The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  Duck-Eye broke off when he sighted Cellini and hurried over. The big, grooved face wrinkled into a grin.

  “I got big news, Cellini.”

  “What is it?”

  “It was a mistake. You know. About what I told you.”

  “You mean you don’t need the two hundred?”

  “Uh-huh.” The grin spread from one mangled ear to the other.

  Cellini’s mouth was open for a speech about flowers and bees and social conduct when he decided to postpone it until a more convenient time. Instead, he said: “Climb into your clothes. We’re going to a wrestling match.”

  Duck-Eye lumbered off and Cellini wandered over to Candido Pastor. “Fighting soon, Candy?”

  “How’ya, Smith? Next week.” His words came brokenly, timed with the steady slap of the rope against the floor.

  “What did you think of the Bly-Wheaton brawl last night?”

  “Bly has a mean right but I’d like to see him go a few rounds against someone good.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be a fix, Candy.”

  The boxer’s eyes swept the large loft-like room. The hopping feet didn’t miss a beat. “You working on Wheaton’s killing, Smith?”

  “Something like that, Candy. What about the fix?”

  “The fight game’s funny,” Candido Pastor observed. “You get a guy like Jerry Lake against you and you never get on a decent card again—no matter how good you are.” He dropped the rope and moved over to a punching bag.

  Cellini didn’t feel like shouting to be heard over the rhythmic pounding of the leather and he accepted the not too subtle hint. Besides, he had gained an important item of information. He crossed the room to where the old man was hauling weights into a corner.

  “Candy tells me you know about the fix that Jerry Lake made on last night’s fight.”

  Cyclops snorted indignantly through his chew of tobacco. “Candy didn’t tell you nothing like that, Mr. Smith.”

  “That’s right. But you do know about the fix.”

  “Not at these prices, I don’t,” retorted the old man.

  “At what prices do you think you can start remembering?”

  The one eye measured Cellini as if trying to divine the contents of his wallet. “Ten bucks is a nice, even figure,” he finally said, and added hastily: “Prices are high in everything.”

  Cellini took the tenner from his wallet but did not give it to Cyclops. “We’ll see if it’s worth it,” he said.

  The old man spat tobacco juice on the floor and spread it around with the sole of a shoe. “It’s just a few things I picked up around here, Mr. Smith, and I ain’t one to talk.”

  “I’m like Mr. Anthony. You can tell me anything. What gives with Lake?”

  “Well, he wanted Wheaton to win.”

  “Why? Was he betting dough on him?”

  “Not too much. I heard tell he was building him up.”

  “I don’t get it. What has Lake got to do with that?”

  “He owns Hank Wheaton. Not since Wheaton was killed, I guess, but he owned him before.”

  “So Jerry Lake was Hank Wheaton’s manager,” said Cellini softly. “You’re doing fine, Cyclops. Now tell me why a smart boy like Lake would try to build up a second-rater like Wheaton.”

  “Wheaton’s record fooled Lake,” stated the old man, “so he got him down here from Seattle thinking he had something good.”

  “And when he found out otherwise,” Cellini said, “he decided to fix the fight and save Wheaton’s pretty record for a big killing later on.”

  “A big killing!” chortled Cyclops. “That’s a good crack, Mr. Smith. He sure got himself a big killing.”

  “You ought to see me with my trained seals sometime. Now tell me about the fix, Cyclops.”

  “That there’s kind of funny because I heard they would go fast for the first nine rounds and then Bly would dive in the tenth.”

  “What’s funny about it?”

  “It didn’t happen, did it?”

  “That’s what I want to know. Why didn’t it?”

  “The kind of scum you get nowadays, Mr. Smith, it’s even hard to arrange an honest fix.” The old man started laughing. “A big killing! That was sure funny, Mr. Smith.”

  Cellini added another five to the ten and headed for the locker room and the comparatively brighter company of Duck-Eye Ryan.

  he matches were already under way when Cellini Smith and Duck-Eye Ryan arrived at the arena. The place was only half-filled but the spectators made up for this deficiency by roaring their approval and providing a continuous stream of comments on the goings-on in the ring.

