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.
“Good evening, McMain,” he said crisply, and sat down again.
Where, the lieutenant asked himself, was Clark’s usual, well-known courtesy? Even in the dim light McMain could see that the man’s face was sharply drawn, his eyes restless. Had he, too, developed nerves on this hot and humid night?...Where was Tommy Glade?
“Are you with a party?” Billie asked.
“No. I’m on my own tonight.”
Billie looked at Clark and the latter, with an almost imperceptible shrug, said gracelessly:
“Sit down and have a drink with us, McMain.”
“Thanks, I will. Beer for me.”
He sat down, feeling uncomfortable over the way he had forced himself on them. Clark gave an order to the waiter.
“Has Tommy Glade been around?” McMain asked casually.
“Tommy was here when we got up to dance,” Billie said. “I reckon he’s around some place. Down at the bar, perhaps.”
McMain turned to Clark. “How are the Indian studies coming along?”
Clark stirred himself with an effort. “Not so well,” he said, and blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling. “I’ve been pretty busy here in Colón.”
McMain looked at Billie Dean and saw that her eyes, usually placid, were dancing with excitement.
“Are you holding something out on me, Billie?”
The girl asked breathlessly, “Haven’t you heard the rumors about Mr. Clark?”
“Rumors about Mr. Clark?” McMain repeated. He had heard rumors, but they were hardly the kind to be discussed in mixed company.
Billie leaned across the table. “Mr. Clark isn’t an etymologist at all,” she whispered. “He doesn’t really give a darn about those Indians he visits down there in his yawl. Actually, he’s a Secret Service operative.”
Clark’s smile was patronizing. “According to rumor, my dear,” he corrected.
“Isn’t it thrilling?” Billie asked.
“Yes. Very thrilling.” It didn’t sound thrilling at all to McMain; it sounded impossible. “Where do you suppose Tommy Glade is keeping himself?”
“Are you ridin’ herd on Tommy tonight?” Billie asked. “Because if you are, I reckon you’ll have a job on your hands. He took two drinks with us and seemed quite tight.”
“If he’s tight, it will be the first time in the six years I’ve known him.”
“What a model young man,” Clark said dryly.
Billie Dean looked sharply at her escort; she frowned and the color rose in her cheeks.
The drinks arrived. They drank them in silence, under a pall of dissonance that was in sharp contrast to the gay chatter of the surrounding tables. The music started again and McMain stood up.
“Like to dance, Billie?”
He was conscious that Clark sat glaring at him as he swung the girl out onto the floor. They danced for a moment in silence.
“Larry!” the girl said abruptly.
McMain looked down at the shining black head nestled against his shoulder. “Yes?”
“What’s wrong with Tommy tonight?”
McMain’s heart skipped a beat. “Nothing that I know of. Why?”
“There’s something wrong with him. I felt it.”
“You said he was tight.”
“That was just talk,” Billie said. “He wasn’t tight. He was — strange.”
“How do you mean strange?”
“Well, it’s hard to explain exactly. You know how he’s always jokin’ and kiddin’. Tonight he acted as though he carried all the troubles of the world on his shoulders.”
“He’s leaving for Boston tomorrow and he doesn’t want to go.”
“It isn’t that. Tommy wouldn’t whine over a transfer. It was something deeper.” She leaned back and gazed up into his face with troubled gray eyes. “Larry, why are you lookin’ for Tommy?”
“I can’t tell you,” McMain said stubbornly.
“Why cain’t you tell me? Is — is it so serious?”
“It’s damned serious, Billie.”
“But what—”
They paused by common accord. There was a commotion down the hall, near the balcony which overlooked the bay. Everyone at that end of the floor had stopped dancing.
McMain saw Cal Clemens, one of the supply officers from the base, bearing down on him. Cal’s face was dead white and he was shouting:
“Larry! Oh, Larry! Come here, will you?”
McMain’s heart sank with a dread foreboding. “You’ll have to excuse me, Billie,” he said crisply. “Come! I’ll take you back to your table.”
He took her arm and started rapidly with her across the hall. “You stay with Clark. I’ll be back.”
He shoved her towards the table, turned and hurried over to Cal Clemens.
“What’s wrong, Cal?”
“It’s Tommy Glade.” Cal’s face was beaded with sweat.
“What about him?” McMain snapped.
“He’s out there on the balcony,” Cal said, “hanging over the rail.”
“Good Lord!” McMain exclaimed in disgust. “Why all the fuss? Can’t a man get drunk and—”
“He isn’t drunk, Larry.” Cal gulped. “He — he’s dead!”
III
By the time McMain got out to the balcony, someone had lifted Tommy Glade off the railing and laid him on his back. McMain dropped to his knees, jerked a flashlight from the hand of a frightened waiter and shone the beam on Tommy’s face.
The ensign’s mouth was contorted. His plump cheeks were blue-black, his eyes staring and glazed. McMain scanned the circle of men who had gathered on the balcony, barked hoarsely:
“Who found him?”
“Hi did, sar,” the waiter said, speaking with the unexpected British accent of the Barbados negro. “Hi see ’im ’anging there over the rail. First Hi think ’e’s sick and Hi go over to give ’im a ’and. But he ain’t sick, sar. ’E’s dead.”
McMain got to his feet. What an end for cheerful, happy-go-lucky Tommy Glade! Doubled over a railing on the balcony of the Strangers’ Club, like any common drunk. Dying there. Dying alone and in agony.
Cal Clemens elbowed his way to McMain’s side. “What do you think, Larry? Did he have a bad heart?”
“His heart was all right.”
“But there doesn’t seem to be a wound. Good Lord, man, what could have killed him?”
“Only an autopsy will determine that.”
“You — you think — he killed himself?” Clemens asked.
“Not in a million years. Tommy Glade was murdered.”
“Murdered! But—”
“Now see here, Cal! I’m going back to the base. This thing happened in Panama and the Colón police will have to take over. Call them, will you?”
“Okey, Larry.”
McMain pushed through the hushed throng and made his way onto the dance floor. The music had stopped now and everyone was standing around, looking towards the balcony, talking in low tones. Clark and Billie Dean were not in the hall.
McMain ran down the stairs two at a time, leaped into his car and drove swiftly back to Coco Solo. At the entrance of the military reservation, where he pulled up at the sentry box, he asked:
“Did Lieutenant Dean’s sister just go by in a car?”
“About two minutes ago, sir,” the marine sentry told him.
“Who was with her?”
“There was a tall guy, some civilian, in the back seat and a native chauffeur driving. It was a black Cad touring car, sir.”
McMain put his car in gear and drove on to the wardroom, shut off his motor and lights, and went inside.
Doc Lucas was gone. McMain glanced at the board beside the door and saw the doctor’s peg had been shoved into the “sick bay” hole. Emergency call, probably, and every other doctor on the base ashore.