Under Cover: Race Williams #11 (Black Mask)

By Carroll John Daly

When Race Williams receives a note to meet in the dead hours of the night on an abandoned roadside, he is leery of the setup. And then a mysterious call warns him that someone will try to kill him tonight. In the Confidential Agent’s mind, if some bird really wanted the opportunity to bump off Race Williams, he'd be willing to give him the chance. But, from what the city knows about Race Williams and his .44, the chances were against the bird. So Race takes the bait, but the thug he meets quickly finds his way to the grave. On the thug’s body, Race finds the torn corner of a thousand dollar bill, and Williams’ curiosity is piqued. The game was just beginning. Story #11 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: 9788827516140

Book preview

Under Cover

Race Williams book #11

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:

Under Cover originally appeared in the December 1925 and January 1926 issues 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.

Under Cover

Chapter 1

Some cases come directly to the office; others I go out and get—a few come by mail. This one did, but the main item had been overlooked. Good clients say what they want to say on the face of a check; this lad had wind enough but was short on figures. I leaned back in my office chair and read the note again. The spelling at least was refreshing.

Just a desire to meet me that night on the lonely road behind the golf links at Van Cortlandt—the hour, one-thirty A.M. Now, the thing itself was childish. I have as many enemies as a shad has eggs. This was one of them, trying what he thought was an original idea. The warning of great secrecy was in the note—also the promise of a liberal amount of jack. But the backwoods spoiled it—might as well have been a back room on the Avenue. I was onto the duck who wrote that note the minute I lamped it.

There was the hint too that I mightn’t have the guts to come. Now, clients in trouble don’t hire me thinking I’ll lay down on them. They need me bad—this lad blurbed that the whole thing was simple and I need have no fear of personal danger. What a poor fish he was! I started to crumple up the note and toss it in the basket—and the phone rang.

Race Williams? This is a friend. Someone is planning to kill you tonight, Race Williams—watch your step. There was a decided click, and the one-sided conversation was over. But the note stayed in my hand—was straightened out and read again.

Food for thought that—others knew about that note. At least one other did. For all I knew half the underworld of the city might be on. Someone was making open threats of gunning for me. The crooks that feared me would stand by and see if I made good. If I showed the white feather in one instance I’d have to knock off half the town to establish my reputation all over again. What did I do? As they say in the movies—there was a lapse of time; midnight came and went.

It was twelve-thirty when I rolled up Broadway, driving my big touring. Simply big-heartedness on my part. If some bird really wanted the opportunity to bump me off—why—of course I’d be willing to give it to him. In all fairness, however, I must admit that I figured the chances were very much against him.

You know the place—that lonely stretch of flat park far across from Broadway—the other side of the railroad tracks and beyond the links—never a better place for a little shooting.

It wasn’t one when I first passed the spot—but I flashed by, doing in the neighborhood of sixty miles an hour. I turned up the hill at the end of the road—came back on the road above—parked the car—and dropped silently down the thickly wooded hill. There was much to think of. Suppose after all the letter writer had been sincere—and the telephone call a fake! But I shook my head. A little careful study would do the trick. I’m not strong on thinking things out—besides, I find they never go according to schedule—action was what I wanted—and action was what I’d get.

Not a soul in sight—there, across the road, lay the great stretch of park—a dull moon piercing the slight mist that enveloped it. Far down toward the city, a half mile perhaps, was the still smouldering fires of the city’s garbage dump—a sore eye to that vast expanse of beautiful country—a sore smell too when the wind was right.

And he came—the distant hum of an engine—then silence as he shut the motor off and drifted the few hundred feet remaining. Just the purr of great tires softly rolling over the dirt road. The lights dimmed, to disappear entirely as the car swung around the bend, rolled slowly up and stopped within fifty feet of where I was hiding—crouched in the bushes.

Dimly I made out the single figure that stepped from the car and peered up and down the road. Would he have a friend? I expected a half dozen of them—but, no—just the one man, for he made no attempt to communicate with anyone hidden in the back seat. Five minutes more I waited—not a sound—no hum of another approaching motor—and I did my stuff. Suddenly stepped into the road and shot my flashlight full upon this duck’s pan.

I didn’t know him. Oh, I knew his breed all right—the prison pallor still stood out on his blanched cheeks—but he hadn’t done his stretch through any effort of mine. It was a map one never forgets—a before using sort of a phiz, if you get what I mean. The kisser was enough, but he gave himself away besides that. The half unconscious way he reached for his gun—and the stupid, foolish leer to his eyes as he caught himself and brought out a handkerchief that had done service in the family for many years. If this bird was to have a widow within the next few minutes—why, the dear old girl would owe me a vote of thanks. He was the kind of a lad you’d put out and wonder why you didn’t do it before.

Mr. Williams, I believe. And the way he got it off was a scream. Like amateur night up in Harlem. And when I flattered him for his powers of observation, he broke right into his story.

It was some yarn and no mistake. He should have been on the stage. There was the lost paper and the rich uncle, and the poor mother who had died bringing him up. That last crack I could believe. And he readily admitted being in jail—a false charge by the uncle, who was holding his rightful inheritance from him. Just one thing was needed to make him a millionaire—that bit of paper. And he knew where it was. Of course he couldn’t get it himself. He was wanted by the police—who would see him enter his uncle’s house. But it was easy for me, and I would receive his undying gratitude—to say nothing of a few hundred thousand bucks. He sure was liberal.

Before he got through he turned on the water works and wept all over the road. All he needed was a cup and a half dozen shoe laces. For the first time I fully appreciated the meaning of the word unique.

This sob-sister finished up with one burst of glory that set me thinking. Perhaps after all he wasn’t bent on bumping me off—just a decoy—and what a decoy!

I want to talk it over wid ya—have papers to show ya. I’m tellin’ the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth—so help me Gawd. That last was an inspiration. He must have used it many times—or listened to the court clerk get it off for his benefit.

Why didn’t you get a lawyer? I just had to say something or bust right out laughing. He was so sincere—so childish—in his innocent belief that I swallowed