The Paul Cain Omnibus: Every Crime Story and the Novel Fast One as Originally Published (Black Mask)

by Paul Cain

  Then the man got into the second car, its lights were switched on and it too drove away.

  Kells said: “Give ’em enough room.”

  Fifty-eight waited until the other car was more than halfway down the long block, then he let the clutch in slowly. Kells felt in his pockets until he found the tin box of aspirin tablets, took two. The other car turned left on Third Street. Fifty-eight stepped on it, swung into Third; there were two taillights about a block and a half ahead. He followed the faster one north on Rossmore, got close enough to see that he’d guessed right, fell back.

  They turned west again on Beverly, to La Brea.

  Kells was sitting sideways on the seat looking through the rear window. He leaned forward suddenly, spoke rapidly to Fifty-eight: “Keep that car in sight—an’ you’ll have to do it by yourself. I’ve got something else to watch. We’re being tailed.”

  “Sure,” Fifty-eight said.

  They turned off La Brea, west on Santa Monica Boulevard.

  Then Kells was sure they were being followed. The car was a big blue or black coupé—shiny, powerful.

  On Santa Monica, a little way beyond Gardner, Fifty-eight said over his shoulder: “They’re stopping.”

  “Go on past ’em—slow.”

  Kells squeezed back into the corner, saw four men get out of the touring car and start across the street. He thought one of them was Detective Lieutenant Reilly; wasn’t sure. He didn’t recognize any of the others.

  Fifty-eight asked: “What’ll I do?”

  “Go on—slow.” Kells took the automatic from its shoulder holster, balanced it across his hand. He watched the big coupé come up slowly.

  It overtook them in the second block, stayed alongside.

  Kells said: “Turn off right, at the next side street.” He was deep in the dark corner of the cab, watching the coupé narrowly. Then the driver of the coupé put up his hand and Kells saw that it was Borg. They turned together into the side street, drove up about a hundred yards to comparative darkness. Borg parked a little way ahead of the cab.

  Kells got out and went up to the coupé. He said. “That’s the way people have accidents,” unpleasantly.

  Borg was silent.

  Granquist was sitting very low in the seat beside Borg. She straightened, said: “Your other driver spilled his guts an’ the tip went out on the joint we were at—”

  Borg interrupted her: “That’s a swell invention, the radio. I don’t know what we would’ve done without it.”

  “Then while we were getting out,” Granquist went on, “the call went out to the car in Larson’s neighborhood to go and pick you up—we got the address from that. Fat couldn’t find a car so we hired this one at a garage—”

  “An’ damn near busted our necks getting to Larson’s,” Borg finished.

  Kells asked: “Where did you pick me up?”

  “We were turning off Third onto Gramercy when you turned into Third.” Borg lighted his stump of cigar. He bent his head towards Granquist. “Miss Eagle-eye here thought she spotted you in the cab—an’ I thought she was nuts. She wasn’t.”

  “Did you know I was following another car?”

  Granquist said: “Sure.”

  “That was one of Rose’s cars.” Kells put one foot on the running board, leaned on the door. “It was planted across from Larson’s to smack me down when the cops brought me out.” He hesitated a moment. “That’s what happened to Shep when they were taking him in.”

  Borg swallowed, started to speak: “They….” He was silent.

  Granquist said: “Gerry—for God’s sake, get in and let’s get out of here.” Her voice was low, almost hoarse; she spoke very rapidly. “Please, Gerry, let’s go now—we can make the Border by three o’clock….”

  “Sure. In a little while.” Kells was looking at the black and yellow sky.

  It began to rain a little.

  Borg said: “So what?”

  “That car stopped at Ansel’s.” Kells jerked his head back towards Santa Monica Boulevard. “Ansel runs a crap game that’s backed by Rose—I’ve been there. It’s a pretty safe bet that Rose is there—that his carload of rods went back there to report to him.”

  Borg said: “Uh-huh. So, what?”

  Kells stared at Borg vacantly.” So I’m going up an’ tell Rose about Beery—about Beery’s wife.”

