The Paul Cain Omnibus

by Cain, Paul

  Her hair was loose, hung in straw-colored and angular disorder over her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, unseeing. A white silk handkerchief had been stuffed into her mouth, and her hands were knotted behind her back.

  Kells said: “Take that goddamned gag out of her mouth.” He spoke almost without moving his lips.

  Beery stood up.

  “I am very sorry.” Crotti spoke sidewise to Kells. “She raised a lot of hell….” He nodded to the Filipino.

  The Filipino reached up delicately and flicked the handkerchief out of her mouth by one corner. She caught her breath sharply; her eyes rolled up whitely for a second and then she closed them and swayed sideways with one hip against the balustrade.

  Kells stood up slowly.

  Crotti said: “Sit down.”

  Granquist opened her eyes and turned her head slowly and looked down at Kells. She opened her mouth a little and tried to speak. Then the Filipino took her arm and guided her down the stair, to a low chair between Kells and Crotti. She sank down into it, and the Filipino took a small knife out of his pocket and reached behind her and cut the twisted cord that held her hands. She leaned back and put her hands up to her face.

  MacAlmon walked to the door and back.

  Crotti asked: “How do you feel, sister?”

  Granquist didn’t move or show in any way that she had heard.

  Kells sat down in the big chair, and Beery sat down again on the edge of the table.

  Kells took a thin black card case out of his pocket and took out a card and spoke over his shoulder to Beery: “Got a pencil?”

  MacAlmon had come back from the door and was standing near Kells. He took a silver pencil out of his vest pocket, handed it to him. Hesse got up and went out into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water and put it down on the arm of Granquist’s chair. He tapped her shoulder, smiled down at her. She took her hands away from her face for a moment and stared blankly up at him, then she put her hands back over her eyes.

  “How many men have you got outside?” Kells glanced at Crotti.

  Crotti wasn’t smiling any more. His wide-set eyes were very serious.

  He said: “Two—one car.” He took a dark green cigar out of his breast pocket, bit off the end, lighted it.

  Kells was watching him, smiling faintly. Crotti looked up from lighting his cigar, nodded slowly, emphatically.

  Hesse said: “I’ve got just my chauffeur—he is waiting….”

  Kells put the card down on the arm of his chair, scribbled something on it. He said: “You can send Carl, here”—he jerked his head towards the slight nervous man—“and whoever’s outside after the dough. Beery will go along and tell ’em where to go.” He was looking at Carl. “When you’re paid off, Beery will call us here and you can okay it for your boss.” He nodded at Crotti.

  Crotti was smiling again. He said: “All right.”

  Carl got up and came over and picked up the card. Beery was at the telephone; he made a note of the number.

  Kells went on: “Maybe the spick had better go along too.”

  The Filipino looked at him coldly. Crotti shook his head. Kells grinned, shrugged.

  He said: “I’ll see you later, Shep.”

  Beery nodded and put on his hat, went to the door with Carl. They went out.

  Kells called to Beery as he was closing the door: “Tell that cab driver to sit on it—we’ll be out in a little while.”

  MacAlmon went to a wall switch, snapped on several more lights. Then he went over and lay down on a wide divan under the big front windows. The drapes were tightly drawn.

  Kells glanced at the tall clock in one corner. It was seven-fifty.

  Hesse had taken MacAlmon’s place at pacing up and down the floor.

  Kells got up and limped to Granquist’s chair, sat down on one arm of it and leaned close to her with his hand on her shoulder.

  She whispered, “Gerry—I’m so sorry,” without looking at him.

  “Shut up, baby.” He smiled down at her and pushed her hands gently down from her face.

  “How’s your leg?”

  He said: “Swell.” He patted his leg gingerly with one hand.

  She moved her head over against his side. “It happened so damned quick,” she said—“I mean quickly. They pulled up alongside of us and two of them got into the cab and stuck a rod into the driver and me and we came out here. Borg jumped out as soon as he saw them and ran down First Street—the car they came up in went after him….”

  Kells said: “He got away—he was waiting for us outside the station. He’s got the hundred and fifteen down at a little hotel on Melrose. That’s where Shep’s taking Crotti’s boys….”

