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.
“Yesterday, huh.” The detective looked around the circle. “Anybody see him here today?”
“Yes, of course,” said a stocky man of about forty-five. “I was talking to him early this morning, before the place was opened to the public. There were a dozen or more of us around then.”
“You’re the boss of this shebang?”
“Not exactly. Our poultry association operates this show. I’m Leo Cassmer, the secretary, and I’m in charge of the exhibits, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” replied the detective. “You’re the boss. You know the exhibitors then. All right, who was here early this morning when this Tupper fellow was around?”
Cassmer, the show secretary, rubbed his chin. “Why, there was myself, Judge Stone, Ralph Conway, the Wyandotte man, Judge Welheimer and several of the men who work around here.”
“And Miss Martin — was she here?”
“She came in before the place was officially opened, but she wasn’t around the last time I saw Tupper.”
“Who’re Welheimer and Conway?”
A tall, silver-haired man stepped out of the crowd. “Conway’s my name.”
“And the judge?” persisted the detective.
A long-nosed man with a protruding lower lip came grudgingly out of the crowd. “I’m Judge Welheimer.”
“You a real judge or just a chicken judge?”
“Why, uh, just a poultry judge. Licensed by the National Poultry Association.”
“And you don’t hold any public office at all? You’re not even a justice of the peace?”
The long-nosed chicken judge reddened. He shook his head.
The detective’s eyes sparkled. “That’s fine. All that talk about judges had me worried for a bit. But listen, you chicken judges and the rest of you. I’m Sergeant Dickinson of the Homicide Squad of this town. There’s been a murder committed here and I’m investigating it. Which means I’m boss around here. Get me?”
Quade couldn’t quite restrain a snicker. The sergeant’s sharp ears heard it and he singled out Quade.
“And who the hell are you?”
“Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia,” Quade replied glibly. “I know the answers to all questions—”
Sergeant Dickinson’s face twisted. “Ribbing me, ha? Step up here where I can get a good look at you.”
Quade remained where he was. “There’s a dead man in there. I don’t like to get too close to dead people.”
The sergeant took a half step toward Quade, but then stopped himself. He tried to smooth out his face, but it was still dark with anger.
“I’ll get around to you in a minute, fella.” He turned belligerently to the show secretary. “You, who found the body?”
Cassmer pointed to a pasty-faced young fellow of about thirty. The man grinned sickly.
“Yeah, I got in kinda late and started straightening things around. Then I saw that someone had stuck that long staple in the door latch. I didn’t think much about it and opened the door and there — there he was lying on the floor. Deader’n a mackerel!”
“You work for this incubator company?” the sergeant asked.
The young fellow nodded. “I’m the regional sales manager. Charge of this exhibit. It’s the finest incubator on the market. Used by the best breeders and hatcherymen.”
“Can the sales talk,” growled the detective. “I’m not going to buy one. Let’s go back on your story. What made you say this man was murdered?”
“What else could it be? He was dead and the door was locked on the outside.”
“I know that. But couldn’t he have died of heart failure? There’s plenty of air in that thing, and besides there’s a ventilator hole up there.”
“He was murdered,” said Quade.
Sergeant Dickinson whirled. “And how do you know?”
“By looking at the body. Anyone could tell it was murder.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe you’ll tell me how he was killed. There ain’t a mark on his body.”
“No marks of violence, because he wasn’t killed that way. He was killed with a poison gas. Something containing cyanogen.”
The sergeant clamped his jaws together. “Go on! Who killed him?”
Quade shook his head. “No, that’s your job. I’ve given you enough to start with.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” said the sergeant. “So much so that I’m going to arrest you!”
Charlie Boston groaned into Quade’s ears. “Won’t you ever learn to keep your mouth shut?”
But Quade merely grinned insolently. “If you arrest me I’ll sue you for false arrest.”
“I’ll take a chance on that,” said the detective. “No one could know as much as you do and not have had something to do with the murder.”
“You’re being very stupid, Sergeant,” Quade said. “These men told you they hadn’t seen Tupper alive for several hours. He’s been dead at least three. And I just came into this building fifteen minutes ago.”
“He’s right,” declared Anne Martin. “I saw him come in. He and his friend. They went straight over to the other side of the building and started that sales talk.”
“What sales talk?”
The little poultry judge hopped in again. “He’s a damn pitchman. Pulls some phony question and answer stuff and insults people. Claims he’s the smartest man in the world. Bah!”
“Bah to you!” said Quade.
“Cut it,” cried Sergeant Dickinson. “I want to get the straight of this. You.” He turned to Cassmer. “Did he really come in fifteen minutes ago?”
Cassmer shrugged. “I never saw him until a few minutes ago. But there’s the ticket-taker. He’d know.”
The ticket-taker, whose post had been taken over by a policeman, frowned. “Yeah, he came in just a little while ago. I got plenty reason to remember. Him and his pal crashed the gate. On me! First time anyone crashed the gate on me in eight years. But he was damn slick. He—”
“Never mind the details,” sighed Sergeant Dickinson. “I can imagine he was slick about it. Well, mister, you didn’t kill him. But tell me — how the hell do you know he was gassed with cy... cyanide?”
“Cyanogen. It’s got prussic acid in it. All right, the body was found inside the incubator, the door locked on the outside. That means someone locked him inside the incubator. The person who killed him. Right so far?”
“I’m listening.” There was a thoughtful look in the sergeant’s eyes.
“There’s broken glass inside the incubator. The killer heaved in a bottle containing the stuff and slammed the door shut and locked it. The man inside was killed inside of a minute.”
“Wait a minute. The glass is there all right, but how d’you know it contained cyanogen? There’s no smell in there.”
“No, because the killer opened the ventilator hole and turned on the electric fans inside the incubator. All that can be done from the outside. The fans cleared out the fumes. Simple.”
“Not so simple. You still haven’t said how you know it was cyanogen.”
“Because he’s got all the symptoms. Look at the body — pupils dilated, eyes wide, froth on the mouth, face livid, body twisted and stiff. That means he had convulsions. Well, if those symptoms don’t mean cyanogen, I don’t know what it’s all about.”
“Mister,” said the detective. “Who did you say you were?”
“Oliver Quade, the Human Encyclopedia. I know everything.”
“You know, I’m beginning to believe you. Well, then, who did the killing?”
“That’s against the union rules. I told you how the man was killed. Finding who did it is your job.”