Showing posts with label pulp. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pulp. Show all posts
Monday, July 9, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Night Shots by Dashiell Hammett
NIGHT SHOTS
Dashiell Hammett
The house was of red brick, large and square, with a green slate roof whose wide overhang gave the building an appearance of being too squat for its two stories; and it stood on a grassy hill, well away from the country road upon which it turned its back to look down on the Mokelumne River.
The Ford that I had hired to bring me out from Knownburg carried me into the grounds through a high steel-meshed gate, followed the circling gravel drive, and set me down within a foot of the screened porch that ran all the way around the house's first floor.
“There's Exon's son-in-law now,” the driver told me as he pocketed the bill I had given him and prepared to drive away.
I turned to see a tall, loose-jointed man of thirty or so coming across the porch toward me — a carelessly dressed man with a mop of rumpled brown hair over a handsome sunburned face. There was a hint of cruelty in the lips that were smiling lazily just now, and more than a hint of recklessness in his narrow gray eyes.
“Mr. Gallaway?” I asked as he came down the steps.
'Yes.” His voice was a drawling baritone. “You are —”
“From the Continental Detective Agency's San Francisco branch,” I finished for him.
He nodded, and held the screen door open for me.
“Just leave your bag there. I'll have it taken up to your room.”
He guided me into the house and — after I had assured him that I had already eaten luncheon — gave me a soft chair and an excellent cigar. He sprawled on his spine in an armchair opposite me — all loose-jointed angles sticking out of it in every direction — and blew smoke at the ceiling.
“First off,” he began presently, his words coming out languidly, “I may as well tell you that I don't expect very much in the way of results. I sent for you more for the soothing effect of your presence on the household than because I expect you to do anything. I don't believe there's anything to do. However, I'm not a detective. I may be wrong. You may find out all sorts of more or less important things. If you do — fine! But I don't insist upon it.”
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Thrilling Detective
Thrilling Detective
Featuring:
Dangerous to Handle - A Novelet of Crime and Vice by Mark Reed
Sucker's Bribe by R. Van Taylor
Thrilling Detective
Thrilling Detective
The City of the LIving Dead
The City of the Living Dead
Laurence Manning and Fletcher Pratt
Science Wonder Stories, May, 1930
THIS story, in our opinion, is one of the most unusual that has appeared in recent years, for it deals with a subject which is bound up with our whole existence.
We all know that our experiences come to us through our senses; that is, the senses of hearing, sight, touch, smell, taste, etc.; and that, if these senses were removed, although we would still know we were alive, the world itself would cease to exist for us.
But suppose that, instead of having our natural organs of sense, we were supplied with artificial ones, and that by the medium of a mechanical device we could experience any sensation or event that we wish. Then, you might say, we would be living in a true Utopia. However, this is not really so, and, as our authors point out so convincingly, there might be a total degeneration of our human race, and even a cessation of all life.
THE sun sank slowly behind the far-off, torn and rocky crags, throwing up a last red glare like a shout of defiance as the white tooth of Herjehogmen mountain blotted the last beams from Alvrosdale. A deep-toned copper bell rang across the evening, and the young men and girls, leaving their dancing on the ice, came trooping up the path in little groups to the Hall of Assembly, laughing and talking. Their gay-colored clothes stood out brilliantly against the white background of the snow in the Northern twilight that often seems like day.
At the door of the Hall they parted—not without sadness, since for many it was the last parting—some going into the Hall, others passing on up the path to the line of houses. Those who entered were grave, though they had smiled not long before. Yet they were a goodly company for all that, some three-score in number and all in the fire of youth.
Within the hall might be seen benches; a great fire against one wall, and against the other the mouldering remains of those Machines that were the last relics of the days of old. At the center was a dais with places for the elders of Alvros, and midmost among these sat a man full of years, but in no wise feeble. Strong, stern, white-headed, he bore on one arm the silver band of authority, and in his hand he held a small, shiny Machine, round in shape and with a white face which bore twelve characters written in black. As the youth took their places, he twisted this Machine, so that it rang a bell, loud and stridently. Then there was silence, and the old man rose to speak.
Blackmail Clinic
BLACKMAIL CLINIC
By WALT BRUCE
Popular Detective , December 1943
A Complete Dr. Zeng Mystery Novel
A Nazi “truth serum” proves a boomerang when Dr. Zeng Tse-Lin invades the precincts of treachery in a daring campaign to clean up a sinister nest of murder and espionage!
