The Oxford Book of American Det (28 page)

She had a feeling that if he took up the basket she would snatch it from him.

But he did not take it up. With another little laugh, he turned away, saying:

“No; Mrs. Peters doesn’t need supervising. For that matter, a sheriff’s wife is married to the law. Ever think of it that way, Mrs. Peters?” Mrs. Peters was standing beside the table. Mrs. Hale shot a look up at her; but she could not see her face. Mrs. Peters had turned away. When she spoke, her voice was muffled.

“Not—just that way,” she said.

“Married to the law!” chuckled Mrs. Peters’s husband. He moved toward the door into the front room, and said to the county attorney:

“I just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to take a look at these windows.”

“Oh—windows,” said the county attorney scoffingly.

“We’ll be right out, Mr. Hale,” said the sheriff to the farmer, who was still waiting by the door.

Hale went to look after the horses. The sheriff followed the county attorney into the other room. Again—for one moment—the two women were alone in that kitchen.

Martha Hale sprang up, her hands tight together, looking at that other woman, with whom it rested. At first she could not see her eyes, for the sheriff’s wife had not turned back since she turned away at that suggestion of being married to the law. But now Mrs. Hale made her turn back. Her eyes made her turn back. Slowly, unwillingly, Mrs.

Peters turned her head until her eyes met the eyes of the other woman. There was a moment when they held each other in a steady, burning look in which there was no evasion nor flinching. Then Martha Hale’s eyes pointed the way to the basket in which was hidden the thing that would make certain the conviction of the other woman—that woman who was not there and yet who had been there with them all through the hour.

For a moment Mrs. Peters did not move. And then she did it. With a rush forward, she threw back the quilt pieces, got the box, tried to put it in her handbag. It was too big.

Desperately she opened it, started to take the bird out. But there she broke—she could not touch the bird. She stood helpless, foolish.

There was a sound of a knob turning in the inner door. Martha Hale snatched the box from the sheriff’s wife, and got it in the pocket of her big coat just as the sheriff and the county attorney came back into the kitchen.

“Well, Henry,” said the county attorney facetiously, “at least we found out that she was not going to quilt it. She was going to—what is it you call it, ladies?” Mrs. Hale’s hand was against the pocket of her coat.

“We call it—knot it, Mr. Henderson.”

CARROLL JOHN DALY (1889-1958)

Carroll John Daly, identified as the ‘pioneer of the private eye,’ is credited with creating the hard-boiled detective. Daly demonstrates why he deserves that title in
The
False Burton Combs,
which is considered to be the genesis of the private eye. In it, Daly defines the credo and personality not only of the unnamed protagonist in the story but also of his soon-to-be-created hero Race Williams, the tough-talking hard-boiled private eye of his own most successful series, and a thousand who would follow the pattern. The hero says, “I ain’t a crook; just a gentleman adventurer and make my living working against the law breakers. Not that I work with the police—no, not me.” He adds, “I’m no knight errant, either,” anticipating how the hard-boiled hero would be used by Dashiell Hammett and, especially, Raymond Chandler.

Daly, born in Yonkers, New York, and a graduate of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, had given up on an acting career, become a movie projectionist, and moved from that into ownership of a chain of movie theatres. He didn’t begin his writing career until the Roaring Twenties was in its third year, and the tone of his tales exactly fits the American hedonism of the period.

In a sense, Daly took the moralistic, ‘white knight’ hero of the pulp Westerns and converted him to fit the mood of a country turned cynical by World War I and by the official corruption that accompanied Prohibition. Race Williams declares that he makes his own ethics, and his solutions are more likely to be accomplished with a pistol shot or a punch than with the sharp reasoning of the courtly sleuths who had preceded him.

His adventures are told in the first person, allowing the reader at once to experience the physical sensations and inner thoughts of the hero. Two other hard-boiled detectives created by Daly, Vee Brown and Satan Hall, followed in the same formula.

