The Paul Cain Omnibus

by Cain, Paul

  Kells took a sheaf of bills out of his pocket, peeled off two.

  “Give him whatever he wants out of this,” he said. “And does he want a deposit?”

  “No.” Bernie started for the door. “He keeps my boat for security.”

  Kells and Borg followed him out, across the wharf, across a rickety foot bridge and down to a wide float.

  Bernie gave the man who was waiting there one of the bills, said: “I’ll pick up the change when I come back.”

  The man asked: “Don’t you want me to come along?”

  Bernie glanced at Kells. Kells said: “Thanks—no. We’ll get along.”

  The Comet was a trim thirty-foot craft; mahogany and steel and glistening brass. She looked very fast.

  Bernie switched on the running lights and started the engine. The man cast off the lines; Bernie spun the wheel over and they swung in a wide curve away from the float and out through the narrows to the cut that led to the outer bay.

  The fog was broken to long trailing shreds, but thick. The swell was long, fairly easy.

  Bernie snapped on the binnacle light. “I hope I ain’t forgotten the course,” he said. “I think it’ll clear up when we get out a ways—but I’m usually wrong about fog.”

  Borg said, “That’s dandy,” with dripping sarcasm.

  Kells went down into the little cabin, lay down on one of the bunks. He watched red and green and yellow buoy lights slide swiftly by the portholes. After a while they rounded the breakwater and there weren’t any more lights to watch.

  Kells was awakened by Bernie whispering: “We made it in an hour and fifty minutes.” Then Bernie went outside.

  It was very dark. Borg was lying in the other bunk, groaning faintly.

  Kells said: “What the hell’s the matter?”

  Borg didn’t answer.

  “You aren’t sick!” Kells was emphatically incredulous.

  It was quiet for a minute and then Borg said slowly: “Who’s the best judge of that—me or you?”

  Kells got up and went outside. Bernie had doused the running lights; there was a thin glow from the binnacle—and darkness. The fog felt like a wet sheet.

  Bernie said: “There’s a big cruiser tied up on the other side of the wharf. I coasted by close—I don’t think there’s anybody aboard.”

  “Any other boats?”

  “I couldn’t see any.” Bernie switched off the binnacle light. “There’s another little cove on the other side of the island, but nobody uses it.”

  Kells said: “We’re not tied up, are we?”

  “Sure.”

  Kells looked at Bernie admiringly. “You’re a wonder. It didn’t even wake me up.”

  Bernie chuckled. “You’re damn right I’m a wonder.”

  They climbed up on the wharf, crossed quietly. The cruiser was big, luxurious, evidently deserted—Bernie couldn’t make out the name. Except for a few rowboats and the Comet, it was the only boat at the wharf.

  Kells said: “Well—I guess I’m wrong again.”

  They walked up the wharf, and Bernie found a path and they walked along the bottom of a shallow gully, up to the left across a kind of ridge.

  The fog was so heavy they didn’t see the light until they were about twenty feet from it. Then they went forward silently and a big ramshackle shed took form in the gray darkness. The light came from a square window on the second floor.

  Bernie said: “This used to be a cattle shelter—they’ve built onto it. I guess it’s the place they call the Red Barn.”

  They found a door and Kells knocked twice. There was no answer so he turned the knob, pushed the door open.

  There was a kerosene lamp at one end of a short bar. The room was long, windowless; the ceiling sloped to a high peak at one end. There was a stairway leading up to a balcony of rough timbers, and there was an open door on the balcony leading into a lighted room.

  At first Kells thought the downstairs room was deserted; then by the flickering, uncertain light of the lamp he saw a man asleep at one of the half dozen or so tables. There was another man lying on a cot against one wall. He rolled over. “Wha’ d’ you want?” he said sleepily. Kells didn’t answer—the man looked at him blearily for a moment and then grunted and rolled back with his face to the wall.

  A man came out on the balcony and stood with his hands on the railing, silently staring down at them. He was of medium height, appeared in the inadequate light to be dark, swarthy.