  As Cellini and Duck-Eye leaned over the railing in back of the grandstand to watch, they found those goings-on very strange indeed. Four female wrestlers and a referee crowded the ring. The girls were apparently paired into two teams and they tossed each other around with a zest and gusto that somehow reminded Cellini of a jitterbug jamboree.

  “Gee! Four of ’em!” was Duck-Eye’s critical comment.

  Despite the recent murder of her husband, Prunella Wheaton was meeting her professional obligations tonight. Her role was that of the villainess, for, to the delight of all, she confined her tactics to biting, kicking and gouging of eyes.

  A red-head leaped across the ring and delivered a right-hand bar smash to Prunella’s mid-section. Prunella replied by grabbing a handful of hair and swinging her opponent against a ring post. The red-head stood up and felt her hair. “You, you dirty thing, you,” she sputtered, enraged over the ruin of an expensive permanent. The red-head jumped for Prunella and they tumbled to the mat. Prunella managed to get a choke hold on the other’s neck.

  The crowd yelled to the referee: “Choke, choke … Watch the ugly one, Sam.”

  Sam bent over to check the hold. Another girl jumped to the wrestler’s aid, knocking Sam over, and then the fourth one came in on top of them. Sam crawled out of the tangle of arms and legs and pulled them apart. Prunella grabbed the red-head around the neck while her partner did the same with the fourth one. Then, in a moment of inspiration, they ran forward, bumping the two heads together. The match was over.

  Cellini turned to find Murph next to him, leaning against the railing. Cellini produced a thin smile and used it by way of greeting.

  Murph said: “Sure there’s no hard feelings about last night?”

  “No. Your boss here with you?”

  “Sure. Lake and me are like two peas in a pod. Whatever a pod is. After this business is over I’ll keep working with him.”

  The next match, between the Blond Bomber and a large girl called Maggie Scott, was announced. Juno Worden, straining against her purple one-piece suit like an overstuffed baloney, drew the usual quota of whistles. The two wrestlers received their instructions, slipped out of the referee’s hold and began circling for an opening.

  Cellini asked: “After what business is over?”

  “After he don’t need a bodyguard anymore. I guess I talk too much, don’t I, Smith?”

  The Blond Bomber was sitting on Maggie Scott’s back, rowing back and forth on her right leg in a toe hold. It was a well-rehearsed act.

  Murph yelled: “Stick a fishbowl in her hand!” He turned to Cellini. “Production for use. That’s what she is. Lake, he’s getting interested in that dish.”

  “I thought Juno was interested in Eddy Bly—not to speak of her husband.”

  “Nobody ever speaks of him. Lake just hangs around so he’ll be handy when she gets tired of Bly. Like she got tired of Wheaton.”

  Cellini turned from the ring to Murph. “Tired of Wheaton? If that’s true, why would Prunella and Juno be good friends?”

  Murph shrugged. “Ask her.”

  “I will,” said Cellini, and started to leave. Duck-Eye tore his eyes from the wrestlers and followed reluctantly.

  Murph said: “If you don’t mind, I’ll tag along.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “That’s good, because I’d come anywa
y. Lake likes me to keep him informed on what you do. I’m sure glad we let bygones be bygones, Smith.” He eyed the mammoth Duck-Eye. “Especially with that guy tailing after you.”

  They were stopped by a watchman at the entrance leading to the back dressing rooms of the arena. Cellini Smith sent in a note and it was some minutes before Prunella Wheaton appeared. She wore a flowered print dress and hardly looked like a woman who had been widowed twenty-four hours earlier.

  Cellini hunted for the proper words of flattery to bestow on a lady wrestler, and said: “That was quite a free-for-all you put on.”

  “I’m glad you liked it,” replied Prunella coldly.

  “He didn’t say he liked it,” Murph noted.

  Prunella said, “Shut up,” to Murph and, “What do you want?” to Cellini.

  “I’m working on your husband’s murder, Mrs. Wheaton, and I wonder if you happened to look out of the window just before or after the shot was fired through it.”

  “I didn’t before and when the shot came I ran over to see how badly my husband was hurt. It was my first duty,” she added primly.

  Cellini decided he might as well ask it. “Do you happen to know of any enemies your husband might have had, any former girl-friends, for example?”

  “He had no girl-friends.”

  Her eyes looked beyond Cellini and he turned around. Juno Worden and Maggie Scott had finished their match and they were coming toward them. A ring robe was draped around the Blond Bomber’s shoulders and the powder on her skin was caked by sweat. She stopped by them and nodded pleasantly to Cellini. He wondered if Eddy Bly had told her to change her attitude toward him.

  Prunella said: “This guy is trying to find out if Hank had any girl-friends. You tell him.”

  Juno looked shocked. “That’s a hell of a thing to say so soon after the tragedy. Hank and Pruney were an ideal couple.”

  “Like you and your husband?” asked Cellini.

  “Why, you louse!” Juno’s body curved into the familiar crouch, ready to leap.

  Cellini cautiously stepped to one side. Duck-Eye said: “I’ll take care of it, Cellini. Please let me take care of it.”

  Prunella said, “Don’t dirty your hands, Juno,” and the two of them stalked toward the dressing room.

  Murph began to laugh. Cellini regarded him sourly and said: “I could do with a drink. There’s a bottle in my car.”

  “That’s what I like to hear, Smith.”

  Cellini led the way out to the parking lot and to his car. The wrestling matches were still going on and, other than an attendant at the far end, the place was deserted.

  “The time has come,” said Cellini. He suddenly grabbed Murph’s arm, twisted it behind his back and pressed him, with crushing force, over a fender. With his free hand, Cellini reached into a pocket, removed a gun and tossed it to Duck-Eye.

  Then he said: “No hard feelings, are there?”

  There was a dubious and unsure “No” from Murph.

  “That’s nice, because I want to see how good you are when you’re not asking for a light.”

  “Good enough for you,” said Murph, and suddenly lunged forward.

  Cellini took the blow on his forearm and hit out heavily at the other’s heart. They circled cautiously in the restricted area, with Murph’s left fist darting out in quick defensive jabs. Murph was fast on his feet and he seemed to know what he was doing.

  Cellini side-stepped quickly and his left looped out and caught the other under the ear. Again and again, Cellini tried it until Murph’s defense automatically moved higher. Abruptly, Cellini stepped in, feinted at the head, then shifted and delivered a smashing right deep into Murph’s stomach. Murph stopped, stood unmoving and a tight-lipped groan escaped him. His arms dropped down and his head was unprotected, virtually inviting a knockout blow. But that was not Cellini’s intention.

  Cellini’s arm lashed out and his knuckles struck down on the other’s cheek as if he were splitting wood. Murph fell against the car, blood coming from a wide gash in the face. Then, with a scientific and ruthless precision, Cellini went to work. His blows came slower and more exactly, aimed now at the eyes, now the nose, now the teeth.

  Cellini’s left hand pressed Murph’s chest, steadying him against the car door. The resistance was feeble and Cellini could calculate the probable effect of each blow as with a billiard shot. After a while, his arms began to feel a little tired. Now he was striking at a red, pulpy mess that bore little resemblance to flesh. It felt, to his fists, like the insides of a huge oyster.

  Cellini stepped back to observe the artistry of his work and Murph slid to the ground. He said, “Now, there are really no hard feelings.”

  The car attendant suddenly showed up and began to yell. With his two hands, Duck-Eye Ryan gently lifted him by the waist and set him atop the radiator of an adjoining car. The attendant stopped yelling.

  Cellini pushed Murph’s inert figure out of the way with his feet. He was feeling hungry. He said: “Let’s go out and see if we can find a good steak.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DEATH OF THE PARTY

  an Turner’s house, in one of the Hollywood canyons, was large, rambling, Spanish-style. When Cellini Smith drove into the grounds, shortly after four on Sunday afternoon, he could see that the party had been under way for some time. A few guests were having a swimming race in the pool, apparently unaware that it contained no water. Others staggered about or lay asleep in some corner. The guests all seemed to represent a segment—and not the highest—of the sporting world. Duck-Eye Ryan, who had come on the promise of free drinks, wet his lips in happy anticipation.