  Granquist sighed, whispered: “That’s a lot of money.”

  Kells shook his head slowly. “That’s the first really illegitimate pass we’ve made—maybe we didn’t deserve it.” He rubbed his forehead violently. “What happened to the cab with our stuff in it?”

  “It’s out in the driveway. They sapped the driver—he’s upstairs sleeping it off.”

  They were silent a little while and then Kells said: “We forgot to send back the car we rented from the Miramar—remind me to do that as soon as we can.”

  “Uh-huh.” Granquist’s voice was muffled. Her face was close against his side.

  Kells got up and went into the kitchen. He tried the back door but it was locked and there was no key in it. When he came back, Crotti had straightened around at the desk, was bent over it reading a paper.

  Kells asked: “How’s the fella my fat friend popped this afternoon?”

  Crotti turned his head, nodded. “He’s all right.”

  The phone rang and Kells answered it.

  MacAlmon swung up to sit on the edge of the divan. Crotti turned slowly in his chair towards Kells. Hesse stopped near the door. The Filipino was tilted back in a chair near the stairway that led up to the balcony and the rooms upstairs. His hat was pulled down over his eyes and he did not move.

  Kells said, “Yes, Shep,” into the telephone: He listened a little while and his face was cold and hard, his eyes were heavy. Then he said, ‘All right,” and hung up the receiver.

  He spoke, more to Granquist than to any of the rest of them: “Borg’s gone.”

  Granquist leaned forward slowly. Hesse said: “Who is Borg?”

  “The guy who’s got your hundred and fifty grand.” Kells smiled slowly at Hesse.Then he glanced at the Filipino and there was a black automatic in the Filipino’s hand. He was still tilted back against the wall and his hat almost covered his eyes.

  Crotti stood up. He moved a little towards Kells and then he stood very straight and stared at Kells and the muscles of his deeply lined white face twitched a little. He shook his head almost imperceptibly towards the Filipino.

  He said slowly: “No—I will do it myself, Shorty,” like they do in the movies.

  He put his hand to his side, under the arm, under his coat, and took out a curiously shaped German revolver. He held it down straight at his side for a moment and then he raised it towards Kells. He raised it as if he would like to be raising it very slowly and deliberately, but couldn’t; he raised it very swiftly.

  Kells’ shoulders were hunched together a little. His chin was in and he looked at Crotti’s feet and his eyes were almost closed.

  Granquist stood up and her face was dead white, her hands were clawed in front of her body. She made no sound.

  Then there was a sharp crashing roar. It beat twice, filled the room with dull sound.

  Kells still stood with his shoulders a little together, his eyes almost closed.

  Crotti swayed once to the left. His expression was querulous, worried; the revolver fell from his hand, clattered on the floor. One of his legs gave way slowly and he slipped down to one knee, fell slowly, heavily forward on his face.

  Kells turned his head swiftly, looked up. Borg was grinning down at him from the balcony; the short blunt blue revolver was lisping smoke in his hand.
The Filipino was bent over, holding his wrist between his hand and knees. He whirled slowly on one foot—his hat had fallen off and his broad flat face was twisted with pain.

  Borg said: “By God! Just like they do in the movies.”

  Hesse was at the door.

  Borg swung the revolver around towards him, said: “Wait a minute.”

  MacAlmon hadn’t moved. He was still sitting on the edge of the divan, staring at Crotti.

  Kells said: “Let’s go.”

  They stopped near a drugstore near Sixth and Normandie. Borg pulled up ahead of them in the other cab and he and the driver transferred Kells’ luggage to the one cab.

  Kells said to the driver: “You can call up and report where this cab is if you want to.” He gestured towards the second cab. “The driver is out at the joint we just left—Apartment L.”

  Borg said: “Maybe. They’re probably all out of there by now.”

  “They wouldn’t take the driver.”

  “They might—he could testify against ’em.”

