By Max Allan Collins, Mickey Spillane
Thirty-two tales of beautiful ingenuity. Thirty-two writers of mythical genius. 100 years of crime fiction in a distinct assortment.
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Additional info for A Century of Noir: Thirty-Two Classic Crime Stories
He’d have to do something about that stomach of his first. And his face—well, I’m not so hot-looking I can complain. But his walk, as he opened the far door for us, bothered me. And the way he moved his hands looked as if he might break into Mendelssohn’s Spring Song any moment. A couple of minutes later Conklyn Lee and I stood before the steel door in the back of the shop. “I don’t think anyone is down there now,” he jittered. “But I don’t know—I couldn’t know. ” “Open her up,” I told him. ” He got the key working and we went down to the basement.
If I were willing to fade myself they’d let it go at that. If I weren’t, they wanted to find it out right away and knock me over. Anyway, I couldn’t get the truth out of Mary Morse—at least at once—since I didn’t know where she was. Then who could talk? And I had it. Her stepfather, Conklyn Lee. He had managed that firm since Mary’s grandfather’s death. I’m not a sentimental fool. Anyone who knows me knows that. Oh, if it comes to a show-down, I’ll die for a cause, but I’d much rather kill the cause and live for another one.
Should I call O’Rourke and—But Mary Morse came first. But hell, she didn’t come first—not before an entire city! I went to the desk, looked at the telephone on it. The telephone! And I thought back to a mistake I had made in my younger days. Forgetting a telephone, caving in a guy’s head who was supposed to use that phone to tell others the coast was clear. So it might be tonight. My eyes raised and rested on one of those huge vases. A place to hide—a damn good place to hide. ” Would they look inside the vase?