Brett Halliday - Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 27, No. 2 — September 1945)

Cellini wondered about the time and checked his watch. Just 12:30. It seemed to him that his drunk act had taken longer. He wondered, also, which way to go and finally decided to turn right. There were probably more rooms down that way since the attendants had taken, by actual count, exactly sixty-two steps after bringing him in. On a purely percentage basis, the odds were that Henry Fields was located somewhere deeper in the building. If, thought Cellini glumly, Fields was in the building at all.

Quietly, Cellini moved down the hallway, then suddenly flattened himself against the wall. A white shape was approaching from around a bend in the corridor. It was a young, severe-faced nurse wearing the uniform of her profession. Cellini’s mind raced to invent a story to explain his presence there for she could hardly miss seeing him.

Looking neither to right nor to left, the nurse swept by.

Cellini waited but she did not turn around. Something was wrong for he knew beyond a shadow of any doubt that she had seen him. Cellini didn’t like it. He would have preferred an argument. Perhaps she didn’t talk to strange men.

He continued on his way, passing several doors, and finally stopped in front of one showing a slit of light above the saddle. Henry Fields would certainly be awake and this would be as good a place as any to start. Without knocking, he entered.

It was a room similar to his own and sprawled on the bed, reading a mystery book, was a middle-aged, genial-faced man.

“Beg pardon,” said Cellini. “Wrong pew.”

The stranger sat up. “Come right in. Always glad to meet a fellow dipsomaniac. I’m Tom Sprigley.”

Cellini took the proffered hand and supplied his own name. He asked: “Do they let you stay up all night in this joint?”

“Only if they feel like it, Smith. Why?”

“They operate in a queer way around here.”

“You just don’t recognize that you’re in a classy place, my friend. There’s no such thing as a padded cell here. It’s called a detention room.”

“It’s still queer. A nurse just passed six inches from me in the hallway and she went right by without a word.”

“That’s Banks,” said Sprigley. “Miss Banks is the only woman between sixteen and sixty I’ve never wanted to kiss.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Cellini. “Isn’t she alive?”

“They don’t have to be alive for me. It’s only that she’s gone overboard on the Florence Nightingale stuff. I don’t want anybody to feel that sorry for me. I just want to drink.”

“How come she didn’t say anything to me?”

Sprigley laughed. “You were lucky. If you think she didn’t know you ought to be in bed you’re mistaken. They know pretty well everything that goes on.”

“You seem to have been here a long time. Are you a permanent guest?”

“On and off,” Sprigley replied. “Whenever I sober up and take a look at my wife, I run here to Howard’s. How about a few quick hands of pinochle?”

“Thanks but I’ve got no vices. I’m perfect.” Cellini waved a farewell.

“Come on, Smith,” Tom Sprigley coaxed. “I promise to lose.”

“Maybe later.” Cellini stepped into the corridor again and continued on his way. It was nearly one in the morning and Henry Fields still had to be found. He heard a rustle of linen behind him and turned to see Miss Banks.

This time she stopped and asked: “You’re new here, aren’t you?” The colorless voice matched her appearance.

“Yes.”

“Well, you’ll find it in the pantry down there.”

“What will I find there?”

“Liquor.” The word was spat out like a tainted oyster.

“I get it,” said Cellini. “The hair of the dog that bit me.”

The gray eyes, set in a face that could have been pretty, studied him. “No. It’s simply that we want you to realize your position while undergoing treatment. An alcoholic needs his drink to face reality. It’s a crutch.”

“That’s fine, Miss Banks. And you say I can find my liquid crutch in the pantry?”

“Yes. Down there.”

He had no choice but to go the way she indicated.

When Cellini Smith reached the pantry he found someone already there. It was a woman, crowding thirty, who was the complete antithesis of Miss Banks. The wise, somewhat shopworn though attractive face was over-painted and the figure was full-blown. Automatically, she mixed a drink from a bottle labeled Blended Whiskey and handed it to him.

“They cut it fifty per cent,” she said, “but that’s one better than forty-nine. Don’t they wear shoes where you come from?”

“What are shoes?” Cellini accepted the drink. “Thanks. Who are you?”

“Ivy Collins. They put cigarettes out on me. Do you think I’m better off dead?”

“Maybe. I couldn’t say.”

Ivy Collins opened the wrapper she wore and modeled the black negligee underneath.

“You’re better off this way,” said Cellini sincerely. “Who claims otherwise?”

“That Banks dame.” Moodily, Ivy stirred her drink. “I bet she even rides her broom sidesaddle.”

“Do you know someone called Henry Fields around here?”

“What’s it to you?” snapped Ivy Collins.

“Very little,” said Cellini, taken aback. “I heard he’s here and I happen to know him.”

“Oh. I thought you might be a detective on something.” She grinned and Cellini suddenly realized that she was as drunk as one can possibly be and still remain vertical.

“Would my being a detective be good or bad?”

“Bad. It would mean that Henry was trying to pin things on me with my boy-friend. If you get what I mean,” she finished lamely.

“And you like your boy-friend?” Cellini prompted.

“I can’t stand him. He ought to get together with Banks. He says that women who drink are the bane of humanity. That’s why he sends me here every few months.”

“Then how come he’s your boy-friend?”

“He loves me for what I am, not for what I drink. And I love him for his money. Sometimes I think it would be better to get back to the runway.”

The pantry door swung open and Tom Sprigley entered.

“Ah, so you’ve met our star boarder, Smith. I don’t blame you for ducking the pinochle.”

“I’m looking for someone called Henry Fields. Know him?”

“Good friend of mine, though I don’t usually go for the worrying kind”

Ivy finished mixing three more drinks and distributed the glasses. She raised hers for a toast.

“Here’s to the next one to die.”

Cellini said: “If he’s such a good friend, you might tell me where his room is.”

“Sixth door down the hall to the right.”

The ceiling light suddenly blinked off and on three times in rapid succession.

“Oh, oh,” said Ivy. “I guess they want us out of here.”

Cellini stopped by the doorway. “What did you mean about Henry Fields being the worrying kind?”

“He’s got troubles,” Sprigley replied, “and he never lets you forget them. But,” he added slyly, “why don’t you ask Ivy? She knows him much better than I do.”

The door to Henry Fields’ room was open and Cellini Smith eased himself inside and shut it behind him.

A voice said: “Drop your gun and raise your hands.”

“I haven’t got a gun, my hands are raised and my name is Cellini Smith.”

“You’re lying!” snapped the testy voice from the blackness of the room. “Cellini Smith was here yesterday. I’ll give you three seconds to get out before I shoot.”

Cellini looked at the weak shaft of moonlight forcing itself through the window. The odds on the owner of the voice missing him in that darkness were worth taking. Hoping that this room was identical with his, Cellini suddenly grabbed for the wall switch and simultaneously dropped to the floor.