Conceited, Maybe: Race Williams #7 (Black Mask)

By Carroll John Daly

Race Williams is a man who likes the study people—read ‘em like a book. So, when Mr. Riverity Coe shows up seeking a bodyguard for his beautiful fiancé, Gladys Travers, Race is only too happy to make a quick buck. After all, easy money is always in his line. However, when Mrs. Travers arrives later, it turns out this particular book, and its main heroine, might have a twist in store for Race Williams. A deadly tale of matrimonial blackmail between Mr. Coe, Mrs. Travers, and her actual husband, the dangerous and brutish Jerome, unfurls as Race rushes to flip back the pages on a unusual case that threatens the life of young woman and, potentially, Race Williams himself. Story #7 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: 9788827516195

Book preview

Conceited, Maybe

Race Williams book #7

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:

Conceited, Maybe originally appeared in the April 1925 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.

Conceited, Maybe

Chapter 1

I could see his head—the enlarged outline of it—bobbing up and down as he studied the gilt lettering on my door. What he expected was hidden there, I don’t know. I’m not ashamed of my name—Race Williams, Confidential Agent stood out all over the glass like a sore thumb. Then he pushed open the door and sort of oozed in—just room enough to admit his slender body.

There was a fairy-like glide to his motion as he slid across the outer room and stood there, a wonderful picture, framed in my doorway. Class, this lad, and no mistake. The complete man—all of him; the tight-fitting check suit, the suede spats, and the black derby that he carried across his chest like it was a toy balloon. And the ebony walking stick—at least it was black—standing out as the elegant yellow gloves fondled its goose-like neck.

There he stood—a whole bed-room set.

So he posed, looking me over. The kind of a man that men forget—his mustache was a scream. There may be funnier ones in the movies, but I have yet to see them. Yep, his whole attitude was, Look me over, boy; I’m a Wow! I did—his tie stood forth like a cathedral, and shrieked for recognition. Beautiful but Dumb was changing its sex. Then he opened his sweet young lips, and I get my first shock. More attention I give this bird. He ain’t selling life insurance—not him—besides, I’m not considered a good risk.

Mr. Williams—Mr. Race Williams—I wish to engage you on a rather delicate case—it may take you to the Coast—but I will pay—I am Mr. Reverity Paterson Coe.

A laugh there, the dragging first two names with the dead flat finish.

Oh, he wasn’t exactly on my visiting list, but I had read his name. He’d been getting married for the last six months; done a sort of waiting-at-the-church business—trying to revise the old song, like.

But I just eyed him, and nodded as he daintily pulled at his gloves. It was up to him to shoot the works, and that he did. He went over the old story that had crowded out minor murders for the last few weeks, in the news. Nothing much new to me, but I let him shoot along—the way he lisped the words out of the side of his mouth was a study and—well—I like to study people; I can read ’em like a book. The girl was a well-known actress, lately retired—while Reverity Paterson Coe had completed his career when he rowed on his college crew ten years back. He had money, and them simple words explain his whole life.

So he drawled on:

Twice now—Miss Travers—Gladys has disappointed me. Even to the church door—with the guests waiting; that is, the first time. The second—well, it was to be a private wedding. But neither time did she put in an appearance. Most embarrassing, but—love is above these pains of ridicule. I want to know the truth.

You better ask her, I snapped up at him. I don’t take no divorce or matrimonial cases. I fight with guns, not with rolling pins.

I have asked her. His voice changed and he spoke more rapidly, with less effort, too. She tells me she’s sick—but—oh, I know differently—something sinister is behind it all—something that I more than suspect. I want you to go to California with—I—

He stopped dead—I half turned—looked through my partly open door and saw that a girl had entered my outer office. A woman, perhaps—a woman who knew how to dress—nothing flashy, you understand—not like this tailor’s dummy who stood before me. I turned back to the stuffed lizard. His face gave me the truth—he didn’t have to speak. There was a fear in his eyes, a sudden blanching to his cheeks.

The girl?

I half whispered the words, and caught his nod in return. Then I walked to the door, stuck my head out, and told her I’d see her in a few minutes. There was a chance here to pick up some quick and easy jack—not in my line, perhaps—but then, easy money is always in my line.

I closed the door and turned to Airy Fairy Lillian. Believe me, I can read character like a book—but this bird puzzled me. And the girl—an actress, with a past that kept climbing up and biting her on the ear just as the wedding bells were about to ring. Blackmail? Probably! Maybe she was stringing him along to work him loose from some change. Then again—I looked closely at him. No—he was nervous all right—no doubt about that. The sight of the girl had thrown him into a panic. I could see the indecision rushing across his face—searching eyes, beating forehead, and the fine, even teeth biting into his lower lip.

Snap out of it, I told him. This ain’t a wake. After all, I may learn something—here, slip behind that curtain. We’ll let the lady open up with the sad news.

And I take him by the arm and lead him to my listening-in closet—just a bit of a space behind a long strip of burlap curtain. If I had to hunt up her past and feed it to him—and prove it, why—well, here was a chance to let him get it first-hand—the girl would probably let a load off her chest. Not good ethics, this listening-in business—but good common sense; besides—well, I ain’t nobody’s fool and I had done