Black Mask (Vol. 15, No. 2 — April, 1932)
Black Mask
Plain Talk — and to Heck with Modesty
BLACK MASK is unique among fiction magazines, appealing to a wide group of readers ranging from those who like action fiction for action alone, where it is real and convincing, to the most discriminating readers in the professional classes — clergymen, bankers, lawyers, doctors, the heads of large businesses, and the like.
While it is commonly classed as a detective fiction magazine, it has, with the help of its writers, created a new type of detective story which is now being recognized and acclaimed by book critics as inaugurating a new era in fiction dealing with crime and crime combatting.
BLACK MASK stories republished in book form have been best sellers in the open book market and their writers have achieved international fame.
The magazine has developed such authors as Dashiell Hammett, Raoul Whitfield, Frederick Nebel, Carroll John Daly, Erie Stanley Gardner, Nels Leroy Jorgensen, Horace McCoy, Earl and Marion Scott, Tom Curry, William Rollins, Jr.; and a number of others, all of whom have been recognized by critics when their stories have appeared in book form or have been included among the anthologies of best stories selected by O’Brien and the O. Henry Memorial.
It has a flock of new writers, whose first stories are appearing in the magazine and who promise to become every bit as famous — such as Paul Cain, Ed Lybeck, Stewart Stirling, James Moynahan, J. J. des Ormeaux and the like.
It publishes as well stories of the BLACK MASK peculiar type by other authors, already widely known — as H. Bedford-Jones, Thomson Burtis, Bertrand W. Sinclair, Eugene Cunningham.
BLACK MASK’S requirements are simply expressed, but it holds rigidly to a high standard of readable, fast-running, convincing fiction. It does not accept poor stories.
These are some of the reasons why BLACK MASK differs from all other magazines and stands alone, by itself, and why it cannot be imitated successfully.
The Editor.
Man Killer
by Raoul Whitfield
She was a knockout and had come in for a bunch of money; she held the gun when the man fell; but Don Free wasn’t sure she had done the killing.
1
Don Free stood just inside the entrance door of the Hammond Agency and blinked gray eyes in the direction of Jen Carle. The girl used a lipstick deftly, slipped it into a drawer of the desk behind which she sat, relaxed in the chair. Don Free continued to look at her; finally he swore cheerfully.
She said: “Well — like it?”
Free grinned; it made him look ten years younger, almost boyish. He used his whole face when he grinned.
“Gave me a shock,” he replied. “Platinum, eh?”
She nodded and touched her hair with long, slender fingers. When he’d last seen her, ten days ago, she’d had long, brown hair. It had been touched with gray, and he’d liked it.
She said again: “Well — like it?”
Free let his grin become a smile, and looked older. He had a strong face, slightly browned. He was clean shaven and his lips were too thin to make him handsome. Otherwise his features were good. He looked towards a narrow corridor running from the outside office — the door of it stood half opened.
“Sure, Jen,” he said thoughtfully, but not as though he were thinking about the color of her hair.
She shrugged. “Which means you don’t,” she stated. “And that’s all right, too.”
He nodded. “I wouldn’t know, Jen,” he said. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I love you for what’s under the mattress stuff.”
She said with faint bitterness. “Like hell you do.”
He took off a light brown coat and a brown felt hat, put them on a chair.
“Tim inside?” he asked.
She nodded, and her eyes grew narrow. “And loving being there,” she said with more bitterness. “The man killer’s with him.”
Don Free looked at a picture of Abe Lincoln, hanging on the office wall.
“The man killer?” he said.
Jennie Carle nodded, her lips smiling. “Go on in and get a load of her,” she suggested. “Better knock first.”
Free looked slightly puzzled. “Business?” he asked.
She closed her eyes and hit the desk with a clenched fist.
“If it is — it’s funny business,” she said.
Free spoke slowly. “Now, Jen. Times are bad — the agency needs business.”
She breathed something he didn’t catch, and then said more clearly:
“I’m damn’ glad you got back. Tim needs someone to tell him a woman’s only a woman.”
Free half closed his eyes and whistled softly. “You’re not getting that way. Jen — after all these years?”
He watched the bitterness in her eyes.
“All these years — that’s the trouble,” she said. “Better go in, Free — he’s expecting you.”
She chuckled a little, with bitterness in it. Free looked at the face of Lincoln again.
“Better buzz in that I’m here, Jen,” he said.
She lifted a French phone and after a few seconds said:
“I didn’t disturb you too much, Mr. Hammond? I wouldn’t want to, you know. Free’s here.”
She replaced the apparatus and shrugged at Free. “Okey,” she said. “Be sweet to her — she’s so damned young, and in so damn’ much trouble.”
Free looked at Hammond’s secretary and whistled again. Jen Carle lifted papers from her desk and held them so her face was hidden. Free went from the room and along the corridor. At the end door he rapped, but went right in. Tim Hammond stood near a window that wasn’t very far above where traffic made sound. The girl sat in a chair near Hammond’s desk. She was very beautiful. Hammond said:
“Hello, Free. That was nice work in Philly. Twelve years’ back alimony. It’ll be a good lump for his wife. Did he kick much?”
Free grinned. “Offered me five grand, just to go away and forget. Said he’d dropped a lot recently, at Monte Carlo. Got nasty, but he came through. The new one is fed up with Paris and the Riviera, and he wants to stick in the States for a while.”
Hammond was short and thick-set. He had gray hair and a handsome, dissipated face. His eyes were deep-set and gray. He nodded and gestured towards the girl.
“Miss Reynolds,” he said. “My assistant — Don Free.”
Free lowered his head slightly and smiled. The girl said:
“Hello, Mr. Free.”
Her voice was soft and very smooth. Her enunciation was very lovely. She was beautiful in a very feminine way, and yet she hadn’t the quality of a doll. Her eyes were brown, almost the color of her hair. She was tall and slender, and very perfectly dressed. Her hat was a concession to a new style, yet not the style itself.
Hammond said a little grimly: “Unfortunately, Miss Reynolds is in trouble — serious trouble.”
The girl looked at the carpet on the office floor. Free said nothing. When she raised her eyes there were tears in them. She looked at him for several seconds, then lowered her eyes. Free said:
“That’s too bad.”
Hammond nodded and went over and sat down behind his desk. He chewed a finger knuckle.
“Anyone outside when you came in?” he asked.
Free shook his head. Hammond’s gray eyes held little expression.
“Miss Reynolds has killed a man,” he said slowly. “About an hour ago.”