The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  Was he quick? Well, he never had no chance. Mind you, he had his gun in his hand, but he never used it. Just as clean as a whistle I had pulled and shot him straight between his bloodshot eyes. The train roared into the station as he fell and in the light of the headlight as it flashed by I got a look at his face. Oh, I knew it before, even in the dull light of the moon. Yep, you hit it—it was Feather-Face. You recollect I once told him that he’d be half a second too late.

  And then the brakeman swung out on the step; I climbed aboard; he swung his lantern and we were off.

  “Thought I heard a shot,” the brakeman said as he climbed up the steps behind me, where I struggled with the door.

  You see, I couldn’t tell what he had seen and I wanted to hear if he had any comments to make. I had half an idea that I had already done enough shooting to please the people of Clinton.

  “Yep.”

  I turn and look the man over as the train gains headway.

  “Yep, a dog snapped at me—a dirty dog—I killed him—with this.”

  With that I shoved my gun out under his chin sudden as I watched to see how he took it.

  “Thought I saw a figure—a human figure.”

  He lays down his lantern and stretches his hand up toward the emergency strap.

  Then in the dim light from his lantern I catch the glimpse of a tiny button beneath his coat—yep, his lapel is half twisted around and I take a chance that the letters on that button are KOTOP.

  Looking him straight in the eyes, I suddenly raise my right hand and place it over my right eye, palm in—then I reverse the hand, giving him the Klan salute.

  His hand lingers for a moment on the bell, but I see that his fingers loosen their grip.

  “AYAK,” he says.

  “AKIA,” I answer.

  His hand drops from the bell and without another word he turns and enters the forward car. I stand so a moment; then with a grin I slip into the rear car. After all that is said against the Klan, I sure got to admit that there are times when it serves its purpose.

  Waiting for Rusty

  William Cole

  WILLIAM COLE (1912–1992) was born in Manhattan and graduated from Lehigh University. A freelance writer, he lived in New York City for the last sixty years of his life. In addition to short stories, he contributed factual articles on health, family relations, and other social issues to Good Housekeeping, Family Circle, and The Ladies’ Home Journal. He also wrote reports for the National Institutes of Health and other federal agencies, as well as scripts for documentary films for the United States Information Service.

  The short-short “Waiting for Rusty” was his only contribution to Black Mask. Although very brief, it elicited more reader response than almost any story ever to appear in the magazine. It was published in the October 1939 issue.

  Waiting for Rusty

  William Cole

  ONE OF THESE DAYS I’M GOING TO tell the sheriff. One of these days he’s going to blow his mouth off once too often and I’m going to take him out there and show him. I may get on the wrong side of him but it’ll be worth it.…

  I’m just closing up my little roadside place for the night when they come in. Dotty and three guys. One of the men has a sawed-off shotgun and he stands by the window. Dotty and the others come up to the bar.

  “Evenin’, Professor,” Dotty says, looking around. “You here alone?”

  “Yeah,” I says, when I’m able to talk. “Yeah, but—”

  “Good,” Dotty says. “Lock that back door and then start pourin’ rye.”

  She’s wearing a blue slicker turned up at the neck and no hat. Her light hair is a little fluffed from the wind. She looks about the same as I remember she did when she went to the high school at Milbrook, only now you can’t look long at her eyes.

  “Listen, miss,” I says, “listen, you don’t want to stay here. They’re surrounding the whole county. I just got it over the radio.”

  “He’s right,” the man at the window says. “We gotta keep movin’, Dot. We gotta keep movin’—and fast, or we’ll wake up in the morgue.”

  “Get outside,” Dotty tells him, “and keep your eyes open or you’ll wake up there anyway.”

  She goes over and turns on the radio. The other two men keep walking around. They’re all smoking cigarettes, one right after the other.

  I know enough to do what I’m told.

  There’s nothing on the radio but some dance music. The two men look at each other; then the shorter one goes over to Dotty.

  “I know how you feel, Dot,” he says. “But they’re right on our tail. We gotta—”

  “I told you boys once,” Dot says, “and I’m not tellin’ you again. We wait here for Rusty.”

