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.
“Then it was nicely premeditated,” Cellini went on. “Bly simply went into one of the dressing rooms, climbed out of the window into the alley, shot Wheaton and returned to the corridor the same way without having to go out one of the stadium’s exits.”
The detective-sergeant held up a hand. “Wait a second, Smith. What you forget is that Lake said he was talking with Bly in the corridor when the shot was fired.”
“If you remember, Haenigson, that was Bly’s suggestion and Lake simply backed up Bly’s alibi.”
“Why should he back him up?”
“When Wheaton was murdered, Lake knew it was Bly’s job because Wheaton had threatened Bly on the score of his sister. Lake knew Bly had murdered Hank Wheaton in revenge for the death of his sister, so he had to back up Bly’s alibi. Lake could have sent Bly to the chair but, on the other hand, Bly would then have spilled about Lake and Wheaton having Murph run over his sister. So if Lake had refused to back up Bly’s alibi it would have been a case of cutting his own throat to fit the collar.”
“That makes sense,” Haenigson admitted.
“And the rest of it is obvious. Lake chose to alibi Bly and to have Murph guard him night and day. It was a case of two killers knowing the other knew. Today, when Turner mentioned that Lake was coming over here, Bly decided he had to do something. He knew Lake would bring his bodyguard Murph, and that Worden would recognize Murph as the one who had run over his sister. That of course would bust the case wide open and nail him, Bly, on the murder of Wheaton.
“So Bly figured out a way that Forsythe Worden would never recognize anybody. It was his custom to empty a pitcherful on Worden after hitting him, so he thought it safe to fill it with acid. Everybody naturally thought it was a plant by someone trying to frame Bly. When I took Worden up to the showers, Jerry Lake arrived. He went to the telephone closet to make a call and Bly seized the opportunity to put him out of the way. That’s about the whole thing.”
Prunella Wheaton said: “Thanks, Smith. Hank and me were no longer really married but I’m glad you made it right with him.”
“Sure, sure,” said Haenigson impatiently. “But what about that letter with your name forged on it, Smith?”
“How should I know?” Cellini suddenly yelled. “I’m no mind-reader. Lake or Bly wrote it thinking they could louse up the case. What’s the matter, Haenigson? Aren’t you satisfied? Do you want me to go down to the precinct and write it all out for you? I suppose you think five hundred bucks is a lot of money. I take the lumps and the insults and you do all in your power to block me — and then you want to know about a letter.” The veins stood out on Cellini’s forehead as his fury mounted. “You know where you can stick that letter!” he shouted.
Without another word, Cellini stalked out. As he left, he smiled to himself. He had put on a good act, he thought.
Duck-Eye Ryan caught up with him on the driveway. “Gee, Cellini, you shouldn’t get so mad. He just wanted to know about the letter.”
“I couldn’t tell him,” said Cellini Smith, “that I typed the thing out in a telegraph office and then traced my own name because I wanted a job to pay for your wild oats.”
The Black Bottle
Whitman Chambers
(Elwyn) Whitman Chambers (1896–1968) was born in Stockton, California, and went on to become a prolific pulp story writer, mystery novelist, and screenwriter. Chambers is a member of the hard-boiled, wisecracking school of fiction, and his tone lacked sufficient originality to withstand the passage of time; he is seldom read today, though he is the stylistic equal of some writers whose works have sporadically been reprinted. It is his work as a screenwriter, and the mysteries that served as the source for still other films, for which Chambers will undoubtedly be best remembered. Among his chief works for motion pictures are The Come On (1956), based on his 1953 novel, which starred Anne Baxter as a manipulative woman who tries to convince a drifter (Sterling Hayden) to murder her husband. Chambers also wrote the screenplay for Manhandled (1949), another film noir starring Sterling Hayden, in which small-time hood Dan Duryea victimizes Dorothy Lamour; in 1960, Chambers wrote the novelization. Also his 1949 screenplay Special Agent features William Eythe as an agent for the railroads who goes after two brothers, played by George Reeves (later famous as TV’s Superman) and Paul Valentine, who pull a huge payroll heist. His The Campanile Murders (1933) was filmed as Murder on the Campus (1933); Murder for a Wanton (1934) was filmed as Sinner Take All (1936); and Once Too Often (1938) was filmed as Blonde Ice (1948).
“The Black Bottle,” his only Black Mask story, was published in the April 1936 issue.
Three men, a girl, and — the black bottle.
I
Lieutenant Larry McMain came into the wardroom at nine. He dropped wearily into a chair, stretched his long legs with a sigh and sat watching Doc Lucas, who was practicing alone at the billiard table. There was no other person in the room.
It was one of those oppressively humid nights at the beginning of the rainy season, when a man’s nerves are raw and there is no relief in sight from the maddening monotony of heat and dampness and deadly routine. It was a night when one thinks anything may happen, and yet knows that nothing will. Larry’s face reflected the mood.
“Been dining out?” Doc Lucas asked, swabbing his shining bald head with a handkerchief.
“With the Murdocks...Everybody gone to the dance in Colón?”
“Yes.” Doc Lucas squinted down his cue, chuckling. “You should be there, Larry. You’re not going to let Tommy Glade beat your time with the little Southern girl, are you?”
McMain shrugged broad shoulders. “It’s Tommy’s last night in Panama. I hope he makes the most of it. He’s going north on the S-96, with the Fourth Division, you know.”
The pink-cheeked, round little doctor raised his cue and cocked a mild blue eye at the three balls. “Well, that’s a break for you, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say so. Not so long as Benson Clark is on deck.”
“Benson Clark. He’s the etymologist chap, isn’t he? The one who’s studying the San Blas Indians.”
“He hasn’t shown much interest in Indians lately,” McMain said irritably. “He’s dragging Billie Dean tonight.”
“Tommy Glade won’t think much of that.”
“I don’t think much of it myself,” the lieutenant growled. “Clark’s just a poser with money to spend, and why a girl like Billie Dean should fall for his line of—”
He broke off as a crash of thunder shook the thin walls of the bachelor quarters. Rain pattered briefly on the roof. The moan of the surf, pounding on the other side of the submarine base, came whispering into the room.
“I only hope,” McMain muttered, “that Tommy Glade doesn’t take it into his head to tangle with Clark. That kid is too damned quick-tempered.”
“Yes,” Doc agreed. “I heard him having it out with Pete Adams tonight.”
“With Pete!” McMain sat erect, eying the pudgy little man at the billiard table. “Good Lord, why did he jump on that inoffensive old fellow?”
“Don’t know, I’m sure. He had a hot argument with Pete in the pantry and then hustled off ashore.”