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

“Which means that you knew him, too,” Cellini said. “You were blackmailing Fields, weren’t you?”

“A girl has to live.”

“But maybe Fields didn’t. Last night when I asked about Fields you showed your fangs because you thought I might be a detective.”

“Last night,” she said moodily, “I was afraid you’d queer the pitch. But I don’t give a hoot now. I’m going back to the runway.”

“What changed your mind?”

“You did, when you made him eat the gloves. You and your damned gloves!” she shouted at Larry Coomb. “Are you an Eskimo? You don’t need them around here. What do you always carry them for?”

“Ivy, please.” Coomb sounded distressed. “Forget little things like that. We want each other.”

“I want you like a hole in the head! We’re through. Do you understand? You’re not a man. I wouldn’t take you with a keg of caviar!”

“Let’s get back to you, Ivy,” Cellini said, “because I am a detective.”

“Oh I knew that. I can spot one in the last row of the balcony right in the middle of a show.” She winked. “But I still like you.”

“If you had me spotted then, why did you try to warn me off Fields last night?”

“What do you think?”

“Because,” replied Cellini, “you had Fields figured as an easy touch. You probably have some notes from him asking you to drop around to his room at night and you were ready to cash in.”

“You’re so understanding.”

The door suddenly burst open and Miss Banks appeared. Her hair was disheveled and her uniform had lost its immaculate appearance. She stood swaying gently from side to side and grinned. “Hullo.”

She was drunk, completely so, down to her very feet which seemed to beat on the floor in a slow dance.

Ivy Collins regarded Miss Banks with astonishment and said: “Well, well. If it isn’t Miss Prissy-Puss. How the mighty have fallen.”

“You’re beautiful,” said Miss Banks with feeling. “I only wish I could be more like you.”

She walked over to a table with a casual innocence that was very obvious. Suddenly she grabbed a handbag from the table, whirled and dashed out.

“Hey!” yelled Ivy. “That’s my purse. I got dough in it.”

Cellini said, “What the hell!” and ran into the corridor. Miss Banks was nowhere in sight. An elderly man walked by and he asked him: “Did you see Miss Banks?”

“Yes, and she stank from liquor — like you, sir. What you must remember is that alcohol is primarily a carbohydrate so—”

“Which way did she go?”

“I’m talking to you, young man. So you must prevent the excess carbohydrate from going to the brain by taking an injection of vitamin B-complex.”

Cellini gave up and raced down the hallway. He saw a half-open door leading down to the basement and he descended the steps two at a time. He found himself in the middle of trunks and boxes and a gas furnace. He saw a distant light and made for it.

It was a welcome sight. Here was a room where Howard kept his private stock — sealed bottles that had not yet been watered down for medicinal use in the pantry.

The walls were lined with wine bottles and cases of liquor and beer stood on the floor. Miss Banks sat on one of the cases by an open bottle of Scotch. She had Ivy’s purse open and she was covering her face with lipstick, rouge, powder and mascara. In her drunkenness, she was producing the effect of an Indian smeared with warpaint.

She waved to Cellini happily and continued the smearing. He pulled out a bottle of Scotch and pried it open with a knife. He drank long and deeply and put the bottle to his lips again. He sat on a case, watching her and when a third of the bottle was empty he went over to her and said: “You’re lousing it all up.”

He wiped her face clean with a handkerchief and began applying cosmetics. The result was no happier for he wasn’t any more sober than she.

They drank and he said: “A fine thing. A nurse getting drunk.”

“I’m not really a nurse. After I was cured I just stayed on to help as a sort of orderly. Kiss me.”

“I thought you weren’t interested in men.”

“I wasn’t. Howard cured me of a lot of things. Even of life until I learned better tonight.”

“What changed your mind?”

She trembled in recollection. “Did you see Fields dead in the bathroom? Did you see the knife in the poor man who was tied up? I couldn’t bear it.” She shuddered and threw one arm around his neck as the other reached for the bottle. She drank, then sighed happily.

Cellini tried to pull away but her arm tightened. He asked: “Did you ever before see the man who was knifed?”

“Often. He used to come to visit Howard. I’m going to live again. Why don’t you help me?”

Cellini considered it and decided not to help her live again. He pulled away and sat down on a case with his bottle. He sat there for five minutes. It had needed some good liquor to do it but now he was suddenly thinking with a beautiful clarity. He was beginning to see sense in everything.

He rose, gathered up an armful of bottles and lurched out

As Cellini Smith again reached the first-floor corridor he found himself facing Howard and Freddy.

“I knew I’d find you here, Smith,” Howard snapped. “I’m locking you up till the police get here. You’re under arrest.”

Freddy said: “Put up your hands, Smith.” There was a .38 automatic in his hands to lend persuasion to his words.

Cellini raised his hands and the bottles of Scotch crashed to the floor. The attendant began to step forward when Duck-Eye Ryan, attracted by the breaking glass, appeared in back of them.

It was the sort of situation that Duck-Eye understood, one of the few things to which he could react quickly. He bounded forward, his huge paw closed over the gun and twisted it from Freddy’s hands. Howard fled.

Duck-Eye beamed with self-pride. “Should I do something else, Cellini? I mean to this guy?”

“No.” Cellini remembered Freddy working over the helpless Mario. “No. I want to do it myself.” He leaned against the wall, sorry that he had had so much to drink. “O.K., Freddy. Let’s see how good you are with someone who’s not in a straitjacket.”

Cellini moved in to be jarred back by a blow on his chest. Freddy sensed his advantage and struck rapidly. Cellini could feel the blows but they did not hurt. They seemed almost pleasant, like the stinging effect of an after-shave lotion. He knew there was a cut over one eye and he could taste blood on his lips. He hit at the face in front of him but he met only air. Why had he drunk so much?

Duck-Eye circled in unbelieving horror as Freddy moved in for the kill. Cellini decided to stop hitting at the face. It was too small There was no percentage in it. He kept taking blows as he tried to remember how he could hurt Freddy most. Then it came to him. By now, the attendant was not concerned with defending himself and he stepped back for the finishing blow. Suddenly, Cellini ducked and lunged at his opponent’s groin.

There was an agonized scream from Freddy and he dropped. The blood tasted salty on Cellini’s lips. His mind’s eye saw Freddy hammering at the bound Mario. This was not enough punishment. He took careful aim and kicked Freddy’s jawbone. He heard a satisfying crack.

“Gee,” said Duck-Eye, “you look like a mess.”

Cellini felt happy and exhilarated. His face was still pleasantly numb and did not hurt. With the one eye that was not closed he gazed ruefully at the broken bottles. He needed more.

He pushed through the group of chattering and excited patients, who had gathered toward the end of the fight, and made his way down to the cellar again. Miss Banks was now lying on the floor where she had passed out. He gathered up another armful of bottles, stumbled out.