The Paul Cain Omnibus: Every Crime Story and the Novel Fast One as Originally Published (Black Mask)

by Paul Cain

  Under a subhead Doolin read:

  H.J. Coleman and his companion, Miss Mazie Decker, were in the corridor leading to the private room when the killers entered. Miss Decker said she could positively identify two of them. Coleman, who is nearsighted, was equally positive that he could not… .

  An hour and a half later, Doolin left the Bulletin Building. He had gone carefully through the December file, and up to the middle of January. He had called into service the City Directory, Telephone Book, Dun & Bradstreet, and the telephone, and he had wheedled all the inside dope he could out of a police reporter whom he knew casually.

  He stood on the wide stone steps and looked at the sheet of paper on which he had scrawled notes. It read:

  People in private room and corridor who might be able to identify killers of Riccio and Conroy:

  Winfield. Dead.

  Coleman. Dead.

  Martha Grainger. Actress. In show, in NY

  Betty Crane. Hustler. Died of pneumonia January 4th.

  Isabel Dolly. Hustler and extra girl. Was paralyzed drunk during shooting, probably not important. Can’t locate.

  Mazie Decker. Taxi-dancer. Works at Dreamland on Sixth and Hill. Failed to identify killers from rogues gallery photographs.

  Nelson Halloran. Man-about-town. Money. Friend of Winfield’s. Lives at Fontenoy, same apartment house as Winfield.

  Doolin folded and creased the sheet of paper. He wound it abstractedly around his forefinger and walked down the steps, across the sidewalk to a cab. He got into the cab and sat down and leaned back.

  The driver slid the glass, asked: “Where to?”

  Doolin stared at him blankly, then laughed. He said: “Wait a minute,” spread the sheet of paper across his knee. He took a stub of pencil out of his pocket and slowly, thoughtfully, drew a line through the first five names; that left Mazie Decker and Nelson Halloran.

  Doolin leaned forward and spoke to the driver: “Is that Dreamland joint at Sixth an’ Hill open in the afternoon?”

  The driver thought a moment, shook his head.

  Doolin said: “All right, then—Fontenoy Apartment—on Whitley in Hollywood.”

  Nelson Halloran looked like Death. His white face was extremely long, narrow; his sharp chin tapered upward in unbroken lines to high sharp cheekbones, great deep-sunken eyes, continued to a high, almost degenerately narrow, forehead. His mouth was wide, thin, dark against the whiteness of his skin. His hair was the color of water. He was six-feet-three inches tall, weighed a hundred and eighty.

  He half lay in a deeply upholstered chair in the living room of his apartment and watched a round spot of sunlight move across the wall. The shades were drawn and the apartment was in semidarkness. It was a chaos of modern furniture, books, magazines, papers, bottles; there were several good but badly hung reproductions on the pale walls.

  Halloran occasionally lifted one long white hand languidly to his mouth, inhaled smoke deeply and blew it upward into the ray of sunlight.

  When the phone buzzed he shuddered involuntarily, leaned sidewise and took it up from a low table.

  He listened a moment, said: “Send him up.” His voice was very low. There was softness in it; and there was coldness and something very faraway.

  He moved slightly in the chair so that one hand was near his side, in the folds of his dressing gown. There was a Luger there in the darkness of the chair. He was facing the door.

  With the whirl of the buzzer he called: “Come in.”

  The door opened and Doolin came a little way into the room, closed the door behind him.

  Halloran did not speak.

  Doolin stood blinking in the half-light, and Halloran watched him and was silent.

  Doolin was around thirty; of medium height, inclined to thickness through all the upper part of his body. His face was round and on the florid side and his eyes were wideset, blue. His clothes didn’t fit him very well. He stood with his hat in his hand, his face expressionless, until Halloran said coldly: “I didn’t get the name.”

  “Doolin. D-double o-l-i-n.” Doolin spoke without moving his mouth very much. His voice was pleasant; his vowels colored slightly by brogue.

  Halloran waited.

  Doolin said: “I read a couple of things in the paper this morning that gave me an idea. I went over to the Bulletin an’ worked on the idea, an’ it pans out you’re in a very bad spot.”

