Rogers kept holding his own gun on him, with the handkerchief around it. “Sure, I know it,” he agreed readily. “I know it and you know it, we both know it. You hear me say it to you now, freely, for the last time, while we’re still alone here together. And after this once, neither God nor man will ever hear me say it again. I’ve waited three years, seven months, and eighteen days for this, and now it’s here. You found a loophole once. Now I’ve found a loophole this time. Your loophole was to get out. My loophole is to get you back in again.
“Listen to me so you’ll understand what I’m doing, Blake. You’re going to be arrested in a few more minutes for murder. You’re going to be tried for murder. You’re going to be—if there’s any virtue left in the laws of this State— executed for murder. They’re going to call that murder by the name of this man, Harkness.
That’s the only name that’ll be mentioned throughout the proceedings. But the murder you’re really about to be arrested, tried, and electrocuted for will be that of a man whose name won’t appear in it once, from first to last, from beginning to end—Police Sergeant O’Neill. That’s the murder you’re going to die for now!
“We couldn’t get you for the one you did commit. So we’ll try you for another you didn’t commit and get you for that instead.”
The Third Murderer
Carroll John Daly
IT DOESN’T TAKE a genius to recognize that there are better airplanes than the ones flown by the Wright Brothers, but they were there first, assuring themselves an important place in history.
The same holds true for Carroll John Daly (1889-1958). There have been many practitioners of the hard-boiled private eye story who are far superior to Daly, but he was the first, inventing the form nearly three-quarters of a century ago with a story titled “Three Gun Terry” featuring private investigator Terry Mack. The story appeared in B lack Mask in the issue of May 15,1923, and served as the prototype for all the tough, wise-cracking private dicks who followed.
The first story featuring Race Williams, his most famous character, soon followed with the publication of “Knights of the Open Palm” in Black Mask on June 1, 1923. When he followed with another Race Williams story, “Three Thousand to the Good,” in the July 15, 1923, issue, Daly had created the first hard-boiled private eye series in fiction.
While in no way a distinguished literary performer, the relentless narrative drive of Daly’s fiction made him one of the highest paid pulp writers for a quarter of a century, so popular that it was widely reported that his name on the cover automatically increased sales of the issue by 15%. The Third Murderer was originally serialized in Black Mask (June-August 1931) as “The Flame"and Race Williams.
The Third Murderer
Carroll John Daly
CHAPTER I
A THREAT TO KILL
DIDN’T LIKE his face and I told him so.
He was handsome enough in a conceited, sinister sort of way. And the curve to the corner of his mouth was natural too— but more pronounced now by the involuntary twitching of his upper lip; a warning that a lad is carrying too much liquor and is getting to the stage where he’ll slop over. Which is his own business, of course, and not mine— except when that lad decides to slop over on me.
“You don’t like my face, eh?” Pale blue eyes narrowed. The skin on his forehead contracted and formed little ridges up close to the heavy blackness of his hair. The quivering lips turned into a sneer. Maybe you couldn’t call that leering, threatening face natural—but you couldn’t exactly call it acting either. Perhaps it would be best to say that it had started with acting years back and was more a habit now than either a natural contortion or a voluntary set-up. Something that came with long practice.
I looked at the clock above the bar. It lacked ten minutes to the half hour and five minutes past the hour I was to meet Rudolph Myer, criminal lawyer and the best mouthpiece in the city of New York—that is, for my purpose. “Criminal lawyer” is right. Just “criminal” might fit him. But then, if he is most times only a half block ahead of the District Attorney’s office, he holds that lead—and on three different occasions had made monkeys out of the bar associations when he was brought up on charges of “unethical practice.” Which any one has to admit is hardly a malicious way of classing jury fixing, wholesale perjury, and even extortion.
But I could use Myer at times, when some overzealous gunman got the idea that he could draw a little quicker than I, and later his relatives or friends found out that he couldn’t. After such bits of shooting Rudolph Myer was the best man in the world to get me out of stir on a Habeas Corpus writ, and the best man also to keep me out. But back to the lad leaning against the bar in the Golden Dog Night Club, who was playing the game of “Who can Make the Funniest Faces?” and winning in a gallop.
