by Paul Cain
Beery mashed out his cigarette. “He’s telling it over at headquarters now—or maybe he’s on his way back. You’ve been out about a half hour.”
Kells sat up unsteadily. He said: “Give me a drink of water.” He bent over and very carefully rolled up his trouser leg, examined his injured leg.
A little later there was a tap at the door. Beery opened it and let Fenner in.
Fenner looked very tired. He said: “How are you, Gerry?”
“I’m fine, Lee—how are you?” Kells grinned.
“Terrible—terrible! I can’t stand this kind of thing.” Fenner sat down.
“Maybe you’d better take a trip, after all.” Kells smiled faintly, picked up the revolver. “Things are going to be more in the open. I’ll have to carry a gun.” He looked down at the revolver.
“By God, I’ll get a permit for a change,” he said: “Can you fix that up?” 4
Fenner nodded wearily. “I guess so.”
“And Lee, we made a deal tonight—I mean early—the twenty-five grand, you know. I’m going to handle the stuff, of course; but in the interests of my client, Miss Granquist, I’ll have to consummate the sale.”
Fenner looked at the floor.
“A check’ll be all right.”
Fenner nodded. “I’ll go in and make it out,” he said. “Then I’ll have to say goodnight—I’m all in.”
Kells said, “That’ll be all right.”
Fenner went out and closed the door.
Kells sat looking at the door for a moment and then he said: “Shep—you’re the new editor of the Coast Guardian. How do you like that?”
“Lousy. I don’t carry enough insurance.”
“You’ll be all right. A hundred a week and all the advertising you can sell on the side.”
“When do I start?”
“Right now. I parked Dickinson up at Bill Cullen’s. I’ll drop you there and you can get the details from him—if he’s conscious. I’ll turn the, uh—data over to you….”
Beery rubbed his eyes, yawned. He smiled a little and said: “Oh well, what the hell. I guess I’m beginning to like it, too.”
Kells looked at his wrist. “The bastards smashed my watch—what time is it?”
“Twelve-two.”
Kells picked up the telephone and called a Hempstead number. “Goddamn! I’m late.” He said: “Hello, baby…. Sure…. Have you got any ham and eggs? … Have you got some absorbent cotton and bandages and iodine? … That’s fine, I’ll be up in about ten minutes…. I’ve been on a party.”
Velvet
A story of a gambling-politics racket on the West Coast.
Doctor Janis looked wiser than any one man could possibly be. His head was as round and white and bare as a cue ball; his nose was a long bony hook and his eyes were pale, immensely shrewd.
He jabbed forceps gently into Kells’ leg, said: “Hurt?”
Kells stuck out his lips, shook his head slightly.”No. Not very much.”
“You’re a goddamned liar!” Janis straightened, glared.
Bright sun beat through the wide east window; the big instrument case against one white wall glittered. Kells was half lying on a small operating table. He stared at the bright point of sunlight on the wall, tried not to think about the leg.
“Sweet God deliver me from a sadistic doctor,” he said.
Janis grinned, bent again over the leg, probed deeper. “That was a dandy.” He held a tiny twisted chunk of lead up in the forceps’ point, exhibited it proudly. “Now you know how a rabbit feels.”
“Now I know how it feels to be a mother. You’re as proud of a few shot as a good doctor would be of triplets.”
Janis chuckled, jabbed again with the forceps.
They were silent a little while.
“One of these days,” Kells said finally, “you’re liable to be making out one of those cherry little certificates for me—the kind the coroner insists on….”
“So what?”
“So maybe I’d better give you a case history.” Kells clamped his teeth tightly together for a moment, stared at the spot of sun. His face was white, drained. “Then you won’t have to use any of those cliché endings,” he went on, “like, ‘killed by party or parties unknown.’ You can make out a death certificate that’ll be a masterpiece.”
Janis was concentrating on the leg. He said: “I’m not interested—I know too much about the sex life of my patients now.”
Kells paid no attention. “It seems,” he said, “that Prince Charming—that’s me—came out here to soak up a load of California sunshine … ouch!”
