The Paul Cain Omnibus

by Cain, Paul

  “And by God!—most of them are in uniform,” Borg interrupted. Beery smiled faintly, nodded. “Uh-huh,” he said. “We’re in a swell spot.”

  Kells was staring at the ceiling. He said: “Now’s a good time to get out.”

  Beery looked at Borg; Borg took a toothpick out of his vest pocket, stuck it in his mouth and went back to his solitaire.

  “I didn’t mean that,” Beery said. “Only, what are we going to do?”

  “Get out.” Kells’ eyes were fixed blankly on the ceiling. “I’ve been pretty lucky up to now. Partly because everybody that’s been against me has figured that the inside would get a big press spread if anything serious happened to me.”

  He looked at Beery. “Through you—spread through you, I mean. That doesn’t make it very safe for you.”

  Beery was looking at the floor. “The luck’s beginning to run out,” Kells went on. “I dropped all the dough I’d made since I’ve been out here, on the island—because I was dumb enough to get heroic about that bitch Granquist—and she was Crotti’s plant all the time….”

  Beery said: “You didn’t tell me about that.”

  “I’m telling you now. She was sent out here by Crotti to look things over—start the organization ball rolling.”

  “Well, well. Damned clever, these Swedes.” Beery sat down at the table.

  No one said anything for a minute. Beery watched Borg play solitaire. Kells’ eyes wandered again to the ceiling.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he finally said. “We’d better take a sneak while we’re all in one piece.”

  Beery stood up. He went over to the stand by the bed and poured himself a drink. He waved the glass at Kells. He said: “We’ve gone too far—an’ it’s too much fun. We can still smack the Bellmann administration down—and anyway, these bastards don’t know whether we’re strong or not. You’ll be up and around in a couple days—we can count on a hand from Rainey, if we need it….”

  Borg was staring at the cards. He said, “Sure,” without looking up.

  “No.” Kells shook his head slowly. “It’s too tough—you boys have been a great help, but—”

  “Shut up! You can crawl out if you want to, but I’ll stick—I’m having a swell time.” Beery grinned down at Kells then gulped his drink.

  Borg looked up, said, “Sure,” quietly. He stood up.

  Kells laughed. He glanced at the bottle on the bedstand. “Draw three, Shep.”

  They had dinner sent up from Musso-Frank’s, on the Boulevard. Doctor Janis stopped by about nine o’clock.

  “Two days,” he said—“two more days at least. Then you can go out for a little while, if you take it easy—on crutches.”

  Kells was sweating; his eyes burned and he yawned a great deal. He said: “Maybe I’d better have one more load in the arm, Doc, to sort of taper off on.”

  “You’ll taper off on whiskey and milk, young fella—and like it.” The doctor put two small pills on the stand. “If you get too jumpy you can take these before you go to sleep.”

  Janis and Beery went out together; Beery was going home. Borg played solitaire for a while, and Kells sat up in bed, tried to read the papers.

  Borg said: “Denny Faber is still trailing around with Gilroy.”

  “You can call him off—Gilroy ought to be okay by now.”

  At eleven Borg stood up, stretched, said: “I’m going bye-bye.” He went into the bedroom—Kells was on the wall bed in the living room. Borg came back in his underwear, got Kells a glass of water, made a pass at tucking him in.

  “If you want anything,” he said, “just yell and fire a few shots and throw your shoe through the window. I’m a very light sleeper.”

  Kells said he would.

  Borg went back into the bedroom, and Kells turned out the lights, tried to sleep. He heard the bell in the big church on Sunset Boulevard strike twelve. Rain drummed against the windows, and the wind was blowing.

  Sometime around one, he got up, hobbled into the bath. He scrubbed his teeth and got back to the bed by using a chair for support, hopping slowly on one foot. He took the pills Janis had left, washed them down with whiskey and water. He slept after a while—heavily, dreamlessly.

  When he awoke, he lay rigid for a little while listening to rain beat against the windows. Then a voice whispered close to his ear: “Wake up, darling.”

