The Paul Cain Omnibus

by Cain, Paul

  Someone squatted beside him, spoke: “How d’ you feel?” It was Borg. Kells could see the vague, thick outline of his head and shoulders.

  Kells said: “Terrible. Where the hell’s my coat?”

  “God! Me saving his life and he wants his coat!” Borg giggled softly.

  “What happened?”

  “Everything.” Borg sighed, sat down in the gravel with his mouth close to Kells’ ear. “After you and the navigator went ashore, I went on the wharf and laid down for a while. Then, in a couple minutes, somebody came out and I thought it was you till I seen there was four of them. I ducked behind some ropes and stuff that was laying there, and they came out and saw our boat and jawed awhile in some spick language. Then they lit out for some place and I got up and tailed them and run into the navigator.”

  There was the sound of a shot suddenly, some place below and to Kells’ left, muffled.

  Borg said: “That’s him now—what a boy!”

  Kells sat up.

  Borg went on: “He was carrying on about smelling trouble up at some kind of barn, and he wanted a gun. I wouldn’t give him mine, so he said he was going back to the boat and bust open a locker or something where he thought there was one. He—”

  There was another shot.

  Kells said: “What the hell’s that all about?” He jerked his head towards the sound, immediately wished he hadn’t.

  “That’s him—he’s all right. Wait’ll I tell you…” Borg shifted his position a little, went on: “I went on up the path and I’ll be damned if that navigator didn’t catch up with me, and he had the dirtiestlooking shotgun I ever saw. When we got to the house, he said, ‘You go in the front way and I’ll go in the back,’ so I waited for him to get around to the back—and about that time, there was two shots inside.”

  Kells rolled over on his stomach. Borg twisted around, lay beside him.

  “I went in and you were doing a cartwheel downstairs with three or four guys on your neck. There was another guy there, and he made a pass at me and I shot him right between the eyes….”

  Borg leaned close to Kells, tapped his own head between the eyes with a stubby forefinger. Kells said: “Hurry up.”

  “God, I’m hurrying. They were tearing hell out of you and I was trying to pick one of ’em off when the navigator came in the back way and started waving that shotgun around. He yelled so much that they had to see him. Then another guy came out on the balcony and I took a shot at him, but I guess I missed—he ducked back into the upstairs room.”

  Borg sighed, shook his head. There was another shot below, then two more, close together.

  “Well—I got off to one side to give the navigator a chance,” Borg went on, “but he had a better idea—he came over on my side and we jockeyed around till I could get a hold of you, and then we backed out the front—me dragging you, and the navigator telling the boys what a swell lot of hash they’d make if he let go with that meat grinder. When we got outside, I drug you a little to one side—”

  Kells interrupted: “Didn’t I have my coat?”

  “Hell, no! You were lucky to have pants the way those guys were working you over…. We tried to carry you between us but we couldn’t make any headway that way—it was so dark and foggy we kept falling down. So the navigator fanned tail for the boat, and I drug you through a lot of brush and we got up here after a while. A half a dozen more guys went by on the way to the house—the island’s lousy with ’em. If it hadn’t been for the fog….”

  Kells asked: “Bernie’s at the boat, now?”

  “Sure—and a swell spot. The fog’s not quite so heavy down there and he can pick ’em off as soon as they show at the head of the wharf. Only I thought he’d shove off before this….”

  “He’s waiting for us, sap.” Kells rose to his knees.

  “Oh yeah? Maybe you can figure out a way for us to get there.”

  Kells asked: “Which direction should the side of the cove be?”

  “I haven’t the slightest.”

  Kells got shakily to his feet, rubbed his head, then started down a shale bank to his left. He said: “Come on—we’ll have to take a chance.”

  Borg got up and they went down the bank to a shallow draw. An occasional shot sounded on the far side of a low ridge to their right. The fog wasn’t quite so thick at the bottom of the draw; they went on, came out in a little while onto a narrow beach. There was a jagged spit of rock running out across the sand from one side of the draw. The fog was thinning.

  They waited for the next shot; then Kells, calculating direction from the sound, said, “Come on”—they ran out along the rocks to the edge of the water.