  Halloran took a drag of his cigarette, stared blankly at Doolin, waited. Doolin waited, too. They were both silent, looking at one another for more than a minute. Doolin’s eyes were bright, pleased.

  Halloran finally said: “This is a little embarrassing.” He hesitated a moment. “Sit down.”

  Doolin sat on the edge of a wide steel and canvas chair against the wall. He dropped his hat on the floor and leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees. The little circle of sunlight moved slowly across the wall above him.

  Halloran mashed his cigarette out, changed his position a little, said: “Go on.”

  “Have you read the papers?” Doolin took a cellophanewrapped cigar out of his pocket and ripped off the wrapper, clamped the cigar between his teeth.

  Halloran nodded, if moving his head the merest fraction of an inch could be called a nod.

  Doolin spoke around the cigar: “Who rubbed Riccio and Conroy?”

  Halloran laughed. Doolin took the cigar out of his mouth. He said very earnestly: “Listen. Last night Winfield was murdered—an’ Coleman. You’re next. I don’t know why the people who did it waited so long—maybe because the trial of a couple of the boys they’ve been holding comes up next week… .”

  Halloran’s face was a blank white mask.

  Doolin leaned back and crossed his legs. “Anyway—they got Winfield an’ Coleman. That leaves the Decker broad—the one who was with Coleman—an’ you. The rest of them don’t count—one’s in New York an’ one died of pneumonia an’ one was cockeyed… .”

  He paused to chew his cigar, Halloran rubbed his left hand down over one side of his face, slowly.

  Doolin went on: “I used to be a stuntman in pictures. For the last year all the breaks have been bad. I haven’t worked for five months.” He leaned forward, emphasized his words with the cigar held like a pencil: “I want to work for you.”

  There was thin amusement in Halloran’s voice: “What are your qualifications?”

  “I can shoot straight, an’ fast, an’ I ain’t afraid to take a chance—any kind of a chance! I’d make a hell of a swell bodyguard.”

  Doolin stood up in the excitement of his salestalk, took two steps towards Halloran.

  Halloran said: “Sit down.” His voice was icy. The Luger glistened in his hand.

  Doolin looked at the gun and smiled a little, stuck the cigar in his mouth and backed up and sat down.

  Halloran said: “How am I supposed to know you’re on the level?”

  Doolin slid his lower lip up over the upper. He scratched his nose with the nail of his thumb and shook his head slowly, grinning.

  “Anyway—it sounds like a pipe dream to me,” Halloran went on. “The paper says Miss Darmond killed Winfield.” He smiled. “And Coleman was a gambler—any one of a half dozen suckers is liable to have shot him.”

  Doolin shrugged elaborately. He leaned forward and picked up his hat and put it on, stood up.

  Halloran laughed again. His laugh was not a particularly pleasing one.

  “Don’t be in a hurry,” he said.

  They were silent a while and then Halloran lighted a cigarette and stood up. He was so tall and spare that Doolin stared involuntarily as he crossed, holding the Luger loosely at his side, patted Doolin’s pockets, felt under his arms with his free hand. Then Halloran went to a table across a corner of the room and dropped the Luger into a drawer.

  He turned and smiled warmly at Doolin, s
aid: “What will you drink?”

  “Gin.”

  “No gin.”

  Doolin grinned.

  Halloran went on: “Scotch, rye, bourbon, brandy, rum, Kirsch, champagne. No gin.”

  Doolin said: “Rye.”

  Halloran took two bottles from a tall cabinet, poured two drinks. “Why don’t you go to the Decker girl? She’s the one who said she could identify the men who killed Riccio and Conroy. She’s the one who needs a bodyguard.”

  Doolin went over to the table and picked up his drink. “I ain’t had a chance,” he said. “She works at Dreamland downtown, an’ it ain’t open in the afternoon.” They drank.

  Halloran’s mouth was curved to a small smile. He picked up a folded newspaper, pointed to a headline, handed it to Doolin.

