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 extraordinary assortment.
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Pietr-le-Letton arrive à Paris. Nul doute qu'il est là pour réaliser une des colossales escroqueries dont il est coutumier. Le commissaire Maigret, qui a reçu son signalement, le repère à son arrivée en gare du Nord. Il s'apprête à le filer lorsqu'un employé du teach l'entraîne vers un compartiment où gît le cadavre d'un homme, parfait sosie du Letton.
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Boone Daniels lives to surf. Laid again, ultra–California cool, the previous cop grew to become PI starts off on a daily basis with the sunrise Patrol, a close-knit team of surfers, most sensible acquaintances who not just trip waves jointly yet have one another’s backs out of the water. It’s the existence Boone loves, all he wishes. To him, “There’s no such factor as a foul day on the seashore.
Extra resources for A Century of Noir: Thirty-Two Classic Crime Stories
I went over to those crates of vases and examined them again. The Morse and Lee name was painted in great black letters on wide slats. Respectability that—keen thinking. And the vases weren’t completely boxed. All the world could see what was being carried. And I saw it—or thought I did. I took out my flash and examined the boards of a crate; then another and another. By God, the stuff must be in them! I’m not an expert carpenter; I didn’t need to be. One or two boards on every crate had been hammered up far enough to remove the vases, then nailed down again.
It was dark and my judgment wasn’t so good. My shoulders caught for a moment in the neck, slipped through and I landed bent up like a jackknife inside that vase. Why did I pull that quick drop? Well, a bolt had clicked; a heavy iron bar was removed from the alley door. I’d heard it distinctly, as even now I heard the door beginning to slide back. But I was safe inside. The door opened and closed. Groping feet crossed the stone floor, the feet of a lone man. Then the feet left the stone and settled on the rug.
I can wear the boiled shirt as well as the next fellow and talk so I won’t be taken for a waiter. But a shoulder holster isn’t so good with a tux, unless you sport a small gun. Me—I don’t like twenty-twos. When I put a hole in a guy I don’t embarrass half a dozen doctors who try to find it. My motto is: There isn’t much sense in shooting the same guy over and over. The exclusive Hotel York Terrace was having something put over on it. I spotted him as soon as I entered the lobby. He was all decked out in fish-and-soup and leaning against a pillar—a bad boy of the night.