Faber glanced at Borg, 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 'em, 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 to the donnaker, 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 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 his wide-rimmed tortoise-shell 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 which you can prove 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 Lee 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 weren't quite sure he had heard correctly.
“Lee 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, cleared his throat, said: “Who is Beery, who witnessed Fenner's signature with you?”
Kells inclined his head toward 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 very melodramatically. “All we need is the 'Old Homestead,' some papier-mache 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.
Kells said: “Hello.... Wait a minute—I want you to meet a friend of mine.”
He spoke to Woodward: “In case you're figuring this for a plant I want you to talk to this guy. You'd know Fenner's voice, wouldn't you?”
Woodward nodded. He took the phone from Kells, hesitantly said: “Hello.”
Kells reached over and took the phone back. He smiled at Woodward, said: “Hello, Lee... That was Mister Woodward, a big buyer from downtown... Uh huh ... Now don't get excited, Lee—we haven't made a deal yet... Why don't you come on over?... Yes—and bring plenty of cash—it starts at fifty grand... Okay, make it snappy.”
He hung up, stared vacantly at Woodward's tie.
“Now I'm not going to argue with you,” he said. “You heard what I told Fenner. You'd better get going—first here, first served.”
Woodward stood up. “I'll see what I can do,” he said. He put on his hat, nodded to Beery and Borg and started toward the door.
Kells said: “And don't get ideas. If you come back here with the law and try to hang a 'conspiracy to defeat justice' rap on me I'll swear that the whole god-damned thing is a lie—and so will my gentlemen friends.” He jerked his head at Beery and Borg.
Woodward had turned to listen. He nodded, turned again and went out and closed the door.
Kells said: “This is going to be a lot of fun even if it doesn't work.”
“You said something about being all washed up with the fun angle...” Beery got up and poured himself a drink. “You said something about being out for the dough.”
“Watch it work.” Kells leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
* * * * *
FENNER PUT THIRTY thousand-dollar notes on the arm of Kells' chair. Kells took the piece of crumpled paper out of his breast pocket and handed it to Fenner, and Fenner unfolded it and looked at it and then took a cigarette lighter out of his pocket and touched the flame to a corner of the paper.
Kells said: “Now get out of here while you're all together.” He said it very quietly.
They were alone in the room.
Fenner said: “What could I do, Gerry? I had to go to Crotti when you told me he had this.” He put the last charred corner of paper in an ash-tray. “It took me a couple of days to get to him—I was damned near crazy....”
&nbs
p; “Right.” Kells moved his head slowly up and down and his expression was not pleasant. “You were plenty crazy when you offered Crotti my scalp.”
Fenner stood up. He didn't say anything, just stood there looking out the window for a minute—then he turned and started toward the door.
“I'll give you a tip, Lee,” Kells' voice was low; he stared with hard cold eyes at Fenner. “Take it on the lam—quick.” Fenner opened his mouth and then he closed it, swallowed. He said: “Why—what do you mean?”
Kells didn't answer; he stared at Fenner coldly. Fenner stood there a little while and then he turned and went out. Borg and Granquist came out of the kitchen.
Kells said: “Thirty. I wonder if we'll do as well with Woodward. These guys don't seem to take me seriously when I talk about fifty thousand. Maybe it's the depression.”
At a few minutes after one, Woodward telephoned. The crutches that Janis had called about had been delivered and Kells was practising walking with them. He put them down, sat down at the table and took the phone from Borg. He said, “Hello,” and then listened with an occasional affirmative grunt. After a minute or so he said,' “All right—make it fast,” hung up.
He grinned at Granquist. “Twenty more. Up to now it's been a swell day's work. If we get it....”
Borg said: “Do you mind letting me in on how the hell you're going to sell this thing to Woodward when you've already sold it to Fenner?”
Kells took two more pieces of creased crumpled paper from his pocket, tossed them on the table in front of Borg.
Borg looked at the two, smiled slowly. “How about making them up in gross lots?” he said.
Kells inclined his head toward Granquist. “The baby's work. She used to be in the business—she went over to the Lido early this morning and snagged the letterheads.”
Granquist was sitting in the big chair by the window. Kells picked up the two pieces of paper and put them back in his pocket, got up and hobbled over to her, sat down on the arm of the chair.
“You're awfully quiet, baby,” he said. “What's the matter?”
She looked up at him—and her eyes were frightened.
“I want to go—I want us to go,” she said huskily. “Something awful's going to happen....”
Kells put his arm around her head, pulled it close against his chest.
“If we get the twenty from Woodward,” he said very quietly—“and the big stuff from Crotti, it'll make almost two hundred grand—”
“We've got enough,” she broke in. “Let's go, Gerry— please.”
He sat without moving or speaking for a little while, staring out the window at the brightness of the sun. Then he got up and went back to the table and took up the phone and asked the operator to get him the Sante Fe ticket office.
When the connection had been made, he said: “I want to make reservations on the Chief, tomorrow evening—a drawing room—two....”
Granquist had turned. She said: “Tonight, Gerry.”
Kells smiled at her a little. He shook his head and said: “Yes... Kells, Miramar Apartments in Hollywood—send them out.”
Then he hung up and reached across the table for the bottle and glasses, poured drinks. He raised his glass.
“Here's to Crime—and the Chief tomorrow night.”
There was a knock at the outer door and Granquist went into the bedroom; Borg got up and let Woodward in.
Woodward was very nervous. He put two neat sheafs of thousand- and five-hundred-dollar notes on the table, said: “There you are, sir.”
Kells tossed one of the forged confessions across the table and slid one of the thousand-dollar notes out of the sheaf, examined it carefully.