  Doolin took the paper, a late edition of the Morning Bulletin, read:

  murdered girl identified as taxi-dancer

  The body of the girl who was found stabbed to death on the road near Lankershim early this morning, has been identified as Mazie Decker of 305 S. Lake Street, an employee of the Dreamland Dancing Studio.

  The identification was made by Peggy Galbraith, the murdered girl’s roommate. Miss Decker did not return home last night, and upon reading an account of the tragedy in the early editions, Miss Galbraith went to the morgue and positively identified Miss Decker. The police are… .

  Doolin put the paper down, said: “Well, well… . Like I said… .” There was a knock at the door, rather a curious rhythmic tapping of fingernails.

  Halloran called: “Come in.”

  The door opened and a woman came in slowly, closed the door. She went to Halloran and put her arms around him and tilted her head back.

  Halloran kissed her lightly. He smiled at Doolin said: “This is Mrs Sare.” He turned his smile to the woman. “Lola—meet Mr Doolin—my bodyguard.”

  Lola Sare had no single feature, except her hair, that was beautiful; yet she was very beautiful.

  Her hair was red, so dark that it was black in certain lights. Her eyes slanted; were so dark a green they were usually black. Her nose was straight but the nostrils flared the least bit too much; her mouth red and full, too wide and curved. Her skin was smooth, very dark. Her figure was good, on the slender side. She was ageless; perhaps twenty-six, perhaps thirty-six.

  She wore a dark green robe of heavy silk, black mules; her hair was gathered in a large roll at the nape of her neck.

  She inclined her head sharply towards Doolin, without expression.

  Doolin said: “Very happy to know you, Mrs Sare.”

  She went to one of the wide windows and jerked the drape aside a little; a broad flat beam of sunshine yellowed the darkness.

  She said: “Sorry to desecrate the tomb.” Her voice was deep, husky.

  Halloran poured three drinks and went back to his chair and sat down. Mrs Sare leaned against the table, and Doolin, after a hesitant glance at her, sat down on the chair against the wall.

  Halloran sipped his drink. “The strange part of it all,” he said, “is that I couldn’t identify any of the four men who came in that night if my life depended upon it—and I’m almost sure Winfield couldn’t. We’d been on a bender together for three days—and my memory for faces is bad, at best… .”

  He put his glass on the floor beside the chair, lighted a cigarette. “Who else did you mention, besides the Decker girl and Coleman and Winfield and myself, who might? … .”

  Doolin took the folded sheet of paper out of his pocket, got up and handed it to Halloran.

  Halloran studied it a while, said: “You missed one.”

  Mrs Sare picked up the two bottles and went to Doolin, refilled his glass.

  Doolin stared questioningly at Halloran, his eyebrows raised to a wide inverted V.

  “The man who was with Riccio and Conroy,” Halloran went on. “The third man, who was shot… .”

  Doolin said: “I didn’t see any more about him in the files—the paper said he wasn’t expected to live… .”

  Halloran clicked the nail of his forefinger against his teeth, said: “I wonder.”

  Mrs Sare had paused to listen. She went to Halloran and refilled his glass and put the bottles on the floor, sat down on the arm of Halloran’s chair.

  “Winfield and I went to The Hotspot alone,” Halloran went on. “We had some business to talk over with a couple girls in the show.” He grinned faintly, crookedly at Mrs Sare. “Riccio and Conroy and this third man—I think his name was Martini or something dry like that—and the three girls on your list, passed our table on their way to the private room… .”

  Doolin was leaning forward, chewing his cigar, his eyes bright with interest.

  Halloran blew smoke up into the wedge of sun. “Winfield knew Conroy casually—had met him in the East. They fell on one another’s necks, and Conroy invited us to join their party. Winfield went for that—he was doing a gangster picture and Conroy was a big shot in the East—Winfield figured he could get a lot of angles… .”

  Doolin said: “That was on the level, then?”

  “Yes,” Halloran nodded emphatically. “Winfield even talked of making Conroy technical expert on the picture—before the fireworks started.”

  “What did this third man—this Martini, look like?”

