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

by Paul Cain

  She picked up the glass, frowned at him with mock seriousness. “You’re a moralist,” she said. “That’s one of the things I will do.”

  He shrugged slightly. “I shall have some very important, very delicate work for you a little later in the evening. I thought it might be best.”

  She looked at him, half smiling, a little while, and then she laughed and put down the glass and went into the bathroom. He leaned back comfortably in the chair and stared at the ceiling; his hands were on the arms of the chair and he ran imaginary scales with his big blunt fingers.

  She came back into the room in a little while, dressed, drawing on gloves. She gestured with her head towards the man on the floor, and for a moment her more or less alcoholic poise forsook her—she shuddered again—her face was white, twisted.

  Druse stood up, said: “He’ll have to stay where he is for a little while.” He went to the heavily draped window, to the fire escape, moved the drape aside and locked the window. “How many doors are there to the apartment?”

  “Two.” She was standing near the table. She took the black automatic from a pocket of her suit, took up a gray suede bag from the table and put the automatic into it.

  He watched her without expression. “How many keys?”

  “Two.” She smiled, took two keys out of the bag and held them up. “The only other key is the passkey—the manager’s.”

  He said: “That’s fine,” went to the table and picked up his hat and put it on. They went out into the hall and closed and locked the door. “Is there a side entrance to the building?”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s go out that way.”

  She led the way down the corridor, down three flights of stairs to a door leading to Sixty-third Street. They went out and walked over Sixty-third to Lexington and got into a cab; he told the driver to take them to the corner of Fortieth and Madison, leaned back and looked out the window. “How long have you and Mister Hanan been divorced?”

  She was quick to answer: “Did he say we were divorced?”

  “No.” Druse turned to her slowly, smiled slowly.

  “Then what makes you think we are?”

  “I don’t. I just wanted to be sure.”

  “We are not.” She was very emphatic.

  He waited, without speaking.

  She glanced at him sidewise and saw that he expected her to go on. She laughed softly. “He wants a divorce. He asked me to divorce him several months ago.” She sighed, moved her hands nervously on her lap. “That’s another of the things I’m not very proud of—I wouldn’t do it. I don’t quite know why—we were never in love—we haven’t been married, really, for a long time—but I’ve waited, hoping we might be able to make something out of it… .”

  Druse said quietly: “I think I understand—I’m sorry I had to ask you about that.”

  She did not answer.

  In a little while the cab stopped; they got out and Druse paid the driver and they cut diagonally across the street, entered an office building halfway down the block. Druse spoke familiarly to the Negro elevator boy; they got off at the forty-fifth floor and went up two flights of narrow stairs, through a heavy steel fire door to a narrow bridge and across it to a rambling two-story penthouse that covered all one side of the roof. Druse rang the bell and a thin-faced Filipino boy let them in.

  Druse led the way into a very big, high-ceilinged room that ran the length and almost the width of the house. It was beautifully and brightly furnished, opened on one side onto a wide terrace. They went through to the terrace; there were steamer chairs there and canvas swings and low round tables, a great many potted plants and small trees. The tiled floor was partially covered with strips of coco-matting. There was a very wide, vividly striped awning stretched across all one side. At the far side, where the light from the living room faded into darkness, the floor came to an abrupt end—there was no railing or parapet—the nearest building of the same height was several blocks away.

  Mrs Hanan sat down and stared at the twinkling distant lights of Upper Manhattan. The roar of the city came up to them faintly, like surf very far away. She said: “It is very beautiful.”

  “I am glad you find it so.” Druse went to the edge, glanced down. “I have never put a railing here,” he said, “because I am interested in Death. Whenever I’m depressed I look at my jumping-off place, only a few feet away, and am reminded that life is very sweet.” He stared at the edge, stroked the side of his jaw with his fingers. “Nothing to climb over, no windows to raise—just walk.”

  She smiled wryly. “A moralist—and morbid. Did you bring me here to suggest a suicide pact?”

  “I brought you here to sit still and be decorative.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m going hunting.” Druse went over and stood frowning down at her. “I’ll try not to be long. The boy will bring you anything you want—even good whiskey, if you can’t get along without it. The view will grow on you—you’ll find one of the finest collections of books on Satanism, demonology, witchcraft, in the world inside.” He gestured with his head and eyes. “Don’t telephone anyone—and, above all, stay here, even if I’m late.”

  She nodded vaguely.

  He went to the wide doors that led into the living room, turned, said: “One thing more—who are Mister Hanan’s attorneys?”

  She looked at him curiously. “Mahlon and Stiles.”

  He raised one hand in salute. “So long.”

  She smiled, said: “So long—good hunting.”

  He went into the living room and talked to the Filipino boy a minute, went out.

  In the drugstore across the street from the entrance to the building, he went into a telephone booth, called the number Hanan had given him. When Hanan answered, he said: “I have very bad news. We were too late. When I reached Mrs Hanan’s apartment, she did not answer the phone—I bribed my way in and found her—found her dead… . I’m terribly sorry, old man—you’ve got to take it standing up… . Yes—strangled.”