In disclaiming any moral intentions and describing himself as a soldier of fortune, the protagonist of
The False Burton Combs
sets the Race Williams pattern. He also anticipates Williams’s attitude toward the establishment: “There ain’t nothing in government unless you’re a politician. And, as I said before, I ain’t a crook.” The hero also states that he “never took women seriously. My game and women don’t go well together.” That attitude was often reflected in detective fiction of the 1920’s.

But while Daly’s male heroes disdain women, the author is able to create the occasional exemplar of a woman who is clearly heroic. Strong female characters like the ‘pretty game little kid’ Marion St. James, whose courage is essential to the hero’s well-being, were as unusual in Daly’s era as is the resolution of this remarkable story.

The False Burton Combs

I had an outside stateroom on the upper deck of the Fall River boat and ten minutes after I parked my bag there I knew that I was being watched. The boat had already cleared and was slowly making its way toward the Battery.

I didn’t take the shadowing too seriously. There was nothing to be nervous about—my little trip was purely a pleasure one this time. But then a dick getting your smoke is not pleasant under the best of circumstances. And yet I was sure I had come aboard unobserved.

This chap was a new one on me and I thought he must have just picked me up on suspicion—trailed along in the hope of getting something. But I checked up my past offences and there was really nothing they could hold me on.

I ain’t a crook; just a gentleman adventurer and make my living working against the law breakers. Not that I work with the police—no, not me. I’m no knight errant, either. It just came to me that the simplest people in the world are crooks. They are so set on their own plans to fleece others that they never imagine that they are the simplest sort to do. Why, the best safe cracker in the country—the dread of the police of seven States—will drop all his hard-earned money in three weeks on the race track and many a well-thought-of stick-up man will turn out his wad in one evening’s crap game. Get the game? I guess I’m just one of the few that see how soft the lay is.

There’s a lot of little stunts to tell about if I wanted to give away professional secrets but the game’s too good to spread broadcast. It’s enough to say that I’ve been in card games with four sharpers and did the quartet. At that I don’t know a thing about cards and couldn’t stack a deck if I was given half the night.

But as I say, I’m an adventurer. Not the kind the name generally means; those that sit around waiting for a sucker or spend their time helping governments out of trouble.

Not that I ain’t willing to help governments at a certain price but none have asked me.

Those kind of chaps are found between the pages of a book, I guess. I know. I tried the game just once and nearly starved to death. There ain’t nothing in governments unless you’re a politician. And as I said before, I ain’t a crook.

I’ve done a lot of business in blackmail cases. I find out a lad that’s being blackmailed and then I visit him. He pays me for my services and like as not we do the blackmailers every time. You see I’m a kind of a fellow in the centre—not a crook and not a policeman. Both of them look on me with suspicion, though the crooks don’t often know I’m out after their hides. And the police—well, they run me pretty close at times but I got to take the chances.

But it ain’t a nice feeling to be trailed when you’re out for pleasure so I trot about the deck a few times whistling just to be sure there wasn’t any mistake. And that bird come a-tramping after me as innocent as if it was his first job.

Then I had dinner and he sits at the next table and eyes me with a wistful longing like he hadn’t made a pinch in a long time and is just dying to lock somebody up. But I study him, too, and he strikes me queer. He ain’t got none of the earmarks of a dick.

He acts like a lad with money and orders without even looking at the prices and it comes to me that I may have him wrong and that he might be one of these fellows that wanted to sell me oil stock. I always fall hard for the oil stock game. There ain’t much in it but it passes the time and lets you eat well without paying for it.

Along about nine o’clock I am leaning over the rail just thinking and figuring how far the swim to shore is if a fellow had to do it. Not that I had any thought of taking to the water—no, not me—but I always like to figure what the chances are. You never can tell.

Well, that bird with the longing eyes cuddles right up and leans over the rail alongside of me.

“It’s a nice night,” he says.

“A first rate night for a swim.”

I looked him over carefully out of the corner of my eyes.

He sort of straightens up and looks out toward the flickering shore lights.

“It is a long swim,” he says, just like he had the idea in mind.

Then he asks me to have a cigar and it’s a quarter one and I take it.

“I wonder would you do me a favour,” he says, after a bit.