CHAPTER I. DEATH TO THE FEDS
T HE night was ominously dark, with just enough fog in the air to veil the stars in shroud-like semi-concealment. All around the Bay Area, spectral fingers of white glow probed weirdly into low-hanging mists, moving and stabbing and shifting. These were the antiaircraft searchlights bearing mute witness to the alertness of a nation at war.It was strange, Steve McCune thought, how San Francisco had changed. Once upon a time its brilliance and light could have been seen for miles, but now the city's glitter was dimmed down to a mere ghost-reflection. This waterfront street, for example, with its electroliers hooded and all neon signs doused by order of the Army Interceptor Command, was like a shadowy gullet waiting to swallow the unwary traveler.
McCune shivered a little and wished for the full power of his small coupé's headlamps instead of the undersized, fender-mounted parking lights which were all the law permitted you to use after nightfall in this neighborhood. He felt worn and weary as he drove slowly home from the shipyard where he was employed; weary, and vaguely uneasy.
IT was past midnight, and Steve McCune had good reason to feel tired. In recent months he had been on the swing shift, starting work at four in the afternoon and quitting at twelve. That usually made it around one in the morning before he got home to the old house where he lived with his family.
Sleep was difficult under such conditions. True, he had remodeled the attic into a makeshift bedroom for himself in order to get as far away as possible from daytime traffic noises. But even so, it was hard to obtain the proper amount of rest when everybody else was up and stirring around.
He yawned as he drove; shivered again, although the night was not cold. His sensation of uneasiness persisted, crawling through his marrow like a slithery premonition of impending disaster. His mouth twisted wryly as he thought about his job as foreman of the big shipyard's blueprint department.
It was a good job, an important job, the sort of work which made a man feel that he was valuably contributing to his country's war effort. For the yard was constructing a new and secret type of Q- boat for the Navy, breaking all records in the speedy fabricating of these hush-hush antisubmarine weapons. McCune had thoroughly enjoyed his part in the vast program until a certain thing had happened.
He swore silently, remembering the ugly circumstances that had enmeshed him. Then he glanced at his rearview mirror and went suddenly tense as he saw the hooded lights of a car behind him. There could be no doubt about it, now. He had suspected it for the past several blocks. He was being followed.
“They're after me!” he whispered.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Another Job for Homicide
Another Job for Homicide
C. K. M. Scanlon
Thrilling Detective , July, 1946
Gary Hammond tackles a clueless murder puzzle!
GARY HAMMOND of Homicide did not act or look like a first grade detective, but he was one of the best men on the New York Police Force. He was slender and dark and looked and dressed like a fairly successful young business man. He was polite to old ladies, kind to children, and tough on crooks.
Now he stood near the door of the living room of a Park Avenue apartment and watched the Homicide Squad at work. The police photographer had finished making angle shots of the corpse sprawled out on the oriental rug. Dr. Doyle, from the Medical Examiner's office, was tapping one foot impatiently as he waited for the chalk outline of the body to be made.
“He would die on a rug like this,” muttered the man with chalk. “It's like trying to make marks on seaweed or something.”
“Hurry up,” said Dr. Doyle impatiently. “I haven't got all day.” He glanced over at Hammond. “Who was he anyway?” he asked.
“Lowell Malden,” Hammond said. “Sportsman, man about town, and now he is just as dead as any other mackerel.”
Baldy and the Strip-Tease Murder
BALDY AND THE STRIP-TEASE MURDER
By JACK KOFOED
Popular Detective , August 1946
When it comes to being killed, a girl like Choo Choo deserves the best!
MISTER BALDY SIMMONS is not in the habit of visiting burlesque theaters, because the jokes are at least thirty years old and the chorus girls sometimes even older. However, there is a strip-tease character named Choo Choo Wallace, whose figure makes even the Venus de Milo look like an old bag.
It is unfair to Mr. Simmons to say he goes to the Bijou just because of Choo Choo's figure, though thousands of other people do exactly this.
Miss Wallace is the daughter of a fellow Baldy is acquainted with from 'way back when Rum Row is better known than the Stork Club. He is Light Fingers Wallace, one of the best liquor dealers of his time. Light Fingers, however, has the misfortune to spend all his money hiring lawyers to keep him out of the sneezer during prohibition days, so when Choo Choo gets into the dough, she has to keep pappy as well as herself.
