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.
“Red dawn” — the Spaniard had said. There had been a mockery in those words, too. His lips shaped themselves into a bitter smile as he remembered the advice that Barrington had given him — advice to return to the Cheyo Maru.
Mendez said very slowly: “Well — there is an end to this, Gar. I will give you five minutes. The sun is getting up. I have much to do. If you swear to me—”
Jo Gar got unsteadily to his feet. Mendez regarded him with a twisted smile. The Island detective was unarmed and very weak. And once before tonight he had failed to surprise the Spaniard. Mendez said grimly:
“Steady — you are not accustomed to being — knocked around—”
The Island detective said thickly: “I do not want to die, Mendez. I will tell you the truth. But you must swear to me — that I will go free.”
Mendez’ eyes showed eagerness again. But the next second they had narrowed, and held a hard expression.
“I swear to you — that you will go free — if you tell me where the diamonds are.”
Jo Gar nodded his head. He knew that no matter what he said he would not go free. He raised his head and looked Mendez squarely in the eyes with his bloodshot ones.
“I did get them — from the one — on the boat,” he said steadily, softly. “I have had them — with me — on me. But in the car — it seemed very bad. I was — afraid. I had them in one of my Manila cigarette packages, mixed with a few cigarettes—”
He paused, swayed a little. Mendez stepped in very close to him. His voice was shaking.
“In your — cigarette package!” he breathed fiercely. “You had them—”
Jo Gar nodded as Mendez’ voice died. He said weakly, brokenly:
“The Chinese — on my left. He had a sack-like coat. I slipped the cigarette package — in a pocket — his right pocket.”
Mendez swore sharply. He muttered angrily:
“The Chinese—”
His body swung away from Jo Gar instinctively. His fingers clutched at the knob of the door that opened on the path. And then, suddenly, he remembered. There was the rifle.
His body started to turn, but even as he threw up his arms in protection, Jo Gar swung outward and downward with the chair he had lifted from the floor. All his remaining strength was in the swing. Wood crackled as Mendez’ arms were battered downward — the bamboo was not heavy, but Jo had found power for his final chance.
The Spaniard’s arms swung loosely — his head fell sideways under the impact of the blow. He staggered back from the door, his eyes staring. And in a swift movement Jo Gar had the door opened.
Mendez struck at him weakly — the Island detective had little power in the blow that caught the Spaniard on the right shoulder, spinning him around. But it knocked Mendez off balance — he plunged towards the opened door. He was almost to his knees as his body angled beyond the plantation shack.
The first shot crashed. There was a second — and then two more. Jo Gar stood motionless, listened to two more shots from the repeating rifle. Then there was silence, and later a crashing in the foliage below the shack.
After a long minute the Island detective went outside and made certain that Mendez was dead. Then he went back into the room. It was all red with the rising sun. He sat in a chair for a few minutes. He got a package of Manila cigarettes from a pocket and lighted one. He thought of the woman a man who was now dead had spoken about. Five minutes later when he stepped over the body of Mendez to leave the plantation shack he did not look down. But as he went down the path towards the road he muttered thickly:
“He did not lie — about two things. The Chinese was waiting — with his rifle. And the dawn was — very — red.”
Blue Glass
Ramon Decolta
Jo Gar, the little Island detective, finds that bullets often come with diamonds — when the diamonds are stolen ones.
When the cabin phone made a buzzing sound, Jo Gar was dozing. A soft, warm breeze blew in through the port; the Cheyo Maru was some seven hours away from the Hawaiian Islands — and Honolulu. The diminutive detective sat up wearily and turned his bruised face towards the French phone. When he spoke his words were low and precise:
“Yes — this is Señor Gar.”
The voice at the other end of the wire was flat, almost expressionless. It was low and a bit throaty.
“You would give much, Señor — to recover the other nine Von Loffler diamonds?”
The questioning note was very faint, but the words had an immediate effect on Jo Gar. His small body stiffened; he sucked in his breath sharply. There was silence at the other end of the line. Jo said, finally:
“Yes — much.”
There was another silence. Then the voice sounded again, with no more expression.
“How much, Señor Gar?”
The Philippine Island detective narrowed his gray-blue, slightly almond-shaped eyes. He said very quietly:
“I do not appreciate jokes. Many aboard this boat are naturally aware of my identity. Quite a few men have died because of the Von Loffler stones. If you are—”
“I am not joking.” For the first time there was some tone in the other’s voice. “I have information that will be of value to you.”
Jo Gar said steadily: “Then pardon me. If you will allow me to talk with you in your cabin—”
For the second time there was an interruption. The other’s words were sharp now — very sharp.
“I have asked you a question, Señor Gar. I am aware of many things concerning the Von Loffler stones. Ten were stolen from the jewelry shop in Manila. You have recovered one. Your friend Juan Arragon has been murdered. You have killed — and others have killed. You believe that the nine missing stones are aboard this vessel, and that a woman has them in her possession. Is it not so?”
The Island detective closed his eyes. “It is as you say,” he said simply. His mind was working very fast; his head was clear enough.
The voice continued: “You very narrowly escaped death more than once — in Honolulu, Señor Gar. The missing stones are worth almost two hundred thousand dollars. I can tell you that the one who carried out the orders of Benfeld, and who was responsible for murders that included your friend Arragon — that person is aboard the Cheyo Maru.”
There was a pause. The voice said: “Speak, please, Señor Gar.”
Jo Gar smiled with a touch of grimness. “I am still in my cabin, Señor,” he replied.
The other said: “That is wise. You will be wiser not to attempt tracing this call. It will prove useless.”
The Island detective said: “Perhaps that is so.”
There was a short silence. Then the other said in the same, flat voice:
“You would be well rewarded if you were to return to Manila with the missing stones, and the murderer, Señor Gar. There would be rest for you. That is why I ask the amount you would be willing to pay.”
Jo Gar said slowly: “I am a poor man.”
The other’s voice became sharp again. “You have been fortunate, Señor Gar. In the States it will be different. And the diamonds will not be difficult to sell.”
The Island detective’s voice held a grim note. “They are very fine stones, and perfectly matched. By this time they are very well known. Perhaps they would be extremely difficult to sell.”
Impatience was evident in the voice that came from the other end of the wire.
“You are not a fool — you know the stones will not be difficult to dispose of, Señor Gar. You know they will be smuggled through the customs officers. And in San Francisco you will lose the trail you were lucky enough to pick up. Even if you should blunder on—”