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.
“Kee-rist!” roared Simms. “You lousy pickpocket, what the hell do you think you’re pulling off here?”
The police dick grabbed at Firpo Cole and began to bounce him up and down like a cocktail shaker. “You wouldn’t kill her!” he shouted. “Why you even rob her dead body to get a two buck hunk of jewelry!”
“I didn’t take it,” Firpo gasped as well as he could.
“No one else was near her,” snorted Simms. His hands plunged into Firpo’s pockets — and came up empty. Bewilderment spread over his beet-face as he ran his hands over Firpo’s clothes. “What the hell did you do with it?”
“I didn’t touch it,” said Firpo.
“Take your duds off!”
Firpo Cole shed his clothes till he stood completely naked. Simms carefully felt and looked over each item of clothing and even ran his hands through Firpo’s hair and looked in his mouth. The brooch was not on him. Simms gave the shivering Firpo permission to dress.
Then the department men carefully combed the room for any possible hiding place. The search did not reveal the missing jewel. Simms scratched at his chin, puzzled.
“Sure as hell that thing was on her neck when we come in here,” he said.
Max asked: “Are you sure it was there when Firpo touched her?”
They looked at each other uncertainly, even suspiciously. Finally, Simms said: “Well, we know that Firpo hasn’t got it.” He jerked a finger at the reporters. “Search those crumbs down to their drawers. If it ain’t on them you better take this room apart till you find it!”
Simms grabbed Firpo by the arm and pushed him toward the door. He never felt Firpo’s sensitive, experienced fingers as they dipped into his jacket pocket to retrieve the missing brooch.
Alone in a small cell in the city jail, Firpo Cole hid the brooch in one of his shoes, then lay down on the iron cot and waited. He tried not to think of the dead body. It would just make him sick again and he couldn’t afford that now. Afterwards it would be all right but first there was work to do.
Several hours passed and it was nearing ten before a guard came along and roused Firpo out of his dull, lethargic sleep. He blinked as he was taken into a sunlit, cheerful room. Simms sat behind a desk talking with Jugger Callahan and Ephraim Tuttle. There were a few cops there, including Max, and a male secretary was taking notes on a stenotype. The guard pushed Firpo into a chair and left.
Jugger was saying: “I didn’t see her after she left with Firpo. Firpo used to walk her home every night so it was nothing out of the ordinary. Lots of crumbs hang out in front of every dance hall and she never liked to go home alone.”
Simms asked: “Didn’t you have another joint which burned down a couple of months ago?”
“Yes. I have a new place now. What of it?”
“Nothing. I just remembered. Was Ruth Bailey on the weed?”
“Not that I know of.”
“The autopsy’ll show anyway.” Simms absently tore at a blotter. “It still looks like Firpo did it. He was nuts about Ruth Bailey but she passed him up for you.”
Jugger’s words came clipped and precise. “Ruth Bailey and I were friends and nothing more. Understand?”
Simms shrugged. “It makes no difference what you call it. Any way you slice it the motive is still jealousy. Last night Firpo got particularly jealous when he saw some guy talking to her through a few dances. Afterwards he picked a fight with the guy and got poked. He was mad clear through so he stole the letter opener and took her home and let her have it.”
“That don’t hold water,” Ephraim Tuttle intruded. “My letter opener was missing before Firpo had that fight.”
Simms carefully dropped the shreds of the blotter into a waste basket. “Before-after-sooner-later. What’s the difference so long as he hangs for it?”
“I still think you’re all wet about Firpo,” said Jugger Callahan. “I’ll be glad to stand the bail for him if he’s held.”
Simms pushed his chair back. “There ain’t no bail in a first degree homicide charge.”
Jugger Callahan and Ephraim Tuttle moved for the door. The band leader said to Firpo, “Take it easy,” and they left.
Simms came from behind the desk and planted himself in front of Firpo. Max and one of the other cops moved in closer.
Simms spoke persuasively, almost with a note of regret: “It’s open and shut, Firpo. If you get a good shyster you’ll probably be able to beat it with an insanity plea. Sick guys like you who don’t rate with the dames often get violent about it. You suddenly got tired of playing second fiddle to Jugger Callahan with the Bailey frill so you stole the letter opener. You had a chance to steal it any time because you were always around the Tango Palace. You walked her home, went up to her room and killed her.”
Simms went over to a water cooler and drank three times from a lily cup.
Max said: “Firpo thought he wiped his prints off that letter opener but we’ll bring ’em up with a special process.”
Simms returned. “It had to be you, Firpo,” he continued, “because anyone coming along later would have found Bailey in bed and she was wearing her street clothes when she was killed. What makes the whole thing worse is that you stole the letter opener beforehand so that makes it premeditated murder. Why don’t you plead guilty, Firpo, and we’ll let you cop an insanity plea?”
Firpo Cole didn’t reply. The dick’s words made him wonder why Ruth was still wearing her clothes when she was murdered. Ordinarily, she would have gone to bed right away. She was tired enough. Did she stay up to wait for Jugger? Did she go out to visit him and then come back?
Simms sighed. He said: “I hate to do this.” He slapped Firpo squarely over the mouth and someone behind Firpo hit him over the ear. “Are you gonna look at this sensibly?” asked Simms.
The stenotypist left. The brooch was cutting into the sole of Firpo’s foot but he was glad to feel it there. That cheap piece of jewelry which Jugger Callahan had bought for Mona Leeds would yet prove his guilt.
Simms hit Firpo over the mouth again and repeated his question. Blood from a broken tooth choked Firpo and he could only shake his head in reply. Somebody gave him a sharp, clipping blow over the nape of his neck, the chair tilted and the broadloom rug seemed to rush up at him.
“Like hitting an old woman,” commented Max disgustedly.
When Firpo Cole regained consciousness, he found himself lying on the cot in his cell. The tooth socket had stopped bleeding. He did not know how long he stayed there. Somebody brought him a tin platter full of some mush but he didn’t touch it. A drunk in the next cell tried to find out from Firpo what had caused the Yankees to slump.
After a while, the guard came along and he was taken up to that cheerful room again. Simms, Max and the other shams were there but this time the outsider was the stranger who had sat through eight dances with Ruth and who had subsequently biffed Firpo.
“Sit down, Firpo.” Simms sounded friendly.
He indicated the stranger. “This is Mickey Hymer.”
“I met him,” responded Firpo through bruised lips.
“So you did. How come you tried to step on Mr. Hymer last night?”
“He wouldn’t pay Ruth Bailey her tickets.”
“As it turned out, Firpo, she didn’t need them. Mr. Hymer is an investigator for Eastern-states Insurance and he wants to ask you a few questions.”
Mr. Hymer reached over and extended a hand to Firpo Cole. “First how about letting bygones be bygones?”
Firpo ignored the outstretched hand.
“Have it your way,” shrugged the insurance dick. “Firpo, I’ll be frank with you. We think that was no accidental fire that burned down the Tango Palace. Jugger Callahan had a pretty heavy policy on it and the whole business stinks.”