  Kells said: “How are chances of buying a drink?”

  The man suddenly stepped out of the doorway so that a little more light fell on Kells’ upturned face. Then he threw back his head and laughed noiselessly. His shoulders shook and his face was twisted with mirth, but there was no sound.

  Bernie looked at Kells. Kells turned and glanced at the man on the cot, looked up at the swarthy man again. The man stopped laughing, looked down and spoke in a hoarse whisper:

  “Sure. Come up.”

  He turned, disappeared into the room.

  Kells said “Wait,” to Bernie. He went up the stairs two at a time and went into the room.

  It was a fairly large room, square. There were a few rather good rugs on the floor, a flat-topped desk near the far wall, several chairs. There were two big lamps—the kind that have to be pumped up, hiss when lighted.

  The man closed the door behind him, went to the desk and sat down. He waved his hand at a chair but Kells shook his head slightly, stood still.

  The man’s face was familiar. It was deeply lined and the eyes were very far apart, very dark. His mouth was full and red, and his hair was very short, black.

  Kells asked: “Where do I remember you from?”

  The man shook his head. “You don’t.” There was some sort of curious impediment in his speech. Then he smiled and said, “I’m Crotti.”

  Kells pulled a chair closer to the desk. He said: “I’ll still buy a drink.”

  Crotti opened a drawer and took out a squat square bottle, a glass. He pushed them across the desk, said: “Help yourself.”

  Kells poured himself a drink, sat down.

  He knew Crotti very well by reputation, had once had him pointed out in a theater crowd in New York. A big-timer, he had started as a minor gangster in Detroit, become in the space of three or four years a national figure. A flair for color, a certain genius for organization, good political connections had kept him alive, out of jail, and at the top. The press had boomed him as a symbol: the Crime Magnate—in New York he was supposed to be the power behind the dope ring, organized prostitution and gambling, the beer business—everything that was good for copy.

  Crotti said: “This is a miracle.” His voice was very thin, throaty.

  Kells remembered that he had heard something of an operation affecting the vocal cords that Crotti always spoke in this curiously confidential manner.

  He asked: “What’s a miracle?”

  Crotti leaned back in his chair. “In the morning,” he said, “your hotel was to be called, an invitation was to be extended to you to visit me—out here.”

  He opened a box of cigars on the desk, offered them to Kells, and carefully selected one.

  “And here you are.”

  Kells didn’t answer.

  Crotti clipped and lighted his cigar, leaned back again. “What do you think of that?” he said.

  Kells said: “What do you want?”

  “Since you anticipated my invitation, may I ask what you want?”

  Kells sipped his drink, shrugged. “I came out for a drink of good whiskey,” he said.

  He looked around the room. There were two closed doors on his right, a window on his left. In front of him, behind Crotti, there was another large square window—the one he had seen from the outside. He finished his drink and put the glass on the desk.

  “I’m looking for a fella named Jack Rose,” he said. “Ever hear of him?”

  Crotti nodded.

  “Know where he is?”

  “No.” Crot
ti smiled, shook his head.

  They were both silent for a minute. Crotti puffed comfortably at his cigar and Kells waited.

  Crotti cleared his throat finally and said: “You’ve done very well.”

  Kells waited.

  “You helped eliminate a lot of small fry: Haardt, Perry, O’Donnell—you’ve run Rose out of town, and you have the Fenner and Bellmann factions pretty well in hand. You can write your own ticket….”

  “You make it sound swell.” Kells poured himself a drink. “What about it?”

  “I’m going to cut you in.”

  Kells widened his eyes extravagantly. “What do you mean—cut me in?”

  “I’m going to clean up all the loose ends and turn the whole business over to you….”

  Kells said: “My, my—isn’t that dandy!” He put the full glass down on the desk. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Crotti flicked ashes from his cigar, leaned forward.

  “Listen,” he said. “Things are pretty hot back East. I’ve been running a couple ships up here with stuff from Mexico for a year. Now I’m going to move all my interests here, the whole layout. I’m going to take over the Coast.”

  “And? ….”

