The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps
- Автор: Anderson Lars, Barr Randolph
- Год: 2007
- Язык: английский
- Год: Vintage Books
- ISBN: 978-0-307-28048-0
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps». Краткое содержание книги:
Weighing in at over a thousand pages, containing over forty-seven stories and two novels, this book is big baby, bigger and more powerful than a freight train — a bullet couldn’t pass through it. Here are the best stories and every major writer who ever appeared in celebrated Pulps like Black Mask, Dime Detective, Detective Fiction Weekly, and more. These are the classic tales that created the genre and gave birth to hard-hitting detectives who smoke criminals like packs of cigarettes; sultry dames whose looks are as lethal as a dagger to the chest; and gin-soaked hideouts where conversations are just preludes to murder. This is crime fiction at its gritty best.
Turning to the two officers, Beaver said: “And I call on you two gentlemen to be witness to what has happened. I demand that you take Sergeant Ackley out of here. I think, when he recovers consciousness, he will be the first to tell you that I have done exactly what the situation called for.”
One of the detectives returned the spy’s wink. “O.K., Beaver,” he said, “you win. Come on, Al. Give me a hand and we’ll drag the sarge out of here before there’s any more trouble.”
When the door had closed behind them, Beaver said to Lester Leith: “Disloyalty, sir, is one of my pet abominations. I detest one who is disloyal. I couldn’t restrain myself.”
“I don’t blame you in the least,” Lester Leith said. “I’m surprised that Sergeant Ackley had the temerity to arrest you and drag you aboard that train.”
“So am I, sir,” the spy said. And then, with a look of cunning in his eyes, added: “Incidentally, sir, while I was with them in the drawing room, I heard them discussing a crime which was committed no later than last night; a crime involving a drugged guard—”
Lester Leith held up his hand, palm outward. “Not now, Scuttle,” he said. “I don’t want to hear it.”
The spy said, “Perhaps tomorrow, when you’re feeling rested—”
“No, not tomorrow, Scuttle.”
The spy did not press the point. “Very well, sir,” he said.
“By the way, Scuttle,” Leith commented, “I think I’d like a brandy, and you’d better join me. I derived a great deal of satisfaction from the way you hung that punch on Sergeant Ackley’s jaw.”
About Kid Deth
Raoul Whitfield
The pulp community was not a huge one. The editors knew each other, and they knew the writers. The writers, too, knew each other, and their common meeting place was often a bar. While the two greatest writers for the pulps, Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, are believed to have met only once, Hammett became very close to one of the other giants of the era, Raoul Whitfield. There seems to be a good deal of evidence that Hammett became even closer to Whitfield’s wife, Prudence, but that’s another story.
Whitfield was prolific and quickly became one of Black Mask’s best and most popular writers, both under his own name and as Ramon Decolta, as whom he wrote numerous stories about the Filipino detective Jo Gar. His career was cut short when he became ill in 1935; he never fully recovered and died ten years later at the age of forty-seven.
Joey (Kid) Deth was an unusual protagonist for the pulps, whose readers didn’t mind criminals as central characters just so long as they stole only from the rich. Few aristocrats read pulp magazines, so editors encouraged Robin Hood stories without fear of offending their readers. While Deth admits he’s a crook, he salvages himself to some degree by swearing (and, apparently, truly) that he never shot anyone. That is left to the thugs who are chasing him.
“About Kid Deth” was first published in the February 1931 issue of Black Mask. This is the first time it has been published in book form.
A crook caught between two gangs maneuvers the guns of Blind Justice
1
The Kid passed the coupe twice, on the far side of the street, before he crossed back of it, got close to the figure slumped forward over the wheel. The driver’s arms were crossed loosely over the rim of black; his hat was half off his head. His face was turned sideways — there was red color staining the lips. The eyes were opened and staring in the faint light from the instrument board. The engine of the car made faint vibration.
The street was fairly deserted — the snow had turned to slush and it was raining a little. A few squares to the northward there was a power house, along the East River. Greenish lights gleamed from high windows. The Kid turned away from the dead man and walked towards the river. He was smiling twistedly. He was small in size with round, dead-gray eyes. He wore a tight-fitting coat that was short, and a dark hat pulled low over his forehead. He smoked a cigarette and coughed sharply at intervals.
He didn’t see Rands until the detective came down the few steps of the lunch-wagon that was located about fifty yards from the wooden dock used by the dump carts. When he did see him Rands was lightning a cigar and watching him approach, his eyes leveled above the flare of the match in his cupped hands.
Kid Deth changed his smile to a grin and stopped a few feet from the detective. Rands was a big man with broad shoulders that were slightly rounded. His face was red and squarish. He shook the match, tossed it into the slush. He said in a cheerful voice:
“Hello, Deth — back in town, eh?”
The Kid pulled on what was left of his cigarette and widened his dead-gray eyes.
“Haven’t been away, Lou,” he said in a voice that sounded strangely heavy for one of his slight build.
Rands whistled a few notes of a popular theme song and looked with faint amusement towards the tail-light of the coupe.
“No?” he said finally. “Been sick?”
Joey Deth shook his head. “Feelin’ swell,” he replied. “How you been, Lou?”
The detective grinned. “Nice,” he replied. “I’ve been looking for you, Kid.”
Joey Deth nodded. “Sure,” he said. “A guy got dead out in Frisco, maybe?”
Rands grinned. It was a hard grin. He looked serious.
“Maybe,” he agreed. “But I don’t figure you got that far away from New York, Kid.”
Joey Deth narrowed his eyes and shrugged. The big detective kept looking towards the tail-light of the coupe, but he didn’t seem to be thinking about the car. There was something about that that struck Deth as being funny. But he didn’t show it.
“My mother’s sick,” he said slowly. “I been sticking close to the flat.”
Lou Rands nodded his head and looked sad. “The weather’s been bad,” he said. “She got the flu?”
The Kid nodded. A river boat whistle reached the two of them from some water spot in the distance. There was just a fine mist of rain falling. Inside the lunch-wagon old Andy was clattering dishes around. Rands said slowly:
“Guess you’d better come down to Headquarters with me, Kid. I’ve been looking for you.”
Joey Deth frowned. “I’ve got a date at one,” he said. “How about tomorrow?”
The detective grinned. “Stick your hands up a little,” he said quietly.
The Kid swore. He raised his hands and Rands stepped close to him. He patted the pockets of the tight-fitting coat, unbuttoned it, patted other pockets. Then he stepped away from the Kid and nodded his head.
“Sorry,” he said.
Joey Deth lowered his hands and swore. “Sorry — you didn’t find a rod,” he breathed. “Sure.”
The detective shrugged his shoulders. He looked towards the rear end of the coupe again, and stopped smiling.
“Before we grab the subway to Center Street — we’ll have a look at that car,” he said. “Not much parking done over this way.”
Kid Deth yawned, but his body shivered a little. Rands’ blue eyes were on him, smiling.
“Better be careful — wandering around at night,” he said. “You might get the flu, too.”
Joey Deth shrugged. “I’m thinkin’ about moving close to Headquarters,” he said with sarcasm. “Make things easier for you.”
Lou Rands looked towards the coupe and nodded. He didn’t smile.