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.
Jerry was convinced the gang in No. 6 hangar wasn’t all everybody thought it was. He had been made an overture, and he expected another. To bring it about, he spent the next few days in direct defiance of all the laws of flying. He was either a plain damn fool or the sweetest pilot who ever brought a bus down on one tire. He almost tore the ships to pieces. All this time the gang in No. 6 looked on.
One night Casey and another man, of a distinct continental air, visited the Transport hangar.
“Meet Mr. Crouch,” said Casey. “He’s the boss of our outfit.”
Jerry shook hands with him.
“I’m glad to know you,” Crouch said. “I saw you the other day and I wanted to congratulate you. I’ve seen a lot of flying in my time, but I don’t think I ever saw the equal of that.”
The man spoke with a slight accent, and a high voice. It was an unusual tone. Something in Jerry’s memory stirred. He looked into the face closely. Gray mustache. Black eyes, sharp and deep-set. A small mouth and thin lips.
He had seen that face somewhere before. But where? The panorama of his life passed swiftly. It produced nothing.
“Thank you, sir,” Jerry said. “I sometimes think I was born with my feet on a rudder bar.”
“You were,” Crouch agreed; “and that’s just the point. You are the type of man commercial flying needs. Would you consider a change?”
“Well,” said Jerry, “a fellow always needs—”
“Exactly. And you’re worth just twice as much to us as you are to the air-mail people.”
Jerry debated for a moment. He had no idea of refusing; he just didn’t want to be too anxious.
“I’ll take it.”
“Good! When can you leave?”
“When do you want me?”
“Tomorrow. We’re opening a hangar at Waco. You’ll be on hand in the morning?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t think they’ll hold me.”
“Of course they won’t! If necessary, tell ’em to go to hell!”
Getting his release was simple. He merely got in touch with the home office, where the officials knew his mission and identity, and explained the situation. They in turn notified the Field. There was little comment. There seldom is. Young flying men are notorious nomads.
Waco was but an hour’s hop from Jamestown, and as Jerry was eager to get there he left at once. During that hour he rolled his memory before him, seeking to pull from its kaleidoscope the face of the man called Crouch. That high voice rang in his ears above the drone of the motor; and gradually the years fell away.
Flying now, as he was flying then, the slender threads of memory were picked up more easily.
Once more he was in the air over Bapaume with the 47th. This was Richthofen’s old stamping ground and the Boche knew it like birds. Jerry was flying a Camel at 8,000 feet. They were climbing in close formation. He looked ahead and to the right. There was Bapaume in all its raggedness, half-obscured in the mist. On his left were a couple of youngsters. They waved. They were going through the agony of their first patrol. He had gone through it two months before. But it hadn’t wrecked him. He hadn’t a lot of imagination. He was sure of himself. But he knew it must be hell on the youngsters. He thought he’d better keep an eye on the eaglets.
There were clouds above — gray blanket clouds that came together in a solid roof, with only a gaping hole here and there to reveal the blue. Bad stuff. The squadron leader knew. He kept them climbing. Jerry glanced again at the youngsters. It bucked him up a bit to think about them. They were green. He squinted his eye and put up his thumb to have a look around the sun. They were up above now. He warmed his guns. The chatter reminded him that he was tired. So this was war. Well, they could have the damned war for all he cared. He was tired. He wished... And then he caught himself. A fellow couldn’t do that. It wasn’t decent. He was in it, no use wishing he was out. Then he saw he was straggling. Straggling was suicide. They were out in Richthofen’s country. The Baron’s men were devoted to stragglers. They ate ’em alive. He looked up. His intuition again.
His throat closed abruptly and his knees melted. An Albatross was coming down fast. His wing fabric was ruffling into lace and the wood of his camber ribs was splintering. He pulled up sharply and pressed his trigger. Both guns vomited. He was firing wildly. The Albatross slipped under him. Oh, for a fast bus! His Camel would do 100. An S.E. would do 135. A Spad would do 140. And an Albatross would beat that. A butterfly-winged Albatross. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Sping! A shower of gasoline. His motor conked. He fell over in a dive. The Albatross followed him down. The Spandaus were rattling. He could hear them above the bite of the motor. A hundred red-hot needles hit him in the shoulder. Her dammed something warm back with his lips. Something warm and wet. The dirty, lousy swine! Fine stuff! What the hell? He was done... he was falling. The Spandaus rattled fortissimo. A drumlike roar, blackness swept, swirled over him...
A high-ceilinged room. The penetrating smell of anesthetics. A face that bent over and shut out the depth of the room. An enormous face by contrast. He slowly made it out. He moved his body and winced. Bandaged. The face grinned. It spoke.
“Never,” said a high, irritating voice, “break formation. How did I hit everything but your head?” The face came closer. The Pour le Mérite swung out on its ribbon. “Byfield, my name is. You’re my personal prisoner...”
Jerry tried to laugh. Instead he fainted...
That had been eleven years ago. The vision passed and its present significance came upon him so suddenly he went into a renversement that almost popped his neck. Byfield! The German Ace! Crouch! By God! There was dirty work somewhere. His first vague hunch, even so soon, assumed the form of reality. There could be no doubt that he was on a trail that would lead somewhere.
Out of the mists loomed the Amicable Building, perennial landmark, sentinel of the Brazos, gaunt and lonely for want of companionship. Bearing to the left, he came over the field and settled down. He was trembling as if he had been out on his first patrol.
Byfield!
A luxurious cabin plane idled down and disgorged two men. One was Casey. The other was Crouch, né Byfield. It was all Jerry could do to keep his hands off the man’s throat.
“You must have been in a hurry,” said the high voice.
That voice! There was no doubt of it now. Von Byfield. Every step of the way now was fraught with danger. He half hoped Crouch wouldn’t see it in his face.
“I was,” he said finally.
“Well, there’s a lot to do. We’ll brush up and visit the newspapers.”
They brushed, breakfasted, visited. Crouch planted all his ideas. But that was simple. He had them talking about it already. There were a dozen pilots coming in from New Mexico and Arizona to take part in the circus. A dozen men who, Jerry knew full well, were bums. And then he thought it was funny that he should be walking beside this man in such a placid way... the man who called himself Crouch, who had shot him out of control and then followed him down. He had prayed to meet him a hundred times — and now he had. And he was helpless. Funny.
That afternoon the pilots dropped in. That afternoon they were not an impressive collection. Just as Jerry thought, they were tramps. He thought they were a tough-looking bunch of eggs to be pilots. Had it come to the point where there was as much evil in the air as on the ground? God forbid. The air was the last outpost of chivalry. Of romance. It was dead as hell everywhere else. And it wouldn’t be long—
But his big shock came later in the afternoon.