Them That Lives by Their Guns by Carroll John Daly

Author:Carroll John Daly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Detective/Hard-Boiled
Publisher: Black Mask

Chapter 6

How long I slept I don’t know—but I came straight up in bed with a start. Someone was pounding heavily on the door. Not just as if one sought admission—but a steady, solemn, heavy rap, rap, rap. I had one foot over the side of the bed when the voice spoke—low—deep—and then a sudden crack in it—like a singer who has muffed a note.

“Come out—come downstairs, Race Williams, and take your killing.”

The words died off to a cracked rattle in the speaker’s throat. Pleasant little awakening, eh? But it only gives me a laugh. Here was a gun man who had been reading books—gone astray on modern psychology. Trying to get my nerve!

For the moment I was tempted to send a bit of lead crashing through the door. It didn’t seem likely that the hotel people would have any objections to that. Nice, obliging crowd, they seemed to be. Then I hesitated. There was something in that voice—the crack of it—not a man’s voice at all. A boy’s perhaps, or—well—I didn’t do the expected—fling open the door and look out; for feet had patted slowly away down the long uncarpeted hallway.

I got up slowly—turned out the oil lamp and walked to the door. Softly I opened it and listened. A distant creak—someone was waiting down the hall. I guess it took me all of three minutes to open that door and slip into the hall. Then I closed it and backed across the narrow passage and waited. Not a light—just a deadly darkness.

Someone had plunged the hall in blackness.

Five—ten minutes passed. Boards creaked—stealthy footsteps approached. Peering into the darkness I thought that a shadow detached itself from a distant corner and came cautiously down the hall. Gun in hand—eyes growing accustomed to the blackness, I waited. Of the approaching figure I could not be sure—but it seemed small—quick and light. I stretched out—measured the distance from my door and drew back, flat against the wall. The messenger was doubtful that I had awakened and was coming again with the invitation to death. And the silent figure was coming with a touch of fear—rapid breathing told me.

It was opposite me now—I could feel the swish of garments—hear the feet pause—scrape upon the boards—a hand raised and felt along the door. Then came the tap and the beginning of the cracked voice. My gun was raised—butt foremost—just going to sock out in the dark—when I hesitated. Tense, waiting, long experience with lurking foes—just a sixth sense perhaps! Yet, something told me that I was about to crown a woman. Not that she didn’t deserve it, but in such things I’m afraid I’m just a bit sentimental.

Anyway my gun did not strike—but my right hand shot out—felt of thick hair and circled quickly around a slender neck and throat.

She was too surprised to scream at first; and then it was too late. My hand closed over her mouth—the door was thrust open and I had her trapped. A minute later the oil lamp was lighted and I give her the up and down.

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