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 friend of mine,” I said, and smiled reassuringly.
“I see,” she said archly. “Well, be sure and tell Geor — Mr. Herro I was asking about him.”
This kind of business wasn’t for me. My conscience was elastic enough to charge what the traffic will bear, but not enough to trade on an old woman’s sentiment. Not that she wasn’t a fraud. Not that she wasn’t able to take care of herself — and her purse. It was just that I didn’t believe a piece of your soul should go with every sale.
I dropped Selak off at the store on the way back.
When I got to the Towers, it was only three o’clock.
Claire said: “It didn’t take you long.”
I handed her the check. “It was a straight sale,” I told her. “Mrs. Cooke’s heart belongs to George Herro.”
She nodded. “I know. But he’s disciplining her. She bought a rug from Henri Ducasse a month ago.”
I lighted a cigarette, saying nothing. I went over to stand near the door leading to the terrace. “I don’t like this way of doing business, Claire,” I said. “We wouldn’t lose much if we were careful, selling them straight.”
“Straight?” She cocked her head to one side. “There wasn’t anything crooked about that sale, was there? I don’t understand you, Lee.”
“You understand me,” I said, “and it isn’t anything illegal, but I wasn’t only selling her a rug; I was selling her a chance to see Herro. I don’t like it. It’s — messy.” I paused. “And now, I’d like to hear the story, the true story, about those rugs.”
“Sit down and relax,” she said.
I sat down, but I couldn’t relax.
“The rugs are Mr. Egan’s, as you guessed. He’s got a bill of sale for every one of them. He wants to sell out, and because he’s known me a long time and trusted me, he’s stored them here. He’s the one who suggested George Herro. He’s the one who suggested you.” She paused. “Anything illegal in that?”
“Why doesn’t he sell them from his house?”
Claire shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s willing to sell them to us, to George and me, but neither of us had the money. So we give him a share, as each one is sold.”
“His wife knows about it?”
Claire’s face stiffened. “I don’t — what are you driving at, Lee?”
“She has the money in that family,” I said. “Mr. Egan buys some fine rugs with her money. To her, a rug is just a floor covering, and after a number of years must be replaced. After fifteen or twenty years, those rugs haven’t lost a nickel of value. He was a very careful buyer. He has a big wad of money in a stack of rugs she considers worthless. Now, he sells out — and gets out?”
“You’re guessing,” she said. “It isn’t fair to Mr. Egan guessing those kind of things about him.”
“All right, I’m guessing. I’ll find out, later, how well I’m guessing. And now the Turk?”
“Ismet?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Ismet Bey,” she said. “He ran a cult out in the town of cults, Los Angeles. It was part Mohammedan and part voodoo and part pseudo-science, I guess. He went out of town for a week on a trip with — one of his disciples, and the law stepped in. The disciple’s papa had called them in. Ismet left town again when he heard the police were looking for him. His temple furnishings were sold at auction.” She shrugged. “George was at the auction.”
“That’s where he picked up the rug?”
“That’s his claim. I don’t believe everything George says, though, do you?”
“Not always.”
“Well, that’s what I know. Your imagination will probably fill in a lot of things that aren’t true, but that’s my story.”
I got up and went out to the terrace. I wanted to think about these things, without looking at her. I couldn’t be rational while I was looking at her.
It was phoney enough. It was as phoney as a lead dollar or seemed that way to anybody who was sane. If I was going to get out, now would be the time.
From the doorway, she called: “Scotch, Lee?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll be running along. I’d like to get over and see Mrs. Egan this afternoon.”
“Don’t,” she said. “It’s his business, Lee. You’ve no right to go messing into his domestic life.”
“O.K., I won’t. That’s answer enough for me. You can count me out of it — as of now.”
She stood in the doorway like a statue, her face blank, her body motionless. “Now — what caused that decision?”
“An accumulation of bad angles,” I said. “It wasn’t any one incident. Let’s just pretend we never met.”
And then, because the weakness was on the way back, because she looked so startled and innocent there in the doorway, I got out fast.
I didn’t look back when I reached the street. I had a hunch she’d be up there on the terrace.
At the store, Papa was in back talking to Selak, his voice high and excited.
When he came back to the front again, he said: “Selak wants to quit. But he won’t tell me why.” He shook his head.
“He’s in love and jealous,” I said. “Jealous of me, but you can tell him there’s no reason to be.”
“So—” Papa said. “So it wasn’t all business?”
“It was mostly business, but bad business. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He shrugged and went over to check his books.
I felt noble and moral and miserable. The trouble was, it was still spring.
The afternoon dragged on. About five, Papa put his books away and said: “I think I’ll go home. You can close up, Levon.”
We closed at five-thirty. I nodded.
He paused in the doorway for a moment, and I could feel his eyes on me. Finally: “Levon — Berjouhi is beautiful, too.”
“I know,” I said. “I know. I’m all right. I’m no baby.”
Papa sighed. “No... All right. I’ll see you at supper.”
He left and I went back to see Selak. But Selak wasn’t there. I went back into the store, just as Mr. Egan entered.
He’s a good-looking gent, despite his years. He’s close to sixty, I’d say, but he’s the kind of thin, tall gent who can wear clothes. He never had enough troubles in his life to age him.
He seemed exceptionally uncomfortable, his face faintly flushed.
“Good-afternoon, Lee,” he said. “Miss Lynne has asked me to explain some things to you.”
“It’s not necessary, Mr. Egan. You don’t owe me any explanations.”
“Perhaps not. But I’d like you to understand that—” He paused. “That my wife is fully aware I’m selling those rugs.” Again, he paused. “You may phone her right now, if you wish.”
“I’ll repeat,” I said, “that you don’t have to explain anything to me, Mr. Egan. I’m out of it.”
“That’s why I’m explaining,” he said. “I... don’t want you out of it, Lee. I have too much faith in your sales ability. And too little faith in George Herro’s integrity.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. I was thinking of Claire.
Mr. Egan said, “This is very embarrassing for me. I’m not conditioned to... to begging, Lee.”
It was embarrassing to me, too. Whenever I’d seen the word “gentleman” used, I’d always thought of Mr. Egan. He’d symbolized all the things an ignoramus like me thought of as a gentleman, a cultured person.
But I’d sold a lot of the carriage trade; I wasn’t completely naive. I said flatly: “How about that Bokhara, Mr. Egan?”
He frowned. “It’s mine, of course.”
“I know that. But whose blood was on it?”
“Blood?” His surprise, I felt, was honest. “You’re talking in riddles, Lee. I bought that rug from your father, more than twenty years ago. I—”
“Miss Lynne didn’t tell you about the blood?”