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.
Kleinschmidt was big and blond and red-faced — a good cop, though without brilliance. He seemed relieved to see Canavan. “Look, Bill, this don’t hardly make sense—” He paused as another man came through the door. “Mr. Weems, this is my — now — partner, Lieutenant Canavan.”
Weems was a smallish, twittery man with a perpetually quivering nose. He had a bandage wrapped around his head. His harried eyes went from Canavan to Big George Kolinski. “I’ve paid my dues. I don’t know why you should do this to me.”
Kolinski’s tremendous bulk seemed to solidify. “Look, punk, I told you before that we didn’t do it. You think I’d be here if—”
“Shut up!” Canavan said sharply. He looked at Kleinschmidt. “You tell it, Roy.”
Kleinschmidt coughed apologetically. “Well, of course, like Big George, here, says—”
“Never mind Kolinski!” Canavan yelled. “What happened? Was it — was it a guy named Edward Carroll?”
Kleinschmidt blinked stupidly. “How did you know that? It wasn’t in the report.”
Canavan could feel Kolinski’s eyes on him, alert, questioning. He suddenly became quite calm. “Skip that for now.” He looked at Egbert Weems. “Maybe you’d better tell me exactly what happened.”
There really was not much to it. Weems was on duty, relieving his regular night man. A couple of guys had walked in and asked to see the body of Edward Carroll. Also his clothes and personal effects. Mr. Weems, becoming suspicious, had objected and been knocked on the head for his pains. Awakening some time later he had found his mortuary something of a mess, what with a couple of corpses dumped from their caskets and everything else topsy-turvy. He could find nothing missing, however, and it was probably this admission which accounted for the lack of hurry on the part of the police. His description of the two men was completely vague. It amounted to one tall man and one shorter man. Was there anything unusual about either? Not that Mr. Weems could remember. “I was naturally quite agitated,” he explained. He breathed noisily and bent a jaundiced eye on Big George Kolinski. “Pure vandalism!”
Kolinski scowled. “Listen, punk, you try blaming this on the Association and you’re liable to really run into something.” He looked at Canavan. “You know who this guy Carroll is? He’s Ed Stengel!”
Canavan took a deep breath. Stengel was, or had been, big-time. The police of half a dozen cities wanted him for twice as many very high-class jobs indeed. Kleinschmidt confirmed Kolinski’s identification. “That’s who, Bill.”
“Let’s have a look at him,” Canavan said.
They all went through the door at the end of the hall, into a room of smells and gleaming porcelain and a table that would have been suggestive even without the sheeted figure on it. A pair of bare feet, toes pointed ceilingward, protruded from beneath the sheet.
Mr. Weems, with that curiously hallowed air peculiar to morticians, uncovered the face, and Canavan stared down at it, trying to find some resemblance to that other face of which he was so conscious, Miss Hope Carewe’s. This Stengel, alias Ed Carroll, had the same golden-brown hair and, in repose, the features had that same indefinable air of breeding. But there was a hardness, even in death, about the mouth and eyes. Of course, the man was older than the girl. Canavan placed him as around thirty-five.
Kleinschmidt said suddenly: “There was a girl made the arrangements with Weems, here! Claimed she was this guy’s sister.” He looked at Canavan with swift suspicion. “That explains it, by golly. Her name was the same as the one you— Hey, so that’s how you knew who he was!” A slow, angry flush suffused his heavy face. “By God, Bill, you been holding out on me!”
Big George Kolinski pounced. “What was her name again, Weemsie? Carewe?” He smacked his thick lips. “That the girl you rescued from Night Court, Canavan?”
Canavan scowled. “What do you mean, I rescued her?”
Kolinski chuckled nastily. “I was there, remember? I happened to see her leaving in your car. And now it turns out that she is the sister, or the moll, of a guy so hot he was burning up.” He rubbed his fat hands in pleasurable anticipation. “This is going to make swell reading in the papers, pal. Unless you can turn her up and offer a damned good reason for playing around with her.” He stabbed a finger at Weems. “Take a good look at this guy. Could he be one of the mugs who knocked you over?”
Weems, startled, blinked his eyes at Canavan. “Well—”
“Don’t say it!” Canavan yelled. “Don’t even think it!” He balled his fists. “Listen, you fat baboon, why the hell would I be chasing a corpse?”
“Somebody is,” Kolinski said significantly. “Or something the corpse had.” He centered his attention on Roy Kleinschmidt. “Look at it this way, Lieutenant. Here we have a man who is notably big-time. Isn’t it conceivable that he might be holding something worth heavy sugar? Obviously the girl knew about it, or suspected. She was in a hell of a hurry to get the body away from the hospital.” He let his eyes slide up and down Canavan’s length. “Then we have a supposedly honest copper practically hijacking the gal out of court. Why do you suppose he would do that?”
Kleinschmidt was still sore. “Where is the girl, Bill?”
“I don’t know, I tell you! Why do you think I called in and had her description put on the air? Would I do that if I knew where she was?”
“You might,” Kleinschmidt said. “You could have faked it to cover up her disappearance.” His fist slid unobtrusively toward the gun in his holster clip. “Maybe you even killed her, Bill.”
Canavan couldn’t believe it at first. It was all too ridiculous. “You damned fool!” He sucked in his breath. “Listen, I happened to be passing through Night Court and I saw this gal. Obviously she didn’t belong there, so I checked with the clerk and found she was charged with beating an eight-buck dinner check. Sure, I squared it! Any guy with half an eye would have done the same thing.”
“Why?” Kleinschmidt said. Kleinschmidt was not a romantic man. “Why would they, Bill?”
Canavan resorted to heavy sarcasm. “Why, because I recognized her, of course. I knew she was Ed Stengel’s sister, and that he had a double fistful of diamonds, so I planned to make her tell me where he was. Only she knocked me out first and got away. Nuts!”
“Maybe she didn’t knock you out, Bill. Maybe you just made it look like she had.” Kleinschmidt was definitely going for his gun now. “I hate to do this, Bill, but—”
Canavan hit him. He might not have done it if he’d stopped to think, but he was too mad to think. His fist connected with the Dutchman’s chin, and even as the big guy went down Canavan snatched out his own gun and waved it at Kolinski and the stupefied Mr. Weems.
“Take it easy, you two lugs. And when Kleinschmidt wakes up tell him I said to use the few brains God gave him.” He backed to the door. “And you, Kolinski, you’d better watch your step. When I get through with this little job I’m going to make it my business to tear your Morticians’ Protective Association wide open.”
He went out to his car. Neither Kolinski nor Mr. Weems made any attempt to stop him.
Chapter Three
The Corpse in the Folding Bed
The address given on the hospital card turned out to be one of those mediocre bungalow-courts just off Hollywood Boulevard where anything can happen. Broken-down character actors choose these places for some reason, and extra girls and bartenders and car-hops. There were half a dozen parties going on in as many different units. A man like Ed Carroll, alias Ed Stengel, could have found no better place to remain incognito.
Canavan went along the flagged walk till he came to 1217-A. There were no lights on inside, and he stood there in the shadows a moment, listening to the medley of sounds from adjacent units. Offhand, he couldn’t have told you just what he expected to find here. It was just that the girl was indubitably bound up with the affairs of one Ed Stengel, and Bill Canavan was intent on again meeting Miss Hope Carewe. This place, having been the temporary residence of Ed Carroll, might possibly offer a clue to the girl’s present whereabouts.