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.
Landau removed his pince-nez, dabbed at his face with a handkerchief, came briskly from the door.
“Really, Captain, this is a most pleasant surprise—”
“Pleasant?” MacBride said dully.
“Naturally I didn’t expect—”
“Just a minute.” MacBride raised a palm. “I’ll talk first.” He flexed his lips, shot a dark glance at Cardiac, at the youth in tweeds, at Dr. Landau.
“You phoned Cardiac at 11:30 this morning, Doctor, didn’t you?”
“Really, I can’t remember—”
“You don’t have to. You phoned him. That’s settled. I was in his office then. Your phone call upset him. It upset him because I happened to be in the office and he couldn’t talk to you then. Why couldn’t he?”
The youth’s eyes traveled slyly from one to another.
Cardiac cut in: “You’re certainly making a nuisance of yourself, skipper. Why don’t you get wise to yourself?”
“Why couldn’t you talk to him, Cardiac? I know. Because I was there. Because the things you had to talk about were not for my ears... Who’s the pink-cheeked boy?”
“Mr. Avarill,” Landau said.
MacBride said: “So you were Dan Rand’s doctor, Landau? You were the man who told him he’d have to leave Richmond City? Was that the first time you told him?”
“Of course!”
“Hell! I don’t believe it! His wife told me he’d been acting queer for the past few months. You told him before yesterday. And what happened? He wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave his business interests. Do you use perfume, Doctor?”
“No.”
MacBride looked around. “Someone in this room does. How about you, Mr. Avarill?”
The pink-cheeked boy grinned. “Why, Captain!”
MacBride crossed to him, bent down. “No, it’s not you.”
“My—! This is rich!” Cardiac exploded.
Kennedy was sitting on the edge of the large library table. He fished in his pockets for a cigarette, found none. He knocked open a large box on the table. It was empty. He knocked open another and found cigarettes; put one between his lips, started to strike a match, paused. He frowned, picked up the empty box, opened it and sniffed.
Landau complained: “You certainly make yourself at home, Mr. Kennedy.”
“Don’t I, though!... Nice sandalwood box, Doctor.”
MacBride was standing at his shoulder. “That’s what I smell,” he said. He snatched the box from Kennedy’s hand, inhaled. He tossed the box back on the desk and said: “That’s the smell. That’s the perfume I’ve been looking for.”
Landau said warmly: “This is becoming ridiculous, Captain!”
“Is it?” MacBride snarled, turning on him. “It’s the smell of sandalwood in the gun that killed Dan Rand. The gun was kept in that box for a while. The odor of sandalwood — if that’s what Kennedy called it — was absorbed by the oil in the gun. It stayed with the gun, not as strong as the smell in the box — but it was there; it was faint but it was there!”
The pink-cheeked youth smiled brightly but said nothing. Cardiac lifted his chin, pursed his lips hard. Dr. Landau looked about the room in nervous fits and starts, shrugging, saying: “Of course... this is peculiar... I hardly know what to say... to think... but of course—”
“You had access to Rand’s home,” MacBride cut in. “When were you there last — before his death? And don’t lie, because it’ll be easy to check up.”
Landau cleared his throat, touched his necktie. “I think — yes, I dropped in there for a few moments the evening before his... ah... death.”
“How long do you consider a few moments?”
“Well” — he cleared his throat — “I daresay I was there for about... well... half an hour.”
“In Dan’s den?”
“I... ah... yes, of course: Dan’s den. To be sure!”
MacBride said: “The gun was in his drawer during the day. The maid saw it when she was cleaning up. It will be easy for me to check up and find out if anyone was in that room between the time she cleaned up and the time you were there.”
Cardiac picked up his coat, flung it over his arm. “I wouldn’t take cracks like that from any cop, Doc. Remember, you don’t have to answer him... Well, I’ve got to run along.”
MacBride turned. “Get back, Cardiac!”
“Now look here, you flatfoot—”
“Get back, Cardiac. I’ve stepped into something that’s just burning my toes. Dan Rand was double-crossed by somebody—”
“I’d watch,” drawled Kennedy, “the young Joe College over there. I don’t like his smile.”
Landau wrung his hands. “This is positively the most absurd situation I have ever—”
“Of course,” said MacBride sarcastically, “sandalwood boxes are as common as egg crates in this burg!... You get the hell back there, Cardiac. I told you you’re not leaving this room!”
“I’ll be damned if I won’t!” whipped back Cardiac. “If you want to hold me, shamus, go out and get a summons! I’m a busy man! I’ve got no time to play tag with a second-rate police captain!” He jerked his thumb. “Come on, Ralph. We’re leaving.”
The pink-cheeked youth rose cheerfully. “Right with you, Jim, old boy!”
MacBride pivoted, caught hold of the youth’s vest and flung him back into the chair. The youth’s teeth clicked. He jumped right up again. MacBride flung him into the chair a second time, and this time the chair went over, the youth sprawled on the floor. He lay there, propped on his elbows; he smiled wistfully, sadly, reflectively, a lock of golden hair curving down over one golden eyebrow.
MacBride roared: “When I tell you to sit down, mister, I don’t mean stand up!”
“Captain, Captain!” Landau panted. “Don’t — don’t aggravate him that way. Don’t—”
“And will you,” ripped out MacBride, swiveling, “stop sticking your nose in my business!... Cardiac, come back here!”
Kennedy yelled: “Look out!”
MacBride swung around, his gun half drawn.
Landau cried out and dived for the youth. The youth was chuckling liquidly, resting on one elbow. The gun exploded in his other hand and stopped Landau in mid-career. MacBride fired and his slug nailed the youth to the floor. Landau started stumbling forward, choking. He gathered unbalanced speed, went careening across the room, knocked over a floor lamp, crashed head-on against the wall and slumped to the floor. The youth writhed on his back, chuckling wildly, beating his palms upon the floor.
A door banged.
“Cardiac,” said Kennedy.
“You stay here!” MacBride said.
He broke into a run, yanked open the door, collided with the butler and fell down as the front door slammed shut. The butler cried out. MacBride untangled himself, rose, lunged for the front door and yelled:
“Cohegan!”
But Cohegan was not in the phaeton. Through the trees, MacBride saw Cardiac at the wheel; heard the blast of the motor and saw the car lurch forward, gather speed. He galloped down the graveled driveway, reached the sidewalk, turned left and stretched his legs in a hard-heeled run. Raising his gun, he did not fire. There were other automobiles moving in the street. But he fired in the air. Beyond was a main highway and he thought a cop might be in the neighborhood. Running, he fired again.
And then he heard, ahead, three blasts from another gun. He saw the phaeton whip from side to side; heard the scream of its brakes and the scream of other brakes as other cars sought to avoid it. Heeling over, the phaeton slammed across the curbstone; its radiator and hood doubled up like a folded accordion and the sound of the crash was drowned instantly in the roar of the explosion that followed. Flame daggered its way through smoke; bricks flew from the building into which the car crashed.