  “And you’re in.”

  Kells said: “I’m out.”

  Crotti leaned back again, studied the gray tip of his cigar. He smiled. “I think you’re in,” he said.

  Kells took a little tin box of aspirin out of his pocket, put two tablets on his tongue and washed them down with the whiskey.

  “You seem to have kept pretty well in touch with things out here,” he said.

  Crotti said: “Yes. I sent an operative out a few weeks ago to look things over—a very clever girl….” He took the cigar out of his mouth. “Name’s Granquist.”

  Kells sat very still. He looked at Crotti and then he grinned slowly, broadly.

  Crotti grinned back. “Am I right in assuming that you were looking for Rose because you thought he had something to do with Miss Granquist’s—uh—escape?”

  Kells didn’t answer.

  Crotti stood up. “I always take care of my people,” he said as pompously as his squeaky voice would permit. He went to one of the doors, swung it open. The inner room was dark.

  Crotti called: “Hey—Swede.”

  There was no answer and Crotti went into the room. Kells could hear him whispering, evidently trying to wake someone up.

  Kells unbuttoned his coat, shifted the shoulder holster. Crotti reappeared in the doorway, and Granquist was behind him. Crotti went back to his chair, sat down.

  Granquist stood in the doorway, swaying. Her eyes were heavy with sleep and she stared drunkenly about the room, finally focused on Kells. She sneered as if it was difficult for her to control her facial muscles. She put one hand on the doorframe to steady herself.

  She said thickly: “Hello, bastard.”

  Kells looked away from her, spoke to Crotti. “Nice quiet girl,” he said. “Just the kind you want to take home and introduce to your folks.”

  Crotti laughed soundlessly.

  Granquist staggered forward, stood swaying above Kells. “Bastard framed me,” she mumbled—“tried t’ tag me f’ murder….”

  She put one hand out tentatively as if she was about to catch a fly, and slapped Kells very hard across the face.

  Crotti stood up suddenly.

  Kells reached out and pushed Granquist gently away and said: “Don’t be effeminate.”

  Crotti came around the desk and took Granquist by the shoulder and pressed her down into a chair. She was swearing brokenly, incoherently. She put her hands up to her face, sobbed.

  Crotti said: “Be quiet.” He turned to Kells with a deprecating smile. “I’m sorry.”

  Kells didn’t say anything.

  It was quiet for a little while except for Granquist’s strangled, occasional sobs. Crotti sat down on the edge of the desk.

  Kells sat staring thoughtfully at Granquist. Finally he turned to Crotti, said: “I played the Bellmann business against this one”—he jerked his head at Granquist—“because it was good sense, and because I knew I could clear her if it was necessary. Then when she got away I figured Rose had her and went into the panic. I’ve been leaping all over Southern California with a big hero act while she’s been sitting on her ass over here with an armful of bottles….”

  He sighed, shook his head. “When I’m right, I’m wrong.”

  Then he went on as if thinking aloud: “Rose and Abalos, and a woman—probably Rose’s wife—hired a boat at Long Beach tonight and didn’t come back.”

  Crotti glanced at Granquist. “Rose had an interest in one of the big booze boats,” he said—“the Santa Maria. She was lying about sixty miles off the Coast a couple days ago. He probably headed out there.”

  He puffed hard at his cigar, put it down on an ashtray, leaned forward.

  “Now about my proposition…” he said. “You’ve started a good thing, but you can’t finish it by yourself. I’ve got the finest organization in the country and I’m going to put it at your disposal so that you can do this thing the way it should be done—to the limit. LA county is big enough for everybody—”

  Kells interrupted him. “I think I’ve heard that someplace before.”

  Crotti paid no attention to the interruption, went on: “—for everybody—but things have got to be under a single head. This thing of everybody cutting everybody else’s throat is bad business—small-town stuff.”

  Kells nodded very seriously.

  “We can have things working like a charm in a couple weeks if we go at it right,” Crotti went on excitedly. “Organization is the thing. We’ll organize gambling, the bootleggers, the city and state and federal police—everything.”