  Granquist opened the door suddenly, got out on the sidewalk on the other side of the car. She held her arms stiff at her sides and her hands were clenched; she was trembling violently. She walked up the sidewalk about thirty feet—walked as if she was making a tremendous effort to walk slowly. Then she turned and leaned against a telephone pole and looked back at the car.

  Kells watched her. He could not see her face in the darkness, only the dim outline of her body. He turned slowly to Borg.

  “You can wait here,” he said. “Or maybe you’d better wait down at the first corner this side of Ansel’s. And stay with the car—both of you.”

  Borg said: “All right.”

  Kells walked up to Granquist. He stood looking down at her a little while, asked: “What’s the matter, baby?”

  Her voice, when she finally answered, was elaborately sarcastic. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” Then her tone changed abruptly—she put one trembling hand on his arm. “Gerry, for God’s sake, don’t do this,” she said. “Let it go—please—this time….”

  He was smiling faintly. He shook his head very slightly.

  She took her hand from his arm. Her voice was suddenly acid, metallic. “You—and your goddamned pride! Your long chances—your little tin-horn revenge!” She laughed shrilly, hysterically. “You’ve seen too many gangster pictures—that’s what’s wrong with you….”

  Kells was staring at her expressionlessly. He turned abruptly, strode back towards the car.

  She was behind him, sobbing, trying to hold his arm.

  “Gerry!” Her voice was blurred by tears. “Gerry—can’t you think of me a little—can’t you let this one thing go—for me? For us?”

  He shook her hand off his arm, spoke briefly to Borg: “An’ stay with the car this time—I’ll be wanting it in a hurry, when I want it.”

  Borg said: “Okay. First corner this side of the joint.”

  Kells went back to the cab, got in, said: “Take me down to Gardner, about a half-block the other side of the Boulevard.”

  Fifty-eight grunted affirmatively and swung the cab around in the narrow street.

  Kells glanced back through the rear window. Granquist was standing motionlessly in the middle of the street, silhouetted against the glow of a street light on the far corner.

  It began raining harder, pounded on the roof of the cab. Fiftyeight started the windshield wiper and it swished rhythmically in a wide arc across the glass.

  They stopped in the shelter of a wide palm on Gardner. Kells got out.

  Fifty-eight asked: “Can I help, Mister Kells?”

  Kells shook his head. “I’ll make out.” He peeled two bills off the roll in his pocket, handed them to the little Irishman. He turned swiftly and went into the darkness between two houses, heard Fiftyeight’s “Thank you, sir,” behind him.

  The driveway ended in a small garage; there was a gate at one side of it leading to a kind of narrow alley. Kells crossed the alley and walked north along a five-foot board fence for about a hundred feet. Then he climbed over the fence and went across a vacant, weed-grown lot towards the rear end of the building that housed Ansel’s.

  It was a three-story business block, dark and forbidding in the rain; no light came from the rear, and the side that Kells could see seemed entirely windowless. He remembered that at one time it had been a scenery warehouse.

  It was raining hard by now—he rolled his coat collar up, pulled the brim of his soft hat down.

  He slipped once in the mud, almost fell. In righting himself he remembered his wounded leg suddenly, sharply. It was throbbing steadily, swollen and hot with pain.


  He went close to the building. It was very dark there, but looking up he could see the vague outline of a fire escape against the yellow glow of the sky.

  He smiled to himself in the darkness, put the back of his hand against his forehead. It was hot, dry.

  He felt his way along the wall of the building until he was under the free-swinging end of the fire escape. It was almost four feet beyond his reach. He went back the way he had come, to the fence, went along it until, in the corner the fence made with a squat outbuilding, he found a fairly large packing case. He stood on it and found that it would hold his weight; he balanced it on his shoulder and carried it back into the shadow of the building.

  Standing on the box, he could just reach the end of the fire escape; he put his weight on it, slowly. It creaked a little, came slowly down.

  When the bottom step was resting on the packing case he crawled slowly, carefully up to the first landing. He lay on his side, held the free-swinging part so that it would come up noiselessly. Then he stood up.

