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.
A man was sitting on one of the armless love seats, and he rose as we entered. A short, dark man with one of those unlined faces. He could have been forty or seventy. But I knew he wasn’t forty.
It was George Herro, a Syrian we had frequently dealt with, another Henri Ducasse, another social salesman.
“Good evening, Lee,” he said. “How’s your father?”
He extended his hand, and I took it. I said: “He’s worried about business as usual. And tonight, he’s worried about me.”
Claire went over to turn off the record player. Herro said: “About you? You’re in trouble, Lee?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But I’m young and innocent and don’t know Khachaturian from Strauss. And here I am, in the major leagues.”
Herro frowned. Claire laughed.
Herro said: “I don’t — quite follow you, Lee.”
“Yes, you do,” I said. “And I want you to admit it before we go any further. If we’re going to sell some rugs, we should understand each other, first.”
Herro looked at Claire, and now they were both smiling. Herro said: “I underestimated you, Lee. Let’s all sit down, shall we?”
We all sat down, neat and cozy.
Herro looked down at his hands, and up at me. “You’ve seen those rugs in the other rooms?”
I nodded.
“They need to be very carefully sold,” he said. “They are not something to dump on the market.”
“Any really fine rug needs to be carefully sold,” I said.
His eyes were reflective. “That’s right. In 1911, Lee, I sold an antique Kirman for thirty thousand dollars. Later, at an auction, the same rug was sold by its owner for seven hundred.” He paused. “I sold an Ispahan for thirty-five thousand to the same customer. At the auction, it brought twelve hundred.”
“I wasn’t alive, then,” I said, “but those were the golden years, at the beginning of the century. A lot of very wealthy men collected orientals as a hobby. Those were the collector’s years.”
“And those are collector’s rugs.”
“But this isn’t 1911.”
He stirred. “No. It isn’t. A lot of bad management has come into the business since then. Throat and price cutting has come into the business, and dealers who try to compete with carpeting. This isn’t the business it was — nor are those the kinds of rugs you’ll find on the market today.”
“Miss Lynne said something about customers—” I put in.
“That’s what I’m coming to. There are still some of the discerning customers left. We know quite a few.”
“Mostly women?”
He nodded, watching me, looking for a reaction.
“That’s your field, George,” I pointed out.
“It was.” He smiled. “Before I became emotionally involved with a few of them.”
“And these rugs — where’d they come from?”
“Most of them are from a St. Louis collection. I picked some of them up there. The rest are from town, here. They were bought through the years, by a man of breeding and taste and discernment. I don’t have to tell you these aren’t the kind you’re buying today.”
I looked at Claire Lynne. I said: “That’s a different story than you told me when you came to the store today.”
“I wasn’t revealing my hand, at the time,” she said. She looked at me levelly. “I thought it was a little early.”
For a moment, nobody said anything. Then George Herro said quietly: “Well, Lee?”
I waited until my silence got through to them, and then asked: “What happened to Henri Ducasse?”
Neither of them flinched. Claire shrugged. Herro said: “I understand he was trying to sell a rug to a man named Dykstra. I understand the deal was almost completed when Dykstra discovered the rug wasn’t as represented. This is just rumor one hears in the trade. I cannot vouch for it, personally.”
“Dykstra—” I said. “We sold him some rugs a few years back. War profiteer, wasn’t he?”
“Among other things. He was something of an expert on repeating weapons, I understand. And explosives, generally. Had a rather thriving, if illegal, trade in things of that sort.” He smiled dimly. “Why do you ask about Henri Ducasse, Lee? What has he to do with this business?”
“I didn’t know. That’s why I asked. Claire mentioned him, today.”
She said: “It was just a coincidence, Lee.”
“All right,” I said, “I’ll work along with you.” I didn’t mention the Bokhara, then; I was saving that. “How about that rug you have in our safe? You’ve got a customer for that?”
Herro said: “We won’t worry about that for a while. I’ve an idea we can get our price for that.” He looked at the thin gold watch on his wrist. “Well, I’ve an engagement at nine-thirty.” His smile tried to read some intriguing meaning into the words, some romantic rendezvous. He rose. “I’ll leave you two young people to amuse yourselves now.”
Claire went to the door with him. I went over to the record player. She had all of the Gayne Suite there, and I put it on.
When she came back, I was sitting on one of the love seats.
“So?” she said.
“So, it’s settled. You don’t mind if I’m a little uneasy about it, though?”
She didn’t answer that right away. She was bending over a decanter on the cocktail table between us. “Scotch, again, with water?”
“Fine.” I averted my eyes, like a gentleman.
As she handed me my drink, she said: “Why are you uneasy?”
“For one thing — Ducasse, who was killed. Then — Herro. He’s never been arrested, but he’s had some close calls, I remember. And one other thing — that blot on the Bokhara. It was blood, Claire.”
Poise, she had. Or innocence? I would settle for poise. Her eyes didn’t waver; there was no visible tenseness in her.
She frowned. “Blood?”
“Blood. Enough of it to make me wonder how it got there.”
“I can’t tell you, Lee, because I don’t know. It was that way when I got it. And I got it yesterday; George brought it up.”
“You know where he got it?”
She nodded. “I know. But it would involve someone I don’t want involved, Lee.”
There seemed to be a lot of faith required from me in this business. I said: “All right. We’ll forget about it — for now.”
We didn’t talk about rugs for the rest of the evening. We drank a little, and listened to some music. We went out onto the terrace, and there I obeyed that impulse I’d had at the door this afternoon. I pulled her into my arms and kissed her.
She seemed to enjoy it. She seemed to expect it.
When I got down to the car again, it was two-thirty. The broad man no longer stood under the maple tree. He was asleep in the seat of my car. It was Selak.
His mouth was open, and he was snoring heavily. I went around to the driver’s side quietly and climbed in behind the wheel. I’d driven him more than halfway home before he woke up.
He shook himself and straightened in his seat, rubbing his eyes. I stole a glance at him. He seemed embarrassed and looked straight ahead. The clothes he wore were tight. But I knew they were his best.
I said: “I didn’t expect to see you up at this end of town, Selak. Been to a show?”
Something that sounds like “Voch,” which is “no.”
By the tone of his voice, I realized he didn’t relish any questioning. I said no more. He shared the silence.
When I stopped in front of his house, there was a light on. His sister, a thin, prematurely gray girl, was waiting on the porch, and she came down to the walk as the car stopped.
“Selak — where have you been?”
Then she saw me. “Oh, Lee — he was with you? Everything is all right?”
“Everything’s all right,” I assured her. “He was out with me.”