The Hidden Hand E-Book

Carroll John Daly

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Race Williams had run across criminals before, and a few shots to the head always took care of such threats. But how can Race deal with four separate rogues at once? And what of their ultimate leader, The Hidden Hand? Story #19 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

The Hidden Hand

Race Williams book #19

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 Hidden Hand” originally appeared in the June–October, 1928 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.

The Hidden Hand

Chapter 1

The Man With the Gun

To simply say that business was dull would be the height of optimism. To say that my bank account was low would be to agree with my bank balance. To say that all the crooks in the city had ceased work would not be the truth. But to say that those unfortunate people who now fell victims of earlier indiscretions did not come to me for help would be wholly the truth. Business was dull.

“Private Detective” best describes me to the ignorant and those who have not had use for such animals. The words themselves are not so bad but I don’t like the music that most detective agencies set those words to. There are honest private detectives, of course—but there are honest politicians, too. Get the point? Something like hen’s teeth—very scarce, indeed. But I just don’t like the label. Race Williams—Private Investigator is smeared in big, gold, unashamed letters all over my office door. The “Private Detective” appears on my license only. Nice distinctions are not drawn by civil bodies.

People—especially the police—don’t understand me. And what we don’t understand we don’t appreciate. The police look upon me as being so close to the criminal that you can’t tell the difference. Oh, I’ve got my pride like the rest of us. I’d like to be famous, but I guess, after all, I’m only notorious. Every cop in the great city has my reputation hammered into him as a gun and a killer.

No use to go into detail on that point. I carry a gun—two of them, for that matter. As to being a killer, well—I’m not a target, if you get what I mean. I’ve killed in my time, and I daresay I’ll kill again. There—let the critics of my methods paste that in their hats.

Now, with business dull and a strong dislike for private detective agencies, I was thinking seriously of accepting a position from one of these very agencies. It was an open and shut affair that had been offered me the night before by Gregory Ford, a well-known operator. He just spilt his story and named his figure as he stood in the doorway.

“It’s a dull season,” he said. “A cold winter and your chance to go South. The State’s paying me well, time won’t hang heavy on your hands—and if we can pin these crimes on McCleary, I’ll give you a handsome piece of change.” And when I would have refused, just on general principles, he held up his hand. “And that isn’t all of it, Race Williams—not by half, it isn’t. This will turn out the biggest grab in the country. The feared name of McCleary is built on blood and murder—but mark my words: He’ll turn out to be a pawn in the game. If we can make him holler, buy him, or knock a squeal out of him—we’ll lay our hands on the biggest brain that ever backed a crime ring. Organized crime used to be for fiction—but since bootleggers came into the game it’s nothing but big business; the business of robbery and murder. Liquor running is simply petty larceny to some of the things those boys in Florida are pulling off.” The hand he waved in the air turned into a fist now. “If we catch the big gun behind McCleary, I’ll cut you in for ten per cent of the melon, and there’ll be a hundred a day in it for you while we’re warming up.”