I'll Tell the World: Race Williams #9 (Black Mask)

By Carroll John Daly

Race Williams was as free from money as an old maid from a pleasant thought. And the sweltering heat of the city only added to his anger, like a raging bull on a chain. So when he discovers and decodes a secret and ambiguous message in the newspaper, he follows the lead and the smell of cash. But Race Williams gets more than he bargained for, much more. A young, slip of a girl is kidnapped in the dead of night, with only Race Williams on her trail. He must trail them through the dark and dismal city before she, and the prospect of money, is gone forever. Story #9 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: 9788827516164

Book preview

I’ll Tell the World

Race Williams book #9

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:

I’ll Tell the World originally appeared in the August 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.

I’ll Tell the World

Chapter 1

Tom: As promised, 69th C.P.W. Two’s day. Eleven years old. Frantic.

Dorothy.

I laid the paper down on my knee and killed another butt. Hot? Man! it was the time for the preachers to cash in by waxing eloquent on the fires of hell. Anybody would believe them. Mid-day, and it would roast the tail off a brass monkey. What wire are you on? Why, Race Williams is talking; private investigator, confidential agent, and—at present—busted gentleman of leisure. Funny that! And you wonder what I did with the heavy roll I froze onto in my last case, up Middlend way?

No, I didn’t exactly endow any charitable institution, though I half wish I had. I shot the money over the gaming tables of Monte Carlo. Silly? Sure! But after all, it was my money, and what kick have you got? Good! let’s go.

My business was as flat as my shadow and my bank balance— No use to squawk—my bank was doing that for me. I was as free from money as an old maid from a pleasant thought.

Things had settled down—you’d think the whole of the world’s greatest city had gone in for reform—that is, my end of it. Though the papers were chuck full of fancy murders, none of them brought money to my pockets. The middle of the summer found the blackmailers motoring through Switzerland, or slipping loose from a little blood money along the Rialto. At least, the high class ones. The others are out of my line. I’m not a penny arcade.

I picked up the paper again and ran my eyes over that personal. Idle curiosity, the glamour of romance, the spirit of adventure; all pretty thoughts, but none of them fitted the keen scrutinizing lamps I put on that little ad. If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed business was strong with me right then. Far distant, and vaguely too, perhaps, I saw money in those few simple lines. Where there’s an ad like that, there’s trouble. Where there’s trouble, there’s money. And where there’s money—there’s Race Williams.

You’ve no doubt laughed over many such ads—never seen the fear and tragedy that lurks behind them. People don’t amuse themselves paying newspapers to print clever wise cracks. I’ll bet if the truth were told, there was a cry of agony hidden in those words. A novice at the game had composed that secret message; no clandestine rendezvous there; nothing clever about the thing—a pitiful little cry for help. Just one thing, from my point of view. Did Dorothy have money—or, if she didn’t, could she get it from Tom? She was young—the whole framework smacked of immaturity. Not eleven, of course.

It didn’t take me long to dope out the code—if I can natter such a poor attempt by calling it a code. 69th stood for 69th Street; C.P.W. for Central Park West. Not 69 Central Park West—no need of the th then. Two’s day almost brought a laugh, it was so profound. Tuesday, of course. Eleven years old meant the time—eleven P.M., I guess; secret meetings seldom take place in the daytime. And the Frantic—no, I haven’t forgotten that. That stood for just what it was—the writer was frightened, in deadly fear perhaps—otherwise, why the word and such a mess of the code? She must have had some understanding with Tom, and at the last moment feared that he wouldn’t make it out. Anybody could read it who had a mind to. I dare say a thousand or more people would sit back and chuckle over the attempt of the girl to conceal her date with Tom. And that would be all—just a superior smile, while tragedy stretched out a hand.

Of course there mightn’t be anything to it. But if Dorothy was married and had written Tom a few letters that had fallen into other hands, then the word Frantic took on life—real meaning—a dollar sign. I stretched off with a yawn. I’d be there at eleven o’clock. It was like the old days. Not the first time that I had simply walked out into the night and gathered in the flying American eagles. Slip into the night life of any great city—there’s a tragedy beneath nearly every smile. Four out of five wasn’t coined for a tooth paste alone. It works out in my business. Blackmailers don’t have to hunt for victims—their fortunes rest upon selectivity; it’s a little matter of the wisest choice—that’s all. They’d been picking them particularly good lately—you’d almost think there was a pestilence sign on my office door—the hinges were getting rusty from being idle so long.

It was a night for it—none better. The heat had swept down over the city in a dull, damp haze—a sizzling sort of a thing, that got under your coat collar and made an otherwise clear night like the steam room of a Turkish bath.

Central Park West was deserted at ten-thirty, but hundreds of people were stretched out in the park—white-shirted figures who used their coats for pillows. Like Battery Park, it looked—and the policemen gave but a passing glance to the sweltering public; not big-heartedness, I guess. Word had gone out from Headquarters probably—the politicians were playing for the coming election.

Twice I drove from Fifty-ninth Street as far north as Seventy-second Street, and on the second trip I saw her. A slip of a girl—dark skirt, white sweater and white tennis shoes. She just came under the light for a moment—then slipped back into the shadows by the trees of the park and the stone wall which guarded the city’s playground.

The heavy mist helped make Fifty-ninth Street even darker; and on my next trip around, I pulled up in the shadows of the side street, slipped from my car, and made my way carefully along—close to the houses. Dully I made out the girl’s figure across the street, as I peered around the corner.

A minute, two passed, and she did her trick of stepping in front of the light again. Tom wasn’t going to have any excuse for not seeing her—perhaps she didn’t trust him over much—perhaps again she was just nervous. However, it was all new to her—her whole attitude was expectant, eager waiting—a desire to be seen by one person only—yet in her anxiety she placed herself squarely below the light.

This time when she turned and flitted back to the shadows of the trees and the long rough wall, I stepped around the corner, dropped into an alleyway,