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.
“I’m willing to take it, Jake. It’s a bluff — the biggest bluff I ever pulled in my life. Just play with me, Jake. Appear mysterious. All you’ve got to keep saying is that you picked a guy up — but no more. I’ve got all the keys to that cell and nobody, I don’t care who he is, is going to see that it’s empty.”
“Gawd,” muttered Moriarity, “I hope you don’t get showed up.”
“That’s all right, Jake. Cut out worrying. Just play your part, and if the breaks go against us, I’ll take the razz personally.”
Moriarity wandered out, far from overjoyed.
At four the news spread. Quick work, mused many — an important prisoner in the hands of the police already, with the account of the murder still vivid in the city’s mind. And the mysterious tone of it; that was intriguing, MacBride holding the man’s name a secret.
MacBride read three different sheets.
The Free Press mentioned his name more than the others. That was Kennedy’s work. Good sort, Kennedy, even though he did get on a man’s nerves at times. Kennedy’s column was well-written, concise, cool, almost laconic.
At four-thirty a big limousine pulled up before the station-house. State’s Attorney Krug, a large, faultlessly groomed man, innately arrogant, strode into MacBride’s office swinging his stick savagely.
“Look here, Captain,” he rapped out, “what is the meaning of this? I refer to the late editions, and to this fellow Moriarity picked up.”
“What does what mean?” MacBride wanted to know, unperturbed.
Krug struck the floor with his stick. “Why, as State’s Attorney of this county, I think it is no more than pertinent that I should be informed of such important news before it comes out in the newspapers.”
“Dark secret, Mr. Krug,” said MacBride. “The Department’s prisoner. When we get through with him, we’ll turn him over to the State Attorney’s office.”
“But I should like to have a preliminary talk with the fellow, so that I may go about preparing briefs. I tell you, Captain, action is what is necessary.”
“I agree with you. But as it is, Mr. Krug, the prisoner is still in the Department’s hands.”
“Nonsense! We can have just an informal little chat. I want to see the fellow. What is he called, by the way?”
MacBride shook his head. “The whole thing is a dark secret. When I spring it, everybody’ll know.”
“But dammit, man, I am State’s Attorney! I demand to interview the prisoner!”
“I ought to add,” put in MacBride, “that I have the backing of the Department. There’s the phone if you care to call the Commissioner.”
State’s Attorney Krug departed in high heat, bewailing the fact that the Department was trying to double-cross the very efficient State’s Attorney’s office.
“You know why he’s in such a hurry, Jake?” MacBride asked Moriarity.
“Sure. Stage a fast trial, get a quick conviction. It’d help him for re-election.”
MacBride chuckled grimly. Moriarity drifted out, leaving the captain alone.
It was about half an hour later that the door swung open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man entered casually. He kicked the door shut with his heel, stood with his hands thrust into his coat pockets, a cigarette drooping from one corner of his mouth. His face was deeply bronzed, his eyes pale and hard as agate.
“My error,” he said, “if I didn’t knock. Thought I’d drop in and see why you’ve been looking for me.”
“Sit down, Duveen.”
“I’ll stand.”
MacBride leaned back in his chair. “Are you heeled?”
“No. Want to look?”
“I’ll take your word. But you’ve got one hell of a lot of nerve to come in here.”
“Open to the public, ain’t it?” Duveen gushed smoke through his nostrils. “I want to know what’s all this crack about you looking for me.”
“Where have you been for the last ten days?”
“I don’t see where that’s any of your business. I was touring. I took a ride to Montreal. Get up on your dates, skipper. I’ve been gone two weeks. Scouting around for good liquor. Got two truckloads coming down for the election — and afterwards.”
“Counting on Anderson and Connaught getting in?”
“Yup.”
“Won’t do you any good. Connaught’s going to clean up this district, and you’ll never be able to buy off Anderson.”
“All I want is the bum Krug out. Well, you were looking for me. Here I am.”
“About that Bedell killing.”
“What about it?”
“You’ll need a strong alibi to prove where you were on that night, Duveen.”
“Talking of — arrest?”
“About that.”
Duveen laughed. “Not a chance, MacBride.
Krug would frame me so tight I’d never have a chance. Guess again.”
“Nevertheless...” MacBride’s hand moved toward the row of buttons on the desk.
Duveen snapped, “Kid!”
“Up high, Cap!” hissed a voice at the window.
MacBride swivelled. A rat-faced runt was leaning in through the open window, an automatic trained on the captain.
Duveen ran to the window, stepped out. There was an economy of words. With a leer, the rat-faced man disappeared.
MacBride yanked his gun, blew a whistle.
The reserves, Moriarity and Cohen came on the run. They swept out, guns drawn.
But the city swallowed Duveen and his gunman.
MacBride took the blow silently, choking down his chagrin.
“Did he wear a gray suit?” asked Moriarity.
“Yes,” muttered MacBride. “Block all city exits, place men in the railroad station. Tell Headquarters to inform all outlying precincts and booths, motorcycle and patrol flivvers, Duveen’s in town. What I can’t understand is, why the hell he came strolling in here?”
“Crust, Cap. Duveen’s got more gall, more nerve, than any bum I know of. Probably came looking for information.”
“Yes, and I pulled a bone,” confessed MacBride. “I should have played him a while, drawn him out. But seeing him here, I wanted to get the clamps on him right away. He had no gun — he’s wise. But he had a gunman planted outside the window. If I can get him, get this Trixie Meloy gal to identify him as the man walked down Holly Street toward the roadster, we can crash his alibi. We know he couldn’t have fired the shot, but it’s likely one of his rats was planted on the roof, and Duveen was on hand to see things went off as per schedule.”
An hour later the telephone rang.
“MacBride?”
The captain thought fast. “No. You want him?”
“Yes.”
“Wait a minute.”
MacBride dived into the central room, barked, “Sergeant, call the telephone exchange — quick — see where this guy’s calling from.”
The sergeant whipped into action, had the report in less than a minute. “Booth number three at the railroad waiting room.”
“Good. Call the Information Desk at the railroad. Cohen’s there. Tell him to nab the guy comes out of booth three. Fast!”
The sergeant put the call through, snapped a brief order to Detective Cohen.
MacBride was on the way back into his office. He stood before the desk, looked at his watch. He would give Cohen two minutes. The two minutes ticked off. He picked up the instrument, drawled “MacBride speaking.”
“Just a tip, MacBride. Your station-house is going to be blown up. If you’re clever, you’ll get the guys. Sometime tonight.”
That was all.
MacBride hung up, sat back, his fists clenched, his eyes glued on the instrument.