  Two windows gave on the second landing. One was boarded up snugly, no light came through. Kells put his ear to it, could hear only a confused hum of voices. The other window had been painted black on the inside, but a long scratch ran diagonally across one of the four panes. He took off his hat, put his eye close to the scratch.

  He was looking into the office that ran almost the width of the building, was partitioned off from the big upstairs room by a wall of rough, unpainted pine boards.

  The first person he saw was a woman whom he had never seen before. She was sitting on a broad desk, talking to two men. One of the men was in ill-fitting dinner clothes, was unfamiliar—the other man turned as he watched; Kells recognized him as Lieutenant Reilly.

  Reilly was heavy, shapeless. A cast in one eye gave his bloated, florid face a shrewdly evil quality. He was holding a tall glass of beer in one hand; he lifted it, drank deeply.

  There were two large washtubs full of bottled beer and ice on the floor near the desk.

  Another woman, unfamiliar, in a bright orange evening gown, crossed Kells’ line of vision, stooped and took two bottles from one of the tubs, disappeared.

  Kells’ lips framed the word “Party.” He was grinning.

  Then he saw Ruth Perry. She was sitting on a dilapidated couch at one side of the room. She was swaying drunkenly back and forth, talking loudly to the man beside her. Kells put his ear to the pane but couldn’t quite make out the words.

  The man beside her was MacAlmon—MacAlmon who had seen Crotti killed, who had filed the charges against Kells and Granquist and Borg.

  Then the rough pine door in the middle of the far wall opened and two men came in. In the moment the door was open, Kells saw a swirl of people around one of the crap tables in the big gambling room. Then the door closed; Kells looked at the two men.

  One of them was a short-bodied, long-armed man whom Kells remembered vaguely from somewhere. His face was broad and bland and childlike.

  The other was Jack Rose.

  Kells slid the big automatic out of its holster.

  Rose’s long, tanned, good-looking face was cheerful; his thin red mouth was curved to a smile. He crossed the room, sat down beside Ruth Perry, and spoke across her to MacAlmon.

  Kells looked thoughtfully down at the three dark slippery flights beneath him. Looking down made him suddenly dizzy—he blinked, shook his head sharply, put one hand on the railing for support. He thought he was going to be sick for a moment but the feeling passed. He was very hot and the rain felt terribly cold on his head.

  Then he looked up again, at the door. There was a big planed two-by-four up and down its middle that could be swung sideways into two iron slots—one on each side of the door.

  As he watched, the woman and Reilly and the other man whom he had seen first took up their glasses, went out of the room. That left—as nearly as he could judge—six or seven people. Rose, Ruth Perry, MacAlmon, the short man who had come in with Rose, the woman in the orange dress; perhaps two or three more men or women whom he hadn’t seen.

  He looked at the crosspieces between the four panes of the window, felt their thickness with his fingers. Then he stood up and braced himself against the railing, released the safety on the automatic, put one foot against the crosspieces and pushed suddenly with all his weight. They gave way with a small splintering noise, glass tinkled on the floor.

  Kells stumbled on the lower part of the window frame, almost fell. He saved himself by grabbing the upper edge, but felt a long sharp splinter of glass sink into the flesh of his hand. He held the automatic low, put one foot slowly down to the floor, then the other.

  The woman in the orange dress looked as if she was going to scream, but the man beside her took her arm suddenly, roughly—she put her free hand up to her mouth, was silent.

  Rose had stood up; one hand was behind him. Kells jerked the automatic up in a savage gesture—Rose put his hands up slowly. Ruth Perry and MacAlmon were still sitting on the couch, and the short man was standing near them with his back to Kells, looking at Kells over his shoulder. The short man and MacAlmon put their hands up slowly.

  Kells went swiftly sideways to the door, swung the bar. A great deal of noise came through the wall from the outer room and it occurred to him that perhaps the crashing of the window hadn’t been heard outside.

  Ruth Perry was staring blearily at Kells. She said: “Shay—whatch ish all about?” MacAlmon put down one hand and put it over her mouth, said: “Shut up.” MacAlmon was dead white.

  Kells looked at the other man—the one he hadn’t seen before, the one with the woman in the orange dress. He, too, put his hands up, rather more rapidly than the others had.