  “But supposin’ he don’t come?” the man says. He has a way of rubbing his wrist. “Supposin’ … supposin’ he can’t make it? Supposin’—”

  “Supposin’ you dry up,” Dotty says. “Rusty said he’ll be here and when Rusty says something …”

  The music breaks off and she whirls to listen to the press-radio flash. It’s about the same as the last. The police have thrown a dragnet around the entire northern part of the State and are confident of capturing Rusty Nelson and his mob at any hour. Dotty don’t think much of this but when she is called Rusty’s girl and Gun Moll No. 1, she smiles and takes a bow.

  “After the bank hold-up yesterday,” the announcer says, “Rusty and Dotty split up, one car going north, the other northwest. The State Trooper who tried to stop Dotty at Preston this afternoon died on the way to the hospital.”

  “Too bad,” Dotty says. “He had the nicest blue eyes.”

  A car goes by on the highway outside and they all stand still for a second. Then the music comes back loud and the men jump to tune it down low. The taller one is swearing under his breath.

  “Canada ain’t big enough,” he says sarcastic-like. “We gotta meet here.”

  Dotty don’t say anything.

  In no time at all, they finish the bottle of rye. I open another.

  “Maybe he couldn’t get through,” the shorter man says. “Maybe he tried to but couldn’t.”

  There’s another radio flash. The cops have traced Rusty to Gatesville.

  This makes Dotty feel a lot better. She laughs. “He’s near Gatesville,” she says, “like we’re near Siberia.”

  She gets feeling pretty good, thinking of Rusty. She don’t mind the music now, the way the men do. She asks me if it comes from the Pavilion and I tell her yes.

  “I was there once,” she says. “I went there with Rusty. They were havin’ a dance and he took me.” The men aren’t interested and she tells it to me. “I had to wear an old dress because that’s all I had, but Rusty, he sees me and says, ‘Gee, kid, where’d you get the new dress?’ and we hop in his boiler and roll down there.”

  She has stopped walking around now and her eyes are all different.

  “They have the whole place fixed up … those colored lights on a string and the tables under the trees and two bands on the platform. As soon as one stops, the other one starts. And there’s a guy goes around in a white coat with those little sandwiches and you can take all you want.”

  There’s the scream of a siren in the distance. The men take out guns.

  “The girls all wear flowers,” Dotty says. “And I don’t have none. But Rusty says, ‘You just wait here,’ and soon he’s back with a big bunch of flowers, all colors and kinds. Only I can’t wear half of them, there’s too many. And then we dance and drink punch until the cops come. And then we have to lam out of there; they say Rusty bust in the glass in the town florist shop.”

  The siren is much louder now. The man with the shotgun runs in.

  “A patrol car just passed!” he says. “Come on, let’s blow!”

  Dotty don’t seem to hear. “Get back out there,” she tells him.

  The man’s face goes even whiter. He looks at Dotty and then at the others. “I say we move,” he says. “Rusty or no Rust
y. We’ll be knocked off here sure.”

  The other men try to stop him but can’t.

  “And we don’t even know that he’ll show. He might’ve turned south, or kept west. All the time we’re waitin’ here he might even be—”

  Dotty has put her back to the bar. She waves a gun at the man.

  “Get away from that door,” she says. She leans back on her elbows. “Drop that rattle and get over there. We don’t want to have to step over you.”

  It takes the man a minute to get it. Then his knees begin to give. He opens his mouth a few times but nothing comes out.

  Then there’s that static on the radio and the announcer telling how Rusty was nabbed down in Talbot. Dotty stands there and listens, resting back on the bar.

  “Not a single shot was fired,” the announcer says. “The gangster was completely surprised by the raid. Alone in the hide-out with Nelson was a pretty dark-haired, unidentified girl.”

  Then there’s that static and the music again.

  Nobody looks at Dotty for a while. Then the man with the shotgun bolts for the door. No sooner he’s opened it, he shuts it again. “There’s a guy comin’ up the road,” he says. “He’s got on a badge.”

