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

The sound had not come from Mario, however, but from Miss Banks who stood blocking the entrance. Roughly, Cellini pushed past her. This was the room. Mario still lay in the comer, the gag was still on his mouth — but there was a difference. Now, a knife was imbedded within his body.

It was an ordinary kitchen knife, no doubt sharp-pointed for it had made a clean cut through the tough cloth of the straitjacket. The blood-encrusted face seemed twisted in a mixture of fright and pain. He had probably seen his murderer come through the doorway and had watched as the knife was carefully plunged into him. He had seen it without being able to shout or to make any move to defend himself.

Cellini turned and faced Miss Banks. “Well, what about it? Is this another mercy killing?”

She had stopped moaning and he thought she might faint. Instead, she stared at the body for another moment, then turned and fled.

Duck-Eye asked: “Should I bring that goon back?”

“Let her go. I’ll catch up with her later.”

He saw a phone on a table and dialed Ira Haenigson’s home number. This was evidently another guest room, since the patients were not allowed such a convenience. No doubt Coomb was staying nearby — perhaps in this very room.

There was a growl on the other end of the receiver and Cellini said: “Get your fat rump over here.”

“What are you up to now, Smith?” demanded the detective-sergeant suspiciously.

“I’ve got a nice hunk of sirloin for you to look over. With a knife in it.”

“Knife?”

“Sure. Think of the fun you’ll have spreading powder over it and then finding out that the nasty killer heard about fingerprints and was wearing gloves to—”

There was an oath and the sound of the receiver being smashed down by Haenigson.

Duck-Eye said: “We got company, Cellini.”

He tuned to find Howard staring at the body. “That took a lot of courage, didn’t it?” he asked.

“Courage?” repeated Howard stupidly. He started for the phone.

“Don’t bother. I’ve already called Haenigson.”

“You have? That was very clever of you.”

“Not especially, Howard. Learning to dial a telephone is just a matter of coordination. Anybody can learn.”

“It was clever because it diverts suspicion from you. Smith,” he announced, “you may consider yourself under arrest.”

“I’ll be glad to consider it,” said Cellini amiably. “In the meantime I want a drink and I’m sick of that fuel oil you have in the pantry. Where’s your private stock?”

“I told you I have none. This is a horrible murder—”

“Save it for your memory book,” said Cellini and left.

Sprigley’s hand shook as he poured drinks for Cellini and Duck-Eye. He said: “We’ve got to do something about that poor man Howard and his thug were beating.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” Cellini snapped as he began pulling open drawers and cupboards.

Sprigley eyed him curiously. “That’s rather callous — or cowardly.”

“Maybe both.” Cellini found some cutlery, “Don’t they keep any larger knives around here?”

“How should I know? Frankly, I’m disappointed in you, Smith.”

“Where’s the kitchen?”

“Not far. The three of us should have gone in and stopped that beating.”

“If I remember right, Sprigley, you’re the one who ran first. Every attendant in the place is outside right now, curry-combing the grounds because they heard you. Howard would probably give your right arm to find out who watched him going over the guy.”

“I suppose so,” Sprigley admitted glumly. He drained his glass and shivered. “I have no stomach for that sort of thing.”

“Is it easy to get into the kitchen?” Cellini asked.

“Sure. I’ve raided it plenty of times. Why do you ask?”

“Because then it would be easy to get hold of a knife.”

“Smith, if you’re thinking of a knife to save that poor man from being beaten, you’re crazy. Howard’s a dangerous man and he’s got a lot of helpers.”

“Stop drooling. The guy will never be beaten again because he’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Murdered. A knife was stuck into him ten minutes ago.”

“Smith, you’re lying. I don’t know what your game is but I’m going to find out.” He hurried out, white-faced and distraught.

Duck-Eye said sadly: “You shouldn’t ought to let him to talk like that. Cellini, this stuff ain’t even fit for me to drink.”

“Then don’t drink it.”

“But that would be a waste,” said Duck-Eye, downing a glassful of the watered liquor.

Cellini remembered that Haenigson and his crew would be arriving soon. If any sense were to be made out of the whole thing it would have to be done now. He polished off a half tumbler of the watered whiskey and left as Duck-Eye began to beg him to return to the Kitty Klub for some decent liquor.

Ivy Collins yelled, “Scram,” to Cellini’s knock.

He entered. Ivy smiled at him from the depths of an easy chair and patted her lap in invitation. Her fiancé, who was sitting stiffly on an up-ended suitcase, made no move but his thin nostrils flared in apparent anger. He wore his hat, as if ready to leave.

Cellini sat down on the bed and asked: “May I come in?”

“Always,” she cooed.

“Thank you. Just go on with your discussion.”

“It’s finished.”

“It is not,” snapped Larry Coomb. “And you, Smith, get out of here. Incidentally, I’m going to sue you for assault.”

Cellini was beginning to feel the effects of the whiskey. “You must be tolerant and forgiving, Larry — or I’ll really assault you.”

“He wants me to go home with him,” Ivy explained. “Right now.”

“And you will!” Coomb’s hands trembled. “I’ve done everything I could for you, Ivy. I’ve brought you here to be cured of drinking that rotgut, I’ve given you everything you want, I—”

His fiancée observed: “Nuts.”

Cellini suddenly realized that Coomb was in love with her — deeply, desperately and hopelessly so. He began to feel sorry for him. “Why don’t you trade her in for a zither, Larry? She’s no good.”

“There!” exclaimed Ivy. “That’s what I’ve been telling him. He doesn’t understand me. The real no-good me.”

Coomb stood up. “This is all very crude and unpleasant. Ivy, get packed. I’m in a hurry.”

“You have plenty of time,” said Cellini, “because nobody’s leaving this nuthouse. There’s been another murder.”

Cellini could read nothing in the silence which greeted his announcement and he continued: “The first one, which you no doubt know about, was Henry Fields. The second was Mario, the former bartender at the Kitty Klub.”

Coomb said: “And if you don’t leave Ivy alone, the third one will be you.”

“That’s what I’m wondering about because I know you have a temper that might easily lead you to murder. You had good reason to kill Fields and you had ample opportunity.”

“Ivy, get packed!”

“I told you no one can leave till the cops get here. I can’t figure why, but you’re as crazy about Ivy as she is about whiskey. Maybe it’s the old sex appeal we read about. You knew that Fields made a play for her and you came here last night and stayed in a guest room without letting Ivy know.”

“That was because I arrived late.”

“Or because you wanted to catch the two of them. You might have visited Fields, had a fight — and you won. But what worries me is what your connection with Mario could have been.”

“Larry knew him,” Ivy Collins supplied, “because he used to come to the Kitty Klub to drag me out.”