  He stood up, his eyes glittering with enthusiasm. “We can jerk five million dollars a year out of this territory—five million dollars!”

  Kells whistled.

  Granquist had put her hands down. She was sitting deep in the chair, glaring at Kells. Crotti picked up his cigar and walked up and down, puffing out great clouds of blue-gray smoke.

  “Why, right this minute,” he said, “I’ve got a hundred and fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of French crystal cocaine on one of my boats—a hundred and fifteen thousand dollars’ worth at the market price. All it needs is protected landing and distribution to a dozen organized dealers.”

  Kells nodded, pouring himself another drink.

  Crotti sat down at the desk, took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

  “And you’re the man for it,” he said. “My money’s on you….”

  Kells said. “That’s fine,” smiled appreciatively.

  “Your split is twenty-five per cent of everything.” Crotti crushed his cigar out, leaned back and regarded Kells benignly. “Everything—the whole take.”

  Kells was watching Crotti. He moved his eyes without moving his head, looked at Granquist. “That ought to pay for a lot of telephone calls,” he said.

  “Then it’s a deal.”

  “No.”

  Crotti looked as if he’d found a cockroach in his soup. “You mean it isn’t enough?” he said incredulously.

  “Too much.”

  “Then why not?”

  Kells said: “Because I don’t like it. Because I never worked for anybody in my life and I’m too old to start. Because I don’t like the racket, anyway—l was aced in. It’s full of tinhorns and two-bit politicians and double-crossers—the whole goddamned business gives me a severe pain in the backside.” He paused, glanced at Granquist.

  “Rose and Fenner both tried to frame me,” he went on. “That made me mad and I fought back. I was lucky—I took advantage of a couple breaks and got myself into a spot where I could have some fun.” He stood up. “Now you want to spoil my fun.”

  Crotti stood up too. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I want to show you how to make it pay.”

  Kells said: “I’m sorry. It’s a swell proposi
tion, but I’m not the man for it—I guess I’m not commercially inclined. It’s not my game.”

  Crotti shrugged elaborately. “All right.”

  Kells said: “Now, if you’ll ask the man behind me to put his rod away, I’ll be going.”

  Crotti’s lips were pressed close together, curved up at the corners. He turned and looked into the big window behind him—the man who stood just inside the doorway through which they had entered was reflected against outer darkness.

  Crotti nodded to the man and at the same moment Granquist stood up, screamed. Kells stepped into line between Crotti and the door, whirled in the same second—the big automatic was in his hand, belching flame.

  The man had evidently been afraid of hitting Crotti, was two slugs late. He looked immensely surprised, crashed down sideways in the doorway. Crotti was standing with his back to the window, the same curved grimace on his face.

  There were pounding steps on the stair. Kells stepped over the man in the doorway, ran smack into another—the man who had been asleep on the cot—at the top of the stair. The man grabbed him around the waist before he could use the gun; he raised it, felt the barrel-sight rip across the man’s face. There were several more men in the big room below, two on the stairs, coming up.

  He planted one foot in the angle of the floor and wall, shoved hard; locked together, they balanced precariously for a moment, fell. They hit the two men about halfway down, tangled to a twisted mass of swinging arms, legs. The banister creaked, gave way. Kells felt the collar of his coat grabbed, was jerked under and down. He struck out with the gun, squeezed it. The gun roared and he heard someone yell, and then something hit the center of his forehead and there was darkness.

  The fog was wet on Kells’ face. He opened his eyes and looked up into grayness. He rolled over on his side slowly. There was nothing but thick, unbroken grayness. He held his hand in front of him at arm’s length and it was a shapeless mass of darker gray. He sat up and leaden weights fell in his skull like the mechanism that opens and closes the eyes of dolls. He lay down again and turned his head slowly, held his watch close. It was a little after six, full daylight, but the fog made it night.

  Then he heard someone coming, the crunch of feet on gravel. He reached for the gun, found the empty holster, noticed suddenly with a sharp sensation in the pit of his stomach that his coat was gone.