  For what seems a long time, Dotty don’t move. Then she reaches out and snaps off the radio. “Let him come,” she says. “You guys get out in the car.”

  The men don’t argue. They go out the back.

  Dotty walks slowly to the door. When she speaks, her voice isn’t flat any more.

  “You know,” she tells me, “it was funny about those flowers. They just wouldn’t stay put. Every minute I’d fix them and the next minute they’d slip. One of the girls said the pin was too big.”

  She steps out on the porch, and I drop flat in back of the bar.

  “Hello, copper,” I hear her say. The rest is all noise.…

  One of these days I’m going to show the sheriff. One of these days he’s going to tell once too often how he got Dotty and I’m going to take him out on the porch and show him.…

  Sure, she might have missed him, even Dotty might have missed him twice in a row. But she would never have put those two slugs in the ceiling. Not Dotty. Not unless she had reason to. Not unless she wanted to die.

  Rainbow Diamonds

  Ramon Decolta

  RAMON DECOLTA WAS THE pseudonym of Raoul Whitfield, who spent much of his early life in the Philippines, where his father was attached to the Territorial Government in Manila. His familiarity with the Philippines, and Filipinos, enabled him to make a significant breakthrough in the way Asians were portrayed in pulp fiction—and in Western literature in general. Although the Dr. Fu Manchu novels were extremely popular, they portrayed the “Devil Doctor” as a malignant force with no redeeming virtues until the late books in the series. Earl Derr Biggers represented Charlie Chan respectfully, but he had only a minor role in the first book about him, and then was often shown as a comic figure. But with Jo Gar, Whitfield created an important character without condescension in a series of twenty-six short stories, twenty-four of which appeared in Black Mask between February 1930 and July 1933; two lesser stories ran later in the 1930s in Collier’s. It was only after the appearance of Whitfield’s Jo Gar and the success he enjoyed in the pages of Black Mask that Hugh Wiley began to write about Mr. Wong (who became a popular movie character, played by Boris Karloff) and that John P. Marquand created Mr. Moto, famously portrayed in films by Peter Lorre. Gar is a private detective who works from a seedy little office but lives in a fancy gated house with a houseboy, Vincente. Eighteen of the Black Mask Jo Gar stories were collected in Jo Gar’s Casebook (2002). The six connected stories that comprise Rainbow Diamonds have never before been published in book form. They ran in the February through August 1931 issues.

  Rainbow Diamonds

  Ramon Decolta

  Jo Gar, the Island detective, takes up a trail of justice and vengeance.

  HE BROWN-FACED driver of the carromatta shrilled words at the skinny pony, tugged on the right rein. He stood up in front of his small seat and waved his left arm wildly. Jo Gar leaned forward and watched the approaching machine sway down the narrow street. It was a closed car, mud-stained. It swung from side to side, traveling at high speed. For a second its engine was pointed to the right of the carromatta, now crowded far to one side of the street. And then it careened straight towards the small vehicle.

  The driver shrilled one word. His small, scantily clad body curved from the front seat. For a second Jo Gar had an unobstructed glance of the speeding car. He muttered a sharp “Dios!”—hunched his small figure forward and jumped.

  His sandals had not touched the broken, narrow pavement at the right side of the street when his ears heard the splintering of wood. A woman screamed, in a high, short note, down the street. There was another splintering sound—then the cry of the pony. Jo Gar’s diminutive body struck the pavement; he went to his knees, lost balance and rolled over on his back. His pith helmet snapped from his head, thudded like a drum lightly struck, away from him.

  He wasn’t hurt, and got slowly to his feet. There was a great deal of excitement in the street. The pony had been dragged to the curb and lay on one side, tangled in the carromatta shafts. It was vainly trying to rise. The vehicle was a wreck. But the machine was still swaying on its way—a horn sounding steadily.

