By Max Allan Collins (editor) & Mickey Spillane (editor)

Thirty-two tales of wonderful ingenuity. Thirty-two writers of mythical genius. 100 years of crime fiction in a distinctive assortment.

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Example text

Yep, I thought, imagination is a great thing, as I actually caressed my gun—and I was right. For that little bit of imagination saved my life, saved it right then and there in the fraction of a split second. Sure, for I swung my face almost against the barrel of a Tommy gun. I saw the steel drum which hid steady fingers, saw a face behind that tommy gun. I don’t know if the man spoke, if the man threatened. I don’t think so. Just narrowing eyes, a droop to the lower lip, the sudden assurance of death, and I flipped back my hand and shot that face straight out of my life—and his too, for that matter.

Don’t come! He’ll kill you right here at—” There was a slight thud, a stifled scream, the click of the receiver—and I dropped my own phone back in its cradle. I whistled softly as I adjusted my shoulder holsters, slipped into my jacket, picked up my hat. Armin Loring had warned me not to see Mary Morse again. The Flame had told me not to see her again. Mary Morse herself had told me not to come— both on that card and over the phone. And a lad called Raftner—so bad that he admitted it himself—threatened my death if I visited the Green Room of the Hotel York Terrace.

There’s nothing in them,” Lee told me. “I have looked into every one. But if you’re thinking of drugs—well, those vases are just a cheap pottery. The drug could be placed right in the mold. ” “No. The stuff might be in only one vase in ten. ” “But if the drug is there why not—” I cut in on him: “But I don’t know it’s there. They may bring the stuff with them later—tonight even—place it in the vases then take them away in a truck. A crate sent here and there—all open and above-board; just drop half a dozen vases at second-hand shops throughout the city.

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