Choo Choo is not too cheerful about this situation, because she finds it necessary to spend plenty of potatoes on such things as diamonds, sables, and a Park Avenue penthouse. To make it more complicated, Light Fingers is unhappy if he is unable to bet a sizable wad on the horses and he is one of the worst pickers in the entire world. This combination keeps the Wallace bankroll in a tired and frazzled condition.
As a matter of fact, just this very afternoon Choo Choo calls Baldy and speaks in this manner: “It is up to you to sell a bill of goods to the old goat I am unfortunate enough to have for a pater. He loses more dough on the horses than Nick the Greek is able to win at dice, and I am getting sick and tired of paying off bookmakers. Unless he stops playing the ponies, I cut him off my payroll and let him break his heart by going to work.”
Models For Murder by W.T. Ballard
Private Detective Stories, August, 1945
What grim motive was behind the terroristic frightening of those beautiful New York models, and behind the murder that accompanied it? I, Austin Gardner, had two dangerous reasons for wanting to find out . . . .
JIMMY WABASH said; “I'm telling you, Austin, this gal is something. You can take your million-buck models and throw them all together and you ain't got nothing that can touch her.”
I regarded him with amusement. He was a funny little guy with red hair and the sharpest- pointed nose I've ever seen. A photographer, and a good one, he preferred to freelance rather than take a job, although he could have commanded an excellent salary.
“I like to take pictures of what I want, the way I want to take them,” he told me once, and I believed him.
“Take it easy, Jimmy,” I said, winking at Henry Graylord, my agency manager. “You'll blow a fuse. To hear you tell it, this tomato is super-extra. I'd almost think you were gone on her if I didn't know that you regard women as strictly from hunger.”
He grinned, the red climbing up his pinched cheeks until it reached his oversized ears and colored them. “I wouldn't know about that.” He'd lowered his voice. “You see, the way I feel about this Mary . . . all I want to do is sit and look at her, like you would look at a statue or something.”
G-Man Heat by Milton Lowe
Thrilling Detective , December, 1938
Frank Craig, Postal Inspector, Barges Head-On into a Malicious Racket where Murder is Just a Starter!
POSTAL INSPECTOR FRANK CRAIG slanted the nose of his Boeing Special into the headwind, then let the big monoplane glide earthward in a long swoop. Field lights afforded him ample visibility despite the downpour that had turned the airport into a veritable mire.
The plane sat down without a bump, rippled the muddy ground with its tail wheel, then headed across to the government hangar at the south end of the field. Killing the ignition with a quick twist of his wrist, Craig froze the stick into position. Two attendants, braving the swishing rain, grabbed the wings at either end and guided the plane into the lighted hangar.
No sooner had it cleared the doorway than Craig vaulted from the cockpit. A man in a topcoat rushed out to greet him. Craig accepted his hand brusquely, his eyes alive with a burning gleam. His jaws were set, his lips straight.
Companions of the Corpse by Frank Johnson
Thrilling Detective , September, 1942
When Bill Hunter found a pal murdered on the beach, he knew it was time to move against his fifth column killers—and did he move!
BILL HUNTER stood with the wind blowing the damp, salty air against his face and bitter hatred lingering in his heart. Out there in the bleak darkness of the cloudy night, the booming of the surf was a throbbing undercurrent to the bitter thoughts racing through his mind.
Again Bill Hunter switched on the flashlight in his left hand. The face of the dead man lying on the wet sand was yellow in the glow. The dried blood and the bruises, the way the lips were still twisted in a grimace of pain showed that Tom Crawford must have suffered a lot before he died.
“I'll get them, Tom,” said Hunter harshly. “Those rats can't kill a G-man and get away with it!”
The light in Hunter's hand went out as he pressed the catch. For a moment he stood there, a vague figure in the shadows. There was nothing he could do for Crawford now. The less that was known about his even having found the body, the better.
There had been reports of lights seen at night along this lonely section of the Long Island beach front, lights that were suspected of being the work of fifth columnists. Of what use was all of the effort to dim out the entire city of New York when there was still a bright flare of light coming from the beach that was visible for miles out to sea?
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