Penzler, Otto - The Black Lizard Big Book of Locked-Room Mysteries / Пенцлер, Отто - Большая книга "невозможных преступлений"

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 Penzler, Otto - The Black Lizard Big Book of Locked-Room Mysteries / Пенцлер, Отто - Большая книга "невозможных преступлений"

The Black Lizard Big Book of Locked-Room Mysteries

Название: The Black Lizard Big Book of Locked-Room Mysteries / Большая книга "невозможных преступлений"

Год выпуска: 2014

Под редакцией: Penzler, Otto / Пенцлер, Отто

Издательство: Vintage/Black Lizard

eISBN: 978-0-8041-7279-0

Формат: EPUB

Качество: eBook

Язык: английский

Релиз группы:

Описание:

Огромное (68 произведений; в бумажном виде 956 страниц) собрание детективов с общей темой "невозможное преступление", начиная с классической "запертой комнаты" и далее по всем вариантам ... И авторы: начиная с Эдгара По до современных.

:

Introduction by Otto Penzler

Familiar as the Rose in Spring (The most popular and frequently reprinted impossible-crime stories of all time.)

THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE / Убийство на улице Морг Edgar Allan Poe

THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13 / Загадка тринадцатой камеры Jacques Futrelle

A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED / Странная кровать Wilkie Collins

THE TWO BOTTLES OF RELISH / Две бутылки приправы Lord Dunsany

THE INVISIBLE MAN / Невидимка G. K. Chesterton

THE DOOMDORF MYSTERY / Тайна Думдорфа Melville Davisson Post

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND / Пёстрая лента Arthur Conan Doyle

This Was the Unkindest Cut of All (Stabbing in a completely sealed environment appears to be the most common murder method.)

THE WRONG PROBLEM John Dickson Carr

THE THING INVISIBLE / Незримый страж William Hope Hodgson

DEPARTMENT OF IMPOSSIBLE CRIMES James Yaffe

THE ALUMINIUM DAGGER R. Austin Freeman

THE CREWEL NEEDLE Gerald Kersh

THE DOCTOR’S CASE / Расследование доктора Уотсона Stephen King

A KNIFE BETWEEN BROTHERS Manly Wade Wellman

THE GLASS GRAVESTONE Joseph Commings

THE TEA LEAF / Чайный лист Edgar Jepson & Robert Eustace

THE FLUNG-BACK LID Peter Godfrey

THE CROOKED PICTURE John Lutz

BLIND MAN’S HOOD Carter Dickson

Footprints in the Sands of Time (Is there a more baffling scenario than to find a body in smooth sand or snow with no footprints leading to or from the victim?)

THE MAN FROM NOWHERE Edward D. Hoch

THE LAUGHING BUTCHER Fredric Brown

THE SANDS OF THYME Michael Innes

THE FLYING DEATH Samuel Hopkins Adams

THE FLYING CORPSE A. E. Martin

THE FLYING HAT Vincent Cornier

And We Missed It, Lost Forever (It is a fantasy for many people to disappear from their present lives. Some people disappear because they want to; others disappear because someone else wants them to. And objects—large objects—sometimes disappear in the same manner.)

THE DAY THE CHILDREN VANISHED / День, когда исчезли дети Hugh Pentecost

THE TWELFTH STATUE / Двенадцатая статуя Stanley Ellin

ALL AT ONCE, NO ALICE William Irish

BEWARE OF THE TRAINS Edmund Crispin

THE LOCKED BATHROOM H. R. F. Keating

MIKE, ALEC, AND RUFUS / Том, Дик или Гарри Dashiell Hammett

THE EPISODE OF THE TORMENT IV C. Daly King

GREAVES’ DISAPPEARANCE Julian Hawthorne

THE HOUSE OF HAUNTS / Светильник божий Ellery Queen

THE MONKEY TRICK J. E. Gurdon

THE ORDINARY HAIRPINS E. C. Bentley

THE PHANTOM MOTOR Jacques Futrelle

THE THEFT OF THE BERMUDA PENNY Edward D. Hoch

ROOM NUMBER 23 Judson Philips

How Easily Is Murder Discovered (There are so many ways for the creative killer to accomplish the act.)

THE BURGLAR WHO SMELLED SMOKE Lynne Wood Block & Lawrence Block

THE KESTAR DIAMOND CASE Augustus Muir

THE ODOUR OF SANCTITY Kate Ellis

THE PROBLEM OF THE OLD OAK TREE Edward D. Hoch

THE INVISIBLE WEAPON Nicholas Olde

THE CONFESSION OF ROSA VITELLI Ray Cummings

THE LOCKED ROOM TO END LOCKED ROOMS Stephen Barr

Shoot If You Must (It may not be terribly original, but shooting someone tends to be pretty effective.)

NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE Clayton Rawson

WHERE HAVE YOU GONE, SAM SPADE? Bill Pronzini

IN A TELEPHONE CABINET / У телефона G. D. H. Cole & M. I. Cole

DEATH OUT OF THIN AIR Stuart Towne

THE DREAM / Сон Agatha Christie

THE BORDER-LINE CASE Margery Allingham

THE BRADMOOR MURDER Melville Davisson Post

THE MAN WHO LIKED TOYS / Человек, который любил игрушки Leslie Charteris

THE ASHCOMB POOR CASE Hulbert Footner

THE LITTLE HOUSE AT CROIX-ROUSSE Georges Simenon

Stolen Sweets Are Best (How does a thief remove valuables from a closely guarded room? It seems impossible, but …)

THE BIRD IN THE HAND Erle Stanley Gardner

THE GULVERBURY DIAMONDS David Durham

THE FIFTH TUBE Frederick Irving Anderson

THE STRANGE CASE OF STEINKELWINTZ MacKinlay Kantor

ARSENE LUPIN IN PRISON Maurice Leblanc

THE MYSTERY OF THE STRONG ROOM L. T. Meade & Robert Eustace

NO WAY OUT Dennis Lynds

THE EPISODE OF THE CODEX’ CURSE C. Daly King

One Man's Poison, Signor, Is Another's Meat (Often described as a woman’s murder weapon, poison doesn’t really care who administers it.)

THE POISONED DOW ’08 Dorothy L. Sayers

A TRAVELLER’S TALE Margaret Frazer

DEATH AT THE EXCELSIOR P. G. Wodehouse

Our Final Hope Is Flat Dispair (Some stories simply can’t be categorized.)

WAITING FOR GODSTOW Martin Edwards

Образец текста:

THE SANDS OF THYME

Michael Innes

THE SEA SPARKLED and small waves splashed drowsily on the beach. Donkeys trotted to and fro bearing the children of holiday-makers who themselves slumbered under handkerchiefs and newspapers. On the horizon lay the smoke of a Channel steamer, on a day trip to Boulogne. And at all this the vicar glanced down with contentment from the promenade. “Fastidious persons,” he said, “would call it vulgar.”

“I like a deserted beach myself,” said the Doctor.

Appleby looked up from his novel. “Do you know Thyme Bay?” he asked. “No? It’s as lonely as you could wish, Doctor.”

The Vicar removed his pipe from his mouth. “You have a story to tell us,” he said.

Appleby smiled. “Quite frankly, Vicar, I have!”

I was there (said Appleby) on special duty with the Security people at the experimental air station. It was summer, and when the tide allowed it I used to walk across the bay before breakfast.

Thyme is a tremendous stretch of sand; you may remember that in the old days they held motor races there.

But the great thing is the shells. Thyme is the one place I know of to which you can go and feel that sea-shells are still all that they were in your childhood. Both on the beach itself and among the rocks, you find them in inexhaustible variety.

On the morning of which I’m speaking, I was amusing myself so much with the shells that it was some time before I noticed the footprints.

It was a single line of prints, emerging from the sandhills, and taking rather an uncertain course towards a group of rocks, islanded in sand, near the centre of the bay. They were the prints of a fairly long-limbed man, by no means a light-weight, and more concerned to cover the ground than to admire the view. But I noticed more than that. The tracks were of a man who limped. I tried to work out what sort of limp it would be.

This had the effect, of course, of making me follow the prints. Since the man had not retraced his steps, he had presumably gone on to the rocks, and then found his way back to the coastal road somewhere farther on. So I continued to follow in his tracks.

Presently I was feeling that something was wrong, and instead of going straight up to those rocks I took a circle round them. No footprints led away from them. So I searched. And there the chap was—tall, heavy, and lying on his tummy.… He was dead.

I turned him over—half-expecting what, in fact, I found. There was a bullet-hole plumb center of his forehead. And a revolver was lying beside him.

But that wasn’t all. Suicides, you know, are fond of contriving a little decor of pathos.

On a flat ledge of the rock a score or so of shells—the long, whorled kind—had been ranged in straight lines, like toy soldiers drawn up for battle. Beside them lay an open fountain-pen, and a scrap of paper that looked as if it had been torn from the top edge of a notebook. There was just a sentence: “As a child, I played with these for hours.”

Of course I did the routine things at once. The dead man was a stranger to me.

He carried loose change, a few keys on a ring, a handkerchief, a gold cigarette-case, and a box of matches—absolutely nothing else. But his clothes were good, and I found his name sewn inside a pocket of the jacket. A. G. Thorman, Esqre. It seemed familiar.

I made one other discovery. The right ankle was badly swollen. I had been right about that limp.

Thorman was in late middle-age, and it turned out that I was remembering his name from the great days of aviation—the era of the first long-distance flights. He had made some of the most famous of these with Sir Charles Tumbril, and he had been staying with Tumbril at the time of his death.

But he had belonged to the district, too, having been born and brought up in a rectory just beyond Thyme Point. So it seemed likely enough that he had chosen to cut short his life in some haunt holding poignant memories of his childhood.

I took Tumbril the news of his guest’s death myself. It was still quite early, and he came out from his wife’s breakfast-table to hear it. I had a glimpse of both the Tumbrils from the hall, and there was Thorman’s place, empty, between them.

Tumbril showed me into his study and closed the door with a jerk of his shoulder. He was a powerful, lumbering, clumsy man.

He stood in front of an empty fireplace, with his hands deep in his trouser pockets. I told him my news, and he didn’t say a word. “It comes completely as a surprise to you, Sir Charles?”

...

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