Paul Cain - The Paul Cain Omnibus

Beery raised his brows, said: “Crowd?”

“Uh-huh — crowd.”

Beery glanced around the room, back to Kells. “Since this joint was Fenner’s suggestion,” he said, “wouldn’t it be a swell time to move?”

Kells shook his head slowly. “What for? Any of ’em can find me if they want me — and they’ll all be wanting to before long. This is as good a spot as any...”

Granquist came in with coffee and toast on a small tray. Beery stood up, bowed, took the tray and sat down.

Kells said: “I’m going to turn on the heat, Shep — only this time I’m going to make it pay. It’s been for fun up to now — now it’s for dough.”

Borg was playing solitaire at the table. He looked up and said “Hooray,” dryly.

“The lady” — Kells inclined his head towards Granquist — “picked up all the stuff I lost at Crotti’s. Fenner thinks Crotti’s got his confession, but I’ve got it — and Fenner’s going to find out about that. So is Woodward, who ought to be willing to give his eye teeth — and the mayor’s eye teeth — for it as soon as he finds out what it is. He’s on his way up here now.”

Beery lighted a cigarette.

“They can both buy it,” Kells went on, “and for plenty.” He turned to Borg. “See if you can get Hanline at the Manhattan.”

Borg picked up the phone, dialed a number.

“You remember Hanline,” Kells said to Beery. “He’s Fenner’s secretary.” Beery nodded.

Borg mumbled into the phone and handed the phone to Kells after a moment.

Kells said: “Hello — Hanline?... Tell that boss of yours that I’ve got the stuff he’s dealing with Crotti about. Tell him that in the next two hours I’m going to sell it to the best offer... He’ll know what I mean... Tell him that the bidding starts at fifty grand, and that he’d better be goddamned quick...”

Kells hung up, grinned at Beery. “Now watch things happen,” he said.

Beery was looking at Granquist. “Where does Miss G get off if you peddle Fenner’s confession back to him? It’s the one thing that leaves her in the clear.”

Kells moved his grin to Granquist. “We’ve figured that out,” he said.

The phone rang and Borg answered it. “Send him up,” he said, and hung up. He said, “Faber,” over his shoulder, went to the door.

Granquist looked questioningly at Kells.

Kells shook his head. “Borg’s running mate,” he said. “I’ll give you twelve guesses where I’m going to send him.”

Faber came in, said hello to Kells and Beery, half nodded to Granquist, and sat down.

Kells said: “Drink?”

“Sure.”

Kells looked at Granquist and she got up and went into the kitchen, came back with a bottle and a glass and handed them to Faber. He poured himself a drink.

Kells said: “Fenner isn’t your boss any longer — how do you like that?”

Faber glanced at Borg. He tipped the glass to his mouth, took it down when it was empty, said: “I like that fine.”

“I want you to go to the Villa Dora out on Harper” — Kells looked up at Borg — “your car’s still here, isn’t it?”

Borg said: “Yeah.”

“Take the car,” Kells went on, “and hang on the front of that place until you see three big pigskin keesters go in and find out which apartment they go to. I don’t know who’ll have them, but there’ll be three — and they’ll probably come up in a closed Chrysler.”

Faber said: “Uh-huh.” He picked up the bottle and poured himself another drink. He looked at Beery, then at the rest of them quickly. “Anybody else?”

Beery nodded; Granquist went out and got another glass.

Kells said: “Call here pronto — but I mean pronto. Spot a phone, and call here the minute you connect. We’ll be over right away and pick you up.”

Faber nodded, drank. He put down his glass and stood up. “Villa Dora — that’s below Sunset Boulevard isn’t it?”

Beery said: “Yes — between Sunset and Fountain.”

Kells was looking out the window. “They’ll probably come in between two this afternoon and nine tonight. You’d better get something to eat before you go out.”

Faber said: “Okay.” He put on his hat and said, “So long,” and went out.

Beery smiled at Kells. “Are you going mysterious on me?”

“Those three cases are full of cocaine” — Kells was looking at Granquist — “according to my steer. A hundred and fifteen thousand dollars’ worth — and there’s a hundred and fifteen thousand dollars in cash waiting for them some place in the Villa Dora. It’s Crotti’s stuff, and I have a hunch Max Hesse is on the buying end. I don’t want the junk — I want the dough.”

Beery stood up. He said: “Gerry — you’re losing your mind. When you buck Crotti you’re bucking a machine. They’ll have a dozen guns trained on that deal — every angle figured—”

Granquist interrupted: “He’s right, Gerry — you can’t...”

“What do you think about it?” Kells was staring morosely at Borg.

Borg put a black ten on a red Jack. “It’d be a nice lick,” he said.

Kells put his leg down carefully, stood up. He held out his arm to Beery. “Give me a hand, Shep,” he said.

Beery helped him across the room.

When Kells came back, Borg said: “The Doc called. He says he’s sending over some crutches for you — an’ for you to keep off that leg.”

Beery helped Kells back to the big chair. He sat down and put his leg up on the other chair, muttered: “I don’t want any goddamned crutches.”

Then he turned his head to smile at Granquist. “Isn’t it about time you brought us all a drink, baby?”

Granquist got up and went into the kitchen.

Kells asked: “What time is it?”

Beery was standing beside Kells’ chair. He glanced at his watch, held it down for Kells to see: eleven-five.

At eleven-twenty, Woodward was announced. Granquist went into the bedroom and closed the door, and Borg let Woodward in.

Woodward’s eyes were excited behind wide-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses. He bowed nervously to Beery and Borg, sat down in the chair near Kells at Kells’ invitation.

“How would you like to buy the originals of all the dirt on Bellmann?” Kells began.

Woodward smiled faintly. “We’ve discussed that before Mister Kells,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s too late to do anything about it now — your Coast Guardian has published several of the pictures and the story...”

Kells said: “You can doctor the negatives and claim they’re forgeries — and I can give you additional information with which you can prove that the whole thing was a conspiracy to blackmail Bellmann.”

Woodward pursed his lips. He glanced at Beery, said: “Don’t you think we might discuss this alone, Mister Kells?”

Kells shook his head shortly.

“In addition to all that,” he went on “the pictures and the information — I can give you” — he paused, leaned forward slightly — “absolute proof that L.D. Fenner shot Bellmann.”

Woodward’s eyes widened a little. He leaned back in his chair and wet his lips, stared at Kells as if he wasn’t quite sure that he had heard correctly.

“L.D. Fenner killed Bellmann,” Kells repeated slowly. He took a crumpled piece of paper out of the breast pocket of his dressing gown, straightened it out and tossed it on Woodward’s lap.

Woodward picked it up and held it close to his face, put his hand up and adjusted his glasses. He put the paper back on the arm of Kells’ chair in a little while. He cleared his throat, said: “Who is Beery, who witnessed Fenner’s signature with you?”

Kells inclined his head towards Beery, who was sitting at the table watching Borg’s solitaire.