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.
“Did Juno Worden go around with Hank Wheaton?”
“That’s what I heard, Smith.”
Forsythe Worden appeared and leveled a finger at the fighter. “You’re just a bum. That’s all you are. A bum.”
Eddy Bly said: “I think I need a drink.” He got up and left.
Cellini asked: “How’s your jaw?”
Forsythe Worden sank into an ottoman and began to sob. It lasted for several minutes after which he blew his nose and said: “That’s typical of me. I’m not a man. I only wear pants. That’s all. But at least I’m not a bum, am I?”
“No,” Cellini said, “you’re not a bum. And I will tell you something else. You are a man.”
Forsythe Worden gazed at Cellini gratefully but said: “We’re both a little drunk and you’re only trying to make me feel good.”
“I don’t give a damn how you feel, Worden. I just think you have guts — the real kind of guts, because you haven’t got the body to back it up. The other kind, Bly’s kind, is easy.”
“Thanks. Thanks. Thanks a lot,” repeated the little man.
Cellini said: “I also think you know the difference between right and wrong, and it makes me wonder why you ever married Juno.”
“I suppose she’s no good,” Forsythe Worden admitted, “but a man doesn’t stop wanting a woman because of that. And I want my wife. I wanted her when I married her and I still want her.”
“I could understand that, but why did she marry you?”
“Because I was handy, and she was tired of the small town, and above all, I had money.”
“Lots of it?” asked Cellini.
“Comparatively. About twenty thousand. Today I have nothing.”
“What happened? Did Juno spend it?”
“Mostly. I lost the last eight thousand on Friday when I bet that Wheaton would beat Bly. Today I have nothing and Juno knows it. I’ve lost even that hold over her.”
Cellini looked at the little man curiously. “Why did you bet dough like that? Did you think it was fixed or did you think Wheaton was better than Bly?”
“Neither one,” Forsythe Worden replied. “I happened to be with Jeanette Bly when the accident happened.”
“Who’s Jeanette? Bly’s sister?”
“Yes. A very sweet girl, and no matter what I think of Bly I have to admit he was crazy about her. That’s why, after I did what I could for Jeanette, I went down and placed the bet on the fight. I figured Bly would be sure to lose, the way he cared for Jeanette, and I didn’t see any harm in making money on it.”
“Tell me about the accident,” said Cellini.
“There’s nothing to it. Jeanette stepped off the curb, near Desmond’s, where I took her shopping, and a car knocked her over and didn’t stop.”
“Did you get a look at the driver?”
“Yes. A very quick look but I think I can recognize him if I ever see him again.”
“You’re sure you never saw him before?”
“Very sure,” said Forsythe Worden.
From inside the house came the voice of the Blond Bomber calling her husband. Meekly, he said, “Yes, dear,” and left.
Cellini went back into the house but couldn’t find Prunella Wheaton. He mixed himself a triple shot of whiskey and very little soda and went out on the grounds. Prunella wasn’t visible there either and he returned to the veranda. Through the window came the sound of angry voices. Cellini walked over to look. Eddy Bly was baiting Forsythe Worden again, as he suggestively stroked the Blond Bomber’s neck and shoulders. Juno seemed to be having fun.
The little man screamed: “Can’t you go away someplace? Why don’t you leave me alone?”
Eddy Bly laughed loud and long. “Tell me what to do, crumb! You can’t even hold a woman!”
Forsythe Worden jumped at the fighter. Cellini ran for the door but as he heard the sound of a fist against flesh and bone, he knew he was too late to save the little man from being knocked cold again. When he reached the room, Eddy Bly had already emptied the pitcher of grape punch over Worden’s face again.
Bly pushed Juno away, almost as if in disgust, and mixed himself a drink. He saw Cellini and said: “I know, but I can’t help it.”
“Try that again and Worden’s liable to kill you.”
Forsythe Worden slowly began to stir. His hands went to his eyes and he rolled over on his stomach. He started moaning and Cellini walked over. There was a peculiar odor in the air.
Candy Pastor said: “He’ll be right out of it, Smith.”
As consciousness returned fully to Forsythe Worden the moans became louder and gradually turned into screams. Puzzled, Cellini knelt down to examine the little man.
Suddenly, Cellini exclaimed: “Holy mother of hell! Someone grab his legs!”
Candido Pastor came over quickly and did so. Cellini put his hands under the little man’s armpits and they rushed him toward a bathroom. Over his shoulder, Cellini called: “Get a doctor!”
With little ceremony, Cellini shoved Worden into the shower stall and turned on the water full blast. Quickly, Cellini ripped away the little man’s clothes and sponged water over his face. Now he knew what had happened.
“Get some sodium bicarbonate and make a solution,” Cellini snapped. “Maybe it will help till the doctor gets here.”
Candy Pastor hurried away. Others, hearing Worden’s groans, crowded into the bathroom. Cellini said: “Someone hold his hands down so I can get at him.”
The bicarbonate solution arrived and Cellini said to Pastor: “Wash his face with it and wherever the stuff got to him. I have to go down.”
Cellini had stood under the shower while working over Worden and was completely and thoroughly drenched. He peeled off his coat, shirt and shoes and spread them on the floor. Then he returned to the room where the trouble had started. Turner, looking angry and baffled, was there talking with Eddy Bly.
“What the hell has happened?” demanded the gambler. “What’s going on, Smith?”
“Nothing very pleasant,” said Cellini. “Eddy Bly just poured a little grape juice and a pitcherful of what I think is sulphuric acid over Forsythe Worden’s face.”
Chapter Six
Swansong
The boxer strode the room with a pardine lope, drawing deeply and nervously on a cigarette. For the fourth time, he said: “I can’t understand it. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes plenty of sense,” said Cellini Smith.
“That’s right,” Dan Turner agreed. “You had a nice little habit of socking Worden and pouring my punch over him to revive him and everyone knew you had that habit. So someone simply emptied a bottle of sulphuric acid into the pitcher of punch and waited for you to get around to having your fun with Worden.”
“But why? Why?”
The gambler shrugged. “I paid five hundred dollars to Smith to find out why Wheaton was killed, why a letter was written to me in Smith’s name. There are plenty of whys.”
“I think we can get around to answering some of them,” Cellini said, “but first, what do you know about this?” He held up a bottle. “I found this behind that potted plant there where some grape juice was emptied from the pitcher and replaced with acid from this bottle.”
“That’s my bottle,” said Dan Turner.
“Really? And how come you have a bottle of sulphuric acid in your house?”
“I don’t care for your tone of voice, Smith. Change it before I pitch you out of this house.”
“Remind me to worry about all that later, Turner. At the moment, my main interest is to find out about the acid bath that was given Forsythe Worden — and I’m staying till I find out. If you have any plans about throwing me out, include Duck-Eye over there.”
Duck-Eye Ryan stirred in a corner of the room to indicate his presence. Cellini poured himself another drink. His fingers shook, not from any nervousness but from a cold anger that knotted his insides.