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.
“Sorenson.”
The spoken word was not as silly as it sounded, because at that moment Casey was not sure. He swung around the end of the desk, knelt quickly beside the small, swart man with longish hair and a black tie that suggested a certain artiness, real or affected.
The black suit was mussed, disarranged; the collar was torn and there was a lump on one corner of the jaw, a bruise over the eye. It was not until Casey reached for an outstretched wrist that he saw the blood on the fabric of the coat. Opening this, he saw the wide reddish spot on the vest completely surrounding two tiny holes about four inches apart. There was no pulse.
Conscious, at last, that he was holding his breath, Casey exhaled noisily and stood up. For a moment a jumble of disordered thoughts vortexed crazily and he glanced about as he sought an answer.
Beyond the filing cabinet, the room had been arranged as a sort of waiting-room. There was a green rug, a leather divan, a few chairs, a table and two floor lamps. One of the chairs was overturned; so was one of the lamps. The drawer of one filing cabinet had been pulled clear out so that its load of manila folders had spilled on the floor; other drawers were open but still in the cabinets.
Ordinarily Casey’s first move would have been to telephone the police. He had never kidded himself that he could outsmart the detective bureau, and he found it paid dividends to co-operate with fellows like Logan, Manahan, and Judson. But this time he was held back by his thought of Norma Patten.
Murder was something he wanted no part of. He cursed himself for coming here, cursed Norma for calling him up in the first place. Yet, now that he was here, he decided to look for the films. If he called the police first he might not get the chance to look, and he’d have too much explaining to do.
He went through the two connecting rooms of the studio, found them empty and came back to the waiting-room. As he passed the magazine table, he noticed an ashtray, and when he stopped to inspect the cigarette butts, he saw that one was of an ivory color. Scowling, he picked it up, sniffed it. It was a medicated brand. He stared at it, twisted it in his fingers, finally put it back. Still scowling he stepped to the filing cabinets and began his search.
He had gone through one drawer and was starting on the second when he heard the quick rap of footsteps in the outer hall. Before he could do more than shut the drawer and jump to his feet, the door swung back and four men barged into the room and slid to a stop on the threshold.
The first man was the fellow who had run through the downstairs vestibule five minutes previous. Behind him stood Sergeant Haley and two plain-clothesmen.
“Well, well,” Haley said and seemed to take a sneering enjoyment in the moment.
Trouble and dismay settled over Casey and he stood there, a burly, somber-eyed figure, as Haley approached.
Haley inspected the body briefly, glanced about, and said: “Looks like a .25. Got the gun?”
Casey said: “That’s very funny,” sourly.
Haley stood in front of Casey and bobbed his head. He was a tall, skinny man with shrewd green eyes and a perpetual sneer that fed on an ingrown grudge. His apparent dislike of the world in general became acute where Casey was concerned, and the animosity was mutual and of long standing; both men had long since accepted it.
“Well,” Haley said again, “what’re you waiting for? Let’s have it.”
“Have what?” Casey grunted.
“First — how you happen to be here?”
Casey did not hesitate long on his question. Possibly, had Lieutenant Logan been the questioner, Casey might have told the truth. But under Haley’s sneering methods a sullen stubbornness welled up and he said:
“I got a tip — a phone call — and I came down to have a look.”
Haley glanced about. “Where’s the camera then?”
“I wasn’t sure what it was so I didn’t bring it.”
“Baloney,” lipped Haley. “What were you searching for?”
“Who was searching?” Casey bluffed.
“You were. Look at these drawers.”
“You look,” Casey said. “They were that way when I came.” He glared at the wiry little man who stood looking on with eyes popping and jaw slack.
“You saw me downstairs,” he rapped.
“Yes,” the fellow gulped. “I... I’m a photographer. I do work for Mr. Sorenson now and then, and I had an appointment at nine o’clock. I came up here and—”
“There you are,” Casey told Haley.
“He saw you downstairs,” Haley leered, “but that ain’t no alibi.”
“Find out when he was killed,” Casey said, “and I’ll have an alibi.” He tugged at his hat brim, buttoned his trench coat and started for the door.
“Hey,” Haley called, “I’m not through with you. You’ve been here alone about five minutes. If you were on the level you’d’ve called Headquarters. I want to know things and you’re gonna stick around until—”
“I am, huh?” Casey said. “Is it a pinch?”
“Never mind. Just do as I say.”
Casey smiled, a mirthless gesture that, with the look in his hard, narrowed eyes, was ominous. The effect was part of his act. He wanted to get out, to have time to look around before Haley checked up on him, and he kept on with his bluff.
“Any time you want me at Headquarters to answer your questions you know where to find me,” he said defiantly. “But I don’t stay here and watch you fiddle around. I’ve got work to do.”
Casey seldom bluffed. When he did he had the build and the manner to do it convincingly. And right now Haley wasn’t quite sure of his ground. He advanced slowly, his thin face red and frustration in his eyes.
“You want to get tough about it?” he challenged.
“I don’t have to,” Casey said flatly. “I know my rights. If you want to keep me here, pinch me.” He cocked a disdainful brow. “Otherwise—”
No more sure of his rights or his ground than Haley, Casey saw the sergeant hesitate. Then he opened the door and went out quickly with Haley’s baffled threat ringing in his ears.
III
The Hut is on the wrong side of Beacon Hill. The street it fronts is narrow, one-way, and hardly worthy of the term — street. The immediate neighborhood is sordid and decadent, with cubby-hole store fronts here and there, and two or three floors of tenements above. In the daytime, the cobblestones form a playground for smutty-nosed urchins; at night, to a casual passerby, it is just an alley.
Yet to the initiate, the Hut is a restaurant. There is a long, low room, dimly lighted and generally smoke-filled. The floor is rough planking and the tables are a hundred years old and look older. The food is good, and more expensive than the surroundings would lead you to believe. The only entertainment is a piano, presided over by the Professor, and, more recently, a girl who sings.
At a quarter of ten, there were but four tables occupied. Casey slid into one of the oaken booths and ordered rye and soda.
The girl was singing. In the half-light she seemed young and nice-looking rather than pretty. Her voice, although not strong or cultivated, was sweet. The accompaniment was soft, swinging, sort of dreamy and full of chords. Both local and visiting orchestra leaders came here for dinner frequently because the Professor could play; he had a left hand that piano players liked to match.
When the number ended, Casey summoned the waiter and told him he wanted to speak to the Professor. Shortly a stringy, sandy-haired fellow shuffled up to the booth. Seeing Casey, he smiled and said:
“Hello, Flash. How’s it?”