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.
He let his eyes wander over the assembled group. Besides Croker the lawyer, five of his ablest lieutenants sat quietly in a semi-circle, awaiting his orders. Despite his rage, he felt a suffusion of pride creep over him. These were not the beetle-browed gorillas of fiction; these men were well educated — with the exception of Gebardi, an importation from Sicily — and versed in modern business administration. They could organize a union, break a strike, control a voting precinct, or examine a company’s account books with equal facility. And what was even more important, they could and would carry out his orders without question.
“Miller,” he said finally, to the lanky hood by the door, “take Gebardi and find out if either Duane or Barnaby’s got a wife. If so, grab her and take her up to the farm. Gebardi’ll know how to make her talk. But don’t actually kill her because we might need her to write a note to her husband.”
Croker wiped sudden sweat from his face. “I can save you time,” he wheezed. “This guy Barnaby is not married, but Duane is. He lives on Becker Street, the third duplex from the corner of Hansard Avenue. His wife’s name is Molly. Duane’s nuts about her.”
Miller stood up, motioned to Gebardi and adjusted his fedora. “That’ll help, Hymie. If she knows where her old man is we’ll make her tell us. If she don’t,” he shrugged grimly, “it’ll be tough on her.” With Gebardi at his heels, he went out.
Lawyer Hymie Croker’s mouth opened and closed in a quick, nervous smile. He wiped the moist handkerchief over his face and sought to conceal the involuntary shudder that shook his slender frame. Croker belonged to that peculiar breed of jackal who could cheerfully frame an innocent man into the penitentiary, or even to the gallows, and feel no pang of conscience. He could advise his assorted clients on the slickest manner of evading the laws; even assist them in their work under the cloak of his profession. But when he stood in the presence of violence, the yellow stripe that lined his back widened until he trembled.
Swarm took a fresh cigar from his vest pocket, ripped off the end with his teeth and set it on the table before him. “I can’t exactly figure this out,” he mused, scowling. “There’s just a chance that these two cops took the boys for a buggy ride. But it don’t look that way; they took too much of a chance in snatching them out of La Parisienne. At least a hundred people saw them do it.”
“Perhaps they wanted to make ’em talk,” suggested a mobster named Haight.
Croker answered that one. “Talk? What for? Grogan takes his orders from me and Judge Tweedie has the Grand Jury in tow. Tweedie’ll have the Grand Jury return an indictment as Coxy told him to do and Barnaby and Duane will be in jail. I can promise you service along that line.” He used the handkerchief again.
“Anyway,” drawled a big man, “they couldn’t make Ritter talk. He can take it.”
Swarm shrugged. “Hymie’s right. There’s nobody for them to tell anything to. You’re right about Ritter, Slade, but I got my doubts if Rieg could keep his mouth shut under pressure. ‘The Scourge’ is mean as hell with a gun in his hand, but...” He shrugged and pulled his chair closer to the table. “Well, sit down, Hymie, and we’ll have a round of stud.”
Croker prodded a chair into position with his foot. “I’ll sit in until Miller and Gebardi call back. We ought to hear from them within half an hour.”
About forty minutes later, Haight quit the game and walked to the door of the office. He mumbled something about a drink and went out, only to reappear about a minute later with his face the color of damp cement.
Swarm frowned, slowly put down his cards, started to push back his chair. “Well, what in hell’s the matter with you?”
Haight made a vague motion with his head towards the darkness behind.
“Gebardi...!”
The way he said it brought them to their feet in unison, but Swarm was the first man to reach the crumpled body of his ace executioner.
Gebardi was quite dead. He lay across the curb, his bloody knees in the gutter, his torso sprawled across the sidewalk. A nearby street lamp loaned ghastly shadows to the scene. The corpse looked like a great black spider which had been stepped on.
Swarm cursed, shot a quick glance up and down the street. It was practically deserted; the body could have lain there but a few minutes.
“Come on,” he snarled. “Carry it inside.”
Three of the men grabbed their erstwhile companion and whisked him inside the office. From a closet, Swarm took out a large rubber sheet and spread it on the floor. They dumped the battered remains of Gebardi on to this. It was then that Swarm glimpsed the folded piece of paper pinned to the dead man’s chest.
He retrieved it and moved closer to the light. Examination disclosed the obvious fact that the paper had been clipped from an advertisement in a newspaper. It simply stated in large black type:
That was all.
“And Miller...?” gasped Croker. “They’ve grabbed Miller!”
Swarm crushed the clipping in the palm of his fist. “Every one of you birds get out and see what you can find. Get your boys moving. I want these two crazy cops dead by daylight.” As the men started for their haunts, he swung on Croker.
“Have you got your car with you, Hymie?”
The lawyer nodded. “I told my driver to wait around the corner.”
Swarm nodded impatiently. “Okey. Now you beat it to Grogan. Tell him to find Barnaby and Duane before morning, or there’ll be another Chief of Police in this damn’ town!” He made a gesture of dismissal and the lawyer waited no longer. He scooped up his hat and cane and fled the office. And the last thing he saw as he went out was the bloody corpse of the late Antonio Gebardi spread-eagled on the rubber sheet.
Although the night air was cold, Attorney Croker was sweating when he rounded the corner and headed for the shelter of his own limousine. He rapped his cane sharply against the running-board to awaken the driver who sat slumped over the steering wheel, opened the door himself and climbed into the tonneau. Then he picked up the speaking tube and issued his orders.
“Central Police Station, Gunner; and step on it!”
As the big machine got into motion, he relaxed against the soft cushions and lighted a cigarette. He shuddered involuntarily as he recalled the finding of Gebardi; he couldn’t stand blood or physical torture. He felt his stomach knotting and knew he was in for another attack of indigestion. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke dribble through his nostrils...
And then he suddenly became aware that the limousine had drawn up in front of a small, darkened drug-store!
Disdaining to use the speaking tube, he jumped forward to the edge of his seat, jerked open the glass window that separated the tonneau from the driver’s compartment and shouted:
“What’s the meaning of this, Gunner? Didn’t I tell you to hurry! I...” The words froze in his throat.
For the driver turned abruptly. Instead of the battered, familiar features of his own chauffeur, Gunner McSpadden, he found himself staring at the rugged, leathery face of old Dennis Hallahan.
Hallahan shoved back the chauffeur’s cap so that the visor would not shield his features. He was grinning, but somehow, Croker could read no mirth in the expression.
The dapper little lawyer carried a gun by way of ornamentation. Now, as he suddenly recalled the picture of Gebardi, half-chewed with slugs, fear gripped him and he made a vague pass for his own weapon. But he didn’t complete the movement. The door jerked open and the enormous bulk of Lieutenant Forsythe crowded into the tonneau beside him.
“Hello, Hymie,” Forsythe said, and the tinge of his voice matched Hallahan’s smile. “We want to have a nice long chat with you.” He picked up the speaking tube and gave his orders. “Home, James, and don’t spare the nags.”