The Red Peril: Race Williams #3 (Black Mask)

By Carroll John Daly

For the first time, Race Williams encounters the mysterious masked Red Peril in the biggest case of his hard-boiled career thus far. Story #3 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: 9788827516294

Book preview

The Red Peril

Race Williams book #3

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:

The Red Peril originally appeared in the June 1924 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.

The Red Peril

He stood at the door, the shadow of his head enlarged and clearly outlined as he bent forward. People don’t just turn the knob at my office and walk in; they knock and wait. I ain’t bent on inviting some crook to fling open the door and fill me with lead. The cops and the crooks are blowing in all the time, trying to get a line on me. But the dicks have nothing on me, and the guns know I have a quick draw. But they both realize I ain’t a real detective, which I take as complimentary.

I open the door and lamp the bird in the hallway. He’s a long drawn-out affair of about forty, and evil’s stamped all over his face, like the map of Hades—not a redeeming feature from the long-hooked nose to the depth of his sunken green eyes, which look out of slits, and sure do some looking.

I give him a friendly nod; show him to my inner room; and eye him as I drop into the chair behind my desk. He stands, his right arm held rigidly in a sling, with great wads of thick bandage wrapped round and round his hand. I keep my eyes on his hand and play a waiting game. I always let the other fellow lead.

His lips twist up at the corners; and when he speaks he shoots the words through the side of his mouth—a habit of jail-birds. But he didn’t need no ticket to tell me he was a tough rooster. The flashy clothes and the new kid gloves wouldn’t work. His pan is a whole rogue’s gallery in itself. My right hand dropped below the desk as he attempted to smile as he opened up.

You’re Williams—Race Williams—and you do most anything—well, a bit of anything in the way of business. Right?

His lips slip further back, baring fang-like teeth.

Most anything for money, I nodded placidly. I’m not coy about it. Now, what’s on your chest?

I was almost certain nothing good would come from this bird, and I had important business on—right then.

He don’t say nothing for about three minutes—just stands and looks down at me, his coarse face getting harder and harder, and his green eyes growing more cold and calculating.

I haven’t any money with me. He leans forward, almost hissing his words. But this check is good, and he opens up his left hand and tosses a folded blue slip onto the desk. You’ve been paid more money, I daresay, for handling some difficult piece of business. This check is for turning down a case. Give a look and nod ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ I’m not looking for any thanks.

I flip the check open and look at it. A thousand berries! I whistle softly.

What’s the lay?

I look up.

Yes or no?

But how can I tell what to turn down and what to take? I can’t just go out of business for one grand, I tell him.

His slit-like eyes neither widen nor contract, but there’s a flash in them just the same—like a rattle, if you know what I mean.

"There’ll be a girl around here, thinking she lost some diamonds—just thinking it. That thousand’s for you to give her the air."

And his upper lip ripples up and down, which is meant for a smile, I guess.

Too late. I shake my head as I flip the check across to him. I’ve already taken the case.

And his eyes open now. Just flash up and down again; but in that second I look into them. Just the one glance is enough. I’ve studied character, and here is a man to fear—not for me, you understand, for I don’t fear nothing. Conceit, perhaps, but gospel just the same.

You couldn’t have taken it. There hasn’t been time. And his cruel, sneering lips come close down to my face. If I pay well for compliance, I strike hard for defiance.

As speak the poets.

I shake a finger in his face. I don’t like threats. This lad is playing for a fall.

He half straightens up and takes out his watch and lays it on the desk before him.

You’ve got a minute, he snaps closed them thick lips of his. "Look at my face and see if I am