Paul Cain: The Paul Cain Omnibus

He looked at the crosspieces between the four panes of the window, felt their thickness with his fingers. Then he stood up and braced himself against the railing, released the safety on the automatic, put one foot against the crosspieces and pushed suddenly with all his weight. They gave way with a small splintering noise, glass tinkled on the floor.

Kells stumbled on the lower part of the window frame, almost fell. He saved himself by grabbing the upper edge, but felt a long sharp splinter of glass sink into the flesh of his hand. He held the automatic low, put one foot slowly down to the floor, then the other.

The woman in the orange dress looked as if she was going to scream, but the man beside her took her arm suddenly, roughly — she put her free hand up to her mouth, was silent.

Rose had stood up; one hand was behind him. Kells jerked the automatic up in a savage gesture — Rose put his hands up slowly. Ruth Perry and MacAlmon were still sitting on the couch, and the short man was standing near them with his back to Kells, looking at Kells over his shoulder. The short man and MacAlmon put their hands up slowly.

Kells went swiftly sideways to the door, swung the bar. A great deal of noise came through the wall from the outer room and it occurred to him that perhaps the crashing of the window hadn’t been heard outside.

Ruth Perry was staring blearily at Kells. She said: “Shay — whatch ish all about?” MacAlmon put down one hand and put it over her mouth, said: “Shut up.” MacAlmon was dead white.

Kells looked at the other man — the one he hadn’t seen before, the one with the woman in the orange dress. He, too, put his hands up, rather more rapidly than the others had.

Someone pounded on the door, a voice shouted: “What’s the matter in there?” Kells looked at Rose.

The automatic was rigid in his hand, focused squarely on Rose’s chest.

Rose looked at the gun, swallowed.

MacAlmon said: “Nothing...”

Rose swallowed again. He smiled weakly, licked his lips. “We’re playing games.”

There was laughter outside the door — a man’s laughter and a woman’s. The voice asked: “Post office?”

The woman in the orange dress giggled. Then her eyes went back in her head and she slumped down softly to the floor.

Ruth Perry pushed MacAlmon’s hand away, stood up. She swayed, stared drunkenly at Kells. She shook her head sharply, staggered forward, and said: “Well, I’m a dirty name — ish Gerry — good ol’ son of a bitch Gerry. Lesh have a drink.” She stooped over one of the tubs, almost fell.

Kells was standing with his back to the door. His face was bloody and blood dripped from his cut left hand. He took a handkerchief out of his overcoat pocket, held it to his face.

He said: “We’ll take a walk, Jakie.”

Rose moved his shoulders a little, half nodded.

Ruth Perry lost her balance, sprawled down on the floor. She sat up slowly and leaned against the wall.

Kells was staring at Rose. His eyes were bright and cold and his mouth was curved upward at the corners, ever so little. He said: “Come here.”

Rose came across the room slowly. When he was close enough, Kells put his left hand on his shoulder suddenly, spun him around, slid his hand down to jerk a small caliber automatic out of Rose’s hip pocket.

Kells said: “We’re going out of here now. You’re going to walk a little ahead of me, on my right. If we have any trouble, or if any of these gentlemen” — he jerked his head toward MacAlmon and the short man and the other man — “forget to sit still, I’m going to let your insides out on the floor.”

He swung the bar up straight, took the key out of the door. “Do you understand?”

Rose nodded.

Ruth Perry staggered clumsily to her feet. She had picked up an ice pick that was lying by one of the tubs; she waved it at Kells. She said: “Don’ go, Gerry — ’s a swell party.” She weaved unsteadily towards him.

Kells dropped Rose’s gun into his left coat pocket, shifted his own gun to his left hand and shoved Ruth Perry away gently with his right.

She ducked suddenly under his outstretched arm, straightened up and brought her right hand around in a long arc hard against his back. The ice pick went in deep between his shoulder blades.

Kells stood very still for perhaps five seconds. Then he moved his head down slowly, looked at her.

Rose half turned and Kells straightened the automatic suddenly, viciously against his side. Rose put his hands a little higher, slowly lowered his head.

Ruth Perry was clinging to Kells with both arms. She had taken her hand away from the handle of the ice pick and her arms were around his waist, her face was pressed against his shoulder.

He moved the fingers of his right hand up into her hair and jerked her head back. She opened her eyes and looked up into his face; she was pale, white-lipped. Then she opened her mouth and threw her head back against his hand and laughed.

He smiled a little and took his hand from her hair, took his arm slowly from around her shoulder. He put his hand against her breast, pushed her gently away. She staggered back against the wall and slid slowly down to the floor. She lay there laughing, and there was no sound but the sound of her laughter and the low buzz of voices outside.

Kells reached back with his right hand, pulled the ice pick halfway out. He swayed, leaned against the door a moment, jerked it the rest of the way out. It fell and stuck in the floor, the handle quivering.

He straightened then, swung the door partly open, stuck the automatic in his big overcoat pocket and said: “Let’s go.”

Rose put his hands down. He opened the door the rest of the way and went out of the room. Kells went out behind him, closed the door, and said: “Wait a second.”

Rose half turned, looked down at Kells’ overcoat pocket. The muzzle of the automatic bulged the cloth.

Kells watched Rose, locked the door quickly with his left hand. They started down the long room together; Rose a pace to the right, a pace ahead.

There were perhaps thirty or thirty-five people — mostly men — in the room; most of them around the two crap tables, several at two small green-covered tables, drinking.

The lighting was as Kells remembered it: Two powerful shaded globes over the big tables lighting all the rear end of the room. Toward the front of the room — the street — the light faded to partial darkness, black in the far corners.

Kells said, “Talk to me, Jakie,” out of the side of his mouth.

Rose turned his head and twisted his mouth to a terribly forced grin. His eyes were wide, frightened. “What’ll I talk about?”

Several people turned to look at them.

Kells said: “The weather — an’ walk faster.”

Then someone crashed against the locked door behind them. In the same moment Kells saw Reilly. He had risen from one of the smaller tables, was staring at Rose.

He said: “Jack — what the hell?...”

Then he looked at Kells, his hand dipped toward his hip.

Kells shot from his pocket — twice. Someone yelled.

Reilly put his two hands against the middle of his chest, slowly. He sat down on the edge of the table, slid slowly down as his knees buckled, fell backward half under the table.

Another gun roared and Kells felt the shoulder of his coat lift, tear; felt a hot stab in the muscle of his upper arm.

Rose was running towards the other end of the room, zigzagging a little, swiftly.

Kells started after him, stumbled, almost fell. He jerked the big automatic out of his pocket, swung it towards Rose. Then the door beyond Rose opened and someone came in. Kells couldn’t see who it was; he staggered on after Rose, stopped suddenly as Rose stopped.