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    The False Clara Burkhart: Race Williams #13 (Black Mask)
    The False Clara Burkhart: Race Williams #13 (Black Mask)
    The False Clara Burkhart: Race Williams #13 (Black Mask)
    Ebook86 pages1 hour

    The False Clara Burkhart: Race Williams #13 (Black Mask)

    By Carroll John Daly

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    About this ebook

    Race Williams wouldn’t touch a divorce case with a ten-foot pole. But when Mr. Burkhart, the prosperous owner of the well-known Burkhart & Co. publishing company, oozes through his office door seeking help, Williams is only too quick to jump at the chance for easy cash. The problem? One hundred and fifty thousand dollars of Burkhart jewelry has been stolen and old man Burkhart can’t seem to remember any relevant details of his inherited jewels. To make matters worse, the only prime suspect on Race Williams’ list—Burkhart’s young, beautiful wife Clara—must not be made aware of the misplaced jewels. Can Williams overcome a forgetful old man, a beautiful young wife, and a mysterious tail in time to retrieve the Burkart jewels and save his hide in the process? Story #13 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.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlack Mask
    Release dateNov 12, 2017
    ISBN9788827516119
    The False Clara Burkhart: Race Williams #13 (Black Mask)

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      Book preview

      The False Clara Burkhart - Carroll John Daly

      The False Clara Burkhart

      Race Williams book #13

      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:

      The False Clara Burkhart originally appeared in the July 1926 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.

      The False Clara Burkhart

      Chapter 1

      Three times I called for him to come in, and the shadow of his dark hair, streaked with gray, would bob in and out of the partly open door. It was hard to tell if he were a little deaf, or if he expected me to bite his head off the moment he got it fully inside.

      My final shout turned the trick and he sort of oozed through the doorway without opening the door wide. He was much taller than I expected when he straightened up, and though the rain beat against the window in great gusts, it was a cane that he had curled over his left arm.

      Tall, yes, but not broad; a long drawn-out, serious affair, with mild brown eyes that blinked bewilderingly at me through heavy shelled glasses. His dark blue suit was expensive enough, but looked as if it had been bought in a hurry or that he had shrunk considerably since ordering it. He looked at me, slipped open the door again and read the lettering on it aloud.

      Race Williams—Confidential Agent. He switched the cane from his left arm to his right and started in to talk, addressing the vacant space between the picture of George Washington and me.

      The umbrella, now, he carted the cane to the window, I’ll place here. And— this time he looked fully at me, you are Mr. Williams—Mr. Race Williams, Confidential Agent. He smiled then, a boyish smile, despite the deep lines about his face and the touches of gray in his hair.

      Right! His smile was catching and I grinned over at him. I’m impatient and want things to happen quickly. But I just couldn’t jump on this party.

      I am Matthew Burkhart, the publisher. You may have heard of—of my firm. His eyes came up quickly to mine, in a half hopeful look.

      I motioned him to a chair. The name meant money.

      M. Burkhart & Co.? I questioned doubtfully. This lad didn’t look like the head of that prosperous firm.

      That’s it, that’s it. His head jerked up and down as if it were on a wire. You see, I can pay you. I dislike to talk money. I’m hardly a business man, but I have able assistants. My father was the business man. Again that boyish smile. But you are not interested in my father. A sudden shadow and a quivering to his lips. I have trouble at home and I come to you, Mr.—Mr.— He was half on his feet, slipping toward the door, when I stopped him.

      Race Williams, I told him. Trouble at home, you say, Mr. Burkhart. Lucky in business, unlucky in— I stopped dead. Somehow, I felt my little joke would hurt, cut deeply, and I switched quickly. This trouble at home, now. Let me have the facts. I’m not strong for domestic stuff and wouldn’t touch a divorce case with a ten-foot pole. But this tall lad, who wasn’t sure of my name and called his cane an umbrella, was interesting—different than the usual frightened and nervous people who seek my services. So I listened while he assassinated time.

      I’ve lost the jewelry. His brows knitted and his fingers played puss-in-the-corner with each other. They are insured, of course—a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. But the value to me—you see, they belonged to my mother. Clara, I’m afraid, treasured them more for their intrinsic value and the way they set her off.

      He was beginning to mix things up, so I horned in and guided the story. The facts were strange enough—hard to believe if you didn’t set your eyes on the queer, yet somehow appealing, boylike man who told the story.

      Matthew Burkhart had been married for three years. That was the Clara he spoke about. It was a compliment to her that he remembered her name; he had forgotten about everything else, including the watch that he was vainly trying to locate on the end of an empty chain. But the family jewels had disappeared. Clara Burkhart had worn them at a social affair over a week ago. A pearl necklace, half a dozen rings, and a diamond bracelet. But the necklace was the thing. At his mother’s death Matthew Burkhart had been offered a hundred and thirty thousand dollars for it.

      The stuff was missing. Stolen, mislaid, or just chucked in the river—it was up to me to guess. Guess was right.

      It was the evening after the dance. Matthew Burkhart consulted a little memorandum. Clara asked me if I had placed the necklace in the safe deposit box at the bank, and, Mr Williams, I couldn’t recall if I had or not. But Clara told me she had given them to me and I had gone to the bank with them. So I supposed I had. I am forgetful at times. But the thing worried me, and I visited the bank. The necklace and jewelry were not there. I searched the office—ransacked the house, but there is no sign of them. They have disappeared entirely.

      I whistled softly. This was something new. A talk with his wife might help straighten matters out. But he put the dampers on that little thought.

      I don’t wish to tell her. As for the insurance company, I have said nothing to them. It’s all rather strange and childish, isn’t it, Mr. Williams? My wife has chided me about my—my poor memory. I had been very careful of things around the house. But since this unfortunate occurrence— He paused a moment, and then shot out the one simple sentence. I don’t like to be made fun of.

      And you’re willing to pay big money not to be. I looked straight over at him; was he hiding anything from me? Was this memory game finally going to turn into a well laid scheme to gyp the insurance company?

      I am willing to pay big money not to be. He repeated the words after me. I am forgetful about little things, Mr.—Mr Williams, and his face brightened. But this is something big and important. Clara no doubt told me to take them to the bank. I must have left them home, and someone has taken them. I have a notation here in my book—see. He fumbled through his pockets for a few minutes, produced a tiny note book, and flipping back the pages handed it to me. Just a few words were written there.

      In trouble, appeal to Race Williams, Confidential Agent.

      I don’t recall offhand just who gave it to me. Matthew Burkhart tried to make his words indifferent, but an anxious note crept in. This memory business bothered him. Bothered me too, for that matter. Suppose I

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