Janis straightened and help up another chunk of lead. “Oh boy!” he said. “That was a pip.”
Kells scowled, took a deep breath, and went on: “It seems, further, that Jack Rose—that’s one of the villains—had heard about how rough I used to play—back East—and decided that I’d be an asset to his organization.”
Janis dipped the forceps in sterilizer. “When you begin to bore me I’ll stop listening,” he warned.
“When I said I didn’t feel like being an asset, the bastard—I’m still talking about Rose—framed me for Doc Haardt’s murder.”
Janis was looking out the window.
Kells changed his position slightly and went on. “A young fella named Kastner from K.C. rubbed Doc—and Dave Perry and Detective Lieutenant Reilly and another mug named O’Donnell were in on it….” He pause and stared at the circle of sunlight while Janis bent again over the leg. Kells continued: “Kastner’s dead. O’Donnell shot him in a lover’s quarrel. Now O’Donnell’s dead, and according to the police,”—Kells smiled wanly—“Rose killed him. I beat the blotter for Haardt’s kill by hanging it on Perry—he’s in jail. I knew his wife pretty well….”
Janis clucked. “Tch, tch, tch. I knew it’d get sexy.”
“Listen, it gets better as it goes along. I met a gal named Granquist who had a swell lot of lowdown on an undercover political meeting between Rose and Bellmann, who—if you don’t know—is, or was until last night, the boss of our present glorious city administration.”
Janis looked definitely interested. “You tell it pretty well,” he said. “Do you know the one about the travelling salesman and the farmer’s daughter? ….”
“Shut up. I took the gal and her stuff to L.D. Fenner, who’d give his right arm to lick Bellmann. I asked Fenner twenty-five grand for it and we were about to make the deal when a couple heisters who Fenner had planted in the next apartment stuck us up. Fenner wanted the stuff, but he wanted the dough, too.”
Janis squeezed iodine on the leg.
Kells closed his eyes and went on. “We went round and round—Granquist got away and beat it back to her apartment where she’s socked the Bellmann stuff. I sent Fenner after her—found out how he’d timed the stick-up, and lit out after him. I picked up Beery of the Chronicle, on a hunch, and we walk in on—guess what….”
“How many guesses do I get?”
“Granquist and John R. Bellmann—and Bellmann had a couple slugs in his heart. It was a perfect angle to beat the Bellmann outfit on—it tied up with the stuff we already had. Bellmann had gone to her place to get the snapshots and some letters he’d sent her. She found him there and let him have it.”
Janis nodded and began wrapping bandage around the leg.
Kells said: “Only she didn’t…. after she’d been pinched, I found Fenner in a closet. He’d beat Granquist to the apartment and found Bellmann there. It looked like his big opportunity to get rid of Bellmann once and for all. I put the screws on Fenner and scared him into signing a confession to use in case I couldn’t beat the case for the gal. We made a deal—I took over his organization, which means Gowdy and all that outfit—took over the whole goddamned business. Now I’m going to have some fun.”
Kells smiled, tight-lipped. “I got the Bellmann stuff from Granquist before she was pinched. I finally found Dickinson—that’s the editor of Fenner’s political paper, the Coast Guardian�
�and we were on our way to get out a special edition to run the dirt when Rose and O’Donnel—O’Donnell had not been popped yet—opened up on us with a shotgun.”
Janis finished bandaging the leg and secured the loose end neatly with two strips of adhesive.
Kells sat up slowly. “That’s about all. You saw Dickinson last night. He got most of the load. I dropped him at Bill Cullen’s, called you, and went back to Fenner’s, where I left Beery. Rose and O’Donnell had crashed in and were looking for the pictures when I got there. We had a swell battle. Somebody shot O’Donnell and Rose slugged me with a vase. When I came to, Fenner was over at the station filing charges against Rose for O’Donnell’s murder. When he came back, he gave me my check for twenty-five thou…. and that’s that.”
“That was last night. Where have you been since then?” Janis asked.
“I had to get Beery started on the stuff for the Guardian—he’s the new editor. And I had a date.”
“Oh.”
