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.
Jo said very slowly, wiping his brown forehead with a handkerchief, and narrowing his eyes on a slowly revolving ceiling fan:
“The killers are very desperate. That is natural. They have valuable diamonds, and they have murdered two persons. They would not hesitate—”
He broke off, shrugged. Carlysle swore beneath his breath and watched the Island detective. He said, after a little silence:
“Juan Arragon thought very well of you, Señor Gar. You showed him up many times, but he always was good-natured about it. If you—”
He broke off. Jo Gar smiled a little and said in his toneless voice:
“Herr Mattlien is dead. Ramon Delgado is dead. Ten extremely valuable diamonds are missing. The method of the robbery was very modern. I am interested, of course.”
Carlysle said: “Good. Of course you are. The method was American, I’d say.”
The Island detective shrugged. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But it does not mean that Americans were the bandits.”
Carlysle said bitterly: “I hope not — for their sakes.”
Jo Gar lighted one of his brown-paper cigarettes and said very slowly:
“I shall try to find Juan Arragon — but it is important that the vessels are watched. Very important.”
Carlysle said: “I’ve got everything working — we’re trying to find someone who can identify a driver of one of the three cars. The descriptions are all vague — guesswork.”
Jo Gar turned his small body slightly. He said in a tone touched with grimness:
“I will return for a few minutes to my office, then I shall move about.”
Carlysle’s eyes were narrowed. He said with a touch of eagerness:
“You will let me know — as soon as you learn something?”
Jo moved towards the door of the office. He nodded his head a little.
“If I learn something — I will let you know,” he said quietly, and went down the stairs to the street.
His small office was not far off the Escolta; the street was narrow and curving. There were few people on it; the shops were small and most of them had closed for the night. It was almost dark when he turned in at the entrance and climbed the narrow, creaking stairs. He climbed slowly, conserving his energy.
At the landing before his office he paused a few seconds, stood in the faint light from a small, hanging bulb. Then he went towards the door and reached for the knob. His office was seldom locked; he kept little of importance there.
When he opened the door there was a faint breeze from the window. He reached for the switch — and white light filled the room. For a second he stood motionless, his shoulders and head slightly forward. His eyes looked towards the wicker chair near the small table.
He recognized the uniform first. It was khaki in color. Next he recognized the figure. Juan Arragon’s body was half turned away from him — head and shoulders rested on the table. The helmet was not in sight — Arragon was bareheaded. His dark hair glistened in the white light. There was a definite inertness about the position of the body.
Jo Gar said very steadily: “Juan — Juan Arragon!”
From the Pasig there was the shrill note of a river launch whistle. A driver called in a high-pitched voice in the street below.
Jo Gar sighed. Then he stepped into his office, closed the door. He went slowly to the side of Juan Arragon. He looked first at the head, with the half-opened eyes. Then he found the two bullet holes, not far from the heart. There was little blood.
There were books on the floor; they had fallen as though swept from the table with force. An ink bottle had crashed and broken. Near the right, outstretched fingers of the dead police lieutenant was a bit of white paper. A stubby pencil lay beyond it. There were scrawled words on the paper. Jo Gar leaned forward and read them. After a few seconds he reread them, aloud.
“ ‘Calle Padrone — house in palmetto thick — high porch — shutters — go at once — I am shot — French—’ ”
That was all. Jo Gar straightened and turned his back on his friend. He went to the window and looked down towards the street, unseeingly. He felt very badly. Juan Arragon was dead, shot to death. They had worked together on many crimes. Now that was finished. Often Juan had been wrong, but he had always been fair.
Jo Gar slowly lighted a cigarette. He drew a deep breath and moved his lips a little. He said:
“I will find them, of course. They have murdered him. And Ramon Delgado. And Mattlien. Because of diamonds — ten of them.”
He stood motionless for several seconds. Then he shrugged, turned and went from the office. He did not look again at Juan Arragon. He walked, not too rapidly, the short distance to the police station.
Carlysle said, looking with wide eyes at the body of Juan Arragon:
“God — they got him! But he scrawled the address of the hide-out. We’ll get out there—”
Jo Gar shook his head slowly: “If you send men there — be very careful,” he said tonelessly. “The address was meant for me.”
Carlysle blinked. “Yes,” he agreed, “but that doesn’t make any difference—”
Jo Gar said softly: “You see the pencil — it is near the right-hand fingers. The writing — it is in English.”
Carlysle frowned. “It’s Arragon’s writing,” he breathed. “He could write English.”
The Island detective nodded. “He wrote with his left hand,” he said quietly. “If he were dying and wished to give me directions, I do not think he would write in English. And how did he get here?”
Carlysle stared at the dead police lieutenant. He muttered something the Island detective did not hear. Jo Gar said slowly:
“He was shot — and brought here. His handwriting was imitated. It is clever work. But they did not remember that Juan was left-handed. And I understand Filipino — he would have scrawled words to me in that language.”
Carlysle said: “They wanted you — to go to Calle Padrone — to the house in the thicket—”
Jo Gar said very quietly: “I should be very careful how your men approach the house.”
The American police head frowned. “They’re afraid of you, Jo,” he said grimly. “They planned this crime carefully. They know Juan has worked with you. They thought they’d get you — out of the way—”
He broke off. The muscles of the Island detective’s mouth twitched. He said:
“It is possible.”
Carlysle looked down at the scrawl. “They figured the shaky writing would get by — with you thinking Arragon was in bad shape when he wrote it. They didn’t know — he was left-handed. And I’d forgotten—”
He checked himself. Jo Gar spoke very quietly:
“The killers know of Señor Gar,” he said. “That is unfortunate.”
Carlysle, his eyes still narrowed on the scrawl, spoke grimly.
“There is this word ‘French,’ ” he said. “They wanted you to believe their nationality was French. That eliminates something — they’re not French.”
Jo Gar said nothing. He went to the window of his office and stood with his back to Carlysle and several of his men. The American police head gave orders. Then he spoke to the Island detective.
“The coroner will be here soon. I’m going to the Calle Padrone, with my men—”
Jo nodded. “I shall see you in a few hours,” he said quietly, and added in a toneless voice: “I hope.”
Carlysle frowned. “Delgado is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward,” he said. “I’m going to have the boat passengers carefully checked, the luggage searched.”