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.
Raaker’s eyes held rage again. He was losing control of himself. He made a swift motion with his left hand, shaking fingers pointing towards the four stones on the table.
“Look at them — damn you!” he gritted. “Look at the four you couldn’t — reach! Look at them—”
Jo Gar looked into the eyes of Raaker. He shook his head.
“I’ve seen the others,” he stated quietly. “I’ve seen many diamonds, Raaker.”
Raaker laughed wildly. He backed towards a wall of the room.
“You’ll never see diamonds again,” he said in a fierce tone. “Never, Gar!”
He raised his gun arm slowly. From the cab outside there came the sharp sound of a horn, silence — and then another blast.
Jo Gar never took his eyes from the eyes of Raaker. He was smiling grimly.
He said very slowly: “Machine-gun bullets, Raaker. And choking, blinding gas. They’ll be waiting for you — after you get through squeezing that trigger.”
Raaker cried out in a shrill tone: “Damn you — Gar — that won’t help you any—”
There was a sudden engine hum as the cab driver accelerated the motor. Yellow light flashed beyond the house, along the road. O’Halohan was going for the police, starting his cab. For a second Raaker twisted his head towards the sound and the light. He was thinking of machine-guns — and tear gas—
Jo Gar was on his feet in a flash. The table went forward, over. The Island detective leaped to the right as Raaker cried out hoarsely, and the first bullet from his gun crashed into the table wood.
The second bullet from the gun ripped the cloth of Gar’s coat, and his right hand was coming up, with the Colt in it, when the cloth ripped. He squeezed the trigger sharply but steadily. There was the third gun crash and Raaker screamed, took a step forward. His gun hand dropped; he went to his knees, stared at Gar for a second, swaying — then fell heavily to the floor.
Jo Gar went slowly to his side. He was dead — the bullet had caught him just above the heart. One diamond lay very close to his curved fingers; it was as though he were grasping for it, in death.
The other three Jo found after a five-minute search. Then he went from the room into the hall, and out of the house. The cab was out of sight; in the distance there was still colored light in the sky. The shooting gallery noise came at intervals. Jo Gar found a package in his pocket, lighted one of his brown-paper cigarettes.
He said very softly, to himself: “I have all — of the diamonds. Now I can go home, after the police come. I hope my friend Juan Arragon — knows.”
He stood very motionless on the top step that led to the small porch, and waited for the police to come. And he thought, as he waited, of the Philippines — of Manila — and of his tiny office off the Escolta. It was good to forget other things, and to think of his returning.
The Ring on the Hand of Death
William Rollins Jr
William Rollins Jr. (1897–1950) was born in Boston, Massachusetts, and served with the French Army during World War I (other references state that his experience was with the American Ambulance Service), after which he joined other expatriates in Paris, then settled in New York City to become a full-time freelance writer, mainly for magazines, both pulp and slick. His homosexuality was openly discussed by his friends, and Rollins wrote about the subject with sensitivity, though he never acknowledged his sexual orientation. A devoted Marxist, he believed communism was the only hope for democracy in America, though he never joined the party. He was a frequent contributor to New Masses, the Communist-supported journal, and his work, notably the proletarian novel The Shadow Before (1934), was much admired in left-wing circles, being praised by Lillian Hellman (“the finest and most stimulating book of this generation”) and John Dos Passos, among others.
Rollins had begun his career as a mystery writer, frequently selling stories to Black Mask and other pulp magazines, as well as producing such novels as Midnight Treasure (1929), The Wall of Men (1938), and, after World War II, The Ring and the Lamp (1947); he wrote a single mystery, Murder at Cypress Hall (1933), under the pseudonym O’Connor Stacy.
“The Ring on the Hand of Death,” one of twenty-one stories that Rollins wrote for Black Mask, was published in the April 1924 issue.
A murder mystery which gathers speed as it goes along; with occasional scenes in Mr. Rollins’ creepiest style.
I’m not much. Horace Sparton always said so, and he ought to know; he was one of the two richest men in town. Old Man Carr was the other one. He used to say I would come to a no-good end, and he ought to know; he had a no-good beginning. But everybody forgot that, when he started raking in the iron-men. And then Old Wallace the Walrus says I’m the worst kid she ever had in high school, but that she couldn’t expect much more, considering where I came from. But I’ve been making my own living somehow or other, ever since Mother died two years ago. And I’ve been able to work in enough time to go to school, too. So I should worry!
Of course, I did worry whenever I met Irene Burnet. She didn’t want to be seen with a bum like me... Although she always said, “Hello, Jack,” and smiled. And once when I was holding up a telegraph pole just as she was passing by, and I was staring at her without noticing I was doing it (she’s that kind, awfully easy to look at), she dropped her eyes and started blushing. And then she smiled, just as if she didn’t mind it at all!
And then one time, after I had finished fixing up Old Man Carr’s front lawn to make it ready for the spring, and then wandered down the street and pulled myself up on the fence next to Burnet’s place (it’s a comfortable seat; that’s why I like it so much), I heard some people coming up the side street. And I heard her voice.
“He’s a nice boy!” I heard her say, as if somebody else had just said he wasn’t. “He’s not only good-looking — I don’t care so much about that — but he’s honest and he works hard, and some day he’s going to make a big man of himself!”
I was trying to think how I could get away before they saw me and wondering who this great person was that she was talking about, when they came around the corner — Irene and two other girls and three fellows. When she saw me, Irene suddenly stopped talking and blushed all over, and the girls started giggling, and the fellows burst out laughing, as if they’d all suddenly thought of a big joke, all at once. For a minute I couldn’t help thinking— But I’m not going to tell you; you’ll think I’m conceited.
And besides, that isn’t why I started telling this incident. I just can’t help thinking about myself, particularly if I’m thinking about Irene. That last sentence sounds funny, but I can’t make it any clearer without getting all mixed up.
Well, just then Mr. Sparton (Horace Sparton, the district attorney) came walking down the path from the Burnets’ little house. When he saw Irene and the others, he stopped short. Then he took off his hat.
“Good evening, Miss Burnet,” he said. “I just called around to see your brother.”
“But — why, I thought you knew he went up to Denver for a few days!”
“I did. But I hoped he would be back today. However, I’ll call again in a day or two.”
And he took off his hat again with a smile and walked on.
And then you ought to have seen that smile disappear when he saw me! He came up and stood right in front of me, his big jaw sticking out.