Kells carefully tried his weight on the bandaged leg. He limped to the door, went back to the window, and picked up his hat.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you.”
It had rained all night; the air was sharp, clear. Kells left Janis’ office in the Harding Building, limped across Hollywood Boulevard, bought a paper and got into a cab. He said “Lancaster,” and leaned back and spread the paper. Then he sat up very straight. A headline read: WOMAN IN BELLMANN KILLING ESCAPES.
He glanced out the window at a tangle of traffic as the cab curved into Vine Street; then leaned back again slowly, read the story:
Early this morning, Miss S. Granquist, alleged by police to be the self-confessed slayer of John R. Bellmann, prominent philanthropist and reformer, was “kidnaped” from Detectives Breen and Rail after the car in which they were taking her from the Hollywood Police Station to the County Jail had been forced to the curb near Temple Street and Coronado, crashed into a fire plug. Officer Breen was slightly injured, removed to the Receiving Hospital. Rail described the “abductors” as “eight or nine heavily armed and desperate men in a cream-colored coupé.” He neglected to explain how “eight or nine” men and a woman got away in a coupé. Our motor-car manufacturers would be interested in how that was done. It is opportune that another example of the inefficiency of our police department occurs almost on the eve of the municipal primaries. The voters….
Kells folded the paper, knocked on the glass and told the driver to make it fast. They cut over Melrose to Normandie, out of the heavy traffic, over Normandie to Wilshire Boulevard and into the big parking circle of the Lancaster.
Kells told the driver to wait, hurried up to his room and changed clothes. He called the desk, was told that Mister Beery had called twice, called Beery back at the Howard Hotel downtown. The room line was busy. He took a long drink and went back down and got into the cab.
It took twenty-five minutes to get through the traffic on lower Seventh Street to the Howard.
Fenner opened the door of the small outer room on the fourth floor; they went through to the larger bedroom.
Kells said: “You’re down early, Lee.”
Fenner glanced at the rolled newspaper in Kells’ hand, nodded, smiled wanly.
“Where’s Beery?” Kells took off his hat and coat.
Fenner sat down on the bed. “He went over to the print shop about an hour ago. He ought to be back pretty soon.”
Kells sat down carefully.
Fenner asked: “How’s the leg?”
“Doc Janis picked eleven shot out of it like plucking petals off a daisy. It came out odd—he loves me.” Kells unrolled, unfolded the paper, looked over it at Fenner. “Do you know anything about this?”
“I do not.” Fenner said it very quietly, very emphatically.
“What do you think?”
“Rose.”
Kells stared at Fenner steadily. He moved his fingers on the arm of the chair as though running scales. He said: “What for?”
“She’s crossed him up all the way—he’s the kind of crazy guy that would take a long chance to get even.”
Kells sat staring blankly at Fenner for perhaps a minute. Then he said slowly: “I want you to call Gowdy—everybody you can reach who might have a line on it….”
Fenner got up and went to the phone. He called several numbers, spoke softly, quietly.
After a little while the outer door opened and someone came through the outer room. It was Beery. He said: “We can’t get it on the newsstands before noon.”
“That’ll be all right.”
Kells was still sitting deep in the big chair. Fenner was at the telephone. Beery took off his coat and hat, flopped down on the bed.
“Maybe I can get a couple hours’ snooze,” he said.
Fenner hung up the receiver and looked at Kells. “You might pick up something at the Bronx, out on Central Avenue. It’s a colored cabaret run by a man named Sheedy. Rose is supposed to be a partner—he was seen there last night.”
“Who’s Sheedy?”
Beery said: “A big dinge—used to be in pictures….”
“You know him?”
“A little.”
“Get on the phone and see if you can locate him. He wouldn’t be at his joint this time of day.”
Beery sighed, sat up. “The law’s looking for Rose too, Gerry,” he said. “You’re not going to get anything out of any of these boys.”
Kells half smiled, inclined his head towards the phone. Then he stood up.
“If that son of a bitch got her—which is a long shot”—he looked sideways at Fenner—“he’ll give her everything in the book. I got her into it—and by God! I’ll get her out if I have to turn the rap back on Lee and let the whole play slide.”
