Paul Cain: The Paul Cain Omnibus

“Gimme Michigan six one one one, sister. Uh-huh... Hello, Mike — this is Gus... Kells is out here — out at my house... Come on out an’ get him... Uh-huh.”

He hung up the receiver, stood up and went back to the chair and sat down.

“You been mixed up in damn near every killing we’ve had in the past week,” he said. “It looks to me like you been our Number One Gunman — not Crotti.”

Kells leaned forward slowly.

Larson said: “Sit still.”

Kells asked: “What do you think my chances are of getting to the Station on my feet?”

“Wha’ d’you mean?” Larson was blowing his nose.

“I mean they got Beery on the way in after he’d been pinched tonight. I mean your desk sergeant has tipped Rose that I’m out here by now — he’ll be here by the time your coppers are — will be waiting outside. They’ll take me in to a slab.”

Larson said: “Aw, don’t talk that way.” He squinted his eyes as if he was trying to remember something, then said proudly: “You got a prosecution complex, that’s what you got. A prosecution complex.”

Kells stood up.

Larson nodded his head emphatically at the chair, snapped: “Sit down.”

Kells said slowly: “I work pretty fast, Gus. I’ll bet you can shoot me through the heart an’ I’ll have my gun out an’ have a couple slugs in your belly before I hit the floor.” He smiled a little. “Let’s try it.”

Larson said, “Sit down,” loudly.

“I’ll bet you can’t even hit my heart — I’ll bet you’re a lousy shot.” Kells took a short step forward, balanced himself evenly on both feet.

Larson was white. His big mouth hung a little open.

Kells said: “Let’s go.” His hand went swiftly to his side.

Larson’s shoulders moved convulsively, his right hand went forward, up, with the revolver. At the same time he threw his head forward and down, fell forward out of the chair. The revolver clattered on the floor.

Kells was standing on the balls of his feet, an automatic held crosswise against his chest. He stared down at Larson and his eyes were wide, surprised.

He said, “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” under his breath.

Larson was on his hands and knees; his big shoulders and thick neck were pulled in tightly, rigidly.

Kells stooped and picked up the revolver, stuck it into his overcoat pocket. Then he laughed quietly, said: “Copper yellow. That’s the first time my reputation ever did me any good.”

He went to the door swiftly, turned once to glance hurriedly at Larson. Larson had risen to his knees. He did not look at Kells; he looked at the wall — he was breathing heavily.

Kells opened the door and went out and closed it behind him.

Fifty-eight said: “There it is.”

They were parked in the deep shadow between two street lights in the next block to the one Larson’s house was in. A big touring car had come up quietly, without lights, stopped across the street from Larson’s.

Kells didn’t say anything. He sat huddled in a corner of the cab and although the night was fairly warm he shivered a little.

After a few minutes another car swung around the corner, pulled up in front of Larson’s. Kells leaned forward and watched through the glass. Three men got out and went into the house. In a little while they came out; one of them went across the street and stood beside the car that had come up first, the others got into the other car and drove away.

Then the man got into the second car, its lights were switched on and it too drove away.

Kells said: “Give ’em enough room.”

Fifty-eight waited until the other car was more than halfway down the long block, then he let the clutch in slowly. Kells felt in his pockets until he found the tin box of aspirin tablets, took two. The other car turned left on Third Street. Fifty-eight stepped on it, swung into Third; there were two taillights about a block and a half ahead. He followed the faster one north on Rossmore, got close enough to see that he’d guessed right, fell back.

They turned west again on Beverly, to La Brea.

Kells was sitting sideways on the seat looking through the rear window. He leaned forward suddenly, spoke rapidly to Fifty-eight: “Keep that car in sight — an’ you’ll have to do it by yourself. I’ve got something else to watch. We’re being tailed.”

“Sure,” Fifty-eight said.

They turned off La Brea, west on Santa Monica Boulevard.

Then Kells was sure they were being followed. The car was a big blue or black coupé — shiny, powerful.

On Santa Monica, a little way beyond Gardner, Fifty-eight said over his shoulder: “They’re stopping.”

“Go on past ’em — slow.”

Kells squeezed back into the corner, saw four men get out of the touring car and start across the street. He thought one of them was Detective Lieutenant Reilly; wasn’t sure. He didn’t recognize any of the others.

Fifty-eight asked: “What’ll I do?”

“Go on — slow.” Kells took the automatic from its shoulder holster, balanced it across his hand. He watched the big coupé come up slowly.

It overtook them in the second block, stayed alongside.

Kells said: “Turn off right, at the next side street.” He was deep in the dark corner of the cab, watching the coupé narrowly. Then the driver of the coupé put up his hand and Kells saw that it was Borg. They turned together into the side street, drove up about a hundred yards to comparative darkness. Borg parked a little way ahead of the cab.

Kells got out and went up to the coupé. He said. “That’s the way people have accidents,” unpleasantly.

Borg was silent.

Granquist was sitting very low in the seat beside Borg. She straightened, said: “Your other driver spilled his guts an’ the tip went out on the joint we were at—”

Borg interrupted her: “That’s a swell invention, the radio. I don’t know what we would’ve done without it.”

“Then while we were getting out,” Granquist went on, “the call went out to the car in Larson’s neighborhood to go and pick you up — we got the address from that. Fat couldn’t find a car so we hired this one at a garage—”

“An’ damn near busted our necks getting to Larson’s,” Borg finished.

Kells asked: “Where did you pick me up?”

“We were turning off Third onto Gramercy when you turned into Third.” Borg lighted his stump of cigar. He bent his head towards Granquist. “Miss Eagle-eye here thought she spotted you in the cab — an’ I thought she was nuts. She wasn’t.”

“Did you know I was following another car?”

Granquist said: “Sure.”

“That was one of Rose’s cars.” Kells put one foot on the running board, leaned on the door. “It was planted across from Larson’s to smack me down when the cops brought me out.” He hesitated a moment. “That’s what happened to Shep when they were taking him in.”

Borg swallowed, started to speak: “They...” He was silent.

Granquist said: “Gerry — for God’s sake, get in and let’s get out of here.” Her voice was low, almost hoarse; she spoke very rapidly. “Please, Gerry, let’s go now — we can make the Border by three o’clock...”

“Sure. In a little while.” Kells was looking at the black and yellow sky.

It began to rain a little.

Borg said: “So what?”

“That car stopped at Ansel’s.” Kells jerked his head back towards Santa Monica Boulevard. “Ansel runs a crap game that’s backed by Rose — I’ve been there. It’s a pretty safe bet that Rose is there — that his carload of rods went back there to report to him.”

Borg said: “Uh-huh. So, what?”

Kells stared at Borg vacantly.” So I’m going up an’ tell Rose about Beery — about Beery’s wife.”