  Kells kicked off his shoes, waded in; Borg followed. The fog was heavy over the water—they swam blindly in the direction Kells figured the Comet to be. After a little while, the end of the wharf took form ahead, a bit to the right. They circled towards it, came up to the bow of the big cruiser. They swam around the cruiser, under the wharf and up to the Comet’s stern.

  Kells grabbed the gunwale, pulled himself up a little way and called to Bernie. Bernie was crouched in the forward end of the cockpit behind the raised forward deck. He whirled and swung the gun towards Kells, and then he grinned broadly, put down the gun, crawled over and helped Kells climb aboard. He muttered, “Good huntin’,” went back and picked up the gun; Kells helped Borg.

  Borg was winded; he lay at full length on the deck, gasping for breath. Kells started towards Bernie, and then his bad leg gave way, he fell down, crawled the rest of the way.

  He said: “Get the engine started—I’ll take that for a minute.”

  Bernie gave him the gun and a handful of shells, went down to the engine. Kells called to Borg, told him to work his way to the after line, cut it. There was a shot at the head of the wharf, a piece of wood was torn from the edge of the cowling, fell in splinters.

  Borg rolled over slowly, got to his knees. He was still panting. He looked reproachfully at Kells, fumbled in his pocket and took out a small jackknife, started worming his way aft.

  The engine went over with a roar.

  There was an answering roar of shots from the shore.

  Bernie came galloping up to the wheel. Kells glanced back at Borg, saw him sawing at the stern line; he took a bead on the bow line, pulled the trigger. The line frayed; Kells aimed again, gave it the other barrel.

  Bernie said: “That’s enough—I can part it now….” He slid the clutch in, threw the wheel over.

  Kells was hastily reloading. He glanced back at Borg, saw the stern line fall, saw Borg sink down exhausted, so flat that he was safe.

  The bow line snapped. They skidded in a fast shallow arc toward the head of the wharf. There was a rattle of gunfire. Kells pushed the shotgun across the cowling, sighted. Two puffs of smoke grew over an overturned dinghy on the beach; he swung the barrel towards the smoke, pulled the trigger.

  Then they straightened out, headed through the mouth of the cove towards the open sea. Bernie kicked the throttle. A few desultory shots popped behind them.

  Kells put down the gun, sat down on the deck and rolled up his wet trouser leg. The leg wasn’t very nice to look at—Doc Janis’s dressing was hanging by a thin strip of adhesive. Kells called Borg.

  Borg got up slowly. He came forward, squatted beside Kells.

  Bernie yelled: “There’s some peroxide and stuff in the for’d locker on the port side—I busted it open.”

  Borg went into the cabin.

  Kells fished in his trouser pockets, brought out a wad of wet bills and some silver, spread it out on the deck beside him. There was a thousand-dollar note and the eight hundreds which Brand’s friend had paid off with after the fights. There was another wad of fifties, hundreds, and smaller bills. Fenner’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar check, Brand’s for a thousand, and around eight thousand in cash had been in the coat. And Fenner’s confession.

  Kells looked up; Bernie was looking at him, grinned.

  “Wet as usual,”
he said. “You better take off your clothes an’ get in a bunk.”

  Kells said: “Step on it. I’ve got to call up a friend of mine.”

  He picked up several of the wet bills, folded them, put a halfdollar inside the fold to give them weight, slid them across the deck to Bernie.

  “That ought to cover damages on the boat, too,” he said.

  Borg came out of the cabin with an armful of absorbent cotton and adhesive and peroxide.

  Kells picked up some more bills, rolled them into a ball and shoved them into Borg’s free hand, said: “Try to buy yourself a yacht with that….”

  He counted what was left.

  Borg poured peroxide on the leg.

  Kells said: “I came out here with two grand.” He shoved the bills into a heap. There was a little pile of silver left. He counted it with his finger.

  “Now I’ve got two—and seventy cents.” He picked up the silver, held it in his palm, smiled at Borg.

  “Velvet.”

  Bernie shouted: “God! I hope I remember the way back!”

  Kells said; “Don’t let that worry you.” He stared forward into the fog.