  Druse smiled grimly to himself. “No, I haven’t informed the police—I want things left as they are for the present—I’m going to see Crandall and I have a way of working it so he won’t have a single out. I’m going to pin it on him so that it will stay pinned—and I’m going to get the rubies back, too… . I know they don’t mean much to you now, but the least I can do is get them back—and see that Crandall is stuck so he can’t wriggle out of it.” He said the last very emphatically, was silent a little while, except for an occasionally interjected “Yes” or “No.”

  Finally he asked: “Can you be in around three-thirty or four? … I’ll want to get in touch with you then… . Right, I know how you must feel—I’m terribly sorry… . Right. Goodbye.” He hung up and went out into Fortieth Street.

  Jeffrey Crandall was a medium-sized man with a close-cropped mustache, wide-set greenish gray eyes. He was conservatively dressed, looked very much like a prosperous real estate man, or broker.

  He said: “Long time no see.”

  Druse nodded abstractedly. He was sitting in a deep red leather chair in Crandall’s very modern office, adjoining the large room in a midtown apartment building that was Crandall’s “Place” for the moment. He raised his head and looked attentively at the pictures on the walls, one after the other.

  “Anything special?” Crandall lighted a short stub of green cigar.

  Druse said: “Very special,” over his shoulder. He came to the last picture, a very ordinary Degas pastel, shook his head slightly, disapprovingly, and turned back to Crandall. He took a short-barrelled derringer out of his inside coat-pocket, held it on the arm of his chair, the muzzle focused steadily on Crandall’s chest.

  Crandall’s eyes widened slowly; his mouth hung a little open. He put one hand up very slowly and took the stub of a cigar out of his mouth.

  Druse repeated:
“Very special.” His full lips were curved to a thin, cold smile.

  Crandall stared at the gun. He spoke as if making a tremendous effort to frame his words casually, calmly: “What’s it all about?”

  “It’s all about Mrs Hanan.” Druse tipped his hat to the back of his head. “It’s all about you gypping her out of her rubies—and her threatening to take it to the police—and you having her murdered at about a quarter after ten tonight, because you were afraid she’d go through with it.”

  Crandall’s tense face relaxed slowly; he tried very hard to smile. He said: “You’re crazy,” and there was fear in his eyes, fear in the harsh, hollow sound of his voice.

  Druse did not speak. He waited, his cold eyes boring into Crandall’s.

  Crandall cleared his throat, moved a little forward in his chair and put his elbows on the wide desk.

  “Don’t ring.” Druse glanced at the little row of ivory push buttons on the desk, shook his head.

  Crandall laughed soundlessly as if the thought of ringing had never entered his mind. “In the first place,” he said, “I gave her back the stones that were stolen. In the second place, I never believed her gag about telling about it.” He leaned back slowly, spoke very slowly and distinctly as confidence came back to him. “In the third place, I couldn’t be chump enough to bump her off with that kind of a case against me.” Druse said: “Your third place is the one that interests me.

  The switched rubies, her threat to tell the story—it all makes a pip of a case against you, doesn’t it?”

  Crandall nodded slowly.

  “That’s the reason,” Druse went on, “that if I shoot you through the heart right now, I’ll get a vote of thanks for avenging the lady you made a sucker of, and finally murdered because you thought she was going to squawk.”

  All the fear came back into Crandall’s face suddenly. He started to speak.

  Druse interrupted him, went on: “I’m going to let you have it when you reach for your gun, of course—that’ll take care of any technicalities about taking the law into my own hands—anything like that.”

  Crandall’s face was white, drained. He said: “How come I’m elected? What the hell have you got against me?”

  Druse shrugged. “You shouldn’t jockey ladies into trying to nick insurance companies… .”

  “It was her idea.”

  “Then you should have been on the level about the rubies.”

  Crandall said: “So help me God! I gave her back the stuff I took!” He said it very vehemently, very earnestly.

  “How do you know? How do you know the man you had do the actual job didn’t make the switch?”

  Crandall leaned forward. “Because I took them. She gave me her key and I went in the side way, while she was out, and took them myself. They were never out of my hands.” He took up a lighter from the desk and relighted the stump of cigar with shaking hands. “That’s the reason I didn’t take her threat seriously. I thought it was some kind of extortion gag she’d doped out to get some of her dough back. She got back the stones I took—and if they weren’t genuine they were switched before I took them, or after I gave them back.”

  Druse stared at him silently for perhaps a minute, finally smiled, said: “Before.”

  Crandall sucked noisily at his cigar. “Then, if you believe me”—he glanced at the derringer—“what’s the point?”

  “The point is that if I didn’t believe you, you’d be in an awfully bad spot.”

  Crandall nodded, grinned weakly. “The point,” Druse went on, “is that you’re still in an awfully bad spot because no one else will believe you.”

  Crandall nodded again. He leaned back and took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed at his face.

  “I know a way out of it.” Druse moved his hand, let the derringer hang by the trigger-guard from his forefinger. “Not because I like you particularly, nor because I think you particularly deserve it—but because it’s right. I can turn up the man who really murdered her—if we can get back the rubies—the real rubies. And I think I know where they are.”