  They left the car, tried to get someone to answer the front door knocker, and finally entered. People were wandering about, drinking, and announcing their views on some phase of sport. Cellini could understand why Turner thought it wise to throw these clambakes every few weeks. Duck-Eye sighted a lonely bottle and made for it.

  A small, brunette item yelled, “A man!” and threw her arms around Cellini’s neck.

  He tried, vainly, to free himself and she said: “I’m Toby but you’re sober.” She thrust a glass in his hand. “Try this. Good, huh?”

  “That stuff could pull a nail out of a board,” he replied, but he felt better.

  Cellini quickly poured more liquid into his glass and drank it down. He asked: “Where’s our host?”

  “I thought it was you,” replied Toby, her arm tightening around his neck.

  He walked into the next room, the girl trailing after him. Prunella, a fixed, bleary smile on her unlovely face, waved at him from the depths of a club chair.

  “I saw him first,” snapped Toby. “He ain’t in public domain.”

  “You can keep him, dearie. I just want to apologize about yesterday.”

  “What about it?” asked Cellini.

  She emptied her glass before answering. “About me and Hank. It was a lie he had no girl-friends. Me and Hank were finished.”

  “Was Juno Worden one of his girls?”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. I never bothered to check. Hank said he’d never divorce me if I let him do what he wanted.”

  “I bet that’s a lie,” Toby snarled. “She’s two-faced and I don’t know which one I hate most.”

  Prunella struggled to get up and at Toby as Dan Turner and Eddy Bly came by. Bly took in the situation, shoved Prunella back and said: “Relax.”

  “Glad you came, Smith,” said Turner. “How’s your drink?”

  “I wouldn’t feed it to a robot.”

  “You’ll get used to it after a while. Or at least you won’t care after a while. How’s the job coming?”

  “I’m still trying to separate the lies from the half-truths. Everybody here or you expecting some more?”

  “Everybody except Jerry Lake. He called a little while ago and said he’ll be around later.”

  Eddy Bly said: “Smith, Mr. Turner says I had you tabbed all wrong. Why don’t we make up?”

  “Good e
nough.” Cellini shook hands. “If you don’t mind, we’ll have a little talk later.”

  “Sure,” replied Bly with well-restrained enthusiasm. “Any time you want.” He nodded and moved off with Turner.

  Toby said to Prunella: “Keep your chins up, dearie,” and steered Cellini away.

  Cellini refilled his glass from a large pitcher, tasted the stuff and gagged. Toby started laughing. “That’s grape punch, you man.”

  “Why didn’t you warn me?” He hunted over the sideboard and appropriated a nearly full bottle of bourbon. He raised it to his lips, and drank long and deeply. The party began to seem less dull, the guests much brighter.

  A little man, wearing elevator shoes, who had observed Cellini admiringly, said: “I wish I could drink like that.”

  He was quite drunk and Cellini replied: “You have.”

  “Not like that. I’m not man enough. I’d choke. I got to mix it with all kinds of things so it shouldn’t taste like liquor.”

  Cellini guessed that this was Forsythe Worden, the Blond Bomber’s husband. He liked the wispy, mild-looking character and said: “It’s all a matter of how your belly is lined. It has nothing to do with being a man.”

  Toby said: “Belly ain’t a nice word, you wonderful thing. Use tummy. Like in soft undertummy of Europe.”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel good,” said Forsythe Worden. “There are other things.” He pointed. “Do you know my wife?”

  Cellini looked to see Juno Worden entering with Candy Pastor, their arms hooked in friendly intimacy. She disengaged herself and came over.

  “I see you met my loving husband, Smith.” Juno giggled and appropriated the drink in her husband’s hand.

  The intonation of her words sounded ugly and mean and Cellini shivered slightly. “This one’s my man,” persisted Toby.

  Juno said: “Forsythe, watch out what you tell Smith. He’s a peeper and he’s snooping around on Wheaton’s killing.”

  Forsythe Worden was puzzled. “In that case don’t you think we should try to help him?”

  “You do as I say.”

  “He has something there, Juno,” observed Cellini. “How about trying to be helpful for a change?”