Blind Alleys: Race Williams #16 (Black Mask)

By Carroll John Daly

Five one-hundred-dollar bills call Race Williams to an appointment. When he starts he hasn't the least idea what it's all about, and the further he gets into it, the more confused it becomes except that every hand seems against him. It is not long before Race gets mad, which is all that is needed to make him tear loose and see it through. Story #16 in the Race Williams series.

Carroll John Daly (1889–1958) was the creator of the first hard-boiled private eye story, predating Dashiell Hammett's first Continental Op story by several months. Daly's classic character, Race Williams, was one of the most popular fiction characters of the pulps, and the direct inspiration for Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Mask
• Release date: Nov 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9788827516089

Book preview

Blind Alleys

Race Williams book #16

A Black Mask Classic

by

Carroll John Daly

Black Mask

Copyright Information

© 2017 Steeger Properties, LLC. Published by arrangement with Steeger Properties, LLC, agent for the Estate of Carroll John Daly.

Publication History:

Blind Alleys originally appeared in the April 1927 issue of Black Mask magazine.

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Race Williams is a trademark of the Estate of Carroll John Daly. Black Mask is a trademark of Steeger Properties, LLC, and registered with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

Blind Alleys

Chapter 1

The rain-driven fog deadened the street lamps to distant, ghostly blurs. The pounding, blowing hail beat against my face and just above my coat collar, biting into the skin with the sting of sharp pine needles. As I plodded along I would turn my head and peer closely at the intervals of shop windows. A pause, and a step forward again. The street numbers would make one dizzy. I didn’t have an umbrella—I never carry one. I like to see what’s coming in all directions. It’s better to be wet above ground than dry beneath it. With me long life and the pursuit of liberty demand an unobstructed vision. Race Williams—Confidential Agent, would look pretty hiding behind an umbrella. Hit the bull’s-eye and get a good cigar sort of business. Outside I was soaked but inside I was dry—no water had touched my guns and after all my health lies mostly in the barrel of a forty-four.

It was a dismal neighborhood, this old and once respected section of the city. Little business here, except for an occasional shop or the dull, misty light from a tea room a few steps below the street. Most of the houses looked alike—gray, gaunt, faded affairs that—

And I saw her, spotted the girl as she slipped from a vestibule and ran lightly down the steps toward me. Just the dull outline of her, a lithe slip of a thing who might pose for an advertisement of that boyish figure. Her feet pattered over the sidewalk, scraped and stopped as her hand fell upon my arm. I half swung and looked at her—just looked, nothing more. You couldn’t see anything there—the dim whiteness of a face; two flashing things that might have been eyes. And when she spoke her words came quickly—panting, as if she had been running a great distance or was laboring under excitement—nervous excitement. She didn’t wait for a cue, but busted right into her act.

My key—I can’t turn it in the lock. It’s dark and wet and cold—and I’m afraid to be out. It sticks. She went right on jabbering it off, her fingers twisting up my coat and pulling at it. Occasionally sharp nails would bite through and pinch.

I didn’t speak at once. I just smiled down and waited for her to go on with the yarn. She waited a bit, for me to grab the key and rush to the door. But I didn’t—I waited, too. Then she jerked out the rest of it.

You’ll help me, I know. My fingers are numb—perhaps. And when I didn’t make a break. What will I do?

There was the question direct. The book of etiquette calls for an answer—and I gave it to her.

Better get a locksmith, I suggested sarcastically. I’m sorry, but not living around here I can’t recommend a good one.

I think she bit her lip before she answered—at least, there was a queer clicking sound.

It’s just stiff, she faltered. Again the hand upon my arm. You’ll help me—just step to the door and see if you can turn the key.

A slender arm shot out and white fingers pointed toward the darkened doorway a few steps above the street. The block was deserted, the vestibule black and quiet. What a child she must have been or what a fool she thought me to be!

Lady—lady, I shook a finger at her, you’ve been reading the Farmers’ Almanac or Joe Miller’s Joke Book.

Then you won’t help me! She drew back a pace. I thought you a gentleman. And a lady— Then a step forward again. Please—I’m frightened here, alone. Such a small favor!

But the joke was over. I had business to attend to. I stretched out a hand now and clutched her by the arm.

I am doing you a favor by not sticking my head in that vestibule to have it crowned. Leaning forward and putting my face close to hers and keeping her between me and the vestibule, I drove home a message for her to carry to the lads lurking in the darkness. For the game of the lady, the stiff lock and the unruly key was as old as the mother-in-law joke.

If I stepped into that doorway, and I wasn’t smiling now, your friends wouldn’t have a chance. As for you—well, perhaps I’m wrong and you’d be very attractive in black. If my time was my own tonight and I was just on pleasure bent—why, I’d oblige you in a way that would be most surprising. One word more. I swung her around so that she faced the doorway. You’re a nice girl—maybe a hard-working, deserving girl. If you have a relative in that doorway, steer him off me for tonight or until you can stick some life insurance on him.

With that I was gone, walking leisurely across the street and so slowly on my way. She stood irresolute on the sidewalk a moment, then dashed out into the street. I thought she intended going on with the farce—but she didn’t. She paused there in the middle of the roadway, then swinging quickly around and, forgetting about her key and the friends in the doorway, ran hurriedly down the center of the street, melting into the blackness.

The running feet died away; the rain beat harder than ever, and pressing my chin down on my chest I continued on my way. Another cross street and I returned to my former side of the street. The letter that