The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps
- Автор: Anderson Lars, Barr Randolph
- Год: 2007
- Язык: английский
- Год: Vintage Books
- ISBN: 978-0-307-28048-0
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps». Краткое содержание книги:
Weighing in at over a thousand pages, containing over forty-seven stories and two novels, this book is big baby, bigger and more powerful than a freight train — a bullet couldn’t pass through it. Here are the best stories and every major writer who ever appeared in celebrated Pulps like Black Mask, Dime Detective, Detective Fiction Weekly, and more. These are the classic tales that created the genre and gave birth to hard-hitting detectives who smoke criminals like packs of cigarettes; sultry dames whose looks are as lethal as a dagger to the chest; and gin-soaked hideouts where conversations are just preludes to murder. This is crime fiction at its gritty best.
Struggling feet stumbled over their twisting bodies, and curses ripped through the darkness. Another shot banged out, went wild and shattered a light bulb in the chandelier. The table toppled, and somebody crashed over a chair.
Then the door leading to the hall was flung open and dim figures hurtled through it on the way out, their feet pounding on the floor. Devore planted his knee brutally in MacBride’s stomach and the captain buckled, gasping for breath. Then Devore tore free, reeled about the room and dived for the open door.
But MacBride caught his breath, heaved up and lunged after him. Doors opened and banged, but nobody came out to get in the way. Somewhere far below MacBride heard a sharp exchange of shots. He catapulted after Devore who was racing down the staircase. Near the bottom, he leaped through space and landing on Devore’s neck, crashed him to the floor.
Devore groaned and relaxed. MacBride straddled him, drew out manacles and settled Devore’s status for the time being. He stood up, wiping blood from his face, shoving wet strands of hair back from his forehead. He heard footsteps rushing up from below and swung around with his gun leveled.
It was Ted Kerr, his clothes in tatters and a couple of blue welts on his face.
“They got away, Cap,” he explained. “Through the back. Went through a door, slammed it and locked it. Kelly and I tried to bust it, but no can do. I came up to see if you were all right. One was wounded. Here’s Kelly.”
Kelly puffed up, his collar gone but his tie still draped around his neck.
“Take this guy,” MacBride said, jerking a thumb toward Devore. “I’ll be right down.”
He went upstairs two steps at a time and entered the gang’s quarters. He lit a match, found the light switch and snapped it. The room was in ruin, and the shade still clicked in the draft. He crossed to another door, stood to one side, then turned the knob and kicked the door open. A light was burning inside, and a breeze blowing through an open window.
Entering, MacBride set it down as a room used by a woman. There was a littered dressing table, and a bureau with several drawers half out and signs indicatory of somebody having made a quick getaway. A cursory examination revealed no tell-tale clues. MacBride turned out the lights, left the rooms, and descended the staircase.
Devore was standing up now, between Kerr and Kelly, and venom was burning in his strange, enigmatic eyes.
MacBride said, “Now for a little buggy ride, Devore.”
“You’re going to regret this, MacBride,” the man snarled. “By cripes, you are!”
“Cut out the threats, you bum!”
“Cut out hell! Before you know what’s what I’m going to have you tied by the heels.”
“Should I sock him, Cap?” inquired Kelly.
“No. He’ll get a lot of that later, where it’s more convenient.” MacBride’s hand clenched, and his lips flattened back against his teeth.
Devore smiled, mockingly. “We’ll see, MacBride — we’ll see!”
7
It was about half-past ten when the police car rolled into Grove Manor. Ted Kerr was at the wheel. Devore sat in the rear, between MacBride and Kelly.
“Looks like a crowd in front of the station,” sang out Kerr.
“ ’Swing into the next block,” said MacBride. “Probably some photographers and — no doubt — that very good friend of mine, Kennedy, with his nose for news, and his wisecracks.”
The car turned into a dark street several blocks this side of the police station and halted.
“What should I do, Cap?” asked Kerr.