Woodward said: “And the other things—the pictures and things?...”
“They're downtown. I'll call Beery to turn them over to you—at the Hayward.”
Woodward nodded. He went over to the window and adjusted his glasses, peered closely at the paper. He turned to say something and then there was a sharp sound and glass tinkled on the floor. Woodward stood with his mouth open a little while, then his legs buckled under him slowly and he fell down and stretched one arm out and took hold the bottom of one of the drapes. He rolled his head once, back and forth, and his glasses came off and stuck out at an angle from the side of his head. His eyes were open, staring.
Chapter Seven
KELLS SAID: “Well....”
Borg was half standing. He moved his arm and very deliberately put the cards down on the table, then straightened, moved toward Woodward's body.
Kells said: “Don't go near the window.”
Granquist came into the bedroom door and stood with one hand up to her face, staring at Woodward.
Borg said: “It must have been from that joint.” He pointed through the window to the tall apartment house halfway down the block.
Kells said gently: “Bring me my clothes.” Granquist didn't move, stood staring at Woodward blankly. Kells stood up. He said: “Bring me my clothes.” Borg went swiftly to the bedroom door, past Granquist into the bedroom, coming back almost immediately with a tangled mass of clothes under his arm. He held a short blunt revolver in one hand down straight at his side.
Granquist went to a chair against one wall and picked up her coat and put it on. She went to the table and stood with both hands on the table, leaning forward a little.
Kells sat down and took his clothes from Borg, one piece at a time, put them on. The phone rang.
Kells picked it up, said: “Hello.... Shep—we're shoving off. Woodward's just been shot—through the window, from the roof of the place next door.... Uh hum. Maybe some of Crotti's boys tailed Fenner—your guess is as good as mine.... Call me in a half-hour at the Ambassador. If I'm not there I'll be in jail—or on a slab.... Hell! No. Let 'em find him.... 'Bye.”
He hung up, finished dressing rapidly, got up and limped to one side of the big window and pulled the cord that closed the drapes. Woodward's hand was clenched on the bottom of one of the drapes and it moved a little as the drape closed. The paper had fallen, lay a little way from his other hand.
Kells stood looking down at Woodward a minute, then went to the table and picked up the two thin stacks of money, put them in his pocket.
Borg had gone back into the bedroom. He came into the doorway and he had put on his shirt and coat, he went to a mirror near the outer door and carefully put on his hat. Granquist picked up the crutches. Kells shook his head, said: “My leg feels swell.” They went out into the corridor.
There was a man standing near the elevators but he paid no attention to them, entered one of the elevators while they were still halfway down the hall.
They waited a minute or so, got into the same elevator when it came back up. It was automatic—Kells pushed the sub-basement button. He said: “Maybe...?”
Borg watched the sixth floor go by through the little wire-glass window. “The basement is as good a hunch as any,” he said. “There's a garage with a driveway out onto Cherokee. Maybe we can promote a car—or if we can get down to Highland, to the cab stand....”
“Why didn't you call a cab?” Granquist was leaning back in a corner of the elevator.
Kells looked at her vacantly, as if he had not heard. “Maybe this is a lot of apcray,” he said—“maybe we're a cinch. But if that was Crotti”—he gestured with his head up toward the apartment—“he'll have a dozen beads on the place.” The elevator stopped and they went into a dark corridor, down to a door to the garage. There was a tall man with a very small mustache asleep in a big car near the archway that led out into Cherokee. He woke up when Borg stepped on the running board.
Borg asked: “How're chances of renting a car?” The man rubbed his eyes, climbed out and stood between Kells and Borg. He said: “Sure. I got a Buick an' I got a Chrysler.”
“Are either of them closed?” Kells leaned on Granquist's shoulder, winked at Borg meaninglessly. The man said: “Yeah—the Buick.”
He went toward a Car five down the
line from the one he had been sleeping in.
Kells said: “That'll do. How much deposit do you want?”
“You want a driver?”
“No.” Borg opened one rear door of the car and helped Granquist in.
The man said: “No deposit if you live here. It's two an' a quarter an hour.”
“Maybe we'll be out all night—you'd better take this.” Kells gave the man two bills, got in through the front door carefully. He put his leg out straight under the dashboard.
Borg went around to the other side and squeezed in behind the wheel. He pressed the starter and the man reached in and pulled the choke and the engine roared; Borg scowled at the man and pushed the choke back in. They swung in a wide circle out through the archway into the sunlight.
Kells turned and spoke sharply to Granquist: “Lie down on the seat.”
She muttered something unintelligible and lay down on her side across the back seat.
They turned swiftly down Cherokee and a spurt of name came out of a parked, close curtained limousine to meet them, lead thudded, bit into the side of the car. Borg stepped on the throttle, they plunged forward, past.
Kells looked back at Granquist. She was lying with her eyes tightly closed and her face was very white. He put one arm back toward her and she rose suddenly to her knees, put her hands on his shoulder.
He smiled. “We're all right, baby,” he said softly. “They build these cars in Detroit—that's machine-gun country.”
Borg was crouched over the wheel. He spoke out of the side of his mouth: “Are they coming?”
Kells was looking back, shook his head. “They're turning around—they were parked the wrong way.” Granquist slid back to the seat.
They turned west on Yucca to Highland, jogged up Highland to Franklin, turned west on Franklin. They stopped between Sycamore and La Brea a little while and watched through the glass oval in the back of the car; the limousine had evidently been lost.
Borg got out and looked at the side of the car.
“It must have jammed,” he said. “Four little holes, and a nick on one of the headlights. One of 'em missed the carburetor by about an inch—that was a break.”
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