Now, the time—and Myer’s promise that he would put something interesting in my way— sort of toned down my childish impulse to play “ugly looks” with the youth who had missed his forte in life and should have been an impersonator instead of a racketeer.
So I moved down the bar, pretended that I didn’t see him lift his glass and follow me, and also ignored the bartender’s pantomime, which was to indicate to the youthful wise-cracker that he was holding a roman candle in his hand, with the wrong end up. Which was sound advice— even if I didn’t fancy the bartender butting into my affairs.
“You’re a smart guy, ain’t ya?” His elbow crooked on the bar and his cheek went into his open palm. “Race Williams—Private Investigator. Just a dirty dick, that’s all you are. And you don’t like my face. Well—a lot of people don’t like to see it when they’ve got cause to fear it.” He paused a moment, licked at his lips, smiled sort of pleasantly to himself—then opened his eyes a bit and fairly glared at me like an animal, his lips slipping back.
“You read the papers. Be careful you don’t look a Gorgon in the face—and die.”
“Well—it’s ugly enough,” I told him. “Why don’t you take it down to Headquarters and use it to frighten policemen?”
“Yeah—yeah?” He wasn’t the sort of a guy who went in for light banter—not him. He took himself very seriously. “Yeah?” he said again, and then, “Well—it’s been down to Headquarters many times—see? And no dick dared to lay a fist on it. They didn’t ‘third degree’ me, buddy—not me, a Gorgon.”
“Been stealing milk cans?” I raised my voice, for his was fairly loud now and others were listening. Maybe I’m not so hot at the repartee, but talking around this lad was like talking around a clothing store dummy. I knew him, of course. Eddie Gorgon, who had more than once beaten the rap for murder.
“Milk cans!” he said. “Not me.” And when some one laughed he lost his head slightly and cut loose. “The yellow dick, Williams,” he raised his head for the few others to get the remark, “let’s his moll hide out in a dirty dump. When she was making the grade and turning over the big shots he lived off her and—” My hand shot up and fastened on the lapels of his coat. I jerked him straight and gave him the office.
“If you don’t want that face of yours mussed up for a change, why—” and as too many others were taking an interest I tried hard and got a smile over, though I was boiling. “Since I never trail with a woman I guess you’ve got your dates mixed or you’re thinking of yourself,” I finished. There was a chance for him to pull back, but he didn’t take it.
“Face mussed up!” he repeated, in what he considered great sarcasm. He rather liked his twisted map, I guess. “Don’t trail with women! You? No—not with women who can’t pay their way—and your way. No women! Why, all the boys on the Avenue know about The Fla— Take your dirty hands off’a me.” He jerked free, and throwing open his coat let me see the gun beneath his armpit. “You’d like a name for her? You’d like to muss the face of Eddie Gorgon? You’d like to chuck the front that you have the guts to cross me—Joe Gorgon’s brother?” A slight pause as he shoved his face out. “Well— the little moll was called The Flame—Florence Drummond. Th
e Girl with the Criminal Mind. The—”
And I pasted him. Maybe I lost my head. Maybe I didn’t. Certainly though, there was nothing definite in my mind when I let him have it. Maybe I should have provoked him into drawing a gun. Maybe it would have saved a lot of later unpleasantness. But it’s not what you should have done that counts in life. It’s what you do. And truth is truth. I had nothing in my mind but his glaring eyes and protruding chin and quivering lips. If I had any desire at all, it was to shut his lying, foul mouth—and perhaps that’s even stretching the truth a little. The desire, after all, was just to sock him.
Now I won’t say that he was “out” before he hit the floor, though I like to think that he was. No, he wasn’t dead—just out. To put it simply: I landed flush on his protruding button and— and he hit the floor like a thousand tons of brick. Maybe, if he hadn’t landed on his thick head he would have been badly hurt. As it was, he stretched himself out on his back and listened to the birdies chirp.
