Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

Carroll John Daly (1889–1958) was a somewhat unlikely figure to have created this milestone in crime fiction. A mild-mannered, theatre-loving man who had worked his way up from film projectionist to owner of the first cinema in Atlantic City, he had taken up writing purely as a diversion. In his suburban home in White Plains, New York, he began turning out crime stories of fast-paced action, packed with violence and little characterisation. They were quite unlike anything being written by Daly’s contemporaries and were eagerly seized upon by readers looking for a new kind of thrill in crime fiction. Among his earliest creations — all of whom narrated their adventures in the same terse, clipped language that has since become such a mark of the genre — were Vee Brown, a revolver-carrying avenger who loved composing music, and the awesome Three Gun Terry Mack. But it was Race Williams who captured the public imagination. And although Daly produced his work at such speed it was regularly criticised by editors for being crude and sloppy, his manuscripts were never rejected. Indeed, with the passage of time a legend grew in publishing circles that the name of Race Williams on the cover of a magazine could increase the circulation by anything up to 20 per cent — a fact which contributed to making Daly one of the highest-paid writers of his era as well as the acknowledged creator of an enduring prototype. ‘The Egyptian Lure ’ is a typical Race Williams adventure from the March 1928 issue of Black Mask and has not been reprinted since that date.

The zero night blasted a biting wind through the narrow streets of the lower city. But no dust or dirt, or the smells of the filthy streets came with it; they were embedded in the thick black ice that filled the gutters. Clear, crisp and biting — like the country air — the breath-taking wind cut into my face. An occasional scuttling, scurrying figure hustled from one doorway to another, or beat its way uncertainly along the pavement.

Once, beneath a dull light, a harness bull eyed me through watery lids. Half stepping out to block my passage, he thought better of it and waving his arms across his chest hurried along his beat. I knew the thought that ran through his mind — if he could drag in a drunk he could get warm while he was booking him. And I didn’t blame him much. Still, that was the difference between him and me. I had business to attend to, or thought I had, and the old mercury could slip right out the bottom of the thermometer before I’d duck out on a job. The name of Race Williams stands for service.

Less than an hour ago, a boy had brought me an envelope full of money and there was a note requesting that I show up at a tough night-club as soon as possible. It spoke of trouble, and that I was taking my life in my hands, and had all the earmarks of an obituary column — without the place of my interment. It was just typewritten, and no name signed to it. But money talks, and here I was slipping along through the night to the ‘Egyptian Lure’.

Now, I’m not exactly a child in arms, and I know there’s a few hundred loose-thinking gunmen who’d be glad to try a pot shot at me. So the idea of a trap was not entirely from my mind. But I wouldn’t disappoint the boys anyway. If they’re willing to pay for a shot at me, why discourage the practice? Besides, there isn’t any way to judge beforehand what’s good business and what’s bad. People that hunt me out aren’t apt to be giving references. They’re in trouble when they think of Race Williams. I’m a court of last appeal. Not exactly a private detective, though my licence so labels me. But the gilt letters on my office door spell — CONFIDENTIAL AGENT.

But — back to the street and the winter night and the temperature that was out to break all records. I found the ‘Egyptian Lure’. It wasn’t hard for me to locate the little door. I know the underworld well, and all its dives, and this place a blind man could find. Someplace below the street level, the tin pan notes of an over-ripe piano were clanging feebly against the insistence of a trap drum.

My eyes are accustomed to take in a picture quickly, and I got one that made my right hand slip to my overcoat pocket as I reached the dark, ill-smelling hallway which gave entrance to the so-called ‘nightclub’. For a ‘figure had slipped back into the adjoining doorway, and two others had disappeared in the alleyway across the street.

Maybe there was nothing alarming in that, and maybe there was. It might be simply the big-hearted boyishness that makes one gangster wait to playfully knock over another, or it might be a reception committee for me. But if they intended to plug me from the darkness, they lost their chance almost the very second they had it. I’d swung through the outer door and was in the blackness of the hallway of the ‘Egyptian Lure’. The next moment I was doing my stuff on the inner door — four, three and one — which was the regular knock of the preferred sucker list. If you didn’t know the rap, a little shutter went open while you were looked over. They hated to lose a dollar in that joint. It was easy to get in if you had any money — harder to get out if you had any left. If you wanted a card of introduction, most any taxicab driver could furnish it.

The door opened slightly and I shot my foot within. I was fortunate as I stood in the dim light. The old bird on the door was a stranger to me.

‘Just one... just one,’ he muttered, as I slipped a bill into his hand. ‘You’re joining a party?’ And he tried to stare into my face that was hidden by the slouch hat and turned-up collar.

‘Just one.’ I nodded at him. ‘But I’ll make a party of it before I leave.’ And while he was thinking that one out I swung into the cloakroom, jerked the gun from my overcoat pocket to my hip, and parked my coat with the attendant. Then I turned, shot back my shoulders and stepped down the three steps into the dance hall.

The proprietor, a big oily Greek, labelled Nick, recognised me almost at once. His cheeks puffed, his eyes bulged and after rolling them around a bit he tried to smile as he finally led me to a little table in a dark corner of the room.

The whole room was a dismal affair, for that matter. Shaded, dirty lights, which were meant to give the effects of the soft Egyptian night, might have registered with that gang. But to me it looked more like the dingy, dirty cellar of old Madison Square Garden when the circus was in town. The paintings on the walls were a scream. Emaciated little camels rubbed noses with mangy lions and a dark-skinned warrior in gaily coloured robes overshadowed the pyramids, while a Pekingese dog in the background turned out on closer inspection to be the Sphinx. The atmosphere and the odours didn’t have a whole lot on the Zoo, but it suited the crowd. Perhaps, after all, I don’t know my geography and the smells of Egypt.

The proprietor bent over me.

‘On pleasure, Mr Williams?’ He tried to make his voice simply solicitous, but an anxious, alarmed note crept into his simple question. ‘If you’re not,’ he added significantly, ‘I’ll have to speak to Joe.’ And he jerked a thick thumb towards the huge bulk of the bouncer, who lounged behind the orchestra.

I laughed up at him — I couldn’t help it. If I said I was there on business, he’d quit. This bird had seen me in action once before, when he was a waiter over on the Avenue. He knew if Joe tried to put me out of a dump like that, he’d put me out in a cloud of smoke. It may be pride on my part. But to be chucked out of there wouldn’t help my business any nor my reputation. I’m not a mussy guy, you understand — but I don’t lay down to have my face trampled all over either. Just one rule for the lad who starts a row with me. He must be prepared to finish it. I don’t go in for horseplay.