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.
Duke Martindel whistled softly and dropped his feet over the edge of the bed. “That’s a new one,” he mused aloud. “They are guilty of one crime and want to be framed innocent on one they did not commit.” He shook his head. “I don’t want any part of it, boys. You’re a couple of bad eggs that should be frying up in the big house.”
His wife caught his arm. “But, Duke, if they didn’t kill Washburn, you wouldn’t want to see them—” She stopped, embarrassed.
“They robbed a bank,” he reminded her. “I’ll be compounding a felony if I monkey with that or try to cover it up.”
Nuene interrupted. “We thought of that, Duke, so we got a counter proposition. Suppose we give you the dough we got out of that crib — fifty thousand, it was — and you go and make a deal with the manager. It’s a small, independent bank and I don’t think the manager would want any publicity about the job if he could recover his dough on the quiet.”
“Any damage done?”
Nuene shook his head. “Not much. We stuck up the watchman and gagged him with tape. Sam opened the vault like it was a can of sardines.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “It’s not three yet. If you beat it out to the manager’s house, offer to return the dough and pay for any damages, I think he’ll listen to reason. We’re on the level about this, Duke, we don’t want to dangle for something we didn’t do.”
Skuro contributed: “The manager’s name is Mayhew Henderson. He lives at Two Sixty Carthay Circle. He’s home tonight — we checked all those angles.”
“The money?” Duke asked.
“We’ll leave it on your back door step.”
“Where will you boys be?”
Skuro shook his head decisively. “You don’t need to know that, Duke. We’ll get in touch with our” — he gave Phyllis Martindel a glance — “our attorney when the time comes.”
“How do you know I won’t run out on you with the money?”
“Two reasons,” Nuene replied. “First, you’re a square dick; second, you’ll want to know who knocked off Washburn by shooting him in the back.”
Sam had already backed out of the room and now Gus Nuene followed. As the door closed, Martindel grinned at his wife.
“Well, Mrs. Martindel, how would you like to go to Europe on sixty thousand—”
“No thank you, Mr. Martindel. Now will you be on your way to Carthay Circle?” She placed a tiny foot in the small of his back and prodded him out of the bed.
Chapter Two
Murder Frame
Duke Martindel brought his roadster to a stop diagonally across the street from a large, brick mansion. He turned the beam of his spotlight onto the white numerals painted on the curb, saw they were 260. Then he climbed out and approached the darkened house.
It took considerable argument to convince the sleepy butler who answered the door that the matter was of sufficient importance to disturb the slumber of his master. But the sounds of the verbal exchange succeeded where the reasoning had failed, for a stubby little man appeared at the head of the stairs and demanded to know what the trouble was. Before the servant could speak, Martindel cut in.
“Mr. Henderson, I am a detective. I have some very urgent business to discuss with you relative to your bank.”
Henderson gave an astonished grunt and padded down the stairs, his slippers clap-clapping on the polished surface. He dismissed the butler with an imperious wave of his hand, tightened his robe around his full figure and led the way into a small reception room off the hallway. Without sitting down, he faced the detective.
“Now, sir,” he demanded. “What business have you to discuss?”
Martindel let his eyes sweep the banker in a cold, appraising stare. To him, every man was a subject to be dealt with differently and he wondered how best to approach the rather delicate matter he had to discuss. Henderson, he readily surmised, was not a man that would have any sympathy for others; there was a tightness around his small, thin mouth, set as it was in his chubby face, that suggested cruelty. He stared at his visitor with a haughty frown, but Duke saw a tremor of fear in the depths of his eyes and it heartened him. He made his approach accordingly.
“Mr. Henderson, if your bank was burglarized, your vault rifled, it would be rather awkward from a business point of view, would it not?”
The banker’s eyes bulged. “Burglarized? Why, what are you trying to say?”
“Your bank was burglarized last night. The vault was cleaned!”
Henderson collapsed into a chair. “Are you from the police?” he gasped.
Martindel shook his head. “No, I am a private detective.”
“You represent the insurance?”
“I,” the detective put in flatly, “represent the burglars.”
Henderson gave a startled grunt, then groped for the telephone. Before he could lift the receiver, Martindel pinned his hand down.
“Wait a minute,” he suggested quietly. “You would do well to hear me out.”
“You can’t blackmail me!” blustered the banker.
“I’m not trying to blackmail you. I have with me the entire amount stolen and enough extra to make good any damages incurred by the entry. It is a most unusual circumstance, but I want to return the money on behalf of the criminals on the one condition that you make no report of the incident. I believe, if you will consider the matter from all angles, you would be well advised to agree. If your clients knew that your vault could be opened like” — he grinned as he recalled Gus Nuene’s apt simile — “like a can of sardines, you would lose a lot of business.”
Henderson hesitated and his hand slowly came away from the instrument. “What about Chris Foy, the watchman?” he queried huskily.
“Foy is all right, so I understand,” Duke assured him. “I’m confident he will keep his mouth shut under the circumstances. He is now bound and gagged at the bank.”
“You have the money with you?”
“In my car. I suggest that you dress and come with me. We will liberate the watchman, return the money to the vault and let the matter drop.”
Henderson squinted at Martindel. “I don’t understand why you are doing this. Do you expect a reward?”
“No. I expect nothing — from you. My reasons, on the other hand, are no concern of yours. Are you going to come, or not?”
Henderson ran a chubby hand across his moist forehead as though the matter was too much for his comprehension.
“How do I know this isn’t some trick to get me to open the bank?” he asked defensively.
Martindel shrugged. “You don’t know, but you cannot afford to take a chance that I might be right. If someone discovers the burglary before we get this money back, you know what will happen to your depositors. They’ll walk out on you. I’d suggest that you pile into some clothes and make it snappy.”
Henderson nodded. “I’ll be ready in five minutes,” he promised and hurried from the room.
He was ready in six minutes by Martindel’s watch. He came into the room dressed in a conventional serge suit, but a too obvious bulge in his right coat pocket warned the detective that he was armed. Duke frowned impatiently. It irritated him when untrained men carried guns. With a curt nod, he led the way out of the house and across the street to his roadster.
Henderson hesitated before entering. “Where is the money?” he demanded.
Martindel swore softly, walked to the rear of the machine and unlocked the turtleback. He opened the portmanteau and held the beam of a small pocket flashlight on the contents. It was bulging with currency and negotiable bonds.
“Satisfied?” he growled.