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.
Henderson bobbed his head, edged into the seat and sat warily in one corner. The detective stretched his lanky frame under the steering wheel, depressed the starter and tooled the machine into motion.
The ride was made in silence. The banker crouched on the extreme end of the seat and it was quite apparent that he did not trust his companion. But Duke Martindel was indifferent to that. There was nothing he had to discuss with Mayhew Henderson and he wanted time to mull over the strange situation in which he found himself.
Perhaps he was a plain damn fool. He knew he could trust neither Gus Nuene nor Sam Skuro as far as he could throw them with a broken wrist; he was too experienced a veteran to believe that quaint old fairy tale about honor among thieves; that was plain hooey. He sought to mentally marshal his facts, slim as they were. First, Nuene and Skuro were scared — they had to be plenty terrified to return fifty thousand in loot. Both men were veteran criminals, but they were the old-time craftsmen, not the modern, back-shooting assassin of today. Duke nodded to himself — yes, he was inclined to believe the precious pair when they said they did not kill Wash-burn. If they had killed Washburn in looting the bank — they would hardly be willing to return the loot. It would appear logical for them to use the money in making a get-away.
But Harry Washburn was dead! Duke had heard that officially from the police broadcast, and Skuro and Nuene were accused and suspected of the crime. Yet it was easy to find a motive why certain people and factions might want the relentless investigator out of the way. Duke had worked with Harry Washburn back in the days when he was in harness and even then, Washburn was a cold-blooded, tenacious man-hunter. There was something about the way he tore into a case that chilled even his co-workers. But he was a smart dick, uncompromisingly honest, and he had risen rapidly, although cordially disliked by his associates, and when the grand jury picked him out of the entire force to investigate certain underworld activities in the city, dislike turned to fear.
Duke knew what it was to be feared and disliked. He had chucked the police force when things became too raw for his taste and opened a private bureau. He had made good on several well paying cases and wisely invested his surplus. Honest coppers, like old “Skipper” Dombey, grizzled pilot of the detective bureau, favored him, gave him tips and did what they could to help him along. But the department was under the thumb of Inspector Egan of the uniformed men. Egan hated two things — Duke Martindel was both of them.
A cheerful grin stole over Duke’s tanned features as he recalled Phyllis booting him out of the bed. What a girl! Even after some three years of marriage, Duke continued to marvel at his luck in winning her. They had met when she visited the police department as a member of a law class studying criminal procedure. The day she passed her bar examination they were married. Since that time, she had only practiced law when it was necessary to extricate her adventurous husband from some escapade. Yet Duke invariably insisted that she was the real business head of the family and that he merely worked for her. It tickled him immensely when she begged him to quit the detective business, with its attendant dangers, and then the first case that looked as though some innocent party might be in trouble, she insisted that he take it and straighten it out.
The sudden looming up of the County and Suburban Bank before him broke up his reverie. He stopped the car at the curb in front of the building and switched off the engine.
“All right,” he grunted at Henderson. “Let’s go.”
The other hesitated, moistening his lips. “I warn you,” he jerked huskily. “If anything is—”
“Don’t be a damn fool!” cut in Martindel. He opened the door and stepped to the sidewalk.
Henderson followed reluctantly. He paused, glanced suspiciously up and down the deserted street, then hurried across the sidewalk and keyed open the front door. He started to enter, changed his mind and stepped aside for the detective to precede him.
Duke gave an impatient snort, knuckled open the big door and strode inside. The foyer was dimly illumined by a night-light that bathed the empty cages in pale shadows. The thick marble pillars, cold and stark, reminded Duke of a mausoleum. Some strange unfamiliar dread began to come over him. He glanced around but could see no sign of the watchman. Casting a quick look over his shoulder, he found Henderson watching him through narrowed eyes.
“Where’s the vault?” he asked.
The banker jerked his head toward the rotunda. As Duke passed the end of the cages, he saw the vault door ajar. He pushed aside a brass rail and strode over. He shot another glance at Henderson, then gripped the big handle and swung the door outward. He jumped backward with an unwitting gasp of surprise.
For the trussed-up body of a man tumbled out of the dark recess of the vault and fell at his feet!
Martindel rasped a curse, whipped out his flash and turned the light on the features of the man on the tiled floor. One quick glance was sufficient; the man was dead.
“Foy!” choked Henderson.
Martindel dropped to one knee beside the corpse. The watchman had been beaten about the head until it was but a pulpy mass. Ropes wrapped around his body held him mummy-like and the dirty strips of adhesive tape across his dead lips added a grim touch to the horror of it all. The detective’s jaw tightened and the veins along his temples swelled. He pushed slowly erect and turned to Henderson.
“I don’t understand—” he began, then stopped abruptly as he found himself staring into the tremulous muzzle of the banker’s gun.
“You dirty crook!” rasped Henderson. “Don’t move or I’ll kill you!” His rotund little body was doubled into a half-crouch as he backed toward a desk.
Martindel stiffened. “Be careful of that gun,” he suggested drily. “It might go off.”
“It will go off if you move before the police get here!” promised Henderson. He put his left hand behind him and patted the desk as he searched for the instrument.
Duke Martindel bit his lip. He was in probably the worst predicament of his eventful career. If the police caught him now — he shuddered. He turned his attention to Henderson. The latter was just picking up the receiver.
Duke gauged his distance. Henderson stood about ten feet away. The gun was aimed in the general direction of the detective’s broad chest but the muzzle wavered in a restless arc. Duke heard the receiver make metallic noises, saw Henderson open his mouth to speak, then he jumped—
He went feet first like a player sliding for a base. The gun roared over his head — the marble foyer amplifying the sound. Then his feet struck Henderson’s legs and with a terrified bleat, the banker flopped on top of him.
Duke’s powerful arm closed around Henderson’s throat, choking the cry before it was born. He rolled over, came to his knees then releasing his strangle hold, he caught the other by the tie and jerked him into a sitting position. Henderson made one futile attempt to cry out just as Duke’s fist reached his jaw. The bleat turned into an indifferent whoosh as the air left the tubby body and Mayhew Henderson cradled his head on the mosaic floor and temporarily lost all interest in the encounter.
Martindel combed his fingers through his hair and stood up. The telephone lay on its side, the receiver squawking imperiously. With a soft oath, he pronged the thing and recovered his crush felt. He jammed it on the back of his head, carefully wiped the handle of the vault door so as to eradicate any fingerprints, and moved swiftly toward the front of the bank.
He was directly in the middle of the foyer when the barred front door suddenly swung inward and three blue-coated figures barged inside. The pale moonlight glinted on blued steel. A cold, venomous voice knifed the stillness.