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

by Paul Cain

  Martinelli looked like a clothing store dummy. He was balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands trembling at his sides; his grin artificial, empty.

  Doolin laughed suddenly. He stood up straight and looked at Martinelli and laughed.

  Halloran moved his eyes to Doolin, smiled faintly.

  He said: “Gentlemen—sit down.”

  Martinelli tottered forward, sank into one of the chairs.

  Halloran said: “Put your hands on the table, please.”

  Martinelli obediently put his hands on the table. The empty grin seemed to have congealed on his face.

  Halloran turned his eyes towards Doolin. Doolin smiled, walked gingerly to the other chair and sat down.

  Halloran said: “Now… .” He put one hand up to his face; the other held the Luger loosely on the table.

  Doolin cleared his throat, said: “What’s it all about, Mr Halloran?”

  Martinelli laughed suddenly. The empty grin exploded into loud high-pitched mirth. “What’s it all about! Dear God—what’s it all about! …”

  Halloran was watching Doolin, his shadowed sunken eyes half closed.

  Martinelli leaned forward, lifted his hands and pointed two fingers at Doolin. “Listen—wise guy… . You’ve got minutes to live—if you’re lucky. That’s what it’s all about!”

  Doolin regarded Martinelli with faint amusement.

  Martinelli laughed again. He moved his hand slowly until the two fingers pointed at Halloran. “He killed Coleman,” he said. “He shot Coleman an’ I drove the car. An’ he killed Winfield himself. An’ his outfit killed Riccio an’ Conroy… .”

  Doolin glanced at Halloran, turned back to smile dimly, dumbly at Martinelli.

  “He propositioned me into killing the dancehall dame,” Martinelli went on—“an’ now he’s going to kill you an’ me… .”

  Doolin grinned broadly but it was all done with his mouth. He didn’t look like he felt it very much. He looked at Halloran. Halloran’s face was white and immovable as plaster.

  “Listen—wise guy!” Martinelli leaned forward, moved his hand back to point at Doolin. He was suddenly very intense; his dark eyes burned into Doolin’s. “I came out here for Riccio to make connections to peddle M—a lot of it—an’ I met Mr Halloran.” Martinelli moved his head an eighth of an inch towards Halloran. “Mr Halloran runs the drug racket out here—did you know that?”

  Doolin glanced swiftly at Halloran, looked back at Martinelli’s tense face.

  “Mr Halloran aced me into double-crossing Frankie Riccio an’ Conroy,” Martinelli went on. “Mr Halloran’s men rubbed Riccio an’ Conroy, an’ would’ve taken care of me if Riccio hadn’t almost beat ’em to it… .”

  Halloran said coldly, amusedly: “Oh—come, come, Angelo… .”

  Martinelli did not look at Halloran. He said: “I met Riccio an’ Conroy at the train that night an’ took them to that joint in Culver City to talk business to Mr Halloran—only I didn’t know the kind of business Mr Halloran was going to talk… .”

  “Is it quite necessary to go into all this?” Halloran spoke sidewise to Martinelli, smiled at Doolin. It was his first definite change of expression since Doolin had come into the room.

  Martinelli said: “Yes,” emphatically. He scowled at Halloran, his eyes thin black slits. “Bright-boy here,” he indicated Doolin with his hand—“wants to know what it’s all about. I’d like to have somebody know—besides me. One of us might leave here alive—if I get this all out of my system it’s a cinch it won’t be Bright-boy.”

  Halloran’s smile was very cheerful. He said: “Go on.”

  “One of the men the Law picked up for the Hotspot shooting was a good guess—he’s on Mr Halloran’s payroll,” Martinelli went on. He was accenting the “Mr” a little unnecessarily, a little too much. “When I got out of the hospital Mr Halloran suggested we clean things up—move Coleman an’ Decker an’ Winfield—anybody who might identify his man or testify that Riccio shot me—out of the way. He hated Winfield anyway, for beating his time with the Darmond gal—an’ he hated her… .”

  Halloran was beaming at Doolin, his hand tight and steady on the Luger. Doolin thought about the distance across the big table to Halloran, the distance to the light.

  Martinelli was leaning forward, talking swiftly, eagerly: “I brought eighty-five grand worth of morphine out with me, an’ I turned it over to his nibs here when we threw in together. I ain’t had a nickel out of it. That’s the’ reason I went for all this finagling—I wanted my dough. I was supposed to get it tonight, but I found out about ten minutes ago I ain’t going to get it at all… .”

  Martinelli smiled at Halloran, finished: “Mr Halloran says it was hijacked.” He stood up slowly.

  Halloran asked: “All through, baby?”

  Martinelli was standing very stiff and straight, his hands cupped at his sides.

  Doolin ducked suddenly, exerted all his strength to upset the table. For a moment he was protected by the edge, could see neither Martinelli nor Halloran; then the big round tabletop slid off its metal base, crashed to the floor.

  Halloran was holding Martinelli very much in the way a great ape would hold a smaller animal. One long arm was out stiff, the long white hand at Martinelli’s throat, almost encircling it. Halloran’s other hand held Martinelli’s wrist, waved it back and forth slowly. The blade of a short curved knife glistened in Martinelli’s hand. Except for the slow waving of their two hands they were as if frozen, entirely still. There was nothing human in their position, nothing human in their faces.

  Doolin felt in that instant that Halloran was not human. He was mad, insane; but it was not the madness of a man, it was the cold murderous lust of an animal.

  The Luger and Doolin’s revolver were on the floor near their feet. Doolin circled until he was behind Halloran, moved slowly towards them.

  As he dived for one of the guns Halloran swung Martinelli around swiftly, kicked viciously at Doolin’s head. He missed once but the second caught Doolin’s hand as it closed over the Luger, sent the Luger spinning to a corner.

  As Doolin half rose, Halloran’s long leg lashed out again, his heavy shoe struck the side of Doolin’s head. Doolin grunted, fell sidewise to the floor.

  Doolin lay on his back and the room went around him. Later, in remembering what followed, it was like short strips of motion picture film, separated by strips of darkness.

  Halloran backed Martinelli slowly to the wall. It was as if they were performing some strange ritualistic dance; their steps were measured; Halloran’s face was composed, his expression almost tender. Martinelli’s face was darkening from the pressure on his throat. Halloran waved the hand holding the knife slowly back and forth.

  The next time the darkness in Doolin’s head cleared, they were against the wall, his head high, at a curious twisted angle above Halloran’s white relentless hand, his face purpling. Halloran’s other hand had slipped down over Martinelli’s chest.

  Martinelli’s eyes bulged. His face was the face of a man who saw death coming, and was afraid. Doolin could no longer see Halloran’s face. He watched the knife near Martinelli’s chest, slowly.

  Martinelli, some way, made a high piercing sound in his throat as the knife went into him. And again as Halloran withdrew the knife, pressed it in again slowly. Halloran did not stab mercifully on the left side, but on the right puncturing the lung again and again, slowly.

  Doolin rolled over on his side. The revolver lay on the floor midway between him and Halloran. He shook his head sharply, crawled towards it.

  Halloran suddenly released Martinelli, stepped back a pace. Martinelli’s knees buckled, he sank slowly down, sat on the floor with his back against the wall, his legs out straight. He sucked in air in great rattling gasps, held both hands tightly against his chest, tightly against the shaft of the knife.

  He
lifted his head and there was blood on his mouth. He laughed; and Doolin forgot the gun, stopped, stared fascinated at Martinelli. Martinelli laughed and the sound was as if everything inside him was breaking. His head rolled back and he grinned upward with glazing eyes at Halloran, held his hands tightly against his chest, spoke:

  “Tell Lola we can’t go away now… .” He paused, sucked in air. “She’s waiting for me… . Tell her Angelo sends his regrets… .” His voice was thick, high-pitched, but his words were telling, deadly, took deadly effect.

  Halloran seemed to grow taller, his great shoulders seemed to widen as Doolin watched.

  Martinelli laughed again. He said: “So long—sucker… .” Halloran kicked him savagely in the chest. He drew his long leg back and as Martinelli slumped sidewise he kicked his face, hard, repeatedly.

  Doolin scrambled swiftly forward, picked up the revolver, raised it.

