Dead Men Do Tell Tales E-Book

Day Keene

• Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The night noises of Greenwich Village had died away and the familiar sounds and smells of morning were beginning. There was a fragrance of freshly made coffee and frying onions. He could hear a faint tinkle of milk bottles and an occasional scuff of feet on the walk as some early rising laborer made his way to the subway. Dawn followed the swish of the water truck up Sullivan Street! A new day had begun. A day that would begin with blackmail...and end in murder.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION, by Karl Wurf

DEAD MEN DO TELL TALES, by Day Keene

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Originally published in Short Stories (1949).

Published by Black Cat Weekly

blackcatweekly.com

INTRODUCTION,by Karl Wurf

Day Keene (real name Gunard Hjertstedt, 1904–1969) was a prolific American author who carved a niche for himself in the mid-20th century with his gritty, fast-paced mysteries. Known for his ability to weave intricate plots with richly drawn characters, Keene became a significant figure in the pulp fiction world. His work often delved into the darker aspects of human nature, featuring themes of betrayal, corruption, and redemption.

He began his writing career in the 1930s, initially penning short stories for pulp magazines. His knack for storytelling soon led him to write full-length novels, many of which became highly regarded within the genre. Some of his best-known works include Home Is the Sailor (1952), a riveting tale of a sailor who becomes entangled in a web of deceit and murder upon returning home, and Wake Up to Murder (1952), which explores the complexities of love and crime in a small town.

Under various pseudonyms, including Lewis Dixon and William Richards, Keene’s versatility and productivity were evident. His ability to adapt his style to different audiences without losing the core intensity of his storytelling made him a favorite among mystery enthusiasts.

Keene’s novels are characterized by their brisk pacing, well-crafted dialogue, and an unflinching look at the seamier side of life. His protagonists often find themselves in impossible situations, facing moral dilemmas that challenge their integrity and resolve. This blend of suspense and psychological depth has ensured Keene’s lasting impact on the genre.

For readers looking to delve into Keene’s oeuvre, Home Is the Sailor and Sleep with the Devil (1954) are excellent starting points, showcasing his ability to blend compelling characters with taut, suspenseful narratives. As you immerse yourself in the world of Day Keene, prepare for a journey into the shadowy realms of human nature, where every turn of the page promises a new twist.

DEAD MEN DO TELL TALES,by Day Keene

Cooler weather indeed! Santa mia Madonna! The weather man was out of his head. He had been dropped as a bambino, and not on that portion of his anatomy that had been plumpest at the time. It stood to reason the heat wave would continue. Was this not New York? Was this not August? As for himself, as certainly as his name was Giovanni Lorenzo Garibaldi Fabriano Bianco, Papa Bianco hoped it would grow even hotter.

A big man given to flesh, he lay next to Mama in the early dawn thinking of his garden growing hourly more beautiful and fragrant in the small yard back of the restaurant. Where tin cans and ashes had been before, he had made a thing of beauty. And now—with the beautiful birthday present from Mama. Papa Bianco’s bulk quivered with emotion and he patted Mama’s most convenient bulge tenderly before turning on his side to stare impatiently at the graying bedroom window.

The night noises of Greenwich Village had died away, and the familiar sounds and smells of morning were beginning. There was a fragrance of freshly made coffee and frying onions. He could hear a faint tinkle of milk bottles and an occasional scuff of feet on the walk as some early rising laborer made his way to the subway. Dawn followed the swish of the water truck up Sullivan Street! A new day had begun.

The window fully grayed, Papa Bianco eased his bulk from the bed in a great creaking of springs. A devout man his first act of the day was to make his devotion before the image of the Virgin. Then he waddled barefooted to the open window, the long tails of cotton nightshirt dangling limp and damp around his ankles.

Truly the world was well conceived. After night had served its purpose God dropped a smile into the juke box of eternity and another day rose dripping from the ocean to revolve on the turntable of time. His roses, larkspur, hollyhocks, marigolds, snapdragons, and gaillardia, had never been more beautiful. He examined the thermometer nailed to the outside of the sill with interest. Even this early in the morning the mercury was well up in the nineties. It would be another growing day.

Dressed he tiptoed in elephantine silence down the inside stairs leading to the ground floor restaurant. The darkened restaurant was fairly cool and aromatic with the lingering odor of good food. Putting a pot of coffee to boil he drank his morning glass of brandy then caught up with his books by thumbing through the signed food checks Mama kept on a spike on her desk.

Good. Young Vardell’s tabs were gone. His one man show had been a success. He had sold at least one picture. Tch, tch, tch. But young Martin was still getting rejection slips instead of checks. And now he was into Mama for rent money.

The Signora Betty Carson, too, was still embarrassed. Papa Bianco thumbed through her tabs and breathed a fervent prayer the show she was currently rehearsing would be a huge success. Cristo Madonna. Where did a slim little thing like that put so much to eat? It was truly fortunate he and Mama served dinners only. With any more such variety of patronage he would have to close his doors.

Finished with his coffee he unbolted the kitchen door and walked out into the yard that was in reality little but an air well for the remodeled cold water tenement whose walls rose sheer on three sides of it. Mama’s present was in the narrow shed he had built to house his garden tools. The sack was warranted to hold two and one cubic yards and squatting on his fat haunches Papa read the fine printing under the picture of a sad and frustrated looking bull:

This Steer Manure is Warranted to Be Free of Noxious Weed Seeds. Gathered From Cement Floors. Produced from Steers Fattened For Beef Market Which Have Been Fed On Cotton-Seed Meal and Hulls and Especially Prepared for Lawns, Shrubs, Flowers, and Gardens.

Ah, Beautiful Mama. This would make things really grow. He started to open the sack then got to his feet with the effortless ease peculiar to some fat men as the first of Betty Carson’s screams filled the well.