  Someone pounded on the door, a voice shouted: “What’s the matter in there?” Kells looked at Rose.

  The automatic was rigid in his hand, focused squarely on Rose’s chest.

  Rose looked at the gun, swallowed.

  MacAlmon said: “Nothing….”

  Rose swallowed again. He smiled weakly, licked his lips. “We’re playing games.”

  There was laughter outside the door—a man’s laughter and a woman’s. The voice asked: “Post office?”

  The woman in the orange dress giggled. Then her eyes went back in her head and she slumped down softly to the floor.

  Ruth Perry pushed MacAlmon’s hand away, stood up. She swayed, stared drunkenly at Kells. She shook her head sharply, staggered forward, and said: “Well, I’m a dirty name—ish Gerry—good ol’ son of a bitch Gerry. Lesh have a drink.” She stooped over one of the tubs, almost fell.

  Kells was standing with his back to the door. His face was bloody and blood dripped from his cut left hand. He took a handkerchief out of his overcoat pocket, held it to his face.

  He said: “We’ll take a walk, Jakie.”

  Rose moved his shoulders a little, half nodded.

  Ruth Perry lost her balance, sprawled down on the floor. She sat up slowly and leaned against the wall.

  Kells was staring at Rose. His eyes were bright and cold and his mouth was curved upward at the corners, ever so little. He said: “Come here.”

  Rose came across the room slowly. When he was close enough, Kells put his left hand on his shoulder suddenly, spun him around, slid his hand down to jerk a small caliber automatic out of Rose’s hip pocket.

  Kells said: “We’re going out of here now. You’re going to walk a little ahead of me, on my right. If we have any trouble, or if any of these gentlemen”—he jerked his head toward MacAlmon and the short man and the other man—“forget to sit still, I’m going to let your insides out on the floor.”

  He swung the bar up straight, took the key out of the door. “Do you understand?”

  Rose nodded.

  Ruth Perry staggered clumsily to her feet. She had picked up an ice pick that was lying by one of the tubs; she waved it at Kells. She said: “Don’ go, Gerry—’s a swell party.” She weaved unsteadily towards him.

  K
ells dropped Rose’s gun into his left coat pocket, shifted his own gun to his left hand and shoved Ruth Perry away gently with his right.

  She ducked suddenly under his outstretched arm, straightened up and brought her right hand around in a long arc hard against his back. The ice pick went in deep between his shoulder blades.

  Kells stood very still for perhaps five seconds. Then he moved his head down slowly, looked at her.

  Rose half turned and Kells straightened the automatic suddenly, viciously against his side. Rose put his hands a little higher, slowly lowered his head.

  Ruth Perry was clinging to Kells with both arms. She had taken her hand away from the handle of the ice pick and her arms were around his waist, her face was pressed against his shoulder.

  He moved the fingers of his right hand up into her hair and jerked her head back. She opened her eyes and looked up into his face; she was pale, white-lipped. Then she opened her mouth and threw her head back against his hand and laughed.

  He smiled a little and took his hand from her hair, took his arm slowly from around her shoulder. He put his hand against her breast, pushed her gently away. She staggered back against the wall and slid slowly down to the floor. She lay there laughing, and there was no sound but the sound of her laughter and the low buzz of voices outside.

  Kells reached back with his right hand, pulled the ice pick halfway out. He swayed, leaned against the door a moment, jerked it the rest of the way out. It fell and stuck in the floor, the handle quivering.

  He straightened then, swung the door partly open, stuck the automatic in his big overcoat pocket and said: “Let’s go.”

  Rose put his hands down. He opened the door the rest of the way and went out of the room. Kells went out behind him, closed the door, and said: “Wait a second.”

  Rose half turned, looked down at Kells’ overcoat pocket. The muzzle of the automatic bulged the cloth.

  Kells watched Rose, locked the door quickly with his left hand. They started down the long room together; Rose a pace to the right, a pace ahead.

  There were perhaps thirty or thirty-five people—mostly men—in the room; most of them around the two crap tables, several at two small green-covered tables, drinking.