The Paul Cain Omnibus

by Cain, Paul

  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 spoke into it, smiled at Woodward, and 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 cravat.

  “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 towards 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 goddamned 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, then 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 ashtray. “It took me a couple days to get to him—I was damned near crazy….”

  “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 towards the door.

  “I’ll give you a tip, L.D.,” Kells’ voice was low, and 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 practicing 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,” and hung up.

  He grinned at Granquist. “Twenty more,” he said. “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 towards Granquist. “The lady’s work,” he said. “She used to be in the business—she went over to the Venice 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.

  “God! 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.”

  Granquist got up and came to the table and picked up one of the glasses. She said, “Hey, hey,” and smiled across the table at Kells.

  There was a knock at the outer door and Granquist went into the bedroom, and Borg got up and let Woodward in.

  Woodward was very nervous. He put two neat sheafs of thousandand 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 Howard Hotel.”

  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 of 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.

  Kells said: “Well….”

  Borg was half-standing. He moved his arm and very deliberately put the cards down on the table. Then he straightened and moved toward Woodward’s body.

  Kells said: “Don’t go near the window, sap.”

  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 stood up. “Bring me my clothes,” he said.

  Granquist didn’t move. She stood staring at Woodward blankly. “

  Bring me my clothes,” Kells said gently.

  Borg went swiftly to the bedroom door, past Granquist into the bedroom. He came 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 st
ood 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-huh. And he paid off with marked bills, so there’s probably someone waiting outside to make a pinch… Maybe some of Crotti’s boys tailed Fenner—your guess is as good as mine…. Call me in a half hour at the Lancaster. 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. He 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 for a minute, then he went to the table and picked up the two thin stacks of money and put them in his pocket. Granquist said, “My God, Gerry—don’t take them if they’re marked.”

  He glanced at her and smiled with one side of his mouth. “Let’s go,” he said.

  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 put on his hat.

  Granquist stooped and 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 wired-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 hadn’t heard.

  “Maybe this is a lot of hooey,” 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 meaningly.

  The man said: “Yeah—the Buick.”

  He went towards 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 flame came out of a 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 towards 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 machinegun 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.”

  Kells said: “Let’s go over and see how Faber is making out.”

  Kells was leaning back in his seat. “So they’re finally getting around to machineguns….” He straightened and glanced back at Granquist. “Now we know it’s Crotti. Maybe….”

  She nodded. “I think I remember that black car,” she said. “It’s one he’s been using out of Long Beach.”

  “Let’s go over and see how Faber is making out,” Kells said.

  Borg climbed back into the car and they went on up Franklin to La Brea and down La Brea to Fountain. At the corner of Fountain and Harper they parked under a big pepper tree.

  Kells turned around and spoke to Granquist: “You take this car—you can drive it, can’t you?—and go down to the Lancaster and wait for us.” He reached into his pocket, fished out a key. “Go up to my room and pack all the stuff that isn’t already packed. Call up the Santa Fe and tell ’em to send the reservations there. If we get everything cleaned up tonight, we’ll drive down to San Bernardino and lay low tomorrow and get the Chief out of there tomorrow night.”

  Kells and Borg got out of the car, and Granquist climbed over into the front seat. She said, “Be careful,” without looking at Kells, and there was something resigned and a little bitter in the way she said it. She shifted gears and let the clutch in a little way and the car moved ahead.

  Kells said: “Beery’ll be calling in a little while. Tell him to come up to the hotel as soon as he can.”

  Granquist nodded without turning and the car moved ahead swiftly.

  Kells and Borg crossed to the west side of Harper and walked slowly up towards Sunset Boulevard. Kells’ limp was pronounced.

  Borg asked: “How is it?” He ducked his head towards Kells’ leg.

  “All right.”

  They went slowly and without speaking up Harper, and a little way below the Villa Dora, Faber stuck his head out of Borg’s car. They went over to it and Kells got into the tonneau and sat down; Borg stood outside, leaned on the front door.

  Faber said: “Nothing yet.”

  Kells sat for several minutes staring absently at a long scratch on the back of the front seat. Then he said: “Let’s go in and see what we can find.” He leaned forward.

  Faber lifted the flap of the right side pocket, slipped a black Luger out onto the seat beside him. He turned and looked at Kells and nodded at the gun. Kells said, “Yes,” absently, and reached over and took the gun and stuck it into the waistband of his trousers, pulled the points of his vest down over it.

  “We’re going in to try to find a hundred and fifteen grand in cash,” he said. “I don’t know who’s got it—we’ll have
to try the mailboxes and see if we can get a lead.”

  Borg said: “We probably won’t.”

  Kells opened the door and started to get out.

  “Why don’t you wait here and I’ll see if I can find anything?” Borg took a light-colored cigar out of his outer breast pocket and bit off the end.

  Kells looked at him a moment sleepily, nodded, and sat down.

  Borg went up the street and disappeared into the Villa Dora. He was back in a few minutes with a soiled envelope on which he had scrawled the names of all the occupants.

  Kells took it, looked at it, and asked: “Are you sure this is all?”

  “Yeah.” Borg nodded. “It’s a big joint, but I guess the apartments are big too—there are only twelve mailboxes.”

  Kells studied the names. Then he said: “MacAlmon—that’s Bellmann’s silksock ward heeler. I thought he lived in Beverly Hills.” He stared at the envelope. “That’d be a tricky piece of business—if MacAlmon was go-between on the white stuff. I can figure his tie-up with Max Hesse—if Hesse is really the buyer—but how the hell would Crotti get to him?”

  Faber looked interested at the mention of Crotti’s name. He said: “Maybe this would be more fun for me if I knew what it was all about.”

  Borg said: “Crotti’s delivering a load of C, and the hundred and fifteen we want to locate is what somebody up there”—he jerked his head towards the apartment house—“has got to pay for it with.”

  “Oh.” Faber turned to Kells. “Count me out—I don’t want any part of Crotti.”

  Kells smiled slowly. He said: “Okay.”

  Faber started to get out of the car and then he looked at Kells’ hands; Kells had slipped the Luger out of his waistband, was holding it loosely on his lap.

  Borg said: “Aw for God’s sake, cut it out.” He looked from Kells to Faber.

  Kells was smiling faintly at Faber. He said very seriously: “Your cut is ten grand. You’ve got one coming now—an’ you can have it, but you’ll have to stick around until this is over.” He put his hand into his pocket and slid out a roll of bills, pulled one off and held it towards Faber.

  Faber looked at it a little while, then he grinned sourly, said: “Well—if I’ve got to stay I might as well work.” He took the bill, folded it carefully and put it into his watch pocket. “Deal me in—ten grand’ll buy a lot of flowers.”