  Halloran turned slowly.

  Doolin held the revolver unsteadily in his right hand, aimed at Halloran’s chest while the muzzle described little circles, pulled the trigger twice.

  Halloran came towards him. Doolin made a harsh sound in his throat, scuttled backwards a few feet, held the revolver out limply and fired again.

  Halloran’s face was cold, impassive; his eyes were great black holes in his skull. He came towards Doolin slowly.

  Doolin tried to say something but the words stuck in his throat, and then Halloran was above him and there was a terribly crushing weight against Doolin’s forehead and it was suddenly dark.

  Slowly, Doolin came to, lay a little while with his eyes closed. There were sharp twisting wires of pain in his head; he put his hand up, took it away wet, sticky.

  He opened his eyes. It was entirely dark, a cold penetrating darkness; entirely still.

  Suddenly he laughed, a curious hysterical sound in the quiet room; and as suddenly, panic seized him. He struggled to his knees, almost fell down again as the pain in his head throbbed to the swift movement. He got to his feet slowly, fumbled in his pockets and found a match, lighted it.

  Martinelli’s body was slumped in the angle of floor and wall at one side of the room. There was no one else. Doolin’s revolver shone dimly on the floor in the flare of the match. The door was ajar.

  Doolin lighted another match and picked up his revolver, his hat. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face and the handkerchief was wet, dark. He walked, unsteadily, to the door, down the dark stairs.

  One faint globe burned above the deserted bar. Doolin felt his way along the wall, lifted the heavy bar across the outside door and went out, closed the door behind him. It was raining lightly a thin cold drizzle.

  He took air into his lungs in great gulps, soaked the handkerchief in a little puddle of rainwater and tried to clean his face. Then he went down the dark street swiftly towards Broadway.

  The druggist looked at him through thick spectacles, gestured towards the back of the store.

  Doolin said: “Fix me up some peroxide an’ bandages an’ stuff—I had an accident.” He went back to the telephone booth, found the number of the Fontenoy, called it, asked for Mrs Sare.

  The operator said Mrs Sare didn’t answer.

  Doolin hung up and went out and cleaned the blood from his face in front of a mirror. A little girl stared at him wide-eyed from the soda fountain; the druggist said: “Automobile.”

  Doolin nodded.

  The druggist asked: “How much bandage do you want?”

  Doolin said: “Let it go—it’s not as bad as I thought it was.”

  He put his hat on the back of his head and went out and got into a cab, said: “Fontenoy Apartments—Hollywood. An’ make it snappy.”

  Lola Sare’s voice said: “Yes,” with rising inflection.

  Doolin opened the door, went in.

  She was sitting in a long low chair beneath a crimsonshaded bridge lamp. It was the only light in the room. Her arms were bare, straight on the arms of the chair, her hands hanging limply downward. Her dark head was against the back of the chair and her face was taut, her eyes wide, vacant.

  Doolin took off his hat, said: “Why the hell don’t you answer your phone?”

  She did not speak, nor move.

  “You’d better get out of here—quick.” Doolin went towards her. “Halloran killed Martinelli—an’ Martinelli opened up about you before he died. Halloran will be coming to see you… .”

  Her blank eyes moved slowly from his face to someplace in the dusk behind him. He followed her gaze, turned slowly.

  Halloran was standing against the wall near the door. The door had covered him when Doolin entered; he put out one hand and pushed it gently, it swung closed with a sharp click.

  As Doolin’s eyes became used to the dimness of the room he saw Halloran clearly. He was leaning against the wall and the right shoulder and breast of his light gray suit was dark, sodden. He held the short blunt Luger in his left hand.

  He said: “You’re a little late… .”

  The Luger roared. Lola Sare put her hands up to the middle of her breast, low; her head came forward slowly. She started to get up and the Luger leaped in Halloran’s hand, roared again.

  At the same instant Doolin shot, holding the revolver low. The two explosions were simultaneous, thundered in the dark and narrow room.

  Halloran fell as a tree falls; slowly, stiffly, his arm stiff at his sides; crashed to the floor.

