He dropped to one knee and fired twice."
According to John D. MacDonald, Raoul Whitfield began a story with that line. MacDonald's first literary agent, Joseph T. Shaw, gave him this bit of information instead of crediting its actual author, Carroll John Daly.
"Cap" Shaw was the editor of the legendary Black Mask magazine, until a feud he had with Daly boiled over and Daly left Black Mask for the pages of Dime Detective magazine. Shaw was still nursing a grudge years later as he was pointing out to his young client how a detective story should begin.
Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Erle Stanley Gardner were the "Murderers' Row" of Black Mask, but it was Carroll John Daly who was The Franchise. Unfortunately for Shaw, Daly proved this when he left Black Mask and took with him to Dime Detective Race Williams.
Erle Stanley Gardner described Daly's most famous creation as, "The incomparably hard-boiled, bone-crushing, fast-shooting Race Williams."
Mickey Spillane said that Daly was the only writer who ever influenced him, and added, "Mike Hammer and Race Williams could be twins."
Race Williams was the very first hard-boiled crime fiction superstar, and he made Carroll John Daly a bestselling author with a very large following during the 1920s and the 1930s.
When 1941 rolled in, Daly's hardcover sales were sliding, but he was still among the highest paid pulp fiction writers. Since Daly was the inventor of the hard-boiled private investigator, he was the elder statesman of the field.
That is why Frank Costello, who got to know Daly shortly after reading the first Race Williams book, The Snarl of the Beast, back in 1927, had asked Carroll John Daly to explain the situation to Norvell W. Page.
Costello knew that Page was going to ask questions.
They met at Gavagan's Bar two days after the incident.
Page immediately recognized him from the back. Daly was seated at a table near the large plate glass window facing the street.
Approaching the table quietly, Page nervously cleared his throat.
"Norvell," Daly said, "have a seat."
Page studied the coat rack in the corner, but decided to wear his hat and overcoat. It would be cold sitting near that window.
Norvell headed over to the chair opposite Daly. As he walked around the table, Page noticed a green whiskey bottle and a squat glass filled with amber liquid in front of Daly.
Page ordered a black coffee and sat down.
A professional writer for over a decade, and he was still in awe of Daly.
"Frank told me to make this short and sweet," Daly said, smiling.
Bespectacled, and with a trimmed graying mustache, Daly wore a dark, slightly rumpled, tweed suit, a white shirt and a black tie. He gazed at Page, sized him up, and began.
"What happened the other night had nothing to do with the settlement made by Detective Comics."
Taking a sip from the glass before him, Daly continued, "The gunman had a German passport. He was carrying a Walther P-38. A Nazi assassin."
"Must have been a critic," Page responded, as a waiter placed a steaming cup of coffee on the table. "Back in 1938, I wrote a series of novels where The Spider fought storm troopers. Evidently, it hit home."
"Evidently," Daly said nodding his head slowly. "But, remember, there may be others. Be more careful."
"Well, my motto for The Spider is," Page said thoughtfully, "Do not fear sudden terror, or the holocaust of the evil, when it comes."
"Proverbs 3:25, very good," retorted Daly, adding, "Race Williams has a motto, too, and I also have one for myself."
First glancing at the green bottle before him, "The one for Race is," Daly looked up and grinned, "Sine Metu."
"Without fear. Most appropriate," Page said, as he spied the label on the green whiskey bottle, tilted his head forward sternly at Daly, then laughed.
"And the one I chose for myself is," Daly paused, "As for all those who design evil against me, speedily nullify their counsel and disrupt their design."
"Saint Augustine?"
Daly shook his head.
"Aquinas?"
Daly shook his head again, smiled, and said, "No. The Talmud!"
Now that the ice was broken, Norvell Page thought that this would be the ideal time to ask the question.
"C.J., just what had happened between you and Joe Shaw?"
Daly leaned forward in his chair, gazed out the window in back of Page, lifted the glass in front of him, then drained it in one gulp.
"Things came to a head in 1930 when Knopf published The Maltese Falcon. Dashiell Hammett was Shaw's golden boy, and Shaw came up with a plan meant to turn the acclaim that The Maltese Falcon was receiving against me. A contest."
Incredulous, Page sputtered, "You mean that contest where you were voted the number one favorite by the Black Mask readership?"
"Yes, but there was a side bet that Shaw had talked Hammett into. If Hammett won, I would have to give him a brand new .44 revolver, just like the one used by Race Williams. And, if I won, Dash would give me a Webley-Fosbery in good working order. When Dash came in third, Shaw had to cover the loss. The gulf widened between us after that, and Shaw never forgave me."
Emptying the remaining contents of the green bottle into his glass, Daly then glanced out the window, sprang up from his chair with glass in hand, strode to the side of the window, and ordered, "Page, under the table. Now!"
Just as Norvell Page hit the floor prone, a staccato of machine gun bullets shattered the plate glass, raining shards around him. Page looked up and saw Daly finish his drink, gently place the glass on a shelf in back of him, then grimly focus on the window opening through a mist of finely settling debris.
Seamlessly producing a Webley-Fosbery from the shoulder holster concealed by his tweed suit jacket, Carroll John Daly dropped to one knee and fired twice.