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.
Casey clung to the window sill a moment with his fingertips, to steady himself, let go. He hit the gravel roof one story below, hit on his heels and went over backward. The fall shook him, but that was all, and he rolled to his knees, ran towards the fire-escape at the rear of the building.
Less than a minute later he was back on the street, huddled in the darkened doorway of a music shop, watching the Globe entrance. Jaeger came out first with Russo at his heels. They crossed the street to a small sedan.
Casey sidled down along the building front. He had already located his taxi. And as soon as the sedan pulled out from the curb, he was on the running-board, pounding the dozing driver, who shook himself, scowled at Casey, said:
“What the hell’s the—”
“Follow that sedan,” barked Casey, swinging open the rear door.
“Oh,” growled the driver. “It’s you, huh?” He stepped on the starter, craned his neck to get a look at the sedan as he shifted into low. “What’s all this screwy followin’ about?”
“About five bucks for you.” Then, crisply, “Find Potter?”
The cab roared into the street and the driver said: “Yeah,” and cramped the wheel for a U turn. The clock above Park Street said 11:55. There was enough traffic to screen them, but not enough to confuse their quarry with any other car.
The sedan had turned right at Boylston; the lights changed as the cab approached them, but they got a green arrow and made the turn. The theater front on the left was dark; beyond the high spiked fence on the right, the Common looked even darker. Casey leaned forward, knocked on the glass and the driver slid back the partition.
“Not too close, but if they give you the slip—”
“Give who the slip?” The driver snorted contemptuously. “Don’t be crazy.”
Casey grunted, took the gun out of his pocket and inspected the clip. He slipped off the safety, fondled the cold bulk of the automatic, let it rest gently in his palm. When he looked out the window again the railroad yards were slipping by on the left, and the sedan was a block and a half ahead.
They crossed the avenue, and Casey’s brain fought with questions and answers. When he looked up again it was because the cab had started to slow. He saw then that the sedan was slanting in towards the curb, still a block and a half ahead. Then he saw his roadster — at least he thought it was a roadster. Yeah. They were on Alson Street.
The cab slowed still more and Casey said: “Keep going, you mugg. Right on by ’em! Don’t slow down!”
He slouched on the seat as soon as he saw the two men leave the sedan and cross the sidewalk. When the cab passed the apartment house he called to the driver.
“Take another street, turn right, go around the block.” He slid up on the seat, got out at the corner beyond the sedan a minute or so later. He gave the driver the promised five dollars, added: “I’ll remember you. You got what it takes.”
Casey spun about before the driver could thank him. As he turned into Alson Street he moved warily, and his eyes sought the shadowed niches and areaways.
Alson Street was not much different from Pratt Street. It was a little wider, and on one side, the opposite side from Casey and the parked sedan, there were some remodeled brownstone fronts. The apartments on the near side of the street were a little taller, a little more flossy and pretentious than that of Alma Henderson’s; but the reputations were about the same.
The roadster was parked nearly to the next corner, but Potter stepped from the shadows directly across the street from the sedan. Casey crossed to him and pulled him back into the areaway which had concealed him.
Potter said: “What’s up?” He was a stringy, long-necked fellow who wore glasses and a perpetually tired look. “I parked the roadster down the street a ways, because I wasn’t sure just what you wanted me here for.”
“It’s just as well,” said Casey and took out the automatic.
“Hey!” wheezed Potter.
“Wade’s in that apartment,” Casey muttered, and went on with a brief story of what had happened. “I got you to help because I wanted to check on this address, and because no matter what happens, there’s gonna be a sweet story for some guy.”
“But why don’t you get Logan—”
“That’s your job,” clipped Casey. “For all I know they might try to develop that plate inside — might be developing it now. So find a phone. There’s a drug-store two blocks down. Tell Logan the set-up. He oughtta get out here pretty damn’ fast.”
“But what—” stammered Potter. “You ain’t goin’ up there and try to shoot it out with those hoods alone?”
“I hope not,” Casey said grimly. “I’m gonna try and stall, throw a bluff — till Logan gets here. He’ll know how to handle it; only if the shooting starts, I’m not gonna be empty handed.”
Casey had left the Globe without his topcoat. Now he took the .38, reached around and stuck it down inside his pants, right in the small of his back. The pressure of his belt held the gun securely; the coat, draped from the shoulders, showed no suspicious bulge. He started across the street.
6
The foyer of the apartment house was U shaped and the single, self-operated elevator door was directly opposite the entrance. Casey stopped in front of it, realizing that he did not know where Jaeger and Russo had gone.
He muttered, “No one’s been in or out of here since they came. They mustta left the elevator where they got off,” and started up the stairs.
There was no elevator at the second floor; none at the third. He found it waiting on the fourth. He thought: “It’s after twelve. I’ll try every place with a light in it.”
Eight doors opened from the wide, deserted hall. Casey started at the front, dropping to his knees at each door and peering at the bottom crack. The first three were dark. At the fourth — the second door on the right — a hairline of yellow met his gaze.
Casey put his ear close to the keyhole. A subdued murmur of voices reached him, unexcited. He straightened a little, drew a long, silent breath, glanced, unconsciously, back over his shoulder, then bent to the keyhole again.
He felt that he could wait a few minutes, give Logan that much time. Not too long, for if the plate could not be developed here, they wouldn’t waste much time in taking it where it could be, and Casey had to stall them here if he was to count on Logan’s help. The slow minutes dragged. Casey tried to estimate their number; tried once to reach his watch, but gave it up in preference to keeping his ear glued to the keyhole. Finally he straightened, took a deep breath and knocked.
After a moment a voice said: “Who is it?”
Casey grunted and his lips pressed into a weird, tight smile. The palms of his hands were damp, but he wiped them on the sides of his coat.
He said: “Santy Claus.”
The knob turned slowly, but the door opened in a jerk that flung it wide. Jaeger and Russo stood to one side, their automatics leveled at Casey’s stomach. Beyond, Moe Nyberg stood behind Wade, held him by the coat collar and pressed a gun in his back. Over by the windows stood Mike Handy.
Casey felt no fear now. No surprise. Rather a tense grim satisfaction gripped his brain. But after that first glimpse of the occupants of that room, he went into his act. Surprise flooded his face, choked his voice.
“Hey,” he wheezed. “What the hell?”
“Get in here!” clipped Jaeger.
Casey stepped across the threshold and Russo shut the door.
“How’d you get here?” jerked Nyberg.
“He followed us,” said Jaeger. “He must’ve—”
“Followed you?” croaked Casey, licking his lips. “No. Honest to gawd. I didn’t know—”