The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories
- Автор: Adams Cleve F., Babcock Dwight V.
- Год: 2010
- Язык: английский
- Год: A Vintage Crime/Black Lizard
- ISBN: 978-0-307-45543-7
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories». Краткое содержание книги:
Black Mask was the apotheosis of noir. It was the magazine where the first hardboiled detective story, which was written by Carroll John Daly appeared. It was the slum in which such American literary titans like Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler got their start, and it was the home of stories with titles like “Murder Is Bad Luck,” “Ten Carets of Lead,” and “Drop Dead Twice.” Collected here is best of the best, the hardest of the hardboiled, and the darkest of the dark of America’s finest crime fiction. This masterpiece collection represents a high watermark of America’s underbelly. Crime writing gets no better than this.
A few hundred yards or more down the road I see the turn I’m looking for and a short drive down a rough lane and things are starting. A white-robed figure holds up his hand and stops me; of course in my robe he takes me for one of the clucks. I spot this lad for the Klexter, the outer guard.
“White and Supremacy,” I say like a regular.
After that it’s gravy; I go through my stuff which I got from Dumb Rogers. After a Salute he passes me and I turn into a field where there is near fifty cars parked.
Here I have to go through the speeches again with the Klarogo, the inner guard. But everything is rosy and pretty soon I pass down a narrow glade and into the Klavern itself. It was a fairly large open space surrounded by the thick woods — a good place to scatter if the cops come, I guess. There were near a hundred gathered about and when I slip in the show is already on.
“Imperial One, the men who seek admission to our legions stand prepared,” a voice suddenly booms out, and with that all the robed figures gather about in a circle.
Then a lad with a cross all lit up breezes in and behind him march about eight lads — the candidates — looking for their ten dollars’ worth. And they got it; in wind at least. I never heard so much talking in my life.
The Head Goblin, a bird fixed up in white and scarlet, lets off steam about sending everybody to hell while the Klan took care of law and order. It was bum stuff, most of it, and if I’d a been one of the candidates I’d a hollered for my money back.
The members is not called brothers or anything like that; they are called citizens and the initiation is called being naturalized, and they take an oath which would knock you cock-eyed for length, bad English and rotten principles. And then the new citizens swear never to tell anything nor give any evidence against a Klansman unless he’s committed rape, willful murder or treason. Hot dog! Burglars, counterfeiters, and check-raisers welcome — also arson might be appreciated — I don’t know. But I sure do see why Dumb Rogers was sore and why all the crooks are joining.
Then the little buttons are given out with no extra charge but lots more wind; those buttons must have been worth all of ten for a cent — when I was a kid we use to pick better in a nickel’s worth of popcorn.
But I don’t get no real dope; not a mention of the boy nor a mention of me, which sure hurts my pride. Then I get the how of their pulling off the real dirt without being openly to blame. Committees is appointed, but they don’t say what for. See the lay of it? If you have an enemy — why, get on a committee — it’s hot stuff!
The real fellows who just enter the Klan because they are born joiners don’t know half the time why they are beating up some helpless old man or weak woman. They just do it. Why — God alone knows. They forget their manhood and listen to all the wind about cleaning up the world and making it safe for the white race. And all for ten bucks. Oh, I’m a pretty tough egg — none tougher, I guess, but I felt as white as my robe in comparison with most of that gang.
And just when I’m wondering what good this whole show is going to do me, outside of improving my morals, I get a real shock. There’s a commotion outside the circle and the outer guard rushes in and following him is — is my victim of the Ford.
Some excitement then and I can see my finish unless I duck and — and I ducked. In the excitement it was easy to slip back through the circle of white figures and into the thick foliage. I lay low there, where I can see what’s going on. I’m not leaving yet — no — not me! I still got unfinished business. There sure will be a few dead Kleagles, to say nothing of a couple of Klodards and one thing and another, if this bunch get mussy with me.
You see, I suspect they’ll unmask, looking for me, but no such thing. After they quiet down a bit the lad what thinks I wronged him starts around the circle, examining all the uniforms. He must have spilt soup or something on his, else how could he tell it? But he has no luck and after a little more talk they just bust up the meeting and beat it. The fear of Race Williams has been placed in their hearts. So I lay there a while, cussing my hard luck.
I’m wondering if they’ll search the woods, but they don’t. However, I shake my night shirt so as to be free and easy for gun-play; but these boys are not bent on committing suicide. About ten minutes pass and the chug of the motors has died away and I’m just about thinking of going back to town, when two white-robed figures suddenly enter the deserted glen. But they don’t look around none, just lay off a bit. Then one of them, wanting a smoke, pulls off his hood and — and it’s Feather-Face. Now, I got this bird sized up. Where he is, there is trouble.
Backing slowly out of the woods, I decided to sneak around and see if I can hear what they’re saying. The moon is fairly bright, so I got to be mighty careful. And then, as I turn and go slowly through the trees, I hear the chug-chug of a motor. I peer through the trees and there by the roadside is a car — none of your flivvers this time, but a big touring car. The motor stops and a lad gets out and passes through the wood within ten feet of me. He ain’t got no hood nor robe on, but I can’t get a slant at his map.
I turn and follow him and as I reach the end of the clearing I hear him say to the others:
“Ed’ll be here in ten minutes and then—”
“Sh!” cautions another voice.
But I don’t wait to hear no more. I got ten minutes and I’m flying down the road to the place I left my bike. I ain’t got time to duck in and out among the trees, but I don’t meet no one, which ain’t so much my luck as his.
And the bike’s there and in less than ten minutes I’m about twenty feet behind that car, hidden in the bushes, ready to do a six-day race.
Five minutes later we all breeze off together — the four of them in the car and me following on the bike — none of us showing lights.
Now, the first part of that ride is not so bad, for they ain’t bent on speed and the road is fairly level — but the moon goes behind a cloud and I got to hang close. On top of that we come to an upgrade and things are not so good. Then they turn up a steep and winding road and the bike ain’t no good any more — at least, it’s no good to me.
It looks like I’m stumped as I stand there panting and listening to the throb of the distant motor — and then the throb stops sudden — not just dies away. I look up the side of that hill and suddenly I see a light — it just flashes for a moment and is gone. Enough — I park the bike in the woods and start in to hoof it.
Twenty minutes later I’m at the top of a steep hill — on the other side of me is a cliff and below a roaring mountain stream. I can hear the water dashing by far below. And then out comes the moon and about fifty feet away I see a log cabin almost on the very edge of the steep cliff. A little ways from it I see the big car.
There ain’t no one in sight and I just duck around that cabin, trying to look in; but there’s nothing doing. Oh, I can catch the flicker of light from between some of the cracks in the logs, but can’t see in. There is only one window and that is boarded up. I try the door softly, but it’s locked tight; then I go round back with half an idea of climbing to the roof in the hope of finding a crack big enough to peer through.
And then when I get around the side I hear the door open — it creaks mighty loud. Only a second and footsteps are coming around to the back. Both guns ready, I back to cover behind the opposite corner of the cabin and wait. The moon is fine and I see two men plainly as they approach the edge of the cliff, forcing a lithe figure of a boy between them. His arms are bound, but his legs ain’t, and he’s pleading with them in a low voice.