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.
When he pushed the door open, Joe was sprawled comfortably in the chair with a half-finished cigarette drooping between his lips. He straightened sluggishly as Henry came into the room.
Henry said, “Take this bag a minute, will you, Joe?”
Joe was almost on his feet when the gun in Henry’s hand exploded. A surprised expression crossed his face. The gun crashed again, and, without a sound, Joe collapsed.
Swiftly, Henry set the bag on a chair, crossed the room, got the automatic out of his pocket and pressed it into Joe’s right hand. He grunted, straining mightily, as he forced Joe’s body and arm up to the correct height.
With his finger over Joe’s he pointed the automatic at the bag and pumped two bullets into it — and then, for good measure, another one into the wall, toward the bedroom doorway and at about the level of his own head. That done, he pushed Joe away, recovered his slippers from the hallway, and deliberately sent a lamp crashing to the floor.
Everything was crystal-clear in his mind. He moved swiftly and surely, setting the stage. First, the groceries. He lifted the bag, from which a trickle of flour was already coming, and let some of the flour stream onto his coat. Then he dropped the bag onto the floor.
The bag burst and a can of corn fell to the floor, to be followed an instant later by a bottle of catsup. The bullet hole in the flour sack tore wide and a white Niagara of flour cascaded onto the carpet. He overturned the chair on which the bag had rested.
Next, the bedroom — he made it in a single stride, jerked open the top drawer, rumpled its contents. He tossed the slippers under the bed. Was that all?
He scanned the room quickly. The ticket! Frantically, he got the envelope from his pocket, making certain that only his gloved hand touched it. Carefully, he slid it into Joe’s breast pocket. As a final touch, he got one of the extra door keys from Bertha’s dresser and laid it on the table beside Joe’s highball glass.
The whole thing, from the first crash of the revolver to the final planting of the key, had taken merely seconds, yet already Mrs. Pettigrew was screaming in the hallway. “Mr. Ebbett! Mr. Ebbett!”
He’d done it!
Henry sucked his lungs full of air and walked to the telephone. He dialed a number and stood there, a slight smile on his round face as he waited for the connection to be made.
A metallic voice came over the wire: “Police headquarters.”
Henry swallowed carefully and stared owlishly at the wall through his horn-rimmed glasses. Making his voice tremble, he said:
“Please come to 107 Pinegrove Avenue. I’ve shot a man... He tried to kill me...”
The police lieutenant was a heavy-set, dour-faced man in a rumpled blue serge suit. He eyed the body unhappily, almost as though he resented its presence, then looked at Henry. “Well, let’s hear the story,” he said heavily.
“He was here, waiting for me,” Henry told him, remembering to shiver realistically. “I picked up a bag of groceries downstairs, then came right up. He was sorta crouched there in front of the chair, as though he’d heard me and was getting up, and as soon as I stepped into the room, he began shooting. I guess I reacted automatically, because as soon as I saw him with the gun in his hand, I dropped the groceries and ran for the bedroom. I got my gun out of the dresser drawer and I fired back at him — twice, I think.” He shook his head dazedly. “I got him, thank God, before he got me!”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Joe Carson. He works the same place I do.”
“Any idea why he wanted to kill you?”
“I’m not sure, but I think perhaps — well, I was sitting here, thinking, after I phoned police headquarters, and a lot of things I couldn’t understand before began to make sense. My wife didn’t come home last night, and now with Joe trying to kill me, it seems as if maybe—”
“Triangle, eh?”
Henry nodded weakly and bent his head. The lieutenant shook his head sympathetically and gestured to the other officers in the doorway.
“Well, get to work, boys,” he said gruffly. “The usual photos, diagram, and so on. Keep a sharp eye out for prints.” He walked over to the body, glanced shrewdly at Henry. “You touch anything?”
“No, sir.” Henry’s face became a picture of horror at the thought. “I called you, then sat down, right here in this chair, until you came. I was completely stunned, I guess, but the — well, you know.”
A young man with a black bag strode in, his thin face flushed from hurrying. He nodded to the lieutenant and bent over the body.
“Dead,” he said promptly. “One bullet passed between fourth and fifth ribs. Not long ago, either.” As he got up, he loosened his heavy overcoat and added: “Lord, it’s hot in here!”
The lieutenant grunted. “We called you ten minutes ago. Where do you docs hide during the day? You must have been holding a full house.”
The coroner’s physician smiled good-naturedly. “No game today, darn it. I was taking a shower and O’Brien wasn’t available.” He nodded toward the body. “It’s okay for you to proceed. I’ll have him picked up. Suppose you want the autopsy rushed through?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Be seeing you.” He picked up his bag, winked at one of the other officers, and went out. His feet clattered loudly as he descended the stairs.
“How are you coming?” the lieutenant asked, breaking the silence.
“Not bad, sir,” one of the men replied. He paused to wipe his perspiring face. “A few more pictures, then I’ll start in on the sketch. Would it be okay to turn off the radiator?”
“Leave everything as is,” the lieutenant said shortly.
Walking slowly about the room, he peered at the bottle of bourbon, the highball glass, the ashtray, and the key on the table. Turning, he pushed his hands in his pockets and stared at the opposite wall. His eyes found the bullet hole and, evincing no surprise, he went over and examined it casually.
“Bullet in here,” he announced. Swinging toward Henry, he said: “So you think he and your wife were trying to deal you out, eh?”
Henry wet his dry lips. “Yes, sir.”
“Where do you work?”
“I’m a bookkeeper at the Safeway Loan Company.”
“He a bookkeeper there, too?” The lieutenant nodded toward the body.
“No, he was a cashier.”
The lieutenant shrugged and walked over to the bookcase in the corner. He scanned the titles, peered at the dust on top of the case, came back. As though he had all the time in the world, he stood and watched one of the officers pick the two guns up upon rods which he inserted down their barrels. “Might have a look in his pockets, Pete,” he suggested mildly.
“Sure, Lieutenant.” The officer deposited the guns in a cardboard box and carefully set the box on the couch. He knelt beside Joe’s body then and slid his fingers into the pockets, expertly removing the contents.
“Coat, right pocket — nothing,” he droned mechanically. “Left pocket — two theatre ticket stubs dated November 7th. Outside pocket — one clean white handkerchief, no initial. Inside pocket — a notebook, a bank book, an envelope, and—”
“Anything in the envelope?” the lieutenant asked.
Silence for a moment. “Yes, sir. There’s a one-way ticket to Hot Springs, Arkansas.”
The lieutenant’s eyebrows flicked upward. He extended his hand. “Let’s see.” Frowning, he examined the ticket, then handed it back. “Be careful of that envelope,” he warned. “There may be some prints on it.”
“Yes, sir.” The officer nodded and went back to his search. “Trousers, right pocket — a dollar and thirty cents in change. Left pocket — $46 in bills.” With a soft grunt, he rolled the body over. “Right, rear — a soiled white handkerchief and a key ring with six keys. Left, rear — a card case containing a few receipts for payments on a suit and several identification cards.”