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.
“Why, it’s Mr. Lennox. My dear, I didn’t recognize you.”
He said, sourly: “It’s your age, sweetheart. Age dulls the eyes.”
Her face reddened beneath the rouge and she moved hastily away. Someone tugged at Bill’s arm. He turned to see Frank Howe. He’d gotten Howe a job in the publicity department six months before. Howe was a little drunk, but it affected neither his speech nor actions.
“Listen, Bill.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I heard that lousy cashier hand you the runaround. This is my lucky night. Beat the wheel, I did.” His hand disappeared into his pants pocket and came out with a crumpled stack of bills. “Money’s no use to me. Never had any, don’t know how to handle it — hey, bartender, a drink. I’m burning up.”
Lennox said: “Thanks, kid.” He was genuinely touched. Out of a hundred people in the room that he had helped at one time or another, Howe was the only one who seemed to remember. “No can do. Get you in trouble with Spurck.”
Howe said: “To hell with Spurck. To hell with the whole lousy industry. Swell job. You take some tramp from behind a lunch counter and build her up until she’s writing autographs instead of orders.”
He shoved the bills into Lennox’s hand and went away from the bar, his drink forgotten. Lennox watched him go. The bartender brought the glasses. Lennox drew a crumpled bill from the wad in his hand and started to hand it over. Then he stopped, stared for an instant at the number on the bill and put it into his pocket. He found some loose silver, paid for the drinks and drank both of them.
That done, he crossed the room and disappeared into the men’s lounge. There was a shine stand in the wash-room. He crawled onto the stand and watched the kinky head bob as the boy applied the brush. After a moment, he drew a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and compared the numbers on the bills with those on his list. Five of them tallied. He put the five bills into his breast coat pocket, and shoved his white silk handkerchief on top of them, then thumbed through the rest of the roll.
As he counted them he whistled softly. There were four hundred dollars left. Certainly Howe had been lucky. Lennox knew him well enough to know that the ex-reporter seldom had four dollars at any one time. He paid the shine-boy and climbed from the stand. As he emerged into the main room a newspaperman with two girls walked past.
Lennox said: “Know Frank Howe?”
The man nodded.
“Didn’t notice which table he was playing at a little while ago?”
The man nodded again. “Yeah, the center one. He was on thirteen and it came up. He let the money ride and she repeated.”
Lennox said: “Thanks,” and looked about.
A man came out of the passage which led to French’s room. Play stopped at the first table while the man exchanged cases of money with the croupier. This was repeated at the other tables. Lennox frowned. He started forward, then stopped. For perhaps a minute, he stood, undecided, then moved towards the center table. He had the idea French was withdrawing the bills which bore numbers that were on Lennox’s list.
As he stepped to the table, the rat-eyed croupier glanced at him sharply. Lennox apparently did not notice. He watched for several minutes, then bet twenty dollars on black. Red came up and he bet forty, only to be rewarded by double-O. He switched and played the middle group of numbers, won and let it ride. He won again, and shoved the whole pile onto black. Black appeared. He gathered up his winnings and moved towards the crap table.
The lone woman had the dice when he reached the table. He put twenty on the line and watched the green cubes dance across the cloth to turn up a five and six. He picked up his winnings and transferred them to no-pass. She threw snake-eyes.
French came through the curtained door at the end of the bar. He stood for a moment just inside the door, a striking figure, his shirtfront gleaming, his gray hair carefully brushed; then he walked across to the crap layout, just as Lennox picked up the dice.
“You’re through, Bill.”
Lennox turned slowly, deliberately to face him. The room was suddenly quiet. Everyone was watching, breathlessly. Lennox said: “Meaning?”
“Just that.” French’s voice held a flat quality which was almost metallic. “We don’t want your play here. We don’t even want you.”
The dice rattled in Lennox’s hand. He shoved the whole pile of currency onto the line and sent the green cubes dancing across the table with a twist of his wrist. They turned up six and one. Lennox’s eyes met the croupier’s. “Pay off, mister.”
The man hesitated, his eyes went to French. The owner nodded imperceptibly and the man counted out bills beside those which Lennox had laid on the board. Bill gathered them up slowly, stripped two tens from the pile and tossed them to the croupier, then folded the rest and slipped them into his pocket.
“Okey, French. I thought that you were yellow.” His voice carried across the silent room. “Now I know.”
He walked calmly towards the door. No one said anything, no one moved. He got his hat from the check girl, slipped into his overcoat and tossed her a folded bill, then he rode down in the elevator. The elevator man said:
“Take it easy, Mr. Lennox.” There was a gun in his hand.
Lennox grinned, “You, too, Mac?”
The man shrugged. “Orders.” He stopped the car at the second floor and opened the door. Two men stepped in, one of them was Toni. He smiled when he saw Lennox. “If it isn’t my little boy-friend.” He ran quick hands over the other’s coat and removed the guns. “Come on, mug. This is where you get off.”
Lennox obeyed. They went along a poorly lighted passage and down a flight of stairs. Lennox said: “I never knew how French got rid of people he doesn’t like.”
Toni grinned. “There’s lots of things you don’t know. One of them is how to keep your mouth buttoned. In there.” He pushed open a steel door and shoved Lennox into a curtained touring car. “Hey, Frank!” he called to the driver. Lennox turned his head a little and the gunman brought the barrel of his automatic crashing down on Lennox’s skull. “That’s for clipping me on the jaw,” he muttered, as he shoved his way into the car.
10
Consciousness came back slowly. Lennox groaned, moved slightly, then lay still for several minutes, his eyes open, staring about the dark room. To the right, a window gave an oblong of lighter sky. Morning could not be far away. He raised a hand to the side of his aching head, felt the knob there, the hair, matted with dry blood. Sounds from another room reached him indistinctly. A cry, a thump as if a heavy object had been thrown against the wall, then the door opened. Instinctively, Lennox closed his eyes. Light showed against his lids.
French’s voice said, from a distance. “Take the — in there and let him think it over.”
Heavy feet made noise in the room. There was a groan, a hoarse laugh, and the door slammed. The groans continued. Lennox opened his eyes. The room was again in darkness. Cautiously he swung his feet from the couch and sat for a moment, his head in his hands. Then he rose, swayed and looked about. There was a huddled shape in the chair beside the window. Lennox blinked at it and said, cautiously:
“Who’re you?”
The groans ceased. The room was quiet except for the labored breathing from the chair. Lennox moved closer. His head was clearing.