  The Heat

  When Gerry Kells refused to join a racket, he was framed for murder, robbed, and shot up; so he decided to turn around and collect.

  There was a small zebra galloping up and down the footboard. He was striped red, white, and blue, like a barber pole; his ears were tasseled, flopped back and forth awkwardly. Then he faded into a bright mist; the room tipped over to darkness. Kells yelled….

  Then it was raining again outside. Gray….

  After a while, Kells opened his eyes and looked up at Borg, said: “Hello, baby,” softly.

  Borg giggled. He said: “Don’t be sentimental.”

  Doc Janis came over and stared bleakly down over Borg’s shoulder. He said: “By God! I never saw such a tough egg.”

  Kells blinked at him, closed his eyes. He heard Janis talking to Borg as if from a great distance: “Give him all the whiskey he wants, but no more of this. Understand?”

  Kells wondered idly what this was. He mumbled, “Gimme drink a water,” and fell asleep.

  When he awoke he lay with his eyes closed listening to rain beat against the windows. He lay like that a long time, without moving, and the past weeks slid into a long strip of motion picture film through his mind, before his closed eyes.

  There had been Rose—Jack Rose, ambitious to rule the western underworld. That had been the beginning. All Kells had wanted was to be left alone—he had come to Los Angeles to get away from action. But his reputation had come with him, and when he had turned down Rose’s offer of partnership, Rose had framed him for murder, because Rose thought he was planning to muscle in.

  He had beaten that all right and whipsawed Rose. Now Rose was wanted for murder and was gone.

  And Fenner—Fenner, the little boss of the “out” administration. Fenner’s foot had slipped too. He had overplayed his hand, had shot and killed Bellmann, his political enemy, and Kells had scared him into signing a confession and had held it over his head and had taken over his organization.

  Kells had had fun for a little while. They had wanted to give him action—he gave them action. He and Shep Beery, the reporter; and Borg, who had been Fenner’s bodyguard; and Granquist, the girl from Kansas City. They’d had a swell time juggling the city, playing everything three ways from the Jack.

  Granquist! Granquist had turned out to be the slip-up. She’d been Crotti’s agent all the time—Crotti, the Big Boy, head of the biggest crime ring in the country. She’d taken Kells for a swell buggy-ride. She’d waited until he got everything whipped into shape, and then she’d gone to Crotti, and Kells, not knowing that, had followed her.

  Well, Crotti had propositioned him and he’d turned Crotti down. And he’d lost his coat in the fight at Crotti’s place on China Point. He’d lost his coat with a lot of cash and Fenner’s certified check for twenty-five thousand, and, most importantly, Fenner’s confession.

  And he’d lost Granquist. That was a break—she’d not have a chance to doublecross him again, anyway. Everyone else had tried it and lost, but she’d succeeded.

  Everybody wanted his scalp now—everybody except the ones he’d put out of commission in one way or another.

  And his wounded leg…. He moved it carefully and held his teeth together.

  He said, “What time is it?” opened his eyes.

  Borg and Shep Beery were playing cards on a table in the center of the room. Beery said: “That’s twice I’ve ruined my hand waiting for three-hundred pinochle.” He got up and came over to the bed, grinned down at Kells.

  “What do you care—you’re not going any place.”

  Kells looked past Beery at Borg, looked around the room. He said: “What the hell is this?”

  Borg was shuffling the cards. There was a bridge lamp beside the table and the light fell squarely on his fat, pale face. He shook his head sadly without looking up.

  “Slug-nutty.”

  Beery sat down on the edge of the bed. He whispered confidentially: “This is the Palace, Gerry—you’re the Prince of Wales….”

  “I’m Mary, Queen of Scots.” Borg looked up, smiled complacently.

  Kells closed his eyes. “Give me a drink,” he said.

  Beery reached over and took a tumbler, a big bottle from a stand beside the bed, poured a drink. Kells sat up slowly, carefully.

  Beery handed him the glass. “You’ve been out like a light for a few days. We didn’t figure the hotel was a good spot right now so we moved you over here. It’s the Miramar, on Franklin.”

  Kells held the glass with both shaking hands, tipped it, drank deeply.