MacBride was thinking. “Let’s see. H’m. Drive around the back way, Ted. Park a block away from the station. I’ll run this bird in the back way, right into my office. You and Kelly drive up a little later. And don’t spill any beans — keep your traps shut. Then you come in my office, Ted, and we’ll see.”
Kerr drove off slowly, cut around the back of the town and came up a dark, poorly paved street that ran back of the station. When he pulled up, MacBride hauled Devore out and marched him off. They took a path that led through a vacant lot and on up to the back of the station.
Here MacBride, using a key, opened a door and shoved Devore in, then followed and, locking the door, guided the gangster along a dark hallway that ended against another door. MacBride unlocked this and stepped into his office, relocked it quickly and crossing to the door that led into the central room, shoved shut the bolt. Then he turned with a sigh of relief, took off his cap and sailed it across his desk.
“Take the load off your feet, Devore,” he droned, and pulling open a drawer in his desk, hauled out a bottle and downed a stiff bracer. He turned to Devore. “Dry?”
“I don’t drink slops, thanks.”
“You can go to hell,” chuckled MacBride, slamming shut the drawer.
“Listen,” jerked out Devore. “Let me use that phone. I gotta talk to my lawyer.”
“Try setting that to music, guy. You’re calling no lawyer. You’re seeing no one. And the newspapers aren’t going to know I’ve got you. I’m top-dog, you dirty slob, and you’re going to come across!”
“About what?”
“Ask me another,” scoffed MacBride. “About the killing of Joe Manola. Now don’t try to hand me a song and dance, Devore. I was listening outside the window on the fire-escape. I heard you and your guns talking.”
“How did you get the lay on me, MacBride?”
“Don’t worry about that, Devore. The thing is, I’ve got you, and you’re going to come across.”
Devore leaned forward, his teeth bared, but not in a smile. “How about your kid daughter, big boy?”
“Yes, you pup, how about her?” exploded MacBride, a bad light in his eyes.
“Sound nice, won’t it? Daughter of Captain MacBride linked up with gangsters. Think it over, MacBride.”
“I’m thinking it over, Devore. It’s a blow — a sock flush on the button, but I’ll weather it. She’ll have to talk, sooner or later, even though she is my daughter. But she’s been framed somehow. And what I want to know is, who’s the woman who was in the quartette last night at the Blue River?”
“Ah, wouldn’t you like to know!” Devore snarled; and then snapped, “Try and find out, you big bum!”
There was a knock on the door. MacBride walked over and asked, “Who is it?”
“Ted.”
He opened the door and Ted Kerr slipped in. MacBride snapped shut the bolt. Kerr scowled at Devore.
“Right at home, eh, Devore? You won’t be,” he threatened.
MacBride said, “Keep your eye on him, Ted. I’m going out and give the gang the air.”
There was a sizable crowd waiting for news. Four reporters, three photographers. And Kennedy, with his whimsical smile.
“Ah, captain,” he chortled, “and now you broadcast.”
MacBride bored him with a keen stare. “You’re wasting your time, Kennedy. On your way — all of you boys. No news tonight.”
“But who’s the bird you’ve got?” demanded a reporter from the city news association.
“You heard me,” shot back MacBride. “No news. There’s a trolley goes through here in five minutes. Take a tip. Hop it.”
“Aw, for cripe’s sakes,” protested Kennedy. “Be a sport, Cap. Think of all the good breaks I’ve put in your way.”
“Think of all the good drinks I’ve handed out,” replied MacBride. “No use, Kennedy. Beat it, all of you. You’re cluttering up the station.”
The outer door opened and a man strolled in nonchalantly smoking a cork-tipped cigarette. He was of medium height, slight in build, dressed in the acme of fashion. He wore a gray suit that could not have been made for less than a hundred dollars, a cream-colored silk shirt, a blue tie, and a rakish Panama hat. He carried a Malacca stick, and now he leaned on it, his hand aglitter with diamonds, a lazy, indolent look in his slitted brown eyes.