  Crandall was leaning far forward, his face very alive and interested.

  “I want you to locate the best peterman we can get.” Druse spoke in a very low voice, watched Crandall intently. “We’ve got to open a safe—I think it’ll be a safe—out on Long Island. Nothing very difficult—there’ll probably be servants to handle but nothing more serious than that.”

  Crandall said: “Why can’t I do it?” He smiled a little. “I used to be in the box business, you know—before I straightened up and got myself a joint. That’s the reason I took the fake rubies myself—not to let anyone else in on it.”

  Druse said: “That’ll be fine.”

  “When?” Crandall stood up.

  Druse put the derringer back in his pocket. “Right now—where’s your car?” Crandall jerked his head towards the street. They went out through the crowded gambling room, downstairs, got into Crandall’s car. Crossing Queensborough Bridge Druse glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes past twelve.

  At three thirty-five Druse pushed the bell of the penthouse, after searching, vainly as usual, for his key. The Filipino boy opened the door, said: “It’s a very hot night, sir.”

  Druse threw his hat on a chair, smiled sadly at Mrs Hanan, who had come into the little entrance hall. “I’ve been trying to teach him English for three months,” he said, “and all he can say is ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘No, sir,’ and tell me about the heat.” He turned to the broadly grinning boy. “Yes, Tony, it is a very hot night.”

  They went through the living room, out onto the terrace. It was cool there, and dim; a little light came out through the wide doors, from the living room.

  Mrs Hanan said: “I’d about given you up.”

  Druse sat down, sighed wearily. “I’ve had a very strenuous evening—sorry I’m so late.” He looked up at her. “Hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “Why didn’t you have Tony fix you something?”

  “I wanted to wait.” She had taken off her suit coat, hat; in her smartly cut tweed skirt, white mannish shirt, she looked very beautiful.

  Druse said: “Supper, or breakfast, or something will be ready in a few minutes—I ordered it for four.” He stood up. “Which reminds me—we’re having a guest. I must telephone.”

  He went through the living room, up four broad, shallow steps to the little corner room that he used as an office. He sat down at the broad desk, drew the telephone towards him, dialed a number.

  Hanan answered the phone. Druse said: “I want you to come to my place, on top of the Pell Building, at once. It is very important. Ring the bell downstairs—I’ve told the elevator boy I’m expecting you… . I can’t tell you over the phone—please come alone, and right away.” He hung up and sat staring vacantly at his hands a little while, and then got up and went back to the terrace, sat down.

  “What did you do with yourself?”

  Mrs Hanan was lying in one of the low chairs. She laughed nervously. “The radio—tried to improve my Spanish and Tony’s English—chewed my fingernails—almost frightened myself to death with one of your damned demon books.” She lighted a cigarette. “And you?”

  He smiled in the darkness. “I earned thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  She sat up, said eagerly: “Did you get the rubies?”

  He nodded.

  “Did Crandall raise much hell?”

  “Enough.”

  She laughed exultantly. “Where are they?”

  Druse tapped his pocket, watched her face in the pale orange glow of her cigarette.

  She got up, held out her hand. “May I see them?”

  Druse said: “Certainly.” He took a long flat jewel case of black velvet out of his inside coat pocket and handed it to her.

  She opened the case
and went to the door to the living room, looked at its contents by the light there, said: “They are awfully beautiful, aren’t they?”

  “They are.”

  She snapped the case closed, came back and sat down.

  Druse said: “I think I’d better take care of them a little while longer.”

  She leaned forward and put the case on his lap; he took it up and put it back in his pocket. They sat silently, watching the lights in buildings over towards the East River. After awhile the Filipino boy came out and said that they were served.

  “Our guest is late.” Druse stood up. “I make a rule of never waiting breakfast—anything but breakfast.”

  They went together through the living room, into the simply furnished dining room. There were three places set at the glittering white and silver table. They sat down and the Filipino boy brought in tall and spindly cocktail glasses of iced fruit; they were just beginning when the doorbell rang. The Filipino boy glanced at Druse, Druse nodded, said: “Ask the gentleman to come in here.” The Filipino boy went out and there were voices in the entrance hall, and then Hanan came into the doorway.

  Druse stood up. He said: “You must forgive us for beginning—you are a little late.” He raised one hand and gestured towards the empty chair.

  Hanan was standing in the doorway with his feet wide apart, his arms stiff at his sides, as if he had been suddenly frozen in that position. He stared at Mrs Hanan and his eyes were wide, blank—his thin mouth was compressed to a hard, straight line. Very suddenly his right hand went towards his left armpit.

  Druse said sharply: “Please sit down.” Though he seemed scarcely to have moved, the blunt derringer glittered in his hand. Mrs Hanan half rose. She was very pale; her hands were clenched convulsively on the white tablecloth.

  Hanan dropped his hand very slowly. He stared at the derringer and twisted his mouth into a terribly forced smile, came slowly forward to the empty chair and sat down.

  Druse raised his eyes to the Filipino boy who had followed Hanan into the doorway, said: “Take the gentleman’s gun, Tony—and serve his cocktail.” He sat down, held the derringer rigidly on the table in front of him.