  Halloran looked a little annoyed. He said: “I’ll get to that. There were eight of us in the private room—the three men and the three girls and Winfield and I. Riccio was pretty drunk, and one of the girls was practically under the table. We were all pretty high.”

  Halloran picked up his glass, leaned forward. “Riccio and Martini were all tangled up in some kind of drunken argument and I got the idea it had something to do with drugs—morphine. Riccio was pretty loud. Winfield and I were talking to Conroy, and the girls were amusing themselves gargling champagne, when the four men—I guess there were four—crashed in and opened up on Riccio and Conroy.”

  “What about Martini?” Doolin’s unlighted cigar was growing rapidly shorter.

  Halloran looked annoyed again. “That’s the point,” he said. “They didn’t pay any attention to Martini—they wanted Riccio and Conroy. And it wasn’t machineguns—that was newspaper color. It was automatics… .”

  Doolin said: “What about Martini?”

  “For Christ’s sake—shut up!” Halloran grinned cheerlessly, finished his drink. “Riccio shot Martini.”

  Doolin stood up slowly, said: “Can I use the phone?”

  Halloran smiled at Mrs Sare, nodded.

  Doolin called several numbers, asked questions, said “Yes” and “No” monotonously.

  Halloran and Mrs Sare talked quietly. Between two calls, Halloran spoke to Doolin: “You’ve connections—haven’t you.” It was an observation, not a question.

  Doolin said: “If I had as much money as I have connections, I’d retire.”

  He finished after a while, hung up and put the phone back on the low round table.

  “Martinelli,” he said, “not Martini. Supposed to have been Riccio and Conroy’s partner in the East. They had the drug business pretty well cornered. He showed up out here around the last of November, and Riccio and Conroy came in December tenth, were killed the night they got in… .”

  Halloran said: “I remember that—they were talking about the trip.”

  Doolin took the cigar out of his mouth long enough to take a drink. “Martinelli was discharged from St Vincent’s Hospital January sixteenth—day before yesterday. He’s plenty bad—beat four or five murder raps in the East and was figured for a half dozen others. They called him The Executioner. Angelo Martinelli—The Executioner.”

  Mrs Sare said: “Come and get it.”

  Doolin and Halloran got up and went into the little dining room. They sat down at the table and Mrs Sare brought in a steaming platter of bacon and scra
mbled eggs, a huge double globe of bubbling coffee.

  Doolin said: “Here’s the way it looks to me: If Martinelli figured you an’ Winfield an’ whoever else was in the private room had seen Riccio shoot him, he’d want to shut you up; it was a cinch he’d double-crossed Riccio and if it came out at the trial, the Detroit boys would be on his tail.”

  Halloran nodded, poured a large rosette of chili sauce on the plate beside his scrambled eggs.

  “But what did he want to rub Coleman an’ Decker for?”

  Halloran started to speak with his mouth full, but Doolin interrupted him: “The answer to that is that Martinelli had hooked up with the outfit out here, the outfit that Riccio and Conroy figured on moving in on… .”

  Halloran said: “Martinelli probably came out to organize things for a narcotic combination between here and Detroit, in opposition to our local talent. He liked the combination here the way it was and threw in with them—and when Riccio and Conroy arrived Martinelli put the finger on them, for the local boys… .”

  Doolin swallowed a huge mouthful of bacon and eggs, said: “Swell,” out of the corner of his mouth to Mrs Sare.

  He picked up his cigar and pointed it at Halloran. “That’s the reason he wanted all of you—you an’ Winfield because you’d get the Detroit outfit on his neck if you testified; Decker an’ Coleman because they could spot the LA boys. He didn’t try to proposition any of you—he’s the kind of guy who would figure killing was simpler.”

  Halloran said: “He’s got to protect himself against the two men who are in jail too. They’re liable to spill their guts. If everybody who was in on it was bumped there wouldn’t be a chance of those two guys being identified—everything would be rosy.”

  They finished their bacon and eggs in silence.

  With the coffee, Doolin said: “Funny he didn’t make a pass at you last night—before or after he got Winfield. The same building an’ all… .”