This was about what I expected. Con men are full of that kind of gush.

“Hmmm,” is all I get off. My game is a waiting one.

“I came aboard a bit late,” he goes right on. “I couldn’t get a room—now I wonder would you let me take the upper berth in yours. I have been kind of watching you and saw that you were all alone.”

Kind of watching me was right. And now he wanted to share my room. Well, that don’t exactly appeal to me, for I’m banking on a good night’s sleep. Besides, I know that the story is fishy, for I bought my room aboard and got an outsider. But I don’t tell him that right off. I think I’ll work him out a bit first.

“I’m a friend of the purser,” I tell him. “I’ll get you a room.” And I make to pass him.

“No—don’t do that,” he takes me by the arm. “It isn’t that.”

“Isn’t what?”

I look him straight in the eyes and there’s a look there that I have seen before and comes in my line of business. As he half turned and I caught the reflection of his eyes under the tiny deck light I read fear in his face—a real fear—almost a terror.

Then I give it to him straight.

“Out with what you want,” I says. “Maybe I can help you but let me tell you first that there are plenty of rooms aboard the boat. Now, you don’t look like a crook—you don’t look sharp enough. What’s the big idea of wanting to bunk with me?” He thought a moment and then leaned far over the rail and started to talk, keeping his eyes on the water.

“I’m in some kind of trouble. I don’t know if I have been followed aboard this boat or not. I don’t think so but I can’t chance it. I haven’t had any sleep in two nights and while I don’t expect to sleep tonight I’m afraid I may drop off. I don’t want to be alone and—and you struck me as an easy-going fellow who might—might—“

“Like to take a chance on getting bumped off,” I cut in.

He kind of drew away when I said this but I let him see right away that perhaps he didn’t have me wrong. “And you would like me to sit up and protect you, eh?”

“I didn’t exactly mean that but I—I don’t want to be alone. Now, if you were a man I could offer money to—“

He paused and waited. I give him credit for putting the thing delicately and leaving the next move to me.

I didn’t want to scare him off by putting him wise that he had come within my line of business. It might look suspicious to him. And I didn’t want him to get the impression that I was a novice. There might be some future money in a job like this and it wouldn’t do to be underrated.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” I says. “I’ve been all over the world and done some odd jobs for different South American governments”—that always has its appeal—“and I’ll sit up and keep an eye on you for a hundred bucks.” Crude?—maybe—but then I know my game and you don’t.

“And I can sleep?” he chirps, and his eyes sort of brighten up.

“Like a baby,” I tells him.

“Good,” he says, and “Come to my cabin.”

So I take the number of his cabin and tell him that I’ll meet him there as soon as I get my bag. Then I leave him and fetch my bag and put what money I have in the purser’s office, for, although I can size up a game right away, a fellow can’t afford to take chances. I have run across queerer ducks than this in my time.

Twenty minutes later he’s in bed and we’ve turned the sign about smoking to the wall and are puffing away on a couple of good cigars. All content—he’s paid me the hundred like a man; two nice new fifties.

He just lay there and smoked and didn’t talk much and didn’t seem as sleepy as I had thought he was. But I guess he was too tired to sleep, which is a queer thing but I’ve had it lots of times myself.

He seemed to be thinking, too. Like he was planning something and I was concerned in it. But I didn’t bother him none. I saw what was on his chest and he didn’t seem in a condition to keep things to himself. I thought he’d out with some proposition for me.

But I didn’t know. I wasn’t anxious to travel about and be a nurse to him. That’s more of a job for a private detective but they ain’t used over much because they want to know all about your business and then you’re worse off than you were before.

At last he opens up.

“What’s your business?” he says.

And seeing I got his hundred there ain’t no reason to dodge the question. I up and tells him.

“I’m a soldier of fortune.”

He kind of blinks at this and then asks.

“That means a chap who takes chances for—for a consideration.”

“Certain kind of chances.” I qualify his statement.

“Like this for instance?”

“Sometimes; but I don’t reckon to travel around as a body guard if that’s what you’re thinking.”