  Kells and the driver went into the drugstore to telephone. Kells called Beery at home, said: “Swell, Shep…. Did you have any trouble getting away? …. That’s fine…. Borg got to worrying about giving all that dough back so he ducked over to MacAlmon’s place and climbed in a window…. Uh-huh. The crazy bastard damn near got me the works, but if he hadn’t been there I wouldn’t be here—so what? …. I don’t know whether to give him a punch in the nose or a bonus…. I have an idea Crotti would’ve tried to smack me down whether Borg had been there to put the cash on the line or not. I don’t think he liked me very well…. Yeah—I said liked…. So long, Shep, and good luck—I’ll send you a postcard.”

  Kells hung up and went out and got into the cab with Granquist and Borg.

  The driver turned around, asked: “Where to?”

  “How’d you like to make a long haul?” Kells glanced at Granquist, smiled at the driver.

  The driver said: “Sure. The longer the better.” Kells said: “San Bernardino.” He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  The Dark

  And here is the shocking last installment to Fast One.

  Gerry Kells came west to play around a bit, choosing Hollywood and LA for his playground. That was all he wanted to do—play and be left alone. And that’s what he started to do.

  But he brought with him a reputation of being a “fast one,” a high-class muscle-man, and the big boys in the west coast rackets sought him out.

  Bellmann and Fenner were fighting for political control. Bellmann was already in; Fenner wanted in and Bellmann out. Jack Rose was a Bellmann man; he wanted for his share the gambling and liquor racket. Rose tried to enlist Gerry Kells as a potent fighter, but Kells wouldn’t enlist, and the fireworks started.

  They framed Kells for a murder. Kells shifted the charge to Ruth Perry’s husband. Then they shot Kells, but didn’t finish the job, and Kells went haywire.

  One by one the big fellows went out. Fenner shot Bellmann; Kells, letting the girl, Granquist, carry the charge, took over Fenner’s organization. Then Crotti, a public enemy from the east coast, got in the way and was rubbed out.

  Kells tried to run away from that one with the spoils of the fight. But his crowd had dwindled. Only Borg, the former bodyguard for Fenner, and the girl, Granquist, were with him when he jumped a cab for San Bernardino to take the train east.

  The room was about thirty by fifteen. There were six booths along each long side. At one end there was a door leading to a kind of kitchen and at the other end there was a door that led to steps down to the alley. There was a small radio on a table beside the door that led to the kitchen and there was a clock on the wall above the table. It was five minutes past nine.

  Kells and Granquist and Borg sat in the third booth on the right, coming in. There was no one in any of the other booths.

  The cab driver went back to the door to the kitchen and called: “Jake.” Then he bent over the radio, snapped it on.

  A man came out of the kitchen, said “Hi” to the driver, came up to the booth. He was a tall man, about fifty-five, with a long crooked nose, a three- or four-day growth of gray beard. He wiped his hands on his dirty gray-white apron.

  Kells asked: “Do you know how to make a whiskey sour?”

  The man grinned with one side of his mouth, nodded.

  “Okay—and put some whiskey in it.”

  Granquist was rubbing powder onto her nose, holding her head back and looking into a small mirror which she held in one hand, a little higher than her head.

  She said: “Me too—an’ ham and eggs.”

  Borg had slid low in the seat. His chin was on his chest and his eyes were closed. He asked, “Got any buttermilk?” without moving or opening his eyes.

  The man shook his head.

  Kells said: “Give him a whiskey sour, too—and give all of us ham and eggs. Fresh eggs.”

  He raised his head, called to the driver: “Is that all right for you?”

  A dance orchestra blared suddenly out of the radio. The driver turned his head, smiled, nodded.

  Jake went back into the kitchen.

  Granquist called to the driver: “See if you can get Louie Armstrong.”

  Jake stuck his head through the door, said: “He don’t come on till eleven.” His head disappeared.

  Kells grinned at Granquist.

  She said: “Let’s dance.”

  “Don’t be silly.” He glanced down at his leg.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, darling.” Her face was suddenly serious, concerned. “How is it?”

  He shook his head without looking at her, was silent; after a minute or so he watched Jake come in with four tall glasses on a scarred tin tray.

  Jake put the tray on the table, spoke over his shoulder to the driver: “Turn ’er down to ten—that’s KGPL the police reports to the radio cars.” He pronounced the first syllable of radio to rhyme with sad. He walked back towards the kitchen. “Last night they held up the gas station down on the corner an’ we knew it here right away. I went downstairs an’ saw the bandit car go by—sixty miles an hour.” He jerked his head violently up and to the left an unspoken “By Crackey!”

