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.
“That’s what I’m going to find out. Shoot, Donnegan!”
Donnegan nodded, and as the car moved away from the curb, there were running feet on the sidewalk, and a moment later Kennedy was riding on the running-board.
“Mind if I tag along, Mac?” he grinned.
“You’re like a burr in a man’s sock, Kennedy. But get in beside Donnegan.”
“What’s the lay, Mac?”
“Stick around and see if you can find out. Here’s a cigar. See if that’ll keep your jaw shut.”
“Thanks, Mac. Only I’m sore as hell that you didn’t tell me beforehand it was Devore you had. Cripes, won’t they hand you the razzberry! I shot the story right in. I said you were sitting with Devore alone in your office, with the automatic lying on the desk. You were trying to make him swear it was his gun, and in the heat of the argument Devore grabbed it and covered you. I had to make up a lot of fiction, but that was because you didn’t explain. I ended up by saying that you were sure you’d recapture him, and all that sort of boloney.”
“That’s as good as anything,” muttered MacBride. “Now jam that cheroot in your mouth and sign off.”
Twenty minutes later they were driving along Farmingville Turnpike. The night was dark, and within the past ten minutes a chill Autumn drizzle had started, the kind of drizzle that is half rain and half mist — penetrating and clammy. The rubber tires hissed sibilantly on the wet macadam, and the beams of the headlights were reflected back from the gray vapor.
Presently Donnegan slowed down and swung in close to the side of the road, extinguished the lights.
“Can’t you drive into the bushes?” asked MacBride. “We ought to get the car off the road and out of sight.”
Donnegan tried this and succeeded. Then they all got out and stood in a group.
MacBride said, “We’ll walk up. There’s a lane a hundred yards on, leading into the brewery, which is a quarter of a mile off the Turnpike. You,” he said to Kennedy, “better stay out of this.”
“Try and do it, Mac. I didn’t come out here to pick wildflowers.”
MacBride growled, turned and plowed through the bushes. The others followed, and in short time they reached the lane. It led through vacant fields, fenced in, where in the old days horses belonging to the brewing company had grazed.
“Here comes a machine!” warned Kerr, and they dived into the tall grass by the fence.
Two beams of light danced through the gloom. The machine was bound in from the Turnpike, and presently it purred by — a big, opulent limousine. When its tail light had disappeared behind a bend, MacBride stood up, motioned to the others, and proceeded. The visor on his cap was beaded with the drizzle.
Gradually the buildings loomed against the blue-black sky — the big main plant, surrounded by stables and storehouses. Not a light could be seen. They reached the first outbuilding, and from where he stood MacBride could see a half-dozen automobiles parked near the main building, by the loading platform. Here and there he saw a faint red glow near the machines.
“Chauffeurs, smoking,” he decided, and his gaze wandered up the dark face of the big three-storied building, which an ancient brewing company had evacuated three years ago.
“Something phony going on there, or I don’t know my tricks,” remarked Kennedy.
“Guess this is the time you do,” replied MacBride. “Let’s work around to the rear.”
They retraced their steps a short distance and then began creeping around the outside of the building, weaving through tall grass and dried-out weeds. Ten minutes later they were at the off-side of the main building, deep in shadows. MacBride found a window with broken panes, nodded to the others, and crawled through. He dropped a few feet into a chill, damp cellar, black as pitch; stood waiting while Kerr, Kennedy and then Donnegan, followed.
“Your flash, Donnegan,” he whispered, and felt the cylinder pressed into his hand.
He snapped on the light. The beam leaped through the clammy gloom, shone on stacks of dusty kegs, long out of use, and on stacks of bottles musty with cobwebs. The odor of must and mold seeped into the men’s nostrils.
MacBride led the way, winding in and out between the rows of barrels. Further on he came to a small, heavy door which, swinging open under his hand, led into another section of the cellar. Here were more barrels, but they were standing upright, and the smell of new wine was prevalent. Barrels of it. Kennedy licked his lips, then pointed ahead.
The beam of light swung back and forth across stacked cases of liquor. The men crept closer.
“Hot diggity!” whispered Kennedy. “Look at the Dewar’s, and the Sandy MacDonald. And... say!... Three Star Hennessy!”
“Pipe down!” snapped MacBride under his breath.
“Maybe you got a bum steer after all, Mac. If it’s only liquor, and you dragged me all the way out here—”
“Nobody dragged you out here, Kennedy! Quit yapping!”
“I know, but—”
Bang! Bang!
Kerr tensed and his breath shot out with — “What’s that?”
Bang! Bang!
MacBride had his gun out, his lips pursed, his eyes looking up toward the unseen regions above.
“One thing,” he muttered. “It’s not just target practice. Come on!”
10
Four shots, muffled by floors and walls but, nevertheless, somewhere in that building.
MacBride, with his flash sweeping around furiously, finally located a staircase that led up to the ground floor. At his heels came Kerr, trailed closely by Donnegan and Kennedy. MacBride paused to get his bearings.
Another shot rang out, echoes trailing, commingled with the sounds of banging doors and the shouts of men.
“This way!” clipped MacBride, espying another stairway.
He ascended two steps at a time, reached the next landing. He looked up into the gloom above just in time to see a slash of gun-fire rip through the darkness. In the sudden flare he saw a man with hands upthrown. Then there was a thumping sound, as the man fell.
MacBride’s flash was out. His lips were set. He whispered to his men, “Watch it, boys! This place is a death trap! Stick close!”
A sudden exchange of shots burst out on the floor above, and the rebound of bullets could be heard intermingled with screaming oaths and pounding feet. Then, nearby, MacBride heard a body hurtling down the stairs. He jumped in that direction, caught a man in the act of scrambling to his feet. Heaving up, the man struck out and the barrel of a revolver whanged by MacBride’s cheek and stopped against his shoulder.
MacBride struck back with his own thirty-eight and landed it on the stranger’s skull. Then Donnegan was there to help him, gripping the man’s arms from behind. They dragged him down the hall, felt their way into a room, and then MacBride snapped on his flash and looked at their catch.
It was the bull-necked red-head whom he had seen in Devore’s hide-out in Jockey Street. The man was streaked with blood.
“What the hell are you doing here?” MacBride wanted to know.
“Playin’ Santy Claus—”
“Cut out the wisecracks! What’s going on upstairs?”
“Go up an’ find out. Go on. Slugs are sailin’ around up there like flies in the summer time.”
“I’ll tend to you later,” bit off MacBride; and to Donnegan, “Get out your bracelets and clamp him to the water pipe on the wall.”
This done, MacBride again led the way back up the hall. As they reached the foot of the staircase leading to the floor, they partly heard, vaguely saw, a knot of men milling down the steps.