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.
Holding to the hand rail, McMain groped his way forward and finally made out Ken Scott, the destroyer’s captain, in the port wing.
“Morning, Larry,” the commander greeted him cheerfully.
“Morning, Ken. What’s your position?”
“We’re about five miles due north of Parvenir. I don’t dare run in any closer.”
McMain peered over the weather cloth into the gray murk. Dawn was trying, with difficulty, to break. “Been here long?”
“Since five.”
“No sight of the Thelma on the run down?”
“Lord, no! It was as thick as the inside of your hat all the way. Nice going for the yawl, though. Steady wind and just the kind of a sea she’d like.”
“Think she beat us down?” McMain asked.
“No. We probably passed her along the way. Clark would cut the corners a lot closer than I could.”
“He’s probably standing in to Parvenir right now,” McMain growled. “How’s the barometer?”
“Falling slowly,” Ken Scott said, “but very, very steadily.”
McMain grunted. “A hell of a chance we’ve got!”
“One in a thousand. The Old Man won’t send out any planes to help us, either.”
“They wouldn’t be of any use if he did. It’s a tough situation, if you ask me, and damned little we can do about it.”
McMain turned towards the ladder to the main deck; then he paused and asked over his shoulder: “How’s your motor dory?”
“In good shape. Why?”
“I just wanted to know.”
“Look here! You’re not—”
“Good God, Ken!” McMain snapped. “We’ve got to do something!”
He went on down the ladder. It was virtually broad daylight now. And yet McMain, peering astern, could barely make out the after deck house, a hundred feet away. The rain came down in slanting sheets, steadily and relentlessly.
Below, in the small wardroom, he found Chuck Dean and Bridges, their chairs hooked to the table while a Filipino boy who looked sadly seasick served them breakfast. Chuck was haggard and hollow-eyed, but Bridges seemed cheerful.
“How are things outside?” he asked.
“Rotten. This storm has settled down for the day and Scott doesn’t dare take his ship any further inshore. Clark will slip by us and get into the islands, if he isn’t there already. And you know what that will mean...Boy, bring me some coffee.”
“No chance of this storm blowin’ over?” Chuck Dean asked.
“The barometer’s falling steadily.”
The boy brought McMain’s coffee. He drank it in three or four quick gulps, said abruptly: “See here! There’s only one thing to do. We’ve got to take the motor dory and try to make Parvenir. We might intercept Clark there. But in case we miss him, in case he’s slipped in among the islands ahead of us, we’ll go after him. What do you say, Bridges?”
The Federal man smiled. “I say let’s go.”
They put a cask of water and a box of emergency rations in the twenty-one-foot motor dory. They stowed away a rifle and a belt of ammunition, and armed themselves with .45 Colts. They put in a chart and a boat compass, filled the gas tank.
Then Commander Scott made a lee and, with the dory’s coxswain standing by to unhook the falls, the boat was dropped over the side. Bridges, McMain and Dean scrambled down the ladder and piled into the pitching dory.
Thirty minutes later the little island village of Parvenir loomed out of the rain almost dead ahead. Tall palms first, their fronds thrashing in the wind; then the white government house; finally the double row of thatched Indian dwellings.
Dean and Bridges came out from the hooded forward cockpit, and joined McMain, braced themselves and stood watching the village as the dory bore down on the white line of breakers which piled up on the shore.
“Well, what do you say, McMain?” Bridges asked.
“I say, if he isn’t anchored in the lee of the island, he’s ahead of us.”
Bridges turned to the coxswain, who crouched in his oilskins in the after cockpit. “Head around the island, son,” he ordered.
A few Indians, short men with broad shoulders, narrow hips and thin legs, came out of their huts and stolidly watched the dory go by. On the lee side of the island there was no sign of the yawl, nothing but a half dozen native cayucos pulled up on the beach.
“The next village is Carti,” McMain said briefly. “And from there it’s only a short way over to the mainland.”
“How far away is Carti?”
“Ten miles across the Gulf of San Blas in an air line. Nearer fifteen or twenty by the channel.”
“You think he’d head that way?”
“He’s got to head that way. There’s only the one channel until he gets further east, in the neighborhood of Nargana.”
“Then Carti it is.”
The coxswain, at McMain’s order, cut his engine to half speed and they cruised along watching for the settlement. They made it out finally: a long line of native dwellings stretching along the beach and, anchored off shore, a gray and weathered submarine chaser which was used as a trading station.
“Pull over to the chaser, cox’n,” McMain ordered.
As they drew alongside the ancient sub-chaser an old man came out of the cabin and stood staring at the dory. McMain threw him the painter. He caught it, expertly made it fast and shouted cheerily:
“Come aboard, friends.”
“Haven’t time,” McMain replied. “We’re looking for the Thelma. Has she been by here?”
“The Thelma, huh? What’s Ben Clark been doin’ besides marryin’ a right nice little woman?”
Chuck Dean gulped, but McMain said quickly: “Clark is wanted in Colón for murder.”
“Murder, huh?” The old trader never batted an eye. “Well, I ain’t surprised. I never did like that young feller. He’s too damned pretty.”
“Hell!” Bridges spoke up. “Has Clark been along this way?”
“Huh? Sure he has. ’Bout an hour ago. Him and his wife stopped in and bought some supplies off me. Then he went ashore there and got a cayuco. He tied it astern of the yawl and headed east. He’s prob’ly makin’ for Cidra. That’s a big island due east of here ’bout ten mile.”
“Thank you and much obliged,” McMain said. “Cast us off, will you?”
The old trader untied the painter, the coxswain kicked his clutch and the dory drew away.
“We’ll have to get a dugout,” McMain said.
“Why?” Bridges demanded.
“Because Clark means to head up a river and we can’t follow him in this dory. It draws too much water. Cox’n, head in as close to the village as you can get.”
“How do you mean to get a dugout?”
“I mean to take it!” McMain retorted.
He buckled on a .45 and, when the dory reached shallow water, leaped over the side and waded ashore. From the dozen or more cayucos drawn up on the beach, he selected one, saw there were paddles in it and laid hold of it.
The Indians crowded towards him, jabbering. He waved them back with his .45, hauled the dugout into the water, pulled it out to the dory and made it fast at the stern.
The dory drove on. No one mentioned Billie Dean. McMain tried not to think of her. It seemed so certain, now, that she was willingly, and knowingly, accompanying Clark. His one forlorn hope, that she was under compulsion, had been blasted by the trader’s account of their visit.
Fifteen minutes after leaving Carti they made out a low line of dark green forest. A moment later Chuck Dean shouted: