The Paul Cain Omnibus

by Cain, Paul

  “Don’t be silly. They’re right out of the pocket of one of those frogs that work along the Rue de Rivoli.” Kells ran his fingers through his hair. “That’s not the point though. It’s not what they are, it’s who they’re of: Mister John R. Bellmann, the big boss of the reform administration, the Woman’s Club politician—at the house and in the intimate company of Jack Rose, gambler, Crown Prince of the Western Underworld—and a couple of, well,—questionable ladies.”

  “And exactly what am I buying?”

  “The negatives and one set of prints. My word that you’re getting all the negatives and that there are no other prints. The letters. And certain information as to what Mister Bellmann and Mister Rose talked about before they went under….”

  The doorbell rang.

  Fenner said: “That’ll be Dillon.” He went out into the hallway and came back with a sandy-haired, spectacled man. Both of them were holding their hands above their shoulders in the conventional gesture of surprise. Two men whom Kells had never seen before came in behind them. One, the most striking, was rather fat and his small head stuck out of a stiff collar. His tie was knotted to stick straight out, stiffly from the opening in his collar. He held a short blunt revolver in his hand.

  The fat man said: “Go see if the tall one has got anything in his pockets.”

  The other man went to Kells. He was a gray-faced nondescript young man in a tightly belted raincoat. He went through Kells’ pockets very carefully and when he had finished, said: “Sit down.” Dillon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and the fat man, who was almost directly behind him, raised the revolver and brought the barrel down hard on the back of his head. Dillon grunted and his knees gave way and he slumped down softly to the floor.

  The fat man giggled quietly, nervously. He said: “That’s one down. Every little bit helps.”

  Kells sat down on the divan and leaned back and crossed his legs.

  The fat man said: “Put your hands up, Skinny.”

  Kells shook his head.

  The young man in the raincoat leaned forward and slapped Kells across the mouth. Kells looked up at him, and his face was very sad, his eyes were sleepy. He said: “That’s too bad.”

  Fenner turned his head, spoke over his shoulder to the fat man. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t want you. Go sit down in that chair by the window.”

  Fenner crossed the room, sat down.

  The fat man said: “Reach back of you and pull the shades shut.”

  Granquist said sarcastically: “Now pull up a chair for yourself, Fat.” She leaned forward towards the table. “Ain’t you going to have a drink?”

  Kells said: “Don’t say ‘ain’t,’ sweet.”

  The fat man sat down in the chair nearest the door. His elbows were on the arms of the chair and he held the revolver loosely on his lap.

  He said: “I want a bunch of pictures that you tried to peddle to Bellmann, girlie.”

  “Don’t call me girlie, you son of a bitch!”

  Kells looked at Granquist, shook his head sadly. “That’s something you forgot to tell me about,” he said.

  “I want all the pictures,” the fat man repeated, “an’ I want two letters—quick.”

  Granquist was staring at the fat man. She turned slowly to Kells. “That’s a lie, Gerry. I didn’t crack to Bellmann.”

  Fenner stood up. “I won’t stand for this,” he said. He thrust his hands in his pockets and took a step forward.

  “Sit down.” The fat man moved the revolver slightly until it focused on Fenner’s stomach.

  Fenner stood still.

  Kells said: “Does the fella who sent you know that if anything happens to me, the whole inside gets a swell spread in the morning papers? ….”

  The fat man smiled.

  “…. The inside on Haardt and the barge and Perry, and the Sunday-school picnic at Big Bear?” Kells went on.

  Granquist was watching him intently.

  “I made that arrangement this afternoon.” Kells leaned sidewise slowly and put his empty glass on an end table.

  The fat man looked at Fenner, and Kells, and then he looked at Granquist and at the bag tucked into the chair beside her. He said: “That’s a dandy. Let’s have a look at it, girlie.”

  Granquist stood up in one swift and precise movement. She moved to the window so swiftly that the fat man had only time to stand up and take one step towards her before she had moved the drape aside with her shoulder, crashed the bag through the window.

  Glass tinkled on the sill.

  Kells stood up in the same instant and brought his right fist up from the divan in a long arc to the side of the grayfaced young man’s jaw.

  The young man spun half around and Kells swung his right fist again to the same place. The young man fell half on the divan, half on the floor.

  The fat man moved towards Kells, stopped in the center of the floor.

  Granquist yelled: “Smack him, Gerry; he won’t shoot.”

  Kells stood with his feet wide apart. He grinned at the fat man.

  Fenner was standing near Granquist at the window. His eyes were wide and he tried to say something but the words stuck in his throat.

  The fat man backed towards the door. “I ain’t got orders to shoot, but I sure will if you press me.” He backed out into the semidarkness of the hallway and then the outer door slammed.

  Granquist ran across the room, stopped a moment in the doorway, turned her head towards Kells. She said, “I’ll get the bag,” and she spoke so rapidly, so breathlessly, that the words were all run together into one word. She went into the darkness.

  Kells turned to Fenner. “Give her a hand,” he said.

  He bent over the young man, took a small automatic out of the raincoat pocket and handed it to Fenner. “Hurry up—I’ve got to telephone—I’ll be right down.”

  Fenner took the automatic dazedly. He looked at the man on the floor and at Kells, and then he came suddenly to life. “It’s in the court,” he said excitedly. “I can get out there from the third floor.”

  “Maybe the bag was a stall. Don’t let her get out of your sight.” Kells sat down at the telephone.

  Fenner hurried out of the room.

  Kells waited until he heard the outer door slam, then got up and went to Dillon. He knelt and drew a long yellow envelope from Dillon’s inside breast pocket. It was heavily sealed. He tore off the end, spread the envelope by pressing the edges, and looked inside. Then, smiling blankly, he tucked it into his pocket.

  He went to the broken window, raised it carefully and leaned out over the wet darkness of the court for a moment. He went into the kitchen and stood on the stove, looked through the high ventilating window across the narrow airshaft to the window of an adjoining apartment. Then he went into the bedroom and got his hat and Granquist’s coat and went out of the apartment, across the corridor to the elevator.

  On the way down, he spoke to the elevator boy: “Is it still raining?”

  “Yes, sir. It looks like it was going to rain all night.”

  Kells said: “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  The night clerk came out of the telephone operator’s compartment.

  Kells leaned on the desk. He said, “Your Mister Dillon is in ten-sixteen. He had an accident. There’s another man in there whom Fenner will file charges against. Have the house dick hold him till Fenner gets back.”

  He started to go, paused, said over his shoulder: “Maybe you’ll find another one trying to get in or out of the court. Probably not.”

  He went out and walked up Ivar to Yucca, west on Yucca the short block to Cahuenga. The rain had become a gentle mist for the moment; it was warm, and occasional thunder drummed over the hills to the north. He went into an apartment house on the corner and asked the night man if Mr Beery was in.

  “He went out about ten minutes ago.” The night man thought he might be in the drugstore across the street.

  Beery was crouched over a cup
of coffee at the soda fountain. Kells sat down beside him and ordered a glass of water, washed down two aspirin tablets. He said: “If you want to come along with me, you might get some more material for your memoirs.”

  Beery put a dime on the counter and they went out, over to Wilcox. They went into the Wilcox entrance of the Lido, upstairs to the fourth floor and around through a long corridor to number four-thirty-two.

  Granquist opened the door. Her face was so drained of color that her mouth looked bloody in contrast to her skin. Her mouth was slightly open and her eyes were wide, burning. She held her arms stiffly at her sides.

  There was a man lying on his face half in, half out of the bathroom. His arms were doubled up under his body.

  Beery walked past Granquist, slowly across the room to a table. He turned his head slowly as he walked, kept his eyes on the man on the floor. He took off his hat and put it on the table.

  Kells closed the door quietly and stood with his back against it.

  Granquist stared at him without change of expression.

  Beery glanced at them.

  Kells smiled a little. He said: “This isn’t what I meant, Shep—maybe it’s better.”

  Beery went to the man on the floor, squatted and turned the head sidewise.

  Granquist swallowed. She said: “Gerry, I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.”