  Borg got up, came over and leaned on the foot of the bed. “Where do you remember to?” he asked.

  Kells handed the empty glass to Beery, lay down. “When we got back from the island, I phoned Fenner—and had Bernie get a bottle….”

  “Four bottles…. And you sucked up three of ’em. I had to practically clip you to get a swallow. You said your leg hurt, and you wanted to get drunk….”

  Kells said: “Sure, I remember….”

  “You did.”

  Beery chuckled. “Uh-huh,” he said. “You did.”

  “Then when we got you into the hotel,” Borg went on, “an’ into bed, you started having the screaming heebies, and the Doc give you a shot in the arm—so you got worse….” Kells smiled faintly. His eyes were closed.

  “The Doc was running around in circles wringing his hands because he thought the leg was going to gangrene or something. You started roaring for more M, and then when I left you alone for a minute you got up and found a tube of Hyoscine someplace, and a needle….” Borg paused, straightened up, and finished disgustedly: “And I’ll be goddamned if you didn’t shoot the whole bloody tube!”

  Beery said: “Then you began to get really violent—tried to do a hundred an’ eight out the window, wanted to walk across the ceiling—things like that. We smuggled you out of the hotel and brought you over here.”

  Kells said: “Give me a drink, Shep.”

  He sat up again slowly, took the glass.

  “How many days?”

  Beery said: “Four.”

  Kells drank, laughed.

  “Four bottles—four days…. Four’s my lucky number.” He squinted at Borg. “Once I bet four yards on a four-to-one shot in a fourth race on the Fourth of July….” He handed the glass to Beery, sank back on the pillow. “My horse came in fourth.”

  Borg snorted, turned and went into the bathroom. Kells looked around the room again. “Nice joint,” he said. “How much am I paying for it?”

  “I don’t know.” Beery lighted a cigarette. “Fenner has some kind of lien or mortgage or something on the building—he said he’d take care of the details.”

  “It was his suggestion—bringing me here?”

  Beery nodded.

  “Where is he?”

  “Long gone. Whe
n you told him that Crotti had his confession of the Bellmann kill, he scrammed. I got him on the phone just before he checked out of the Manhattan and he said he’d call over here and fix it for the apartment—said he’d get in touch with you later.”

  Kells smiled. “All the big boys…. It’s simply a process of elimination. Fenner and Rose gone—Bellmann dead. Now if we can only angle Crotti into committing suicide….” He paused, glanced at Borg coming back into the room. “Did Fat, here, tell you all about the island sequence?”

  Borg said: “Sure I told him—all I knew.”

  “Crotti propositioned me to come in with him on a big play to organize the whole Coast,” Kells went on. “Will you please tell me why these bastards keep dealing me in, and then figure that if I’m not for ’em I’m against ’em? First Rose—but that was an out-and-out frame; then Fenner thought he and I’d make a great team. Now, Crotti—and the funny part of that one is I think he was on the square about wanting me with him.”

  Beery said: “It must be the way you wear your clothes.”

  “Sure. It’s just your natural charm.” Borg made a wry face, went back to the table and began laying out solitaire.

  “Of course Crotti’s got the right idea about organization.” Kells rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “But the fun in an organization is being head man.”

  Beery said: “The other night at Fenner’s, when you were putting on that act for his sidekick Gowdy, you said you had some friends on the way out here. Was that a gag?”

  “Certainly. I wanted to impress Gowdy with my importance to his outfit. You can get my friends in the East into a telephone booth.”

  “Well, if Crotti says war”—Beery got up and went over to one of the rain-swept windows—“we’re sitting pretty….”

  “Uh-huh.” Borg looked up at Kells. “In a pig’s eye. We three, an’ whatever strong-arm strength Gowdy swings—and that doesn’t amount to a hell of a lot….”

  “And against us….” Beery turned from the window, stuck his hands deep in his pockets. “There’s all Crotti’s mob—and that’s supposed to be the best in the country. There’s Rose, with his syndicate behind him, and all the loogans he’s imported from back East. There’s the Bellmann outfit—they weren’t very efficient when they blew up the print shop the other day, but you can’t figure from that—”