Black Mask (Vol. 21, No. 8 — November, 1938)
- Автор: Баллард Уиллис Тодхантер, Cave Hugh B.
- Год: 1938
- Язык: английский
- Год: Pro-Distributors Publishing
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Black Mask (Vol. 21, No. 8 — November, 1938)». Краткое содержание книги:
“We’ll do what we can for her,” Shapiro said, “if what you’ve told is the truth.”
Dr. Meier shoved an elbow in Shapiro’s belly. Meier had been cutting the clothes away from the wound; Shapiro was in the way.
“I’ve got proof,” said Paradine. “It might not stand up in court, with a shyster to talk the jury deaf, dumb and blind, but Pete Holden isn’t going to court. In the drinking glass you’ll find traces of poison, arsenic, I suppose. And the bullets. The one from Tiemann’s body will match the ones from Ed Hanifin’s, if you haven’t already found that out. And the other bullet from Holden’s gun. That’ll match.”
“The other bullet,” asked Shapiro vaguely, “from Holden’s gun?”
“How should I know just where; it is?” Paradine snarled. “I brought it with me, and if your doctor can’t find it, then he’s—” He laughed. “Your medical man is trying to hurt me with a little — hypodermic — syringe...”
He swam up out of long hours of morphine sleep, aware of diluted sunshine coming through blinds. The room was his own but there was an alien face under a white cap, and he asked it:
“Where’s Molly?”
“She’s having breakfast.” The face smiled with professional kindness. “She didn’t sleep, like you did.”
“Breakfast!” Paradine grunted; there were slow waves of pain, and he wondered why he didn’t mind them much. “Tell her I want to talk to her.”
Molly had already come in. There was something white in her hand, and her eyes were red-rimmed but quiet.
“Sit down,” Paradine said. “What’d they tell you?”
Molly looked away. “Everything,” said Molly. She sat down in a chair by the bed; looked him full in the face. “I overheard some of what you were telling the Captain. I asked him, and he told me everything. I’m all right, Mr. Paradine. I fought it out. If nobody says anything about it to me for a while... I know Pete died tried trying to kill you. After a while I’ll go away.”
“Stop at that point,” said Paradine, and sighed. “You’ve got what it takes. You won’t ever be exactly alone in the world. You have yourself, and that’s good company. You’ll find others. Marry again, of course. Do that. It gets tiresome, living alone.”
“No. Never.”
“Of course you will,” Paradine snorted. “What the hell’s that you got hold of?”
Molly glanced at the sandwich in her hand. “I don’t know what’s in it.”
“Dear heart,” Paradine moaned, “It’s stupid to live alone. I’d marry you myself, fat and past fifty though I am and in spite of your nasty habit of calling me Mr. Paradine — if only you had a sense of humor.”
“Why, I—”
“No; you haven’t. How did you get that damned can of sardines open without a key?”
Molly’s weary face stared, sober, a little surprised. “With a can-opener.”
“Oh,” said Paradine. “With a canopener. Just like that.” He sighed, and turned his mild plump face away from her, and slept.
Mobster Guns
by W. T. Ballard
A stunt flyer quits his movie role and Bill Lennox skirmishes with death to find out why.
Sol Spurck, vice-president in charge of production at General Consolidated’s West Coast studio stared across his massive desk at Bill Lennox, his trouble shooter.
“A fine kettle with fish you have got us into now,” his voice was accusing. The enormous diamond on his finger winked in the late afternoon sun as he pounded the desk.
Lennox looked at his chief. His eyes mirrored the tired brain, buffeted by five years of Hollywood turmoil. “What have I done now?”
Spurck seemed to gather himself together as if in preparation for an explosion, but when he spoke his tone was deceivingly mild. “Answer me one thing, please. Was it or was it not you which suggested I should cast Frank Hobbs in that airplane picture?”
Lennox said, “Sure. What’s wrong with that?”
Spurck appealed to the ceiling. “He asks me what’s wrong while Rome burns yet, or anyhow a million dollar picture goes boom. Hobbs quit. He’s through, he’s running out. The picture is half in the can and he says maybe he come back next month and finish it.”
Lennox’ eyes widened. “What’s this?”
Spurck said, “Ain’t I just been telling you? Hobbs is walking out, quitting us cold.”
Lennox said, “I’ll see about that,” and swung toward the door.
As he came out of the Administration Building and started across the big lot, a lovely girl in a knitted gray suit came toward him. He paused, waiting for her to come up.
Nancy Hobbs, feature writer for one of Hollywood’s better fan magazines, smiled. “Hello, Bill. You look as if the Hayes’ office had just ruled you out of pictures.”
He grunted. “It’s that screwy cousin of yours. You talked me into giving Hobbs a part in that ‘Air Trails’ picture, and now he’s walking out.”
She stared. “Walking out? But I thought he was doing swell!”
Lennox’ voice was bitter. “That’s the trouble. He did so well that they built up his part until he’s playing the second lead. Now he’s trying to run out on us.”
The girl wrinkled her pretty brows. “Run out on you? That doesn’t sound like Frank. I don’t get it.”
Lennox shook his head. “I don’t get it either. I want to talk to him and he’s not on the lot. Know where I can find him?”
She hesitated. “He might be over at the La Paloma. There’s a dancer over there that he’s interested in.”
Lennox said, “I’ll give him something else to be interested in,” and turned toward the gate.
The girl caught his arm. “Wait a minute. I’ll go with you. Frank’s hot tempered and if you rub him the wrong way he’s just stubborn enough to do anything. Maybe it runs in the family. Anyway, I’ve got my car outside.”
Lennox followed her to the car and climbed in.
The La Paloma was a big brick building below Alameda. It was a poor location for a night club — on the wrong end of town — but it was beginning to get a play, even from the movie trade. The atmosphere was authentic Mexican, the cooking good and the entertainment swell.
Nancy swung her car into the sparsely filled parking lot.
“They don’t get much business in the afternoons,” she explained, “but you should see the place at night. It’s a regular mad house. They didn’t expect it to be, when they started. It’s owned by some revolutionists who were on the wrong side of things in the last scrap below the Border. Frank was one of the aviators for those rebels, you know.”
Lennox nodded. He was much more interested in getting the ‘Air Trails’ picture finished than he was in Mexican politics. He said, “Come on. Let’s find Frank,” and led the way toward the entrance.
A dark-haired girl in native Mexican costume took his hat at the checkroom and they went through an arch into the big dining-room beyond. A Mexican orchestra played on a raised platform. A dozen couples swayed on the big dance floor, looking lost, almost forlorn, in the large, gloomy room. A waiter appeared, smiled as he recognized Nancy.
“Ah, señorita. You are welcome.”
Nancy nodded. “Is Frank Hobbs around?”
The waiter shrugged. “I have not seen him today. Perhaps he is in the bar.”
Nancy thanked him and she and Lennox mounted the stairs to a carpeted second floor to a long, cool barroom.