  Beery spoke softly, without looking up: “Bellmann.”

  Kells locked the door. He looked at the floor, then he went to the table and reached under it with his foot, kicked an automatic out into the light.

  Granquist walked unsteadily to a chair. She sat down and stared vacantly at Beery bending over the body. She said in a hollow, monotonous voice: “He was like that when I came in. I stopped downstairs and then I came up in the elevator and he was like that when I came in—just a minute ago.”

  Kells didn’t look at her. He took out a handkerchief and picked up the automatic and held it to his nose. He held it carefully by the handkerchief and snapped the magazine out of the grip, said: “Two.”

  Beery stood up.

  Kells laughed suddenly. He threw back his head and roared with laughter. He sat down and put the automatic on the table, wiped his eyes with the handkerchief.

  “Goddamn!” he said brokenly. “Goddamn, it’s beautiful!”

  Granquist stared at Kells and then she leaned back in the chair and her eyes were very frightened. She said: “I didn’t do it.” She leaned back hard in the chair and closed her eyes tightly. She said, “I didn’t do it,” over and over again.

  Kells’ laughter finally wore itself out. He wiped his eyes with the handkerchief and then he looked up at Beery. “Well,” he said, “why the hell don’t you get on the phone? You’ve got the scoop of the season.”

  He leaned back and smiled at the ceiling, improvised headlines: “Boss Bellmann Bumped Off by Beauty. Pillar of Church Meets Maker. Politician—let’s see—Politician Plugged as Prowler by Light Lady.”

  He stood up and crossed quickly to Beery, emphasized his words with a long white finger against Beery’s chest. “Here’s a pip! Reformer Foiled in Rape. Killer says: ‘I shot to save my honor, the priceless inheritance of American Womanhood.’”

  Beery went to the telephone. He said: “We’ve been a Bellmann paper—I’ll have to talk to the Old Man.”

  “You goddamned idiot! No paper can afford to soft-pedal a thing like this. Can’t you see that without an editorial?” Beery nodded in a faraway way, dialed a number. He asked for a Mister Crane, and when Crane had answered, said: “This is Beery. Bellmann has been shot by a jane, in her apartment, in Hollywood…. Uh-huh, very dead.”

  He grinned up at Kells, listened to an evident explosion at the other end of the line. “We’ll have to give it everything, Mister Crane,” he went on. “It’s open and shut—there isn’t any out…. Okay, switch me to Thompson—I’ll give it to him.”

  Granquist got up and went unsteadily to the door. She put her hand on the knob and then seemed to remember that the door was locked. She looked at the key but didn’t touch it. She turned and went into the dinette, took a nearly empty bottle out of the cupboard and came back and sat down.

  Beery asked: “What’s your name, sister?”

  Granquist was trying to get the cork out of the bottle. She didn’t say anything or look up.

  Kells said: “Granquist.” He looked at her for a moment, then went over to the window, turned his head slightly towards Beery: “Miss Granquist.”

  Beery said, “Hello, Tom,” spoke into the telephone in a low, even monotone.

  Kells turned from the window and crossed slowly to Granquist. He sat down on the arm of her chair and took the bottle out of her hands and took out the cork. He got up and went into the dinette and poured the whiskey into a glass and brought it back to her. He sat down again on the arm of the chair. “Don’t take it so big, baby,” he said very softly and quietly. “You’ve got a perfect case. The jury’ll give you roses and a vote of thanks on the ‘for honor’ angle—and it’s the swellest thing that could happen for Fenner’s machine—it’s the difference between Bellmann’s administration and a brand-new one.”

  “I didn’t do it, Gerry.” She looked up at him and her eyes were dull, hurt. “I didn’t do it! I left the snaps and stuff in the office downstairs when I went out—the bag was a gag….”

  Kells said: “I knew they weren’t in the bag—you left it in the chair when you went into the bathroom.”

  She nodded. She wasn’t listening to him. She had things to say. “I ran back here when I left Fenner’s. I picked up the stuff at the office—had to wait till the manager got the combination to the safe out of his apartment. Then I came up here to wait for you.”

  She drank, put the glass on the floor. She turned, inclined her head toward Bellmann. “He was like that—he must have come here for the pictures—he’d been through my things….”

  Kells said: “Never mind, baby—it’s a setup.”

  “I didn’t do it!” She beat her fist on the arm of the chair. Her eyes were suddenly wild.

  Kells stood up.

  Beery finished his report, hung up the receiver. He said: “Now I better call the station.”

  “Wait a minute.” Kells looked down at Granquist and his face was white, hard. “Listen!” he emphasized the word with one violent finger. “You be nice. You play this the way I say and you’ll be out in a month, with the managers throwing vaudeville contracts at you. Maybe I can even get you out on bail.”

  He turned abruptly and went to the door, turned the key. “Or”—he jerked his head towards the door, looked at the little watch on the inside of his wrist—“there’s a Frisco bus out Cahuenga in about six minutes. You can make it—and ruin your case.”

  Outside, sultry thunder rumbled and rain whipped against the windows. Kells slid a note off the sheaf in his breast pocket, went over and handed it to her. It was a thousand-dollar note.

  She looked at it dully, slowly stood up. Then she stuffed the note into the pocket of her suit and went quickly to the chair where Kells had thrown her coat.

  Kells said: “Give me the Bellmann stuff.”

  Beery was staring open-mouthed at Kells. “God! Gerry, you can’t do this,” he said. “I told Tommy we had the girl….”

  “She escaped.”

  Granquist put on her coat. She looked at Kells and her eyes were soft, wet. She went to him and took a heavy manila envelope out of her pocket, handed it to him. She stood a moment looking up at him and then she turned and went to the door. She put her hand on the knob and turned it, and then took her hand away from the knob and held it up to her face. She stood like that for a little while and then she said “All right,” very low.

  She said, “All right,” again, very low and distinctly, and turned from the door and went back to the big chair and sat down.

  Kells said: “Okay, Shep.”

  About ten minutes later Beery got up and let Captain Hayes of the Hollywood Division in.
There were two plainclothes men and an assistant coroner following close behind him.

  The assistant coroner examined Bellmann’s body and looked up in a little while and said: “Instantaneous—two wounds, probably .32 caliber—one touched the heart.” He stood up. “Dead about twenty minutes.”

  Hayes picked up the gun from where Kells had replaced it under the table, examined it, wrapped it carefully.

  Kells smiled at him. “Old school,” he said, “along with silencers and dictaphones. Nowadays they wear gloves.”

  Hayes said: “What’s your name?”

  Beery said: “Oh, I’m sorry—I thought you knew each other. This is Gerry Kells…Captain Hayes.”

  “What were you doing here?” Hayes was a heavily built man with bright brown eyes. He spoke very rapidly.

  “Shep and I came up to call on my girlfriend here”—Kells indicated Granquist who was still sitting with her coat on, staring at them all in turn, expressionlessly. “We found it just the way you see it.”

  Hayes glanced at Beery, who nodded. Hayes spoke to Granquist. “Is that right, Miss?”

  She looked up at him blankly for a moment, then nodded slowly.

  “That’ll be about all, I guess.” Hayes looked at Kells. “You still at the Lancaster?” Kells nodded.

  “You can always reach me through Shep.”

  Hayes said, “Come on, Miss.”

  Granquist got up and went into the dressing room and packed a few things in a small traveling bag.

  One of the plainclothesmen opened the door, let two ambulance men in. They put Bellmann’s body on a stretcher and carried it out.

  Kells leaned against the doorframe of the dressing room, watched Granquist. “I’ll be down in the morning with an attorney,” he said. “In the meantime, keep quiet.”

  She nodded vaguely and closed the bag, came out of the dressing-room. She said: “Let’s go.”

  The manager of the apartment house was in the corridor with one of the Filipino bellboys, a reporter from the Journal and a guest.

  The manager was wringing his hands. “I can’t understand it—no one heard the shots,” he said.

  One of the plainclothesmen looked superiorly at the manager. He said, “The thunder covered the shots.”