  Doolin dropped the revolver, walked unsteadily towards Lola Sare. His knees buckled suddenly and he sank forward, down.

  There was someone pounding at the door.

  Doolin finished dabbing iodine on his head, washed his hands and went into the little living room of his apartment. A first dull streak of morning grayed the windows. He pulled down the shades and went into the kitchenette, lighted the gas under the percolator.

  When the coffee was hot he poured a cup, dropped four lumps of sugar into it absently, carried it into the living room. He sat down on the davenport and put the coffee on an end table, picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  He said: “Hello, Grace? Is Mollie there?” He listened a moment, went on: “Oh—I thought she might be there. Sorry I woke you up… .” He hung up, sipped his steaming coffee.

  After a few minutes he picked up the phone, dialed again, said. “Listen, Grace—please put Mollie on… . Aw nuts! I know she’s there—please make her talk to me… .”

  Then he smiled, waited a moment, said: “Hello darling … Listen—please come on home—will you? … Aw listen, Honey—I did what you said—everything’s all right… . Uh-huh… . Halloran’s dead—an’ Martinelli … Uh-huh… . The Sare dame is shot up pretty bad, but not too much to give evidence an’ clean it all up… . Uh-huh… .”

  He reached over and picked up the cup and took a long drink of coffee, smiled into the phone, said: “Sure—I’m all right—I got a little scratch on my head but I’m all right … Sure… . Sure—we were right … All right, Honey—I’ll be waiting for you. Hurry up… . G’bye… .”

  He hung up, curved his mouth to a wide grin, finished his coffee, lit a cigarette and waited.

  Pigeon Blood

  The woman was bent far forward over the steering wheel of the open roadster. Her eyes, narrowed to long black-fringed slits, moved regularly down and up, from the glistening road ahead, to the small rear view mirror above the windshield. The two circles of white light in the mirror grew steadily larger. She pressed the throttle slowly, steadily downward; there was no sound but the roar of the wind and the deep purr of the powerful engine.

  There was a sudden sharp crack; a little frosted circle appeared on the windshield. The woman pressed the throttle to the floor. She was pale; her eyes were suddenly large and dark and afraid, her lips were pressed tightly together. The tires screeched on the wet pavement as the car roared around a long, shallow curve. Th
e headlights of the pursuing car grew larger.

  The second and third shots were wild, or buried themselves harmlessly in the body of the car; the fourth struck the left rear tire and the car swerved crazily, skidded halfway across the road. Very suddenly there was bright yellow light right ahead, at the side of the road. The woman jammed on the brakes, jerked the wheel hard over; the tires slid, screamed raggedly over the gravel in front of the gas station, the car stopped. The other car went by at seventy-five miles an hour. One last shot thudded into the back of the seat beside the woman and then the other car had disappeared into the darkness.

  Two men ran out of the gas station. Another man stood in the doorway. The woman was leaning back straight in the seat and her eyes were very wide; she was breathing hard, unevenly.

  One of the men put his hand on her shoulder, asked: “Are you all right, lady?”

  She nodded.

  The other man asked: “Holdups?” He was a short, middle-aged man and his eyes were bright, interested.

  The woman opened her bag and took out a cigarette. She said shakily: “I guess so.” She pulled out the dashboard lighter, waited until it glowed red and held it to her cigarette.

  The younger man was inspecting the back of the car. He said: “They punctured the tank. It’s a good thing you stopped—you couldn’t have gone much farther.”

  “Yes—I guess it’s a very good thing I stopped,” she said, mechanically. She took a deep drag of her cigarette.

  The other man said: “That’s the third holdup out here this week.”

  The woman spoke to the younger man. “Can you get me a cab?”

  He said: “Sure.” Then he knelt beside the blown-out tire, said: “Look, Ed—they almost cut it in two.”

  The man in the doorway called to her: “You want a cab, lady?”

  She smiled, nodded, and the man disappeared into the gas station; he came back to the doorway in a minute, over to the car. “There’ll be a cab here in a little while, lady,” he said.

  She thanked him.

  “This is one of the worst stretches of road on Long Island—for highwaymen.” He leaned on the door of the car. “Did they try to nudge you off the road—or did they just start shooting?”