  Kells lay very still, turned his eyes toward the darkness. Granquist said: “Wake up—darling.” Kells moved his head until he could see the silhouette of her crouched body against the pale reflected light of the wall.

  She spoke rapidly, breathlessly: “Are you all right, darling—can you walk? We’ve got to get out of here right away….”

  He smiled a little and raised his head and said: “Will you please go away? ….”

  She sank to her knees beside the bed and tried to take his head in her arms.

  “Please,” she said. “We’ve got to go quickly. Please….”

  Kells put her arms away and sat up and pulled the pillow up behind him. “How the hell did you get in?”

  “I put on an act for the night man—told him I wanted to surprise you. He came up and let me in with the passkey….”

  “Go on—surprise me.”

  “Gerry.” Granquist’s eyes were big in the faint light; drops of rain glistened on her small dark hat, her dark close-fitting coat. “I’ve been in an awfully bad spot since you shot up Crotti’s camp. I got away this afternoon when Fenner came out to do business about his confession—Crotti didn’t know anything about it, but he let Fenner think he did….”

  “What do you mean, Crotti didn’t know about it?” Kells put his hand on her wrist.

  “I got to your coat first—I’ve got Fenner’s confession and his certified check for twenty-five thou—and your cash….”

  She clicked open a small handbag, took out a handful of crumpled paper and currency, dropped it on the bed. He looked down at it a little while and then he let his head fall back again against the pillow, bent it slightly down sidewise.

  He said: “You’re a strange gal.” He put his hand on her wrist again, held it tightly.

  She tried to speak. She got up and walked to the window and then back, sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Kells asked: “Why do we have to leave here?”

  “Because you haven’t Fenner’s protection any longer—he thinks Crotti has this”—she nodded at the stuff on the bed. “The whole layout is against you now—Crotti, Rose, Fenner, the Bellmann people….”

  Kells switched on the lamp beside the bed. He unfolded and smoothed out the sheet of Venice stationery with Fenner’s shakily signed confession.

  “We have this,” he said. “Fenner hasn’t played ball—I can stick it into him and break it off. And we’ve got around thirty-five grand. We’re in a swell spot to play both ends against the middle….”

  “No, Gerry.” Granquist’s voice was harsh, strained. “Please, no, Gerry—let’s go away, quick. I’m scared….”

  Kells was silent a while, looking at her abstractedly.

  Then he said: “The middle against both ends, by God!”

  He put out one arm and cupped his hand against the back of Granquist’s neck and pulled her to him.

  In the morning the sun came out warm, bright.

  At about nine-thirty, Borg came out of the bedroom in trousers and a green silk undershirt. Granquist had had things sent up from the commissary, was preparing breakfast in the kitchen. Borg leaned against the side of the door and looked at her, and then he smiled blankly at Kells, said: “Well, well.”

  “From now on”—Kells bent his head to one side—“Fenner’s on the other team.”

  Borg went to the table and sat down. “I still like your side,” he said, “and I want to pitch.”

  “You’re not very bright. See if you can get Faber on the phone—tell him to come up here.”

  Borg reached for the phone, dialed a number.

  Granquist brought breakf
ast in on a big tray. There was orange juice and an omelette and toast and coffee. It was all very good.

  Borg finally got Faber and talked to him a little while, and then he looked up Woodward’s number in the Dell Building, downtown, dialed it, took the phone to Kells.

  Kells said, “Hello,” and asked for Woodward, and then he said: “This is Kells. If you come out to the Miramar Apartments on Franklin and Cherokee, in Hollywood, I think we might do a little business.” He hung up, smiled at Granquist.

  “You’ll have to duck while he’s here, baby,” he said. “He’s the undercover legal representative for the Bellmann administration, and you’re still number one suspect for Bellmann’s shooting—you’ll have to lay low till we hang it on Fenner, and make it stick.”

  She nodded.

  After a little while someone knocked at the door, and Borg got up and let Beery in. Beery threw his hat on a chair, stared with bright, surprised eyes at Granquist, said: “Well—it’s a small world.”

  She smiled. “Coffee?”

  Beery nodded and Granquist went out into the kitchen.

