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

Someone had hold of Cellini Smith’s shoulders and was shaking him violently.

“Wake up! What’s the matter with you?”

Reluctantly, Cellini opened his eyes. For a full thirty seconds, he stared at the anxious face above him, trying to recognize the features. Then he remembered that they belonged to Tom Sprigley and he sat upright.

“Well, it’s about time,” Sprigley said. “Do you realize it’s after two o’clock?”

“What about it?”

“You’d better decide what to say to the cops.”

“I’m just deciding what to say to Miss Banks.” Cellini frowned. “What is this cops routine you’re giving out with?”

“Henry Fields killed himself last night and the cops are going around talking to everybody. You asked about Fields last night in front of me and Ivy Collins. What I want to know is whether we should mention it to the police?”

“It doesn’t make much difference, does it?”

“Probably not, Smith. They’ll just bother you with a lot of extra questions. That’s all.”

“In that case, let’s forget about it.”

Sprigley winked. “O.K. I’ll pass the good word on to Ivy.” He stopped by the door. “Do you think Fields might have killed himself because Ivy got out of hand? A fit of depression and that kind of stuff?”

“Could be.”

While Cellini shaved and showered he tried to decide what to do. The paramount fact was that there was no longer any money in it. His client was dead. And along with his death went the answers to a lot of questions.

Cellini stopped scrubbing. Perhaps there would be some money in this. In any event, it would be worth trying.

Fully clothed, Cellini stepped outside. The subdued voices and the sober faces of those who passed were familiar. He knew from experience that they had already heard of Henry Fields’ death. He stopped an orderly and was shown to the dining room where he was fed breakfast.

Someone said: “Did you hear—”

Cellini said: “I heard.”

After breakfast, he was led to a small projection room and shown a film depicting the perils of drink which gave a somewhat detailed picture of how the body’s various organs reacted to alcohol. When it was over, Miss Banks came in and led him out to the grounds.

“The next time,” said Cellini, “you want me to drink milk, you’ll have to bring the cow over and let me draw it myself.”

“It’s for your own good,” she replied. “You will stay out here till called for.”

This seemed to be the sunning hour, for most of the patients were outside, strolling about or sitting on garden furniture. At the far end, he recognized the bulky form of Detective-Sergeant Ira Haenigson, of Homicide, questioning somebody. Ivy Collins was talking to a middle-aged man encased in tweeds and Cellini walked over.

“Mr. Smith, I want you to meet Larry Coomb.” Hastily, she added: “My fiancé.”

Coomb pointed his sharp nose at Cellini like a bird dog and slapped a trouser leg with the gloves he carried. He did not offer to shake hands.

Cellini asked: “Hear about Henry Fields being dead?”

“Good riddance,” said Larry Coomb.

“Why, because he made a pass at Ivy?”

The nose seemed to leap up and the pair of gloves slapped Cellini across the mouth.

“I’m getting tired of all this,” said Cellini. “Very sick and very tired.” His left hand closed around Coomb’s throat and his other grabbed the gloves. “Now open your mouth.”

Coomb pawed the air and fell to one knee. As his mouth opened, Cellini stuffed the gloves between his teeth and then pushed him roughly aside.

Ivy Collins let out a slight giggle that turned into raucous laughter. Unable to speak, she pointed. Four of Howard’s henchmen were converging on him.

The attendants respectfully led Cellini into Howard’s office. The owner sat behind his desk, frowning.

“Mr. Smith, I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Why don’t you try penicillin?”

“The reason for your alcoholism, I would say, is that you’re a psychopathic inferior and the only way you can express yourself is by unleashing aggressive behavior.”

“It’s really nothing,” said Cellini modestly.

“I wouldn’t mind it if you weren’t a troublemaker. You’ve broken into my private office twice.”

“Once.”

“I know better,” snapped Howard.

“It was still once.”

“Last night one of my men walked by here and heard someone putting the receiver back on the telephone. When he entered, it was dark and the intruder got away. That’s why he was waiting for you the second time you returned. You have no business making phone calls or coming here without permission.”

“Go on.”

“Then you hit Freddy and he became sick all over my carpet. Today you attacked Mr. Coomb, a guest of Miss Collins.”

“It was a pleasure. Tell me, was this Coomb character here last night?”

“Yes, he came in late and stayed at the guest house but that is none of your concern. I’m trying to decide the treatment for you. I could give you the usual harmless medicines which create acute discomfort for the patient and tend to cause abstinence so that he won’t be subjected to the medicine again. But you’re too intelligent to be taken in with that sort of thing.”

“I certainly won’t take milk again.”

“You’ll take what we give you,” Howard said. “You’re in our care and we can be stem if necessary. We intend to cure you whether you like it or not.”

“All right,” said Cellini. “Let’s cut out the comedy. You know who I am, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then you know I’m a private operative?”

Howard nodded.

“Fine — so I’m not interested in getting cured of anything, but I am interested in Fields who was my client.”

Again, Howard nodded.

“Now that that’s understood, I want you to do a few things for me.”

“The police are already investigating Fields’ death.”

“I don’t get along too well with them,” Cellini said. “I want access to your files on Fields and also a list of the visitors Ivy Collins has had the last few days. Also, pass the word around to your staff and patients that they would do well to answer my questions.”

Howard tugged at an earlobe. “Surely, Mr. Smith. Is that all?”

“I’ll let you know if I want something else.”

“Good. Now suppose you go to your room and rest for a while.”

Cellini stared at him.

“You see, Mr. Smith, I’ve already been warned about this obsession of yours that you are a private detective. It seems that you are sicker than I thought.”

Cellini gripped his knees and tried to speak calmly. “There’s a man from Homicide outside called Haenigson. Call him in and ask him.”

“Very well.” Howard flipped a button and spoke a few words into the telephone. They sat silently, watching each other until Haenigson appeared.

Howard asked: “Is this man a private detective?”

Haenigson looked. “I never saw him before in my life,” he said blandly and left Cellini felt a curious tingle come over him. “I tell you I’m a private dick!”

“Yes, of course.” Howard pressed a buzzer on his desk. “You will please go to your quarters now and rest. You will find it more comfortable than a detention room.”

Several attendants filed into the office. The rage within Cellini burst out suddenly and violently. Blindly, he began hitting out on all sides. He still hit and struggled as the weight of five large men bore him to the floor and he was dragged out.

Stretched out on the bed, Cellini stared at the ceiling with a hard, expressionless face. He tried not to think, tried not to remember, tried only to concentrate on a black spot in the ceiling’s comer. He did not move when he heard the key turn in the lock and someone entered.