But one birdie chirped a final message to Eddie Gorgon as he opened his eyes and looked dazedly around. That birdie was yours truly— Race Williams. I simply bent over him.
“All right, Eddie,” I told him pleasantly. “You’ve made your next to last crack about The Flame, in this life. Remember that. The next one is your last.”
“I’ll kill you for this. I’ll kill you for this,” he said over and over again, in a dazed sort of way. But though I lingered by his side for a moment he made no effort to reach for his gun.
People were gathering now. The manager had run in from the main dining room, two burly waiters behind him. I didn’t expect trouble—but then I’m always ready for it, so I sort of got my back to the wall and stood smiling at the manager.
The manager looked from me to the still prostrate Gorgon. It wasn’t a memory that would linger pleasantly in his mind. Eddie Gorgon was a big shot, with his brothers behind him. But then, I was something of a big shot, with nothing but myself behind me—or maybe a gun or two, though they’re generally before me.
I think the manager would have decided in my favor, for I was on my feet and the more immediate danger. But he didn’t have to decide. The crowd sort of fell back. A giant of a man had entered the doorway. There was something of resemblance between him and the man on the floor. Eddie Gorgon was sort of a replica of the big man in the doorway, though the face of the reclining gunman was younger and less lined. It was also less controlled. Yep, I knew the big bozo. Joe Gorgon, the active member of the feared and fawned upon Gorgon brothers. Joe Gorgon, New York’s most deadly racketeer, most politically prominent—and reputed to be one of the fastest-drawing gunmen in the country’s greatest city—or out of it, for that matter.
Well—maybe he was. I stood, so, with my back against the wall. If he was sure that he was faster than I, here was his chance to prove it. I don’t give way to any man when it comes to pulling rods. That’s my living. If it’s going to be my death—well—I folded my arms and waited.
I think that he saw me but I can’t be sure. At least, he never looked straight at me. I stood my ground while he went over and knelt beside his brother. There was nothing to read in his hard cruel face, with the small nervous little eyes. But he didn’t have to worry if his brother was alive or dead. Already Eddie Gorgon was sitting up, and the curses died on his lips as he looked into the hard, unsympathetic face of his elder brother, Joe.
And that was all of that picture. Fingers fell upon my arm.
“Come, come—” said a soft, persuasive voice. “Don’t be mixing yourself up in some common brawl that don’t concern you. We don’t want to be overconspicuous here tonight. At least, not yet.”
I shrugged my shoulders and followed Rudolph Myer through the narrow hall, out into the cloak room, and so to the main dining room. It was a cinch he hadn’t seen the little byplay. And it was a cinch I wasn’t going to mention it to him. He might be of a nervous temperament, and consider it not altogether conducive to a long life and the pursuit of happiness.
CHAPTER II
AT THE GOLDEN DOG
“Mussy bit of a row inside,” Rudolph Myer jerked his thumb back toward the bar when we had taken seats in the almost deserted dining room. “Looked like big Joe Gorgon crossing the—. But, there—I’ve got a job for you.”
“Never mind that yet, Myer.” I dismissed that topic for the time being. “What’s new of The Flame? Still going straight?”
“Still—an hour ago, anyway. But she don’t fancy the ‘honesty is the best policy’ racket, I guess. I don’t think it’s the money, Race; the drudgery of the work; the law stepping in and tipping her boss off that she’s got a record, every time she lands a job. The girl’s got the stuff in her. I think it’s the excitement; the lure of danger; the control of men, she misses. Imagine her keen, active, if criminal, mind now solving the length of a bolt of silk! Though—damn it—the cheapness of her rooms, after being used to every luxury in life, should be enough to throw her. It’s like me, Race. Maybe I wouldn’t be honest if—. What are you grinning at?” He broke off suddenly.
I didn’t tell him. Rudolph Myer was a queer duck and the crookedest lawyer in the city. Which is some record, no matter how you look on lawyers. But I dismissed the “honest,” knowing how touchy he was on that subject. After all, honest lawyers are useless lawyers—at least, in the underworld. And Rudolph Myer was anything but useless. So I took the talk back to The Flame again.
“How about her estate—her mother’s end of it, after her stepfather, Lu Roper, died?”
“Look here!” Rudolph Myer let the fingers of both his hands meet at the tips as he placed his elbows on the table. “I’ve done a bit of legal work for you, Race. We’ve been friends, and—listen. What do you really know about The Flame— Florence Drummond? Oh, I only did what you’ve asked me to do—helped her get jobs so that she could live honest—but as a lawyer of course I learned things. I had to, in trying to get her a bit of Mrs. Drummond’s money in Philadelphia. But Mrs. Drummond wasn’t her mother, Race. Mrs. Drummond simply adopted The Flame a great many years ago from an orphanage outside of Harrisburg. Things were sort of sloppy in those days. The legal papers for adoption never went through properly. Besides which, Lu Roper, her guardian, used what he could get his hands on. But he was a gangster and a killer, and got shot before they could roast him. No, there was little money for The Flame— besides which, she didn’t even fancy my taking an interest in her. At least, lately.” He looked toward the ceiling.
“Well—” I stroked my chin and feigned an indifference concerning The Flame I did not feel, “she’s a good kid, Myer. She did me a good turn. Get her another job—good pay. Make it look natural. I’ll foot the bills.”
“Yeah—” His shrewd, sharp eyes danced. “You should know her best, Race. Yet you seem to be the only man who ever knew her who thinks she’s feeble minded. I warned you it wouldn’t work.”
“What? She knows that I—”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Read that.” He shoved a note across to me. It was not sealed. I took out the single folded sheet. It read simply enough.
Race:—
You must see me tonight. This is not a plea. Perhaps you owe me that much. I’ll expect you at one o’clock exactly. Climb four flights—second door left—rear. Apt. 5-C.
I am halfway between the girl and the woman you knew.
THE FLAME.
“I am halfway between the girl and the woman you knew.”
That final line was perfectly clear to me. I thought back to my first meeting with Florence Drummond. The wistful, child-like girl who might have been just out of boarding school. And then the times when she was the hard, cruel woman of the world, taking on ten years— her mind shrewd, her every action alert, her face stony and cold—a leader and organizer of criminals. The death of Lu Roper in the Pennsylvania station, back in the Tags of Death affair! The steady hand as she killed the man to save my life; her fight in the underworld, against the distorted brain of the man know
n as The Angel of the Underworld, in his mad, fantastic, yet almost real grasping for a single Power. Of the night she destroyed that collection of evidence that would set the streets of the lower city allow with blood; of her disappearance into the maelstrom of a great city; her fight now to go straight.
I looked up at Rudolph Myer, and in my mind was the question: When The Flame wrote that note to me, did she love me—or did she hate me? And I—. Well—The Flame was her name. Given to her because men were attracted to her as the moth to a flame. And again my knowledge that to love The Flame—for a man to hold The Flame in his arms—was to die. Call it superstition if you like. But those who had held her had died. As well to call it a superstition to believe that if you look down the loaded end of a six-gun and press the trigger you’re apt to be amazed at the results.
“You read this?” I asked, for Rudolph Myer was watching me closely.
“Why not?” he said. “It was open. A confidence between lawyer and client. And if you seek legal advice, it is—Don’t go.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said very slowly, as he lit a cigar, “The Flame is a very remarkable woman. You will either hold her in your arms and die, or—” He shrugged his shoulders. “But after all that might be the way. A lovely woman! I am sometimes glad that the lure of the flesh does not appeal to me.”
“And how does she stand toward me now?” I wasn’t paying much attention to Rudolph’s chatter. Greed, I believed, was his single passion.
“I think—as she writes. Halfway between love and hate, with your presence there tonight to decide. But I’ve got something more important for you—or at least, something that may be important. Look here!” He placed his hand in his pocket, drew forth a long thick envelope and handed it across the table to me.
This time I had to break the seal. And inside the envelope were five one hundred dollar bills.
The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps Page 51
