Conceited, Maybe E-Book

Carroll John Daly

• Herausgeber: Black Mask
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

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.

Leseprobe

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.