He turned, went to one of the windows. “And if Rose did get her and lets her have it, I’ll spread his guts from here to Santa Monica.”
Beery got up and went to the phone. “You’re getting goddamned dramatic about a gal you turned up yourself,” he said.
Kells turned from the window and looked at Beery and his eyes were cold, his mouth was partly open, faintly smiling.
He said: “Right.”
Sheedy couldn’t be located.
Fenner got Officer Rail on the phone and Kells talked to him. He said he couldn’t identify any of the men who had taken Granquist; he thought one of them was crippled, wore a steel brace on his leg. He wasn’t sure.
Kells called Rose’s place on Fifth Street; there was no answer. He called the Biltmore, was told that Rose hadn’t been in for two days. Mrs Rose was out of town.
Beery napped for an hour. Kells and Fenner sat in the outer room; Fenner read a detective-story magazine and Kells sat deep in a big chair, stared out the window. Hanline, Fenner’s secretary, stopped in for a minute. He said he’d speak to one of the bellboys downstairs, send up a bottle.
At a little after ten-thirty, the phone rang. Fenner answered it, called Kells.
A man’s high-pitched voice said: “I have been authorized to offer you fifteen thousand dollars for the whole issue of the Guardian, together with the plates and all data used in its make-up.”
Kells said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” and hung up. He told Fenner to hurry down to the switchboard, try to trace the call; waited for the phone to ring again. It did almost immediately. The man’s voice said: “It will be very much to your advantage to talk business, Mister Kells.”
“Who’s your authority?”
“The Bellmann estate.”
Kells said: “If you know where Miss Granquist is, and can produce her within the next half hour, I’ll talk to you.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then the man said: “Wait a minute.” After a little while, a woman’s voice said: “Gerry! For God’s sake get me out of this!…” The voice trailed off as if she had been dragged away from the phone. The man’s voice said: “Well?”
Fenner came in, nodded to Kells.
>
Kells said: “Okay. Bring her here.” He hung up.
The phone rang again but he didn’t answer. He sat grinning at Fenner.
Fenner was excited. “West Adams—about a block west of Figueroa.”
“That wasn’t even a good imitation of the baby, but maybe they’ll come here and try to do business on that angle. That’ll be swell.”
“But we’d better get out there, hadn’t we?”
Kells said: “What for? They haven’t got her, or they wouldn’t take a chance faking her voice. They’ll be here—and I’ll lay ten to one they don’t know any more about where Rose or the kid are than we do.”
Kells went back to his chair by the window. “I told Shep to plant some men at the print shop in case there’s trouble there. Did he?”
Fenner nodded.
There was a knock and Fenner said, “Come in,” and a boy came in with a bottle of whiskey and three tall glasses of ice on a tray. He put the tray on a table; Fenner gave him some change and he went out and closed the door.
At twenty minutes after eleven a Mister Woodward was announced. Fenner went into the bedroom, closed the door. Woodward turned out to be a small yellow-haired man, wearing tortoise-shell glasses; about thirty-five. He sat down at Kells’ invitation, declined a drink.
He said: “Of course we couldn’t bring Miss Granquist here. She’s being sought by the police and that would be too dangerous. She’ll be turned over to you, together with a certified check for fifteen thousand dollars, as soon as the issue of the Guardian, the plates and the copy are turned over to us.”
Kells said: “What the hell kind of a cheap outfit are you? The stuff’s worth that much simply as state’s evidence—let alone its political value to your people.”
“I know—I know.” Woodward bobbed his head up and down. “The fact of the matter is, Mister Kells—my people are up against it for cash. They’ll know how to show their appreciation in other ways, however.”
“What other ways?”
“Certain political concessions after election—uh—you know.” Woodward glanced nervously at his watch. “And it is imperative that you make a decision quickly.”
Kells said: “I’m not in politics. I want the dough. Lay fifty thousand on the line and show me Miss Granquist”—he looked at his watch, smiled—“and it is imperative that you make a decision quickly.”
