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.
Suddenly an expression of amazed inspiration crossed his face. “I just thought of a possible explanation!”
“Yeah?”
“I haven’t been down to the jail yet. How do we know the man in jail is Longstreet?”
That jolted me. Thinking back, I couldn’t remember anyone identifying Longstreet, and no one who knew him had looked over the prisoner.
I said: “About two-forty pounds, grizzled hair, false teeth, hairy eyebrows that curve upward like horns, and an expression like a kid getting ready to heave a snowball at a high hat.”
The enthusiasm faded from Swope’s face. “That’s Willard to a T.”
“It’s still a straw,” I said. “How about dropping down and looking him over?”
He glanced at his watch. “Can’t this morning. Be glad to this afternoon. Is that all you want of me?” He glanced at his watch again.
“Not quite. Assuming Longstreet did commit the murder, what motive could he have?”
His lips curled in a faint smile. “We have a business contract leaving our stock to the surviving partners. Half of Carmichael’s interest in this business is motive enough. And in addition, Longstreet is primary beneficiary to a fifty-thousand-dollar insurance policy on Carmichael.”
“How’d Carmichael happen to carry a policy like that?” I asked.
“We all did. If I died, the money went to Carmichael, with Longstreet as secondary beneficiary. Longstreet’s policy named me, with Carmichael as secondary beneficiary. I was secondary on Carmichael’s policy. It’s not an unusual business arrangement. Quite common in partnerships.”
I said: “How did the murderer get in and out of here without being seen? Don’t you have a watchman?”
“No. We have adequate locks, a burglar alarm system and are protected by Burns.”
“About Carmichael,” I said. “What kind of guy was he?”
He frowned down at his hand, which beat a swift march on the desk top. “George was a good businessman and an excellent partner.” The sentence ended on a slightly raised note, as though an unspoken phrase beginning with “but” should have been attached to it.
I said: “But what?”
He glanced at me, startled. “What are you? A mind reader?”
“Just a guesser. What was wrong?”
His expression was reluctant, as one unwilling to speak ill of the dead. “I suppose it was more virtue than fault. He was too strait-laced.”
After Marie Kincaid’s evaluation of Carmichael as a wolf, the answer amused me. Fleetingly a quotation passed through my mind. Something like: “Women and men see friends through different eyes.”
I said: “About women?”
“No. He was human enough, I suppose. Perhaps strait-laced isn’t the right word. Unforgiving would be better. He gave absolute loyalty to his friends and demanded the same of them.”
“Hardly sounds like a fault.”
“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “Except he carried it too far. As an example, we used to retain a lawyer named Howard Tattersall. He’s an excellent lawyer and has saved the firm considerable money in lawsuits. He also happens to be a minor stockholder in the company, owns about five per cent of the common stock. About a month ago we were preparing to offer a few new shares for sale on the open market to help finance opening a branch in another city. Tattersall, of course, had advance information and a few hours before our release, he dumped his entire holdings on the market. The sudden dumping of such a large block caused a temporary drop in price, and before it could recover, Tattersall rebought his own stock plus part of the new issue without it costing him a cent. His total gain was about twenty thousand dollars, and George was furious. He insisted that Tattersall be kicked off the payroll immediately.”
I said: “I think I’d agree with him about that.”
Swope shook his head impatiently. “You misunderstand. What I gave was merely the bare outline of the transaction, and actually there were several ramifications. One was that a speculating broker took a flyer and bore the brunt of the loss. It didn’t cost our firm a cent. But George remained adamant, so we switched lawyers, thereby losing the best corporate legal advice in town.” He studied his tapping fingers glumly, still vexed by his late partner’s stubbornness.
“Was Tattersall sore?” I asked.
He looked up again. “Naturally. We’re a fat account.”
I kept my tone casual. “Sore enough to do anything about it?”
“Do anything?” He frowned. “You mean like shoot Carmichael?”
“Yeah?”
For a minute he brooded over the question, not liking it too much. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said finally. “My only relations with Tattersall were business ones and I don’t know what kind of person he is otherwise.”
Chapter Four
Gang-Up
Then the door began to open slowly, as though the person on the other side were hesitant to disturb us. Swope watched it expectantly; then his expression soured to a frown as the door finally swung fully open. Our interruptor was a short woman, this side of forty-five and beginning to spread. Probably she had once been beautiful, but corsets and cosmetics no longer could hide middle age. She wore expensive clothes that looked altogether much too young for her.
Swope said: “Didn’t Miss Kincaid say I was busy, Isobel?”
I guessed that this was Mrs. Swope, and didn’t miss that while Swope familiarly referred to the secretary as “Marie” in conversation, she was “Miss Kincaid” to his wife.
Isobel said: “I’m sorry. I have to see you. Will you be long?” Her tone was a curious mixture of embarrassed apology and determination.
Swope looked at his watch. “We’re nearly finished. You may as well stay, now you’re here.” He performed belated introductions. “This is Mr. Moon, Isobel. Mr. Moon, my wife.”
I asked her how she did and offered the chair I had left when she entered.
She said: “No. Keep it,” and took another in the corner.
I said: “I was just leaving, Mrs. Swope.” Then to her husband: “One more question and I won’t bother you any more. Are you familiar with a locket Longstreet has?”
The color drained from Mrs. Swope’s face, leaving it stark white behind its oversupply of rouge.
Swope said: “I’ve seen it. Why?”
“Know the story connected with it?”
He knit his brows thoughtfully. “Some silly sentimental thing, as I remember. Left to him by his mother or someone. He takes oaths on it. I always thought he was a little hipped on the subject. What about it?”
“Nothing. Just curious.”
I was watching Mrs. Swope. Her color began to come back, but she was still obviously shaken. With a sudden flash of inspiration I combined Longstreet’s mention of the locket as a gift from a girl when he was seventeen, with Swope’s casual reference to his wife’s high school romances, coming out with the interesting answer that Mrs. Swope could be the locket’s donor.
I said: “I’ve got to go. Glad to have met you, Mrs. Swope.”
She dipped her head in my direction without meeting my eyes.
Three men had come into the reception room while I was closeted with Swope. Two I recognized as compatriots of Marty O’Brien in bygone extortion ring days, but could not recall their names. The third was Tiny Sartt, a flat-headed, bow-legged killer with a criminal record longer than MacArthur’s war record.
I said: “Hello, Tiny. You a star salesman here, too?”
His constantly darting eyes touched my face and moved away. “Hello, Moon.”
“Hello, what?”