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.
He moved the Colt a little. The Chinese driver’s facial muscles were twisting. He was breathing quickly. He said:
“Tan Ying — he is very bad. Even if he does — not see—”
Jo Gar nodded. “Many men are very bad,” he philosophized quietly. “But after they are dead — how do we know what then happens?”
The driver half closed his staring eyes. He said in a shrill, shaken tone:
“If I take you to the place — they will kill me.”
Jo Gar shrugged. “And if you do not take me — I will kill you,” he said. “It is a difficult position.”
The driver said: “I am a poor man—”
The Island detective nodded. “Then you have less to live for,” he replied. “Let us start.”
The hour was almost midnight when Jo Gar and the Chinese chauffeur moved through the teeming streets of the Honolulu Chinese quarter. There was the sound of discordant music — the shrill, reedy notes that came down from rooms beyond balconies. The section was well lighted in spots, very poorly lighted in others. Jo Gar kept his body close to that of the chauffeur, and his Colt within the right pocket of his light suit coat. At intervals he let the weapon press against the chauffeur’s side.
They turned suddenly into a narrow alley that wound from the lighted street. There were few lights in the alley; the section was very quickly a poor one. The shops were squalid and dirty; no music came down from the rooms beyond the balconies.
The street curved more sharply at the far end. The Chinese at Jo’s side said thickly:
“It is — there—”
He pointed towards a narrow entrance, an oblong cut in unpainted wood. Strips on which letters were scrawled in Chinese, hung on either side of the entrance. Streamers of painted beads hung from the bamboo pole at the top of the entrance; they obscured the store beyond.
Jo said softly: “You will go — first—”
The driver’s face was twisted, but he forced a smile as his browned hands shoved aside the beads. They made a rattling sound; Jo followed into the shop. A kerosene light made odor and gave little flare. There was the usual musty, aged smell of such shops. Baskets were about, with nuts in them — and jars contained brightly colored candy. There were shelves with boxes marked with Chinese lettering.
No one was about, but at the rear of the store was another bead curtain. The Chinese driver glanced towards it. Jo Gar said in a half whisper:
“Do as you — were told.”
The chauffeur raised his voice and called in a shrill voice:
“Tan Ying!”
A quavering voice replied, from the room beyond the second curtain. It said:
“Welcome, Dave Chang!”
Jo Gar smiled grimly. The Americanization of the Chinese never failed to amuse him. He touched Chang lightly and pointed towards the beads of the curtain.
The chauffeur said in Chinese: “You are alone, Tan Ying?”
Ying replied that he was alone. He asked that the driver would enter his humble abode. Chang moved towards the beaded curtain and Jo Gar followed him. He was very close to him as they passed through the beaded curtain into the rear room. Two kerosene lamps were burning, but there was a clutter of objects in the place. Buddha’s figure was in a corner; the light from the nearer lamp struck the face from an angle, making the figure seem very life-like.
Tan Ying was an aged Chinese. He sat cross-legged, but there was some object against which his back rested. He was obese and fat faced. His eyes were open but sightless. They shone whitely as he stared towards Chang. It was almost as though he were inspecting the chauffeur.
Jo Gar stepped soundlessly to one side of the beaded curtain. He took his Colt from his right-hand pocket, held it low at his side. He breathed as quietly as possible. But it was not enough. Tan Ying said quietly, steadily:
“You are not alone, Dave Chang.”
He spoke in his native tongue, and Chang sucked in his breath sharply. He twisted his head and looked at Jo. The Island detective smiled and nodded.
Chang said: “It is my Spanish friend, Mendez. He has arrived on the boat today.”
The blind Chinese nodded his fat face. His face was expressionless, except that his sightless eyes gave it a strange intenseness. He said:
“Welcome, Señor Mendez!”
Jo Gar spoke in Spanish. “You are good to welcome me, Tan Ying.”
The Chinese smiled; he was almost toothless. The wick in one of the kerosene lamps was low; it flickered now and then. There was a little silence. Then Jo Gar said to the chauffeur, in Chinese:
“Will you speak of the business?”
The chauffeur’s body stiffened. He said very softly:
“You are expecting the Dutchman, Tan Ying?”
Tan Ying’s fat body rocked a little from side to side. His lips tightened. He said:
“Why do you speak of him?”
Jo Gar said: “It is because I am to meet him — in Honolulu, Tan Ying. That is the reason.”
The lips of the fat Chinese relaxed a little. A clock chimed, and Tan Ying listened to it. He said, after a little silence following the chimes:
“The Dutchman — he is already late.”
Jo Gar sighed a little. He moved his body and turned so that when Benfeld came in he could easily cover him with his weapon. The driver was looking at him with tortured eyes; Chang was feeling fear.
The blind Chinese said suddenly, in very precise English:
“It has gone well, Dave Chang?”
Jo Gar felt his body stiffen. The driver nodded his head, and looked at Jo again. The Island detective nodded and smiled.
Chang said: “It has gone well, Tan Ying.”
The blind Chinese smiled again. His body continued to rock from side to side. There was a small screen near the print-covered wall at Jo’s back. It was perhaps four feet high, and as many long. It was within several feet of the wall. Jo Gar moved quietly to it, stood close to it. He raised his gun a little and nodded at Dave Chang.
The chauffeur hesitated. Jo Gar’s face grew hard; he narrowed his gray-blue eyes. Chang said:
“Señor Mendez will be of use to the Dutchman, Tan Ying.”
The blind Chinese stopped swaying. He said in his native tongue:
“It may be so.”
There was the sound of beads rattling, at the entrance of the shop. The blind Chinese stiffened, and Dave Chang half turned his body. Jo Gar raised his weapon, leveled it at the chauffeur. Then he stepped behind the screen and bent downward. He got his right eye near a section crack. There was little light on the screen. From the outer room there was the sound of tapping. He counted a half dozen taps; they were soft and well spaced.
The blind Chinese raised his voice and said:
“It is the way of the Western lands—”
There was the sound of footfalls. The beads of the inner curtain rattled and Benfeld came into the room. He straightened, looked sharply about. He said in a hard tone, in English:
“You — Chang — what was it that happened?”
The blind Chinese said softly: “Dave Chang — he has told me it is well.”
Benfeld said fiercely in English: “He lied! When we got back there, after ten minutes, there was no body in the car. You — Chang—”
The chauffeur said hoarsely, fear in his voice:
“I do not know — what happened! I did as I was told. I signaled with the lights, and when I saw the beam of your car — I ran to the foliage. When I returned, there was no sign of Señor Gar. I swear it.”
Benfeld said grimly: “What did you do? Why didn’t you stay near the car?”
Chang replied in a shrill tone: “I was frightened. One of the bullets from your machine — it almost struck me. I went into the foliage, wandered around. Then I remembered that we were to be here at twelve.”