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.
“You’ve been reading a book,” I said.
Her laugh was music. “I have. For the past two weeks. You see, up until a year ago, I had no interest in orientals, at all. But a friend of mine died and left me these rugs. I kept them in storage until a month ago. But you’re not interested in all this, are you?”
I wanted to tell her I was interested in anything she said. I said: “It’s very interesting. It’s possible you might have some very valuable rugs in the group.”
Which was bad business, but I wasn’t thinking about business.
“There’s one,” she said, “that could be valuable. It’s an antique, I’m sure. I’d like you to have a look at it.”
“I’d be glad to,” I said.
“This afternoon?” she asked, and handed me a card.
There was no reason why my legs should feel weak at that. She wanted an appraisal. Whatever I’d read into those two simple words hadn’t been intentional on her part, I was sure.
“This afternoon,” I agreed. “Would two-thirty be all right?”
“Two-thirty would be fine,” she said. The smile again, and she was gone.
At the curb, there was a Caddy convertible, and I watched her climb into that. I watched it until it disappeared up the street.
Papa would be unhappy, I knew. A girl with a Caddy convertible admiring the Sarouk and I hadn’t sold her a thing. But I didn’t care; I was looking forward to two-thirty.
When Papa came back and I told him about our visitor, he didn’t look unhappy. He put his head on one side and studied me.
“You will stick to business, Levon. Maybe, it’s because you look so much like Tryon Power?” He smiled slyly.
“It’s Tyrone, not Tryon, Papa,” I said patiently. “And there’s no resemblance, none at all.”
“Does the mirror lie? In the washroom there’s a mirror. Why don’t you look?”
“Don’t kid me, Papa,” I said. “She was driving a Caddy, a new one, a convertible.”
He shrugged. “You might as well take the station wagon. Then you can take the Sarouk along. How can she tell it won’t go with modern unless she tries? Take the Sarouk along, Levon. Selak will go with you, to carry it up.”
“I don’t think she wants the Sarouk,” I answered.
“It’s time for your lunch,” he said. “We will talk of it after lunch.”
I went out to lunch. I still had her card in my hand. The name was engraved Claire Lynne. The address was penciled on the card, and I recognized it; the Prospect Towers. That meant money.
And the fact that the address was already penciled on the card indicated that she’d planned the appraisal before she entered the shop. Which dimmed the day only a little.
I don’t remember what I had for lunch. I don’t even remember everything Papa told me before I left for the Prospect Towers. But I took the station wagon. I took Selak along, and the Sarouk.
Chapter Two
Consignment on Murder
The Prospect Towers was only about ten years old, a towering, modern apartment building of glass and white glazed brick.
The apartment of Claire Lynne was on the top floor, a studio apartment, a story and a half high. This would be the most expensive floor in the building with a terrace overlooking the bay.
It was modern, all right, but not obnoxiously so. Soft colors and bleached woods. The immense living room was carpeted; there were no orientals in here.
Claire Lynne was wearing black lounging slacks, and a white blouse. The blouse was low-necked, and I felt that weakness in the legs again.
“The Bokhara’s in here,” she said, “in the dining room.”
I followed her across the carpeted expanse to the L at one end of the room. Here, separated from the living room by a low wall, at right angles to the living room, was the dining room. Here was the so-called Bokhara.
Finely spun wool, compactly woven. Octagons on a background of Turanian red. A beautiful, finely finished piece, with a sheen that comes only from wear.
“Well?” she said.
“A lovely rug, and fine for modern furniture,” I answered. “Any dealer would call it a Royal Bokhara, because that’s the name they go by, in the trade. It’s from the Turcoman group. It’s a Tekke. The real Bokhara is called Beshir in this country.”
She didn’t seem surprised. “That’s what I was told,” she agreed. “The man I got it from told me just what you have.”
I bent down again. There was a stain running through the red, darkening it. “It should be cleaned,” I said.
She didn’t seem to be listening. “I think you’re qualified,” she said, “to look at another rug I have.” She seemed thoughtful.
I rose and smiled at her. “This was a test, Miss Lynne? You wanted to get my reaction to this one first?”
She smiled right back at me. “That’s right. The other rugs are in here.”
I followed her back into the living room and through that to the entrance hall. From there, she led me to a fairly large room that seemed to be an unfurnished guest room. There was a flat pile of rugs on the floor in here.
I went through them, one by one, identifying them as well as I could. There were some antiques and semi-antiques in this pile. There was a lot of money on the floor in here, all in wool.
When I’d finished, I said: “You said ‘another.’ That would mean one. Which one were you referring to, Miss Lynne?”
She opened the door to a closet. “In here.”
I reached in and brought it out. I unfolded it, and stared.
I’d seen some fine pieces through the years, silk and wool and metallic. But this was far beyond any of those. This was the kind the old timers talked about — the inspired work of a master weaver, an antique prayer-rug.
It wasn’t big, but it could easily be priceless.
She said: “Name it.”
“An antique. A Persian, could have come from Kashan, but I wouldn’t be sure. I wish my father could see this.”
“That’s why I had you come up,” she answered. “You can show it to him. I want you to put it in your safe, if you would. You have a safe for your fine pieces, haven’t you?”
I nodded. “For our silks. This — do you know what this is?”
“I think I do,” she said. “You’ve heard of Maksoud of Kashan?”
I nodded. “He lived about four hundred years ago. The finest of the Persian weavers.”
“That’s right. His masterpiece is in the South Kensington Museum in London. It’s called the Ardebil Carpet. His name is woven in the corner of the rug, in Arabic.”
I nodded and looked down at the Arabic inscription on this rug. I looked up to meet her smile.
I said: “I understand he spent the better part of his life weaving that one in London. Thirty-three million knots. He wouldn’t have much time for anything else.”
“But if he had?”
I shook my head. I realized I’d been holding my breath and I expelled it, now.
“I think we ought to have a drink,” she said, “don’t you?”
“I could use it,” I said.
We went back into the living room. I kept seeing that rug, I kept hearing the words, Maksoud of Kashan. And, for some reason, I kept remembering the blot on the dining room Bokhara.
I had Scotch with water. She drank rye. She sat on an armless love seat. I sat straight across from her, on its twin.
I couldn’t quite understand her. I had the impression she’d been coached for her role this afternoon. Her information was too glib and detailed, too “bookish.” We get customers like that once in a while, who spout information verbatim from one or the other books on the subject.