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.
“I’ve been wondering how much real information you’ve got.”
“I knew that would worry you,” Shayne said impatiently. “And since you know Samuels was dead before I reached him, the source of information you’re worried about is the log-book. Let’s talk straight.”
“Why should I worry about the log-book? I’ve got it now.”
“I know you have. But you don’t know how much I read about the Mermaid’s last trip before you got it.”
“The girl says you didn’t read it any.”
Shayne laughed harshly. “You’d like to believe her, wouldn’t you?”
“All right.” The voice became resigned. “Maybe you did read more than she says. How about a deal?”
“What kind of deal?”
“You’re pretty crazy about Monnet, aren’t you?”
“Plenty.”
“How does five cases sound? Delivered to your apartment tonight.”
Shayne said: “It sounds like a joke. And a poor one.”
“You’ll take it and keep your mouth shut if you’re smart.”
Shayne said disgustedly: “You’re rolling me in the aisle.” He hung up and padded across the room in his bare feet to the table where he poured out a good-morning slug of Portuguese brandy. The telephone began ringing again. He drank some of the brandy and grimaced, then lit a cigarette and went back to the phone, carrying the glass. He lifted the receiver and asked curtly: “Got any more jokes?”
The same voice answered plaintively: “What do you want?”
Shayne asked: “Why should I deal with you at all? I’ve got everything I need with Samuels’ description of where the stuff is hidden.”
“What can you do with it?” the murderer argued.
“The Internal Revenue boys could use our dope.”
“And cut yourself out? Not if I know you.”
“All right,” Shayne said irritably. “You have to cut me in and you know it. Fifty-fifty.”
“Come out and we’ll talk it over.”
“Where?”
“My lodge on the Keys. First dirt road to the south after you pass Homestead, and the next to your right after two miles.”
Shayne said: “I know where it is.”
“I’ll expect you about ten o’clock.”
Shayne said: “Make it eleven. I’ve got to get some breakfast.”
“Eleven it is.” A click broke the connection.
He dressed swiftly, jammed a wide-brimmed Panama down over his face and went out. He hesitated a moment and then went back in. He flipped the pages of the telephone directory until he found the number of Renaldo’s tavern, lifted the receiver and got a brisk, “Good morning,” from a masculine voice at the switchboard downstairs. A frown knitted his forehead, and instead of asking for Renaldo’s number, he said: “Do you have the time?”
He was told: “It is eight twenty-two.”
In the lobby, Shayne went across to the desk and leaned one elbow on it. He simulated astonishment and asked the day clerk: “Where’s Mabel today?”
The clerk glanced around at the brown-suited, middle-aged man alertly handling the switchboard and said: “Mabel was sick and the telephone company sent us a substitute.”
Shayne went out, got in his car and drove to a drugstore on Flagler. He called Renaldo’s number, and said briskly: “Mike Shayne.”
“Mike?” Renaldo sounded relieved. “You’re all right? God, I’m sorry about—”
Shayne laughed softly. “I’m O.K. Your boys could be a little more gentle but I feel I owe them something for last night. I’ve got a line on that stuff you were after.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t know...”
“I need some help to handle it,” Shayne went on briskly. “I figure Blackie and Lennie are just the boys — after seeing them in action.”
“I don’t know,” Renaldo said again, more doubtfully.
“This is business,” Shayne said sharply. “Big business for you and me both. Have them meet me at your place about nine thirty.”
He hung up and drove out to a filling station on the corner of Eighteenth and Biscayne. He said, “Ten gallons,” to the youth who hurried out.
He strolled around to the back of his car and asked: “Were you on duty last night?”
“Until I closed up at ten. Just missed the excitement, I guess.”
“You mean the murder?”
“Yeah. The old ship captain who lives down the street. And I was talking about the old coot just a little before that, too.”
“Who with?”
“A lawyer fellow who’d been down to see him and got a flat just as he was coming back.”
“What time was that?” asked Shayne.
“Pretty near ten. I closed up right after I finished with his tire. If that’s all...” He took the bill Shayne offered him.
The detective swung away from the filling station and back south of the boulevard. He stopped on First Street east of Miami Avenue and went into the lobby of an office building mostly occupied by lawyers and insurance men. He stopped to scan the building directory, then stepped into an elevator and said: “Six.”
He got off on the sixth floor and went down the corridor to a door chastely lettered, LEROY P. GUILDFORD — ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.
There was a small, neat reception room, and a tight-mouthed, middle-aged woman got up from a desk in the rear and came forward when Shayne entered. Her hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a tight knot at the back of her head. She wore rimless glasses and low-heeled shoes, and looked primly respectable and quite efficient.
She shook her head when the detective asked for Mr. Guildford. “He hasn’t come in yet. He seldom gets down before ten.”
Shayne said: “Perhaps you can tell me a few things. I’m from the police.” He gave her a glimpse of his private badge.
She said: “From the police?” Her thin lips tightened. “I’m sure I don’t know why you’re here.” Her gaze was fixed disapprovingly on his battered face.
He said easily: “It’s about one of his clients who was murdered last night. Mr. Guildford gave us some help but there are a few details to be filled in.”
“Oh, yes. You must mean poor Captain Samuels, of course. I know Mr. Guildford must feel terribly about it. Such an old client. So alone and helpless.”
“Did you know him?”
“Only through seeing him here at the office. Mr. Guildford was trying to save his property but it seemed hopeless.”
“In what particular capacity did he need a lawyer?”
“It wasn’t much,” she said vaguely. “He was one of Mr. Guildford’s first clients when he opened up this office after resigning his position with the firm of Leland and Parker. There was something about the collection of insurance on a ship that had been lost at sea, and later Mr. Guildford handled the purchase of a property where Captain Samuels later built his little home.”
“Do you know whether Guildford saw much of him lately?”
“Not a great deal. There was some difficulty about the mortgage and Mr. Guildford was trying to save him from foreclosure. He pitied the old man, you see, but there was little he could do.”
“And this appointment last night. Do you know anything about that?”
“Oh, yes. I took the message early yesterday morning. Captain Samuels explicitly asked him to come at nine last night, promising to make a cash payment on the mortgage. I remember Mr. Guildford seemed so relieved when he received the message and he didn’t seem to mind the unusual hour.”
Shayne thanked her and told her she had been of great assistance. He started out, but turned back. “By the way, is Guildford generally in his office throughout the day?”
“Yes. Except when he’s in court, of course.”