Alias Buttercup: Race Williams #10 (Black Mask)
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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.
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Black Mask 2019 Yearbook Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
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Titles in the series (19)
The Face Behind the Mask: Race Williams #6 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThree Thousand to the Good: Race Williams #2 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsKnights of the Open Palm: Race Williams #1 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Red Peril: Race Williams #3 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSay It With Lead!: Race Williams #8 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsUnder Cover: Race Williams #11 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThem That Lives By Their Guns: Race Williams #4 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsAlias Buttercup: Race Williams #10 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDevil Cat: Race Williams #5 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsConceited, Maybe: Race Williams #7 (Black Mask) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The False Clara Burkhart: Race Williams #13 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsI'll Tell the World: Race Williams #9 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSouth Sea Steel: Race Williams #12 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHalf-Breed: Race Williams #15 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Hidden Hand: Race Williams #19 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Super-Devil: Race Williams #14 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Snarl of the Beast: Race Williams #17 (Black Mask) Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Blind Alleys: Race Williams #16 (Black Mask) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Egyptian Lure: Race Williams #18 (Black Mask) Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5
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Alias Buttercup - Carroll John Daly
Alias Buttercup
Race Williams book #10
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:
Alias Buttercup
originally appeared in the October 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.
Alias Buttercup
Chapter 1
Most times cases of mine end with death—I just sort of drift in with the type of gentlemen who must have finis
written after their names to properly settle matters. But this time my story opens with a death. Mexican Joe Geary, or Gerhia, had been given the works. From the newspaper accounts of the affair he was dead. At first the police thought he had jumped or toppled from the twenty-second story window of a skyscraper. One thing all agreed upon—Joe had fallen heavy for the sidewalks of New York and got himself all smeared up in the midst of Broadway traffic.
I’m not a hard-hearted man, but in a way there was a chuckle in every line. The killing of Mexican Joe wouldn’t net me a brass penny and yet I had finally decided to push him over. It wasn’t so much his threats to kill me as it was the bad grammar of his letters—the thing was getting on my nerves. Joe hadn’t missed much of life—he was just a day or two ahead of his schedule, that was all.
After the police had cleaned him up and put him together and got the coroner working on him, the truth came out—he had been shot—there was a little bullet hole smack in the back of his neck—a twenty-two it was. Just enough to give him a sore throat under ordinary conditions, but evidently Joe had been leaning out of the window studying nature. He got an eyeful and no mistake. There wasn’t much evidence—just a screaming rat in the air—then a broken, miserable carcass on the sidewalks.
I’m not a hearse chaser—not me, but I did run down and follow that little procession out to Brooklyn. Joe was a Mex but passed as a wop and the funeral was a loud affair. There was a band and things were pulled off in great style. But I didn’t go for the entertainment—I just wanted to be sure that it was Joe. When I do a thing myself I know it’s done well, but in this case—well, I didn’t have a whole lot of confidence in a person who would drop Joe off with a twenty-two. I’d of weighted him down with heavier lead before he took that nose dive.
Of course I didn’t get a slant at the body—no one did—I guess he wasn’t a pretty sight. He had been identified as Mexican Joe mostly on the things found in his pockets. Everyone seemed sure it was Joe, even to the dicks who shoved about and mixed with the crowd in that stupid belief that morbid curiosity and some irresistible force will bring the murderer back to the funeral of his victim.
But there was a half-hearted search only from the very beginning. Any way you look at it, the lad who got Joe—or the lass, for a girl had been seen leaving that floor of the building shortly after the dip of death—deserved a vote of thanks from the police department of the city. Joe was a sore eye and a bad tooth and a dozen other things.
There was no way to find out for sure that Joe was dead. But everybody else seemed satisfied, so why should I kick?
I was recognized of course by half a dozen dicks, but Inspector Crowley was there to call them off from dogging me. He knew my stuff—when I pulled a trick I didn’t have to hold any post mortems. It wasn’t the dicks I was interested in—nor the crowd either, at first. Just a curious, indifferent mob trotting along for excitement, and with perhaps the chance to pick a pocket or two. And then a lad stands out above the crowd—far back in the shadows of the trees I spot him—a big handsome man—a bit loud for such an occasion. Like a prize contest: What’s wrong with this picture
sort of business. He didn’t belong—and yet he was there. His clothes alone didn’t label him as money; back on the main road, just beyond the cemetery fence, was a powerful motor with a liveried chauffeur.
Was he visiting another grave and just turned his head in curiosity? I didn’t think so. His eyes were riveted on those about the gunman’s grave, and another thing that made me eye him more closely—he had a way of spotting every dick with unfailing accuracy. I knew—I read his eyes as he spotted them—read too the hard, searching look as he sized up the others. Nothing of fear in his face, you understand—but there was a certain relief there. He was looking for someone that he didn’t find—someone he didn’t want to find. Food for thought that. What would bring a man like that to the funeral of a common gunman?
It was hot and then cool—a gentle breeze slipping through the trees, then a sudden burst of wind—the blotting out of the sun like a huge hat had been placed over it—threatening clouds and a distant roar of thunder. No warning, you understand—just a gorgeous summer afternoon turned into night.
There were hurried glances toward the threatening sky—and the Longfellow stuff was pulled: like Arabs they stole away. The cops, too, just melted out with them—faces they hadn’t seen in years had no doubt bobbed up at the funeral—acquaintances that many a bull would want to renew. As for me—I stuck it out till the last shovelful of dirt was pitched. Was it Mexican Joe that was dead? I couldn’t be sure of that—but someone had been put away for keeps. Just the grave diggers and me left. Then I too turned and started down the narrow path to the west gate.
I’ve been lost in the Underworld of unfamiliar cities—stranded and bewildered on the edge of the great Sahara, but this was the first time I’d slipped up on my bearings in a city of the dead. Why, in five minutes I was swallowed up in the blackness of a moonless night. Just the dull, dim outlines of great and small stones and the swaying dullness of ghost-like trees. Nothing alarming—I’m not superstitious. I’ve read of dead men coming back, but none of mine had ever turned the trick.
The whirling of wind—a flash of lightning—a figure or two dashing bewilderingly in and out among the dead—a great blackness and the deafening roar of thunder. Majestic—awe inspiring? Maybe. I give Nature credit for pointing its finger at the puny conceit of man—and I admired the beauty of the storm. Everything was jake until the rain came—Man! It just opened up and poured. Another glare of light—a huge tomb—a half sheltered stone doorway with an iron gate and a bronze plate—and I was out of the rain.
There was a big marble urn to one side, which made