulps like Black Mask, Dime Detective, Detective Fiction Weekly, and more. These are the classic tales that created the genre and gave birth to hard-hitting detectives who smoke criminals like packs of cigarettes; sultry dames whose looks are as lethal as a dagger to the chest; and gin-soaked hideouts where conversations are just preludes to murder. This is crime fiction at its gritty best.
I moved toward the ever thickening crowd, pushed my way by a couple of people, grunted as the back of a man half blocked my vision, ran smack into a policeman, and got a look at the dead man on the sidewalk.
It was Toney, the little sleigh rider who had sought Joe Gorgon’s protection a short fifteen minutes before. And now — well — he had more holes in him than a sieve. He must have had his back to the gun, and spun when he fell. For plainly in the bright light from the jeweler’s window his face stood out. There was no doubt of his identity.
Chapter VIII
Footsteps on the Stairs
Well — that was that. A man had looked a Gorgon in the face and died — or a Gorgon had looked a man in the face and the man had died. Take it any way you wish. Not much loss to the community certainly. Toney had been a shrewd, clever little gangster. A sure shot to gay-cat a job or listen to conversations, or get his nose in wastepaper baskets before the city wagons carted them away. Now — I shrugged my shoulders. It was a cinch that Toney had outlived his usefulness to Joe Gorgon, and his weakening mind and body had become a danger. Anyway, it don’t take much reasoning to say that he was dead. No one would deny that.
I pushed back through the crowd, walked up the street, paused before a United Cigar store and snapped my fingers. What had Joe Gorgon said to me there in the Golden Dog? Words that hadn’t seemed to make sense at the time. He had said, “Let us hear what you have to say. Surely I shouldn’t mind. Already one of your breed, at least one who sells his information to the highest bidder, has—” And then he broke off. What did he mean? Toney — Toney was selling information to some one — and Eddie Gorgon had left the restaurant to—. Well — Toney had died within a very few minutes. Toney, who had begged Joe Gorgon not to kill him. Toney, a drug addict who—
I shrugged my shoulders. There are times when I don’t need a brick building to fall on my head to wise me up to things. And if my thought wasn’t true, there was no harm in it. But — I went straight into the cigar store, stepped into a pay telephone booth, and parting with a nickel called the number Colonel McBride had given me.
He answered almost at once. I told him how well his money was spent, and of the tumble Joe Gorgon had taken out of his message.
“By the way,” I said casually, “the man — the one that dropped out of your bedroom window tonight. He didn’t happen to be a shabby little Italian, not too young, a worn blue suit, yellow brown shoes, a gray flannel shirt none too clean, no tie — and answering to the name ‘Toney?’ ”
“I... why do you ask?” But the answer to my question was in the tone of his voice.
“Because,” I said, “you were right about his fearing death. He was killed tonight. Less than five minutes ago, half a block from the Golden Dog.” And I told him about Toney coming to the table.
“He was mad — drug crazed — to go to Joe Gorgon. You think—”
“You can’t get a jury to convict on a thought,” I told him. “But Eddie Gorgon left his brother’s table a few minutes before the murder occurred.”
“Good God! that is terrible — terrible.”
“This old man — Giovoni. How important is he to you?”
“He means, perhaps everything — at least, at present. I have a man in Italy investigating the—” and he bit that off. “But Giovoni is safe. Let me know as soon as you can where Joe Gorgon went when he received that message.”
“Yeah. Want me to keep an eye on Giovoni?”
“No, no — that would be the worst thing you could do. Don’t go near El — that place. The man is perfectly safe now.”
Silence on both sides — then he said:
“That’s all!”
And we both hung up.
It lacked a half hour before I was to meet The Flame — but then, perhaps the hour had been suggested by Rudolph Myer because of my other engagement, which he had planned. But I was anxious to get back to my apartment and hear Jerry’s report as to where Joe Gorgon went in such a hurry.
I won’t say I reasoned things out as I rode down town in the taxi. Not me. Reason only too often confuses, especially when you’ve got little to reason on — not reason with. But thoughts would flash through my mind, and I let them swing along.
The message I had delivered to Joe Gorgon was a knock-out, certainly. No one would deny that. The biggest racketeer in the city had come very close to taking a nose dive. A few words had brought fear to the man who “feared nothing.” Perhaps it was that he feared nothing physically, but the mental reaction to my few words was—
I tapped on the window. We were perhaps a block and a half from The Flame’s address. The taxi pulled to the curb. I stepped out and paid the lad off. One thing in my mind. Was The Flame with me or against me when she sent that note? Anyway, I’d look the block over before meeting her. Not very trusting? Maybe not. Oh — I’ll admit it’s nice, noble, and high minded to have a trust in your fellow man — or fellow woman for that matter. But it’s not exactly healthy in my line of work.
The main street was more or less deserted — just one car. But it stood out in such a neighborhood. A high priced, high powered boat, with a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel. Still, a guy gets used to seeing stranger things than that on the city streets. I passed it up, turned the corner and entered the side street, where according to the number The Flame should live.
Perhaps I got a gulp when I walked past her number. It was a shabby, dreary looking apartment house. Rather hard to connect The Flame up with it. You sort of seemed to think of her with all that was beautiful and, maybe, expensive.
So far I spotted nothing that looked like a trap. I peered into doorways, paced down past half a dozen houses, turned quickly, walked straight to The Flame’s apartment house, found the door unlocked — so ignoring the bells, slid into the dimly lit lower hall and started up those stairs.
Started up — and stopped dead. And just when I stopped, or just after I stopped — feet a floor above stopped. Not imagination, that. Not—
I went on. Slowly mounting the stairs. Good sense of hearing — instinct? Call it what you will, but something told me that feet preceded me up those stairs — feet that kept a flight ahead of me. Feet that had been coming down when mine started up, and now stepped carefully back up those stairs — in tune with my own footfalls.
I didn’t stop to listen any more. I listened without stopping. Some of my steps I made heavy, some I made light. Sometimes I increased my speed, and it threw the other lad — whoever he was — off his stride. He couldn’t keep step with me, and two or three times I heard him plainly on the flight above. He was still steadily increasing his speed as I advanced, and I don’t believe I gained a step on him.
Then I tried a light whistle — started an air — broke off in the middle of it and heard his running feet stop, and again try to step with mine.
All right. While he retreated there was no danger. He didn’t intend to attack me, then. So I started up the third flight, ever watching above for glaring eyes or a threatening form. But none came. Distinctly I heard old boards creak down that hall. A dull sound as if a foot struck against wood, and a door closed as I reached the landing, turned on the fourth floor and mounted the final flight.
In the dim light I made out apartment 5-C. Listened just a moment, before I knocked on the door. I shrugged my shoulders. After all, it wasn’t an inviting neighborhood. There was no reason to connect up the slinking, retreating figure with my visit to The Flame. No reason at all. Yet — I did.
The door opened and I saw her again. There was a hesitancy in her manner which was new to The Flame.