This anthology restricts itself to crime and mystery stories in the pulp tradition. Strictly speaking, of course, the pulp magazines ventured further afield, encompassing science fiction, fantasy, horror, spy tales, aviation yarns, spicy stories (that would not make even a maiden blush today), jungle capers, westerns and a pleasing variety of superheroes like The Shadow, Doc Savage, the Spider and other masked and unmasked crusaders. But tales of noir streets, gorgeous molls and shady villains fighting ambiguous sleuths and dubious heroes are the archetypes that represent pulp writing at its best.
There are very few popular fiction magazines left alive today and those there are tend to prefer a more refined type of tale, but still pulp fiction survives in the writings of many authors. Because pulp fiction is a state of mind, a mission to entertain, and literature would be so much poorer without it, its zest, its speed and rhythm, its unashamed verve and straightforward approach to storytelling.
However long the present anthology might be, I regret it couldn’t be ten times longer. The pulp magazines and writers and their successors are still unknown territory and the brave researcher with time on his hands could, I am confident, mine so much more from these yellowing pages and honour even more forgotten writers and give them their five minutes in the sun. As it is there are so many writers it wasn’t possible to include here, for reasons of space or availability of rights. In no particular order: Ed McBain (as Evan Hunter and Richard Marsten), Raymond Chandler, Cornell Woolrich, Andrew Vachss, Loren D. Estleman, Carroll John Daly, Brett Halliday, Raoul Whitfield, Mark Timlin, Richard Prather, Leigh Brackett, Erle Stanley Gardner (pre Perry Mason), James Ellroy, Clark Howard, Max Brand. In addition, rising paper costs prevented me from making this volume even heavier, as I had to withdraw material by Ed Gorman, James Reasoner, Ed Lacy, Frank Gruber, Loren D. Estleman, Derek Raymond, Robert Edmond Alter, Frederick C. Davis and Jonathan Craig – so look out for these names elsewhere. They are certainly worth a detour. But the list could be endless. Check them all out. Thrills absolutely guaranteed.
The stories selected span seven decades of popular writing, from Dashiell Hammett to current masters like Donald E. Westlake and Lawrence Block. In between you will find the great names of yesteryear and familiar bylines from the paperback world. Enjoy the forbidden thrills. And when you have turned over the final page, I just know you will repeat after me: pulp fiction will never die.
Almost 18 years after the initial publication of The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction, we return with a revised edition and truly the appeal of pulp fiction has not diminished one iota in the intervening years. Readers and fans are still endlessly fascinated by these hardboiled stories of times past, tough guys and pliant femmes fatales and the tradition vigorously continues in movies and the books of more contemporary writers who carry the flame onwards against all the tides of fashion.
Pulp fiction remains the stuff of dreams and still captures the sense of wonder in our collective imagination and, in the process, supplies first-class entertainment and thrills.
Eight stories from the initial volume have been deleted to make place for nine tales, many of which make their first appearance in book form since their initial publication in long-forgotten if legendary magazines. Most are by authors who are now long forgotten but measure up honourably to all the big names of noir and pulp and are well worth rediscovering.
In addition, we take great pride in presenting what we believe is a lost story by Dashiell Hammett. ‘The Diamond Wager’ was recently unearthed by hardy internet detectives and doesn’t appear in any of Hammett’s bibliographies, but we are convinced it was written by the great man of pulp himself under the somewhat transparent pseudonym of Samuel Dashiell (his birth certificate was actually bylined Samuel Dashiell Hammett). Further it has been established that between 1926 and 1927 he did work for Samuel’s Jewelers of San Francisco, just a couple of years before the story appeared in Detective Fiction Weekly! Strong evidence indeed.
Long live pulp!
THE DIAMOND WAGER
Dashiell Hammett, writing as Samuel Dashiell
I always knew West was eccentric. Ever since the days of our youth, in various universities – for we seemed destined to follow each other about the globe – I had known Alexander West to be a person of the most bizarre, though not unattractive, personality. At Heidelberg, where he renounced water as a beverage; at Pisa, where he affected a one-piece garment for months; at the Sorbonne, where he consorted with the most notorious characters, boasting an acquaintance with Le Grand Raoul, an unspeakable ruffian of La Villette.
And in later life, when we met in Constantinople, where West was American minister, I found that his idiosyncrasies were common topics in the diplomatic corps. In the then Turkish capital I naturally dined with West at the Legation, and except for his pointed beard and Prussian mustache, being somewhat more gray, I found him the same tall, courtly figure, with a keen brown eye and the hands of generations, an aristocrat. But his eccentricities were then of more refined fantasy. No more baths in snow, no more beer orgies, no more Libyan negroes opening the door, no more strange diets. At the Legation, West specialized in rugs and gems. He had a museum in carpets. He had even abandoned his old practice of having the valet call him every morning at eight o’clock with a gramophone record.
I left the Legation thinking West had reformed. “Rugs and precious stones,” I reflected; “that’s such a banal combination for West.” Although I did recall that he had told me he was doing something strange with a boat on the Bosphorus; but I neglected to inquire about the details. It was something in connection with work, as he had said, “Everybody has a pleasure boat; I have a work boat, where I can be alone.” But that is all I retained concerning this freak of his mind.
It was some years later, however, when West had retired from diplomacy, that he turned up in my Paris apartment, a little grayer, straight and keen as usual, but with his beard a trifle less pointed – and, let’s say, a trifle less distinguished-looking. He looked more the successful businessman than the traditional diplomat. It was a cold, blustery night, so I bade West sit down by my fire and tell me of his adventures; for I knew he had not been idle since leaving Constantinople.
“No, I am not doing anything,” he answered, after a pause, in reply to my question as to his present activities. “Just resting and laughing to myself over a little prank I played on a friend.”
“Oho!” I declared; “so you’re going in for pranks now.” He laughed heartily. I could hardly see West as a practical joker. That was one thing out of his line. As he held his long, thin hands together, I noticed an exceptionally fine diamond ring on his left hand. It was of an unusual luster, deep-set in gold, flush with the cutting. His quick eye caught me looking at this ornament. As I recall, West had never affected jewelry of any kind.
“Oh, yes, you are wondering about this,” he said, gazing into the crystal. “Fine yellow diamond; not so rare, but unusual, set in gold, which they are not wearing any longer. A little present.” He repeated blandly, after a pause, “A little present for stealing.”
“For stealing?” I inquired, astonished. I could hardly believe West would steal. He would not play practical jokes, and he would not steal.