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.
“Getting mighty polite, ain’t you, Courtnay?” one of the men suggested.
“Oh, I didn’t mince words. I told him point blank that if he didn’t shut up his damn school and get out of the county, some night something highly unpleasant would happen to him. That was a week ago—”
“He’s still here—” said one planter.
“And the school’s still running,” said another.
“And the niggers are having their heads pumped full of nonsense—” put in a third.
“Dangerous nonsense for us,” said a fourth.
“That’s why we’re meeting here tonight, gentlemen,” said Cater Courtnay. “We’re the responsible white men of the community. What are we going to do? Greel has had his warning; he has ignored it; he told me a week ago he was going to stick — his duty to his people or some such rot — and he has stuck.”
“We must teach him a lesson,” Sam Hull declared, his voice rasping. “We must teach them all a lesson—”
“You don’t mean—” The man who interrupted did not finish his sentence; he was a small bird-faced man who appeared, habitually, never to finish anything — his tie was not tied, his buttons not buttoned...
“You know what we mean, Wood,” said Courtnay. “Are you with us?”
“Yes, yes, of course. But, good God, Courtnay, is there no other way? You know how such things set the papers up North snarling at us. We can’t afford—” His voice trailed off, leaving the end of the sentence ragged, for Courtnay’s austere eye was on him, and there was contempt in it.
“Duty is duty,” said Courtnay, “no matter how unpleasant it is. None of us likes to do what we’re going to have to do. But if the whites are going to keep their place, the blacks have to be kept in theirs.”
“I know, I know,” the little unfinished man twisted out the words, “but this isn’t right, it’s— “It’s—”
Courtnay cut in.
“We can’t be soft, Wood. We’ll try not to hurt the man.”
“That is,” put in Sam Hull, “if he listens to reason.”
“But,” Wood said, “you know Greel’s not like the others — he’s got guts — he’ll fight back — he may—”
“Suppose he does fight back—” said Courtnay. “We can fight a bit ourselves, eh, gentlemen?”
Their laughter was hard.
“Well, when shall it be?” asked Sam Hull.
“Why not tonight?” Cater Courtnay said this.
“Tonight?”
“Yes; let’s get it over with. It’s got to be done.”
“Good. Tonight.”
“Yes, tonight.”
“But I didn’t come — prepared,” said Sam Hull.
“Nor I.”
“Mine’s home, too.”
“Gentlemen,” said Courtnay, “it’s only nine. You’ll have time to go to your homes and get what you require. Remember, we want to do this thing in an orderly, business-like manner.”
“Shall we wear hoods?” asked one.
Courtnay considered.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s a good idea. The niggers still have a superstitious dread of the old Klan; pillow cases with holes will do—”
“When we get Greel,” suggested Sam Hull, “we can stage a little parade through the cabins. Might as well put the fear of God into them right, while we’re about it.”
“He’ll fight, I warn you,” the unfinished man, Wood, quavered. “He’ll shoot—”
They did not wait for him to finish.
“Then there’ll be one less fancy nigger in the world,” said Sam Hull.
“We’ll meet at eleven sharp,” Courtnay said; he spoke as an accepted leader. “Under the oak at the cross-roads. Each man will bring a gun, a hood and a whip. No one is to speak a word till we order Greel to come out. He sleeps in that little shack about a half mile from the cross-roads near the old Claymore creek bridge. Let’s set our watches now. Eleven sharp, remember. Any man who isn’t there will be left behind.”
“He’ll put up a fight, I tell you.”
Wood’s voice shaded off into a near-whimper.
“Take no chances with him,” directed Courtnay. “If he doesn’t give up at once, well—” He finished with a gesture of his tan hand.
They understood; into the darkness moved the men; their tread was determined.
III
When they had gone, Cater Courtnay poured himself a leisurely drink from the carafe on the venerable sideboard. There was no hurry; his house was not far from the cross-roads where they were to meet. He sat down in an easy chair and examined his pistol minutely; it was loaded, oiled, ready. Idly his glance roved along the row of paintings on the walls, men in uniform, mostly, with the lean, serious faces of the Courtnay breed. A thought struck him. He rang a bell, and presently an ancient negress, her eyebrows like tufts of cotton, her manner the respectfully familiar manner of the old and trusted retainer, came into the room.
“Mammy Stella?”
“Yes, Mr. Cater—”
“Isn’t there up in the attic somewhere an old trunk that belonged to my grandfather, Colonel Courtnay?”
He did not notice that her hands took a sudden grip on the edges of her apron.
“I disremember,” she said.
“Oh, come now, Mammy Stella. You were up there only the other day. Wasn’t there an old trunk of my grandfather’s?”
“Mebbe so.”
“You packed it, didn’t you?”
“I reckon so.”
“Do you remember what you put in it?”
“Not ’zactly. It was more than forty years ago.”
“Well, what did you put in it?”
“Nothing but a lot of old clothes, Mr. Cater.”
“Ah, that’s what I’m after. Do you remember putting in a sort of white garment, like a big night-shirt, with a hood on it?”
He saw from her eyes and the look that came to her face that she remembered.
“Will you get it for me, Mammy Stella?”
The old woman had begun to tremble.
“Mr. Cater,” she said, “ask me to do anything, but don’t ask me to do that — I’m scared — it’s up there in the dark.”
“Scared? Nonsense.”
“Before the Lord, I am, Mr. Cater. I know that robe, Mr. Cater. It’s the old Klan robe. I... I’m scared of it.”
“Just an old piece of cloth! Nonsense, Mammy Stella. Why should it scare you?”
“They come one night — to our cabin — I was a little girl then — and they took my brother — I’ll never forget—”
“Oh, well, I suppose I can get it myself.”
He rose.
“Mr. Cater—”
“What?”
“You ain’t plannin’ — to use it?”
“Never mind what I’m planning, Mammy Stella. Run along now.”
“For God’s sake, Mr. Cater, don’t... don’t—”
“Don’t what?”
He regarded the old woman tolerantly; she had been his nurse.
“Don’t be cruel — because he’s a black man.”
“I’ve no intention of being cruel,” he said stiffly.
“But—” she ventured. “Greel — he’s a good man—”
“He’s poisoning the niggers’ minds; we can’t permit that.”
Courtnay spoke partly to her, but mostly to himself.
“But must you go, Mr. Cater? Can’t you leave it to the others—”
His voice was not unkind as he said:
“Mammy Stella, you know better than that, after sixty-five years in the Courtnay family. You know when Courtnays have a duty to perform they don’t leave it to other folks. Now run along to bed. I’m going up in the attic.”
He stepped toward the door, but the old woman held him back, her wrinkled hands on his arm.
“Don’t go, Mr. Cater,” she begged. “It’s haunted — up there — I tell you—”