  The driver turned the dial, then came to the booth and took one of the tall glasses. He sat down on the table directly across the narrow room. He said, “Here’s mud in your eye,” drank.

  It was quiet a little while, except for the hiss of frying eggs in the kitchen.

  Then the radio hummed slowly, buzzed to words: “KGPL—Los Angeles Police Department…. Calling car number one thirty-two—car number one three two…. At Berkeley and Gaines streets—an ambulance follow-up…. That is all…. Gordon.”

  Granquist held her glass in both hands, her elbows on the table. She tipped the glass, drank, said: “Not bad. Not good, but not bad.”

  Kells raised his head, called towards the kitchen: “Bring out the bottle, Jake.”

  Borg opened his eyes, stared gloomily at his drink.

  The radio sputtered to sound: “KGPL…. Attention all cars—attention all cars…. Repeat as of eight-fifteen on Crotti killing…. Persons wanted are: Number One—Gerard A Kells. Description: six foot one—a hundred and sixty pounds—about thirty-five—red hair—sallow complexion—wearing a dark blue suit, black soft hat—walks with a limp, recent leg wound….”

  Jake came out of the kitchen carrying a bottle of whiskey by the neck. He put it on the table and Kells took out the cork and tipped the bottle, sweetened Granquist’s, Borg’s, and his own drink. He waved the bottle at the driver. The driver slid off the table and came over and held out his glass and Kells poured whiskey into it. The driver went back and sat down on the table and Jake went back into the kitchen.

  He said, “Ham an’ eggs coming up,” over his shoulder as he went through the door.

  The radio droned on: “Number Two—a woman, thought to be Miss Granquist—first name unknown—also wanted in connection with Bellmann murder. Description: five eight—
a hundred and twenty pounds—twenty-seven—blonde-high color…. Number Three—Borg—Otto J. Description: five six—a hundred an’ ninety pounds—forty—sandy complexion…. Particular attention cars on roads out of Los Angeles: these people are probably trying to get out of town…. Don’t take any chances—they’re dangerous…. That is all…. Gordon.”

  The driver put his glass down, slid off the table. He said, “I forgot to turn off my lights,” started towards the door.

  Borg said: “Sit down.” He had not raised his head or straightened up in his seat. The heavy snub-nosed revolver glittered in his left hand.

  Kells stood up slowly, squeezed out of the booth and limped back to the kitchen door. He stood in the doorway and said: “You can put down that phone and bring out our ham and eggs now.”

  He continued to stand in the doorway until Jake came out past him with four orders of ham and eggs on a big tray. Jake’s nose and forehead were shiny with sweat. He put the tray on the table and stood wiping his hands on his apron.

  The driver turned and went back and sat down on the table. He was very pale and there was a weak smile on his face. He picked up his drink.

  Borg gestured with his head and Jake went over and sat down in the booth with the driver.

  Kells went into the kitchen.

  Granquist’s eyes were hard, opaque. She took one of the plates of ham and eggs off the tray, sat staring down at it.

  Kells’ voice came from the kitchen: “Madison two four five six…. Hello—Chronicle? …. City desk, please…. Hello—is Shep Beery there? ….” There was a short wait.

  Then he lowered his voice and they could not hear.

  He called another indistinguishable number, talked a long time in a low voice.

  Granquist ate mechanically. Borg finished his drink, got up and handed the driver’s plate across to him. The driver sat down beside Jake, sliced the fried ham into thin strips.

  After a while Kells came in and sat down. He pushed his plate away, poured whiskey into the glasses on the table.

  He said quietly: “They’ve picked up Shep.”

  No one said anything. Granquist tipped her glass and Borg stared expressionlessly at Kells.

  “And they’ve been tipped to our reservations on the Chief tomorrow night—they’re watching all trains, all roads—they’ll ride that train to Albuquerque.” Kells drank. He looked at Granquist, then slowly turned his head and looked at Borg. “And they’ve tied us up with Abner here—or his bus.” He moved his head slightly towards the cab driver.