Paul Cain: The Paul Cain Omnibus

Kells put up one arm and leaned against the doorframe. He asked: “May I come in?”

She looked at him steadily for a moment, then she turned and went through the short hallway into the living room. He closed the door and followed her into the living room, sat down. She stood in the center of the room, staring at the wall, waiting.

Kells took off his hat and put it on the divan beside him. He said: “I’m sorry about Shep—”

“Sorry!” She turned her head towards him slowly. Her eyes were long upward-slanted slits. “Sorry! This is a hell of a time to be sorry!” She swayed a little forward.

Kells said: “Wait, Florence. Shep wouldn’t be in the can if he hadn’t come in with me. He wouldn’t be ten or twelve grand ahead, either. The dough hasn’t been so hard to take, has it?”

She stood staring at him with blank unseeing eyes, swaying a little. Then she sobbed and the sound was a dry, burnt rattle in her throat, took two steps towards him blindly. She spoke, and it was as if she was trying to scream — but her throat was too tight, her words were low, harsh, like coarse cloth tearing:

“God damn you! Don’t you know Shep is dead — dead!”

The word seemed to release some spring inside her — sight came to her eyes, swift motion to her body — she sprang at Kells, her clawed hands outstretched.

He half rose to meet her, caught one of her wrists, swung her down beside him. The nails of her free hand caught the flesh of his cheek, ripped downward. He threw his right arm around her shoulders, imprisoned her wrists in his two hands; then he took her wrists tightly in his right hand, pressed her head down on her breast with his left. She was panting sharply, raggedly. She gasped, “God! God!” over and over again. Then she relaxed suddenly, went limp against his arm — her shoulders went back and forth rhythmically, limply — she was sobbing and there was no sound except the sharp intake of breath.

Kells released her gradually, gently, stood up. He walked once to the other side of the room, back. His eyes were wide open and his mouth hung a little open, looked black against the green pallor of his face. He sank down beside her, put his arm again around her shoulders, spoke very quietly: “Florence. For the love of Mary! — when? — how?”

After a little while she whispered without raising her head: “When they were taking him to the Station — from a car — they don’t know who it was...”

Kells was staring over her shoulder at a flashing electric sign through the window. His eyes were glazed, cold — his mouth twitched a little. He sat like that a little while and then he took his arm from around her shoulders, picked up his hat and put it on, stood up. He stood looking down at her for perhaps a minute, motionlessly. Then he turned and went out of the room.

It was ten-fifty when the cab swung in to the curb in front of a bungalow on South Gramercy.

Fifty-eight turned around, said: “You’d better be wiping the blood off your face before you go in, Mister Kells.”

Kells mechanically put the fingers of his left hand up to his cheek, took them away wet, sticky. He took out a handkerchief and pressed it against his cheek, got out of the cab and went towards the dark house.

After he had rung the bell four or five times, a light was switched on upstairs, he heard someone coming down. The lower part of the house remained dark, but a light above him — in the ceiling of the porch — snapped on. He stood with his chin on his chest, his hat pulled down over his eyes, watching the bottom of the door.

It opened and Captain Larson’s voice said: “Come in,” out of the darkness. Kells went in.

The light on the porch snapped off, the light in the room was snapped on. The door was closed.

It was a rather large living room which, with the smaller dining room, ran across all the front of the house. The furniture was mostly Mission, mostly built-in. The wallpaper was bright, bad.

Larson stood with his back to the door in a nightshirt and big, fleece-lined slippers. He held a Colt .38 revolver steadily in his right hand. He said: “Take a chair.”

Kells sat down in the most comfortable-looking chair, leaned back. Larson pulled another chair around and sat down on its edge, facing Kells. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees — he held the revolver in his right hand hanging down between his legs, picked his nose violently with his other hand, and said: “What’s on your mind?”

Kells tipped his hat back a little and stared at Larson sleepily.

“You gave me a free bill this afternoon,” he said, “in exchange for some stuff that would have split your administration — your whole political outfit — wide open.” He paused, changed his position slightly. “Now you clamp down on me because somebody gets the dumb idea I had something to do with the Crotti kill. What’s the answer?”

“Crotti’s the answer.” Larson spat far and accurately into the fireplace, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He leaned back and crossed his legs and held the revolver loosely in his lap. “There’s a lot of water been under the bridge since I seen you this afternoon,” he went on. “In the first place I didn’t give you no free bill, as you call it — I told you that you and your gal would probably be wanted for questioning in connection with a lot of things. An’ I hinted that if you wasn’t around when question time came we wouldn’t look too far for you.” He took a crumpled handkerchief from the pocket of his nightshirt, blew his nose gustily. “Crotti’s something else again.”

Kells smiled slowly. “Crotti was your Number One Gangster,” he said. “If I had something to do with his killing I ought to be getting a medal for it — not a rap.”

A woman’s cracked querulous voice came down the stairs: “What is it, Gus?”

Larson spat again into the fireplace, looked at the stairs. “Nothin’. Go on back to bed.”

He turned back towards Kells and his big loose mouth split to a wide grin. “You’re way behind the times,” he said. “Crotti hooked up with my people this morning. They were tickled to death to get an organization like his behind them and they were plumb disappointed when you bumped him off. That’s one of the reasons there’s a tag out for you.”

Kells held his handkerchief to his bleeding cheek. He said: “What are the other reasons?”

“Jack Rose moved into Crotti’s place.”

Kells laughed soundlessly. “You’re kidding.”

“No.” Larson spun the revolver once around his big forefinger. “Rose made a deal with Crotti a couple days ago. When Crotti was shot this evening, Rose didn’t lose any time putting the pressure on my people and they didn’t lose any time putting it on me. You’re it.”

“But Rose is wanted for the O’Donnell—”

“Not any more.” Larson chuckled. “I told you you wasn’t keeping in touch with things. For one thing, L.D. Fenner shot himself about eight o’clock tonight. He was the only one there was to testify against Rose on the O’Donnell angle — so that’s out. And Rose says you killed O’Donnell — says he’ll swear to it, an’ he’s got another witness.”

Kells said wearily: “Is that all — I’m only wanted on two counts of murder?”

“That’s all for tonight. Matheson called me up a couple hours ago an’ said the Perry woman had phoned in, drunk, an’ said she wanted to repudiate her confession that Dave Perry killed Doc Haardt.” Larson grinned broadly, stood up. “Maybe we can tie you up to that in the morning.”

He took two sidewise steps to a small stand, picked up the telephone receiver with one hand, and squatted down until his mouth was near the transmitter. He held the revolver in his right hand, watched Kells closely while he spoke into the phone: