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.
Shaley leaned back in his chair. “So,” he said quietly. “The old dropped dime gag. Bennie dropped a dime in front of a keyhole, and he was looking through the keyhole for the dime, when Van Bilbo caught him at it, huh?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no! Bennie wouldn’t look through a keyhole. He wouldn’t do a thing like that, Mr. Shaley. Bennie’s a good boy. Our folks died when we were young, and I raised him, and I know.”
Shaley studied her calculatingly. She really believed what she was saying. She really believed that Bennie was a good boy.
“All right,” Shaley said gently, smiling at her. “Forget what I said. Of course Bennie wouldn’t peek through a keyhole. What did he tell you to say to me?”
“He told me to tell you to go to Mr. Van Bilbo and tell him that it was all right. That Bennie was Mr. Van Bilbo’s friend, and that they could get together on this matter and fix it all up. Bennie said you’d understand.”
Shaley nodded slowly. “Oh, yes,” he said meaningly. “I understand all right. Where is Bennie now?”
“He’s hiding so the police won’t find him. He told me not to tell anybody where he was.”
Shaley smiled at her. “I can’t help him unless I know where he is.”
“Well...” Her voice broke a little. “You are his friend, aren’t you, Mr. Shaley? You will help him, won’t you? Just this time, Mr. Shaley, please. He promised me he’d never get into trouble again.” She stared at him anxiously.
“I’ll help him,” Shaley said.
She sighed, relieved. “He’s hiding in a boarding-house. I don’t know the street address, but you can easily find it. It’s a big white house with a hedge around it, and it’s right in back of the Imperial Theater in Hollywood. He’s going by the name of Bennie Smith.”
“I’ll find him,” said Shaley. “Where can I get hold of you?”
“I work in Zeke’s Tamale Shop. On Cahuenga, north of Sunset.”
“I know the place,” said Shaley, standing up. He went over and opened the door. “Don’t worry about it any more. I’ll fix things up for you.”
She fumbled with the worn bag she was carrying. “I drew my money out of the bank this morning, Mr. Shaley. I can pay you. I’ll pay you right now.”
“Forget it,” Shaley said, uncomfortably. “I’ll send you a bill. And don’t give Bennie any of that money. I’ll take care of him.”
He stood in the doorway and watched her go through the outer office and out the door into the corridor.
Sadie looked over one slim shoulder at him, with a slight hurt expression.
“I heard what you said to her,” she stated, nodding her sleek head. “And you told me just this morning that you weren’t going to take any more customers unless they paid you in advance.”
“Phooey!” said Shaley. He slammed the door shut and went back and sat down behind his desk.
He picked up the penknife and stared at it thoughtfully.
“I’ll fix him up, all right,” he said sourly to himself. “I’ll wring the little cuss’ neck. Picking me to be the stooge in a blackmailing squeeze.”
He began to stab the drawer again with the penknife, scowling.
Suddenly the penknife stopped in mid air. Shaley sat still for several seconds, his eyes slowly widening.
He said: “My gawd!” in a thoughtfully awed voice. He sat there for a while longer and then yelled: “Sadie!”
Sadie opened the door and looked in. “What?”
“Listen, there was a murder in some hotel around here about a week back — some woman got herself killed. What hotel was it?”
“The Grover,” said Sadie.
Shaley leaned back in his chair. He smiled — a hard, tight smile that put deep lines around his mouth. He said: “So,” in a quietly triumphant voice.
“I read all about it in the paper,” said Sadie. “The woman’s name was ‘Big Cee.’ She was mixed up with some gangsters or something in Cleveland, and the police thought she came out here to hide, and that some of the gangsters found her. The papers said there were no clues to the murderer’s identity. Mr. Van Bilbo, the movie director, read about her death, and he felt sorry for her, and he paid for her funeral. I think that was very nice of him, don’t you, Mr. Shaley? A woman he didn’t know at all, that way.”
“Yes,” said Shaley. “It was very nice of Mr. Van Bilbo. Go away now. I want to think.”
Sadie slammed the door. Shaley picked his hat up off the floor and put it on, tipping it down over his eyes. He slid down in his chair and folded his hands across his chest.
After about ten minutes, he reached out and took up the telephone on his desk and dialed a number.
A feminine voice said liltingly: “This is the Grover — the largest and finest hotel west of the Mississippi.”
Shaley said: “Is McFane there?”
“Yes, sir. Just a moment, sir, and I’ll connect you with Mr. McFane.”
Shaley waited, tapping his fingers on the desk top.
“Hello.” It was a smoothly cordial voice.
Shaley said: “McFane? This is Ben Shaley.”
“Hello there, Ben. How’s the private detecting?”
“Just fair. Listen, McFane, have you got a bellhop around there by the name of Bennie Petersen?”
“We did have. The little chiseler quit us last week without any notice at all. Just didn’t show up for work. He in trouble?”
Shaley said: “No. Uh-huh. I was just wondering. He quit right after that murder you had, didn’t he?”
“Yes, come to think—” McFane stopped short. “Hey! Are you digging on that?”
“No, no,” Shaley said quickly. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“Listen, Ben,” McFane said in a worried tone. “Lay off, will you? We spent a thousand dollars’ worth of advertising killing that in the papers. It gives the hotel a bad name.”
“You got it all wrong,” Shaley said soothingly. “I’m not interested at all. I was just wondering. So long, McFane, and thanks.”
“Wait, Ben. Listen, I’ll make it worth your while — I’ll retain—”
Shaley hung up the receiver. He walked quickly out of the private office.
“If a guy by the name of McFane calls,” he said to Sadie, “tell him I just left for Europe. I’ll call you in an hour.”
“From Europe?” Sadie asked innocently.
Shaley went out and slammed the door.
The high board fence had once been painted a very bright shade of yellow, but now the paint was old and faded and streaked. It was peeling off in big patches that showed bare, brown board underneath.
Shaley parked his battered Chrysler roadster around the corner and walked back along the fence. There was a group of Indians standing in a silent, motionless circle in front of the big iron gate. They all had their arms folded across their chests. They all wore very gaudy shirts, and two of the older ones had strips of buckskin with beads sewn on them tied around their heads.
They didn’t look at Shaley, didn’t pay any attention to him.
Shaley walked up to the iron gate and peered through the thick, rusted bars. There was a car — a yellow Rolls-Royce — parked in the graveled roadway. The hood was pushed up, and two men were listening to the engine.
“If that’s what you call a piston slap,” one said, “you should be chauffeuring a wheelbarrow.”
Shaley said: “Hey, Mandy.”