Devil Cat: Race Williams #5 (Black Mask)

By Carroll John Daly

Hard-boiled detective Race Williams investigates the strangest murder of his career. Another classic from the pages of Black Mask Magazine. Story #5 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: 9788827516218

Book preview

Devil Cat

Race Williams book #5

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:

Devil Cat originally appeared in the November 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.

Devil Cat

Chapter 1

I’ve often said I ain’t afraid of nothing, which is truth and still goes. But that don’t mean there ain’t any living guy who hasn’t got the guts to bump me off. Of course, most of the crooks whose little games I’ve cracked wide open write me threatening letters and feed a few nickels into the telephone box. There ain’t any that get my nerve, and few that even keep me watchful. But fear and respect are two different things. And here I’ll come out flat-footed and say that there is one guy whose threats to get me are real—so real, in fact, that I’ve had it in my mind to hunt him up and blow his roof off. Cold-blooded? Perhaps. But I’m all for peace and quiet, if you know what I mean. Uneasy lies the head that someone wants to crown sort-a fits it.

His name is Eddie Fallon, and about two weeks ago he up and left Sing Sing flat. Not that his time was up—but a little thing like that didn’t bother Eddie. And since he’s out, he’s been boosting up the mail. As a rule, such stuff don’t bother me. Half the crooks in the city are gunning for me, and the other half—well, their relatives and friends are wishing they didn’t. But Eddie is real, and if anything in this world ever did bother me, it’s this bird’s being out in the open.

Things have been breaking good. I just finished up a soft job where the would-be crook took up burglary as a side-line and played the game safe. He robbed his aunt. It was gravy for him, with no danger of a long stretch at the end of it. I pocketed the check, did a little footwork on the would-be thief and put his aunt wise to a few patent locks.

I’ve got a car, and a good one, but this day I’m strolling down the avenue as independent as a hog on ice—there’s the thoughts of a bit of fishing running through my mind. If it’s been a good season, it’s also been a hard one. I don’t drag no cane nor hide behind a carnation, but I’m breezing along just the same.

Then I get the whiff of it. Some lad is getting my smoke—gum-shoeing along behind me. I don’t look back; that ain’t my game, but I shorten my stride and play the windows a bit. There’s the feeling that it ain’t a dick, but I make sure. There’s a harness bull directing traffic on the corner of Forty-fifth Street—a lad that I once did a turn for. He’s got an eye for beauty; used to sport a shield on the inside of his coat before he got demoted—knows every dick on the force. We don’t greet as I cross the street, but I casually raise my hand and tilt my hat. That’s his cue. He’ll watch for my shadow. Five minutes later I cross again, and he turns his back on me. So I know that it ain’t a regular that’s laying on my heels.

And I can’t spot him—not a chance. I try twenty times. Then I wonder if it’s nerves. But that gives me a laugh. I ain’t got none. If this Eddie is sending out friends who are looking for slow music and a lily, why, that’s their hard luck. Of course it isn’t Eddie himself. I could spot his phiz on the boardwalk at Coney Island—and on a Sunday in August, too. That’ll give you an idea of the respect I hold him in. But I shrug my shoulders and slip down to my office. Eddie and me are bound to shoot it out some day.

My office is on the seventh floor, well back and quiet—a deal of noise could take place there without none being the wiser. No stenographer, no office boy; when I’m not in, the office is locked. I don’t write many letters—I’ve seen too many pay through the nose because of a little literary skill. The old proverb, Do right, and fear no man; don’t write, and fear no woman, is meant to be funny, but take it from me—it’s gospel.

I turn down the back hallway which leads to my office, when I spot the garden party; there’s the look of cash in the dignified little man who swings a cane nervously back and forth. There’s a boy in knickers hanging to his arms and kicking his feet against the wall. But the two huskies with him hand me a frown. One I recognize—Ike Mulligan, from the Inter-city Detective Agency. That boy, Ike, is just one step above murder and about a block and a half below arson.

Ike knows me all right, but he lets his eyes look for fly-spots on the white wall when I swing down the corridor; he’s had my opinion of him, and knows that I wouldn’t be found dead in the same lot with his thirty-third cousin.

The little gent runs up to me, sputtering like a Vichy bottle.

Mr. Williams—Mr. Williams? he keeps gasing over and over. I have come to see you—I’m in trouble—terrible trouble.

Williams is right.