The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps
- Автор: Anderson Lars, Barr Randolph
- Год: 2007
- Язык: английский
- Год: Vintage Books
- ISBN: 978-0-307-28048-0
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps». Краткое содержание книги:
Weighing in at over a thousand pages, containing over forty-seven stories and two novels, this book is big baby, bigger and more powerful than a freight train — a bullet couldn’t pass through it. Here are the best stories and every major writer who ever appeared in celebrated Pulps like Black Mask, Dime Detective, Detective Fiction Weekly, and more. These are the classic tales that created the genre and gave birth to hard-hitting detectives who smoke criminals like packs of cigarettes; sultry dames whose looks are as lethal as a dagger to the chest; and gin-soaked hideouts where conversations are just preludes to murder. This is crime fiction at its gritty best.
“Lights!” another man yelled. “Where the hell—”
The Leclair woman screamed, “Backstage—” and then, “Look out for that redheaded tramp—”
McFee ran towards the north side aisle. McFee knew what he was doing. The switch was in the front of the house, off the backstage, north side. He was depending on the red-headed girl. They had a reasonable chance with the house dark — none if the lights came on.
Someone collided with an aisle seat. McFee jumped the man, struck bone with the nose of his gun. The man fell among the seats. He groaned, then shouted faintly, “Over here, you birds—”
Metz yelled, “The other aisle! Gun him, if he jumps an exit — Some’dy find that damned light room—”
McFee found it. Hadn’t he been a Gaiety usher when he was a kid? There were steel switch boxes on a wall. The master switch box was largest. He plucked out a couple of fuses. They heard him. They drummed after him. Sets snapped back as someone crossed the house.
McFee cleared the switch room door, a flash beam jumped up the stage stair, pranced around in the wing.
A man howled, “Now we got the—”
Leclair screamed. “That red-headed witch—”
McFee ducked across the backstage. The light lost him. A door hinge creaked, and he knew what was troubling Leclair. Very swell!
But the others didn’t hear Leclair. They didn’t hear the red-headed girl opening the exit door. Somebody monkeyed in the switch room, but the house stayed dark. A couple of men collided in the backstage. McFee wasn’t one of them. The light jack-rabbited around the wall, shied at McFee. He chased towards the south wing. A shot came after him.
Metz yelled, “Jump him, Tony—”
The flash beam plucked Tony Starke out of the north wing. Starke had been a pretty fair heavy, and he owned a gymnasium. He looked tremendous. McFee twisted sidewise and leaned on the canvas drop that shut the backstage off from the house. The canvas was rotten old. It ripped with a thin scream, spraying dust, as McFee fell through it.
Art Kline was on the runway that fronted the orchestra. Pretty nearly as big as Starke, Kline bounced for Joe Metz, at the Spanish Shawl and was famous for his hands. He had broken a man’s neck with them. Kline pulled a fast jump over the orchestra and landed on top of McFee. They milled for a moment. Then Metz, coming through the ripped curtain, collided with them, and all three pitched into the orchestra, McFee on top.
Kline conked his head, but it didn’t do him any harm. He and Metz held McFee. Metz yelled for the flashlight. They milled some more, bone thudding on bone; then a door opened and they rolled down a short stair under the stage and hit a wall. The place smelled of stale beer and fried onions.
Leclair shrilled, “That red-headed tramp’s gone for the coppers. I’m telling you—”
McFee was getting plenty now. The flash beam came. Monty Welch brought it. Welch was five feet four. He dealt blackjack at the Spanish Shawl and knew when every cop in the city paid his next mortgage installment. Tony Starke rolled in with him, sat on McFee’s head.
Metz went through McFee’s clothes, then said, “What you done with that Shelldon file?”
McFee said nothing. He didn’t like it under Tony Starke’s two hundred and twenty, but he still was figuring on the red-headed girl. The coppers could make it in three minutes flat — if they wanted to.