  Near the Pasig the street curved sharply to the left. Even as Jo Gar stared after the machine, it swung far to the right. For a second he thought it would crash into the awninged Chinese shop at the curve. But it did not—it swung back into the middle of the street, was lost from sight. The sound of the horn died. Voices all about the Island detective were raised, pitched high. Chinese, Spaniards, Filipinos—the street was suddenly filled with them.

  Jo Gar recovered his helmet, placed it on his head. The sun was still hot, though it was sinking over the bay. He moved towards the struggling pony, speaking sharply to the driver, who was shouting wildly after the vanished car. Together they freed the pony from the shafts and harness—it struggled to its feet and stood trembling, nostrils wide. The driver cursed steadily.

  A brown, open car came down the street from the direction the other had come, horn screaming. Jo Gar narrowed his gray-blue eyes on the brown uniforms of Manila police—saw the face of Juan Arragon turned momentarily towards him. The Manila lieutenant of police shouted something—then the car was beyond. A wheel lifted wreckage of the carromatta, deposited by the crash car fifty yards distant, and sent it skimming towards the pavement. A voice behind Jo said excitedly:

  “What the devil, Señor Gar! That was a close one for you—”

  A man dressed in white duck was running down the street towards the wreckage of the carromatta. He wore no helmet. He shouted hoarsely, but slowed down as he neared the spot where the crowd had gathered. Jo Gar said in an unhurried tone:

  “What is it, Grassner?”

  The man in white duck was short, thick-set. He had the squarish face of a German. He widened blue eyes on the Island detective’s narrowed ones.

  “Delgado’s!” he breathed heavily. “Robbery—there were three cars—different directions!”

  Jo Gar said slowly: “Delgado’s—yes. Of course. And three cars—”

  The carromatta driver was standing near the pony, cursing shrilly. Tears of rage ran down his brown cheeks. There was still much excitement. The Island detective said sharply to the driver:

  “Please stop it! Your pony is not much hurt. You will be paid for the carromatta. That is enough!”

  Grassner said thickly, breathing with difficulty:

  “Herr Mattlien is dead. A bullet hit him.”

  Jo Gar frowned. He had little use for Herr Mattlien. But robbery had now become murder. He asked in a low, almost toneless voice:

  “You saw—the robbery?”

  Grassner blinked at him with his small, blue eyes. He shook his head. People were crowding around them.

  “I was in the International Bank, around the
corner,” he said more calmly. “There were shots—and I ran out. Cars were moving away from Delgado’s, and Mattlien was running towards them, a gun in his hand. There were more shots—he fell. I went to him—he was dead.”

  Jo Gar made a clicking sound. He shook his head, spoke to the carromatta driver.

  “I am Señor Gar—come to my office later and I shall help you.”

  The driver said: “I am a very poor man—”

  The Island detective nodded. “It is true,” he agreed. “But you are also alive.”

  He moved along the street, towards the corner near the Escolta, occupied by Delgado’s jewelry shop. A crowd was gathering; there were many police. A deadline had already been established, but Jo Gar was well-known; he went through the entrance, into the warm air stirred by the shop’s ceiling fans.

  Arnold Carlysle, the American chief of Manila police, had arrived and was listening to words from the short, black-mustached owner of the place. Liam Delgado’s white hair was ruffled; he moved his hands nervously. Carlysle, listening, saw Jo Gar enter the shop. He beckoned to him.

  Delgado was saying in his perfect English: “It was terrible! Ramon—my only son—dying as I came out from the vault—”

  He turned away abruptly, covered his face with his long-fingered, brown hands. Carlysle spoke grimly to Jo:

  “They used—American methods, Gar. Three cars—with license plates covered with dust. Four of the men came inside. Delgado’s son resisted—they shot him down. Mattlien, the German guard at the International Bank—he was shot down, in the street. They escaped in all directions—but we’ll get them, Gar!”

  The Island detective nodded. He said in his toneless voice:

  “One of the cars upset the carromatta in which I was approaching the Escolta. It was going towards the Pasig, and Juan Arragon was in close pursuit.”

  Carlysle nodded grimly. “We heard the shots—at the station,” he said. “It was a daring robbery.”