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.
The fat man blinked and regarded Jules’ hunched shoulder and looked back to his round blue eyes.
“I give you the message,” he said.
He eased back into his chair. Jules’ head went back and he laughed almost soundlessly. The fat man sat and blinked at him. He looked up and down the street, then blinked again, put his hands on his knees, leaned far forward and levered himself to his feet. He picked up the chair and carried it into the tenement. Jules laughed again.
Militant chords leaped from the strident strings and he swung into the Soldiers’ Chorus. A man in a rust-brown suit and with broad-toed black shoes and a derby jammed forward over his eyes halted before Tremaine. The street singer finished his song.
“What would you like me to sing?” he asked, his fingers walking over the strings.
The man growled in his throat. He was young and blond and weighed about two hundred and twenty pounds. His blue eyes glowered from a florid face.
“My name’s O’Reilly,” he said.
Jules bowed gracefully.
“I have heard the name before,” he said, “but there seems to be some Freudian obstruction in my cerebration.”
The young man frowned.
“Don’t crack wise,” he warned, “or I’ll bang you over the head again.”
“Ah, now I recall!” Happiness shone on Jules’ face. “You are the gallant young policeman who last night apprehended me as I was calling on some recently demised friends. I am so glad to renew the acquaintance, Mr. O’Reilly.”
The cop’s scowl deepened. He grunted: “What was you telling the fat wop in the chair?”
Jules moved his right hand from left to right, palm upward, fingers spread, and shrugged his right shoulder.
“I tell him the day is lovely. I tell him it is too bad Angela and Antonio cannot see it. I tell him—” Jules shrugged delicately again, his hand completing the gesture. “I talk with him.”
“Then why’d he go inside?”
“He, perhaps, do not like the song I sing.”
“Huhn!”
O’Reilly stood with straddled legs, his head thrust forward. His hands swung at his sides, a slight rigidity in his arms.
“You bumped that girl because you couldn’t get gay with her, then put the heat on the brother when he walked in on you.”
Jules stopped smiling and his fingers stopped their soundless wandering over the strings.
“You fool!” he snapped. “I liked Angela. She was a nice kid, a clean hard-working little wop. The men who killed her were lice, and I’m going—”
“You’re going to do what?”
Jules looked at O’Reilly from under half-lowered lids. He said softly: “It took you two minutes to get from the lot across the street to the door of the tenement where Angela was shot. I wonder why that was, Mr. O’Reilly?”
The policeman advanced his right foot a half pace, his left hand clenched into a fist. His eyes were bright and small.
“I’ve a good mind to run you in,” he said, his words rasping.
“I wish you would,” said Jules gently.
The florid color of the policeman’s face deepened.
“I know your name is Tremaine,” he said, “and I know you got off last night, but it won’t work today. The captain said—”
Jules raised polite eyebrows as the man broke off. So there was another score against Andrew to be settled. Jules pursed his lips, the amusement in his eyes shaded by anger.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “I wish you would run me in. There are a few other things I’d like to tell Captain Jimson, such as why it took you two minutes—”
“That’s enough of that!” O’Reilly was tense, his voice hoarse. “If you know what’s good for you, keep your mouth shut!”
Jules sighed deeply, with a theatrical lift and fall of his chest.
“I’m afraid, my dear O’Reilly, that it’s too late to do that. I told the dear captain—”
“You told him what?”
“My dear fellow, you are so precipitate! This continual interruption grows irksome.”
“You told him what?” O’Reilly’s eyes were flat and menacing.
Jules returned the man’s glare from under sleepy lids, his hands motionless on the guitar. The policeman’s gaze flickered finally.
“That is much, much better, Mr. O’Reilly,” said Jules softly. “As I was about to say, I told Jimson that I could identify the man who shot Angela and Antonio and that I would testify when they were arrested.”
“You’re lying,” O’Reilly said hoarsely. “Jimson didn’t tell me that!”
Jules shrugged, swung half about so that his left shoulder was towards the policeman, strolled up the street, plucking soft chords. O’Reilly’s heavy stride kept pace with him.
“You’re rough on a guy that’s trying to do you a favor,” he said, placatingly. “I came to tell you that Joe — he’s got a place up on Tenth Street — says he’s got a job for you.”
“My dear fellow!” Jules exclaimed. “That is charming of you!”
He swept a lean forefinger across the five strings but the catgut gave forth a tinny sound as if the resonance of the wood were damped.
“But just why am I so honored, and why has not my good brother’s suggestion that I be arrested not been carried out?”
O’Reilly walked stolidly along beside him.
“Jimson said you had an alibi. Said somebody saw you in the street at the same time they heard the shots. And the chief told me to tell you about the job.”
Jules pursed his lips so that the black mustache thrust forward. A frown drew his brows together.
“You’ll be glad to get the job, eh?” O’Reilly suggested.
“Perhaps,” Jules said. “I do not know. If you see this Joe tell him he can find me here.”
“He can find you here, eh?” O’Reilly was carefully casual.
Jules threw back his head; his mouth opened but only small laughing sounds emerged. He said: “Yes.”
O’Reilly said, “Okey,” and marched off.
Half an hour later, at the corner of Mulberry and Spring streets, Jules Tremaine was singing. For the moment the street was clear of festa crowds. Two children, the younger barely two with a meditative thumb thrust into his mouth, regarded him seriously. Something hard nudged into Jules’ back. His eyes half closed and he moved a half pace forward and continued to sing. The nudge was repeated. He ended his song, swept his whole hand across the five strings, then turned slowly.
The man behind him was about his own height, but much broader. His eyes were black buttons under the edge of a gray fedora. His right shoulder was at least three inches higher than the left.
“Joe sent me around to see you about taking that job,” he said.
His right hand was in his pocket. Apparently he had nudged Jules with whatever was in that pocket. Jules looked at it. He said: “But I do not think I want a job. I want to sing out of doors.”
The left corner of the man’s mouth lifted slightly, but he was not smiling.
“This job would be out of doors,” he said.
Jules shrugged. “I do not know this Joe.”
“Well, he knows you. Come on.”
Jules began a protest he did not finish. The man stared into his eyes. His right hand was in his pocket and he thrust it forward a half inch. He said: “Come on.”
Jules looked into the button eyes and at the man’s pocket. Very carefully he maneuvered the guitar under his arm and up on his back, held it in place with his right hand pressed against the end of the keyboard. He cleared his throat. He said: “All right, I’ll come.”
The man jerked his head to the right and Jules walked that way, across Mulberry Street, the man moving stiffly at his left side, his hand still in his pocket. They walked one square east, then two north and turned to the left. Near the corner a large closed car was parked. The sedan looked very heavy. There were two men in it. When Jules was opposite the car, the back door swung open.