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

“There’s no reason for us to be unfriendly,” Howard continued. “I’d like to part with you on better terms and I do wish you’d eat some of that food because you must be hungry.”

“Stop cueing me like a ham actor, Howard, because we haven’t come to the parting of the ways yet. I’m sticking around to nail you for the killing. As for your food—”

Cellini picked up a bowl of soup and hurled it against the wall. He picked up the salad dish and threw it at the barred window. “That’s what I’ll do. I’ll nail you whether you’re guilty or innocent!”

Hurriedly, Howard left. Methodically, with extreme precision, Cellini picked up each dish and threw it with all his strength. “Psychopathic inferior,” he said and hurled the coffee. “Social lubricant... euthanasia... occupational therapy...” When the tea-cart was bare, he stood motionless, calming himself. Then he walked out, feeling a little better.

It was nearing eight P.M. when he again stepped into the corridor and headed for the pantry.

Tom Sprigley and Larry Coomb were there but they were not drinking.

Sprigley welcomed Cellini with a wink and said: “This milkhead was trying to find out where you were hiding. He says he wants to break your dirty neck.”

“Is there a phone in that guest room of yours,” asked Cellini.

Coomb mustered what dignity he could and said: “You stay away from her. This is a final warning.”

“Have you got an Ameche in your room?” Cellini repeated.

“Do you hear me?” Coomb was again slapping his thighs nervously with his gloves. “Stay away from her.”

“Damn it!” shouted Cellini. “Is there a phone in your room?”

“Yes, there is, but I’m warning you that I’ll kill you if you don’t stay away from Miss Collins. I intend to marry her.”

Miss Banks entered. “Gentlemen, please.” Slowly, she looked at each of the men. Her pale, unattractive face seemed to be under a strain. “Please be quiet. There is group singing going on in the social room. If you wish to join them—”

“I don’t wish to join anybody,” snapped Cellini. “I just want to find out who killed Henry Fields and get out of here!”

“Killed?” repeated the nurse.

“That’s right. Perhaps a mercy killing. As for you, Coomb, your motive might have been jealousy.”

“Take it easy,” said Sprigley. “Maybe you are a detective but you had a chance to do it yourself, you know.”

“How do you know I’m a detective?”

“Howard told me. Why?”

“Did you tell Ivy?”

“Yes, I told her this afternoon. I even told her not to mention to the police your asking about Fields last night. You seem mighty ungrateful—”

He stopped. From some place in front of the building they could hear hoarse shouts. There was something familiar about one of the voices and Cellini headed for the noise.

It was a strange scene that met his eyes when he reached the entrance. The mammoth figure of Duck-Eye Ryan stood just inside the doorway. Three white-jacketed men were trying to get at him without meeting the huge fist that lashed out like a piston. Duck-Eye’s left arm was wrapped around the neck of Mario, the bartender of the Kitty Klub.

As Duck-Eye sighted Cellini, he delivered a yelp of pleasure, dropped Mario to the floor and said, “Gee,” three times.

Cellini dodged his friend’s embrace and bent over Mario.

“When do you have your night off at the Klub?” he asked. “It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”

Mario stood up slowly and began to rub his neck.

Howard’s patients began to crowd out of the social room and one of them announced triumphantly: “I always said whiskey was a stimulant and not a depressant.”

Howard himself appeared and demanded the cause of the commotion. An attendant pointed to Duck-Eye and replied: “That guy barged in here dragging the other one. He’s like a bull and there’s no stopping him.”

“All right,” nodded Howard. “Will everybody please clear this place?”

Cellini turned to Mario again. “It is Thursday, isn’t it?” He thought Mario nodded and said: “Does the Klub send out invitations to people to come around and visit the joint?”

Howard indicated Mario. “Bring him into my office.”

A look of sheer terror crossed the bartender’s face. He suddenly shouted, “You’ll never get me,” and dashed out through the door.

Howard snapped, “Go after him,” and walked away.

“That’s fine,” said Cellini Smith. “You’re glad to see me. Now tell me how you got here.”

Duck-Eye Ryan rubbed his round, unblinking eyes which were misty with pleasure and replied: “When I woke up at that joint you wasn’t there and they said you was home. You wasn’t.”

“Then what?”

“I went back tonight and asked again from that bar jockey and he told me.”

“Well, why did you drag him here?”

Duck-Eye rubbed his knuckles. “He wouldn’t tell at first so I shoved him around. When he gave in I didn’t know if he was leveling so I brought him along.”

Cellini scratched at his chin. That still didn’t explain Mario’s terror of Howard.

Duck-Eye said: “Gee it’s good to see you. What about a drink?”

Cellini began to lead the way toward the pantry when Tom Sprigley appeared at the doorway. He had a finger to his lips and he beckoned them to follow him outside into the grounds.

They went after him. It was a cool night, with a slight drizzle and their feet made no sound on the sodden ground. They followed as Sprigley walked around the large building, hugging the walls to minimize the danger of being seen by those inside.

As they reached a wing in the far end of the building, Sprigley waved them down. Carefully, they closed in and stopped in front of a lighted window. The drapes were partly open and they could see inside.

As they looked, they saw three men. Mario sat on the floor wedged in the right angle of one of the room’s corners. As they watched, Freddy kicked him in the stomach. Mario did not cry out because a gag bound his mouth and he did not hit back because his arms were stretched across his chest, inside a straitjacket. On a bed, smoking a cigarette, sat Howard taking in the scene.

Freddy’s foot moved again, this time catching the victim in the ribs. Through the partly-open window, Cellini could hear the thud of the kick. Freddy paused, as if waiting for some sign from Mario, then moved in again. He seemed quite bored as his fists and feet lashed out at ten-second intervals.

Within the space of a minute, the helpless bartender’s face became a red jelly, his body a mass of flesh throbbing with pain. The blows fell, the blood ran. Mario’s head seemed to nod.

Sprigley shivered. “God, I can’t watch that any more!” he cried. “I’m getting out of here. I need a drink.” Rapidly, he walked away.

Inside the room, Freddy and Howard froze as they heard the voice. Then one of them leaped for the wall switch and darkness flooded the room.

Cellini and Duck-Eye began to make their way back, but it was too late. Attendants were beginning to scour the grounds for them.

Cellini Smith and Duck-Eye Ryan turned and raced the other way. There was a yell as they were sighted. A man suddenly appeared in front of them but Duck-Eye charged ahead as if he were a bulldozer and the man a weed. They were around in the rear of the building now. They sighted another door and made for it.

It was open and they were inside again, inside where they were relatively safe, for Howard could not be sure who had watched him working on the bartender.

They paused as Cellini attempted to orient himself, trying to remember where the room had been. They heard a moan, which gradually became louder and more strident, and they made toward the sound. It was probably Mario who had succeeded in working himself free of the gag.