  Kells said: “Fenner went out to see Crotti yesterday.”

  Beery sat down, smiled down his nose.

  “Now we don’t have to worry about kicking any of our crowd in the tail,” Kells went on, “because we haven’t got any.”

  Beery raised his brows, said: “Crowd?”

  “Uh-huh—crowd.”

  Beery glanced around the room, back to Kells. “Since this joint was Fenner’s suggestion,” he said, “wouldn’t it be a swell time to move?”

  Kells shook his head slowly. “What for? Any of ’em can find me if they want me—and they’ll all be wanting to before long. This is as good a spot as any….”

  Granquist came in with coffee and toast on a small tray. Beery stood up, bowed, took the tray and sat down.

  Kells said: “I’m going to turn on the heat, Shep—only this time I’m going to make it pay. It’s been for fun up to now—now it’s for dough.”

  Borg was playing solitaire at the table. He looked up and said “Hooray,” dryly.

  “The lady”—Kells inclined his head towards Granquist—“picked up all the stuff I lost at Crotti’s. Fenner thinks Crotti’s got his confession, but I’ve got it—and Fenner’s going to find out about that. So is Woodward, who ought to be willing to give his eye teeth—and the mayor’s eye teeth—for it as soon as he finds out what it is. He’s on his way up here now.”

  Beery lighted a cigarette.

  “They can both buy it,” Kells went on, “and for plenty.” He turned to Borg. “See if you can get Hanline at the Manhattan.”

  Borg picked up the phone, dialed a number.

  “You remember Hanline,” Kells said to Beery. “He’s Fenner’s secretary.” Beery nodded.

  Borg mumbled into the phone and handed the phone to Kells after a moment.

  Kells said: “Hello—Hanline? … Tell that boss of yours that I’ve got the stuff he’s dealing with Crotti about. Tell him that in the next two hours I’m going to sell it to the best offer…. He’ll know what I mean…. Tell him that the bidding starts at fifty grand, and that he’d better be goddamned quick….”

  Kells hung up, grinned at Beery. “Now watch things happen,” he said.

  Beery was looking at Granquist. “Where does Miss G get off if you peddle Fenner’s confession back to him? It’s the one thing that leaves her in the clear.”

  Kells moved his grin to Granquist. “We’ve figured that out,” he said.

  The phone rang and Borg answered it. “Send him up,” he said, and hung up. He said, “Faber,” over his shoulder, went to the door.

  Granquist looked questioningly at Kells.

  Kells shook his head. “Borg’s running mate,” he said. “I’ll give you twelve guesses where I’m going to send him.”

  Faber came in, said hello to Kells and Beery, half nodded to Granquist, and sat down.

  Kells said: “Drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Kells looked at Granquist and she got up and went into the kitchen, came back with a bottle and a glass and handed them to Faber. He poured himself a drink.

  Kells said: “Fenner isn’t your boss any longer—how do you like that?”

  Faber glanced at Borg. He tipped the glass to his mouth, took it down when it was empty, said: “I like that fine.”

  “I want you to go to the Villa Dora out on Harper”—Kells looked up at Borg—“your car’s still here, isn’t it?”

  Borg said: “Yeah.”

  “Take the car,” Kells went on, “and hang on the front of that place until you see three big pigskin keesters go in and find out which apartment they go to. I don’t know who’ll have them, but there’ll be three—and they’ll probably come up in a closed Chrysler.”

  Faber said: “Uh-huh.” He picked up the bottle and poured himself another drink. He looked at Beery, then at the rest of them quickly. “Anybody else?”

  Beery nodded; Granquist went out and got another glass.

  Kells said: “Call here pronto—but I mean pronto. Spot a phone, and call here the minute you connect. We’ll be over right away and pick you up.”

  Faber nodded, drank. He put down his glass and stood up. “Villa Dora—that’s below Sunset Boulevard isn’t it?”

  Beery said: “Yes—between Sunset and Fountain.”

  Kells was looking out the window. “They’ll probably come in between two this afternoon and nine tonight. You’d better get something to eat before you go out.”