Monty Welch said in his whispering voice, “Gimme a cigarette and a match, Art. I’ll open his trap—”
The Leclair woman showed up then. Tony Starke put the light on her. She wore an ermine coat pulled tight around her body. Leclair had brought the coat from Broadway. Somebody said she had traded a couple of letters for it. She said very quietly, “McFee’s red-headed friend went for the cops while you birds was playing tag-”
Metz blurted, “What’s that?”
“I been telling you — the tramp that was with him—”
Metz said huskily, “We got to get outta this.” He sucked in his cheeks. His bulbous temples were wet and gleaming. “We take McFee. McFee’ll talk later. Monty, you jam your gun in his kidneys. Hand it to him if he squawks. Tony, Art, carry Damon. I’ll drive.”
Kline and Starke hoisted McFee to his feet. Welch’s gun made him step fast. They drummed up the stair. They climbed out of the orchestra, paraded up the center aisle, cut across to the south aisle by the seventh row. It was like a scene from an old Gaiety play.
As they clattered into the side aisle, a police siren wailed somewhere down Carter Street.
Metz said tersely, “We go through the Palace. Monty, fan that light—” And then, as Welch spread the beam on the aisle floor, “Cripes!”
They forgot McFee. His toe sent the flash whizzing out of Welch’s hand. It shattered against the wall and darkness buried them. McFee sank back into the seat right behind him.
Metz howled, “Some’dy’s been here—”
“I fell over him when I came in,” Starke sobbed.
“Grab McFee—”
But the coppers were hammering on the foyer door, and they hadn’t time to look for McFee, Metz said, “Scram!” They jumped through the fire exit, pushed through the Palace service door. Sam Melrose had taken over the Palace along with the Gaiety.
The coppers were coming down the alley.
McFee crawled out of a seat and spread his hands on the aisle floor, where he had left Damon’s body. It wasn’t there.
McFee leaned against the wall. He rolled a match in his ear. “That’s funny,” he said.
6
McFee felt a draft on his face. A man carefully let himself into the house. Two other men were behind him. The first man, Pete Hurley, of the homicide squad, spread a flash beam over the aisle floor. Hurley’s hard hat sat on the back of his square head and he jiggled a cold cigarette between pouchy lips.
Hurley said bitterly, “Hello, Handsome.”
“You got a pip this time.” McFee sucked on a loose tooth, felt his jaw. “Tell one of your boys to fix a light. Here’s a coupla fuses.”
One of the men took the fuses, went away.
“Some’dy belled the desk and yelled ‘Murder at the Gaiety,’ ” Hurley said querulously. He added cautiously, “Ranee Damon. What’s the dope?”
“Sweet,” McFee answered, and stood up. “A box full of medals for Some’dy, and nob’dy wanting to wear ’em.” Wobbling, he put on his shoes. “Gimme a cigarette, Beautiful.”
“I ain’t looking for medals,” Hurley said harshly. “Medals ain’t safe in this town. Where’s Damon?”
“Damon’s dead. He went away. Ask Mel-rose’s boys.”
“Melrose’s boys?”
“Joe Metz, Art Kline, Monty Welch, Tony Starke. It was good while it lasted.” McFee lighted a cigarette, then spread out his hand. Lights began to go on. Hurley stared at McFee with his bitter, button eyes. McFee added presently, “Irene Mayo brought you boys.”
“Who’s this Mayo queen?”
“A nice little number. She’s been in pictures. Likes to pull strings. She wanted Damon to be governor.”
“You got that Shelldon file?”
“I didn’t kill Damon, mister.”
Hurley didn’t look at McFee, as he said slowly, “The birds that shot Damon musta got away with him. You say Melrose’s boys didn’t take him away, so they didn’t shoot him. That’s reasonable ain’t it?” He forced his uneasy, hostile eyes up to McFee’s cold grin. “I said, that’s reasonable, ain’t it?”
“Anything’s reasonable that’s got to be,” McFee answered.
Hurley’s tone was sullen as he proceeded, “Melrose’s boys is out then. How about that redheaded number. I mean—”
“You mean, did she carry Damon out in her stocking? No, Buttercup, she didn’t. And if she didn’t she couldn’t have rubbed him out. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”