  Faber said: “Okay.” He put on his hat and said, “So long,” and went out.

  Beery smiled at Kells. “Are you going mysterious on me?”

  “Those three cases are full of cocaine”—Kells was looking at Granquist—“according to my steer. A hundred and fifteen thousand dollars’ worth—and there’s a hundred and fifteen thousand dollars in cash waiting for them some place in the Villa Dora. It’s Crotti’s stuff, and I have a hunch Max Hesse is on the buying end. I don’t want the junk—I want the dough.”

  Beery stood up. He said: “Gerry—you’re losing your mind. When you buck Crotti you’re bucking a machine. They’ll have a dozen guns trained on that deal—every angle figured—”

  Granquist interrupted: “He’s right, Gerry—you can’t….”

  “What do you think about it?” Kells was staring morosely at Borg.

  Borg put a black ten on a red Jack. “It’d be a nice lick,” he said.

  Kells put his leg down carefully, stood up. He held out his arm to Beery. “Give me a hand, Shep,” he said.

  Beery helped him across the room.

  When Kells came back, Borg said: “The Doc called. He says he’s sending over some crutches for you—an’ for you to keep off that leg.”

  Beery helped Kells back to the big chair. He sat down and put his leg up on the other chair, muttered: “I don’t want any goddamned crutches.”

  Then he turned his head to smile at Granquist. “Isn’t it about time you brought us all a drink, baby?”

  Granquist got up and went into the kitchen.

  Kells asked: “What time is it?”

  Beery was standing beside Kells’ chair. He glanced at his watch, held it down for Kells to see: eleven-five.

  At eleven-twenty, Woodward was announced. Granquist went into the bedroom and closed the door, and Borg let Woodward in.

  Woodward’s eyes were excited behind wide-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses. He bowed nervously to Beery and Borg, sat down in the chair near Kells at Kells’ invitation.

  “How would you like to buy the originals of all the dirt on Bellmann?” Kells began.

  Woodward smiled faintly. “We’ve discussed that before Mister Kells,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s too late to do anything about it now—your Coast Guardian has published several of the pictures and the story….”

  Kells said: “You can doctor the negatives and claim they’re forgeries—and I can give you additional information with w
hich you can prove that the whole thing was a conspiracy to blackmail Bellmann.”

  Woodward pursed his lips. He glanced at Beery, said: “Don’t you think we might discuss this alone, Mister Kells?”

  Kells shook his head shortly.

  “In addition to all that,” he went on “the pictures and the information—I can give you”—he paused, leaned forward slightly—“absolute proof that L.D. Fenner shot Bellmann.”

  Woodward’s eyes widened a little. He leaned back in his chair and wet his lips, stared at Kells as if he wasn’t quite sure that he had heard correctly.

  “L.D. Fenner killed Bellmann,” Kells repeated slowly. He took a crumpled piece of paper out of the breast pocket of his dressing gown, straightened it out and tossed it on Woodward’s lap.

  Woodward picked it up and held it close to his face, put his hand up and adjusted his glasses. He put the paper back on the arm of Kells’ chair in a little while. He cleared his throat, said: “Who is Beery, who witnessed Fenner’s signature with you?”

  Kells inclined his head towards Beery, who was sitting at the table watching Borg’s solitaire.

  Woodward said: “How much do you want?”

  “Plenty.” Kells picked up the piece of paper, held it by a corner. He grinned at Beery. “It’s lousy theater,” he said. “The ‘incriminating confession’”—he said it melodramatically. “All we need is the Old Homestead, some papier-mâché snow, and a couple of bloodhounds.”

  “And you ought to have a black mustache.” Beery looked up, smiled.

  Woodward said: “As I told you—my, uh—people are pressed for cash.”

  “I don’t give a damn how pressed they are. They can do business with me now—big business—and get their lousy administration out of the hole, or they can start packing to move out of City Hall. This is the last call….”

  Woodward started to speak and then the phone rang. Borg answered it, put his hand over the transmitter, nodded to Kells. Then he got up and brought the phone over.