Paul Cain: The Paul Cain Omnibus

Borg said, “Cinch,” out of the darkness.

Kells’ gun roared and almost simultaneously another roared, flashed yellow out of the darkness near the door.

Rose’s hands were together high in the air. He spun as though suspended by his hands from the ceiling, fell down to his knees, bent slowly forward.

Kells went to him swiftly and put the muzzle of the automatic against the back of his head and fired three times., “Compliments of Flo Beery,” he grunted, and straightened and watched Rose topple forward, crush his dead face against the floor.

He turned to look towards the rear of the room, and in that instant the two big lights went out, and it was entirely black.

Borg’s voice whispered beside him: “Oh, boy! Did I have a swell hunch when I turned off the lights in the little room outside — they could pick us off going out if I hadn’t.”

Borg led him to the door and they went across the little room in the darkness. Kells stumbled over something soft — Borg said: “I had to sap the doorman — he wasn’t going to let me in.”

Borg swung the heavy outer door wide and they went through to the stairs.

About halfway down, Kells put his hand out suddenly and groped for the banister — his body pivoted slowly on one foot, crashed against the wall. He slid to his knees, still holding the banister tightly.

Borg put his hands under Kells’ arms, locked them on his chest and tried to lift him.

Kells muttered something that sounded like, “Wait — minute,” coughed.

Borg pried his hand off the banister and half dragged, half carried him the rest of the way downstairs.

It was raining very hard.

Kells straightened suddenly, pushed Borg away, and said: “I’m all right” Then he leaned against the building and coughed, and the cough was a harsh, tearing sound deep inside him. He stood there coughing terribly until Borg dragged him away, shoved him into the car that had come swiftly up to the curb.

Granquist was at the wheel. She said, “Well — hell...” sarcastically, as if she had been wanting to say that, thinking about saying that for a long time.

Kells’ head sagged to her shoulder. There was blood on his mouth and his eyes were closed.

Borg climbed in behind him, closed the door.

Granquist threw her arms around Kells suddenly and pressed his head close against her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, stricken; her lower lip was caught between her teeth — she almost screamed: “Gerry — darling — for God’s sake, say something!”

Borg was looking back through the side window at the dark archway that led to the stairs.

He said: “Let’s get going.”

Kells raised his head and opened his eyes. He waved an arm in the general direction of the car across the street — the car they had followed from Larson’s.

Borg said: “We ain’t got time to jim it up — besides, they got a flock of cars.” He reached in front of Kells, shook Granquist, shouted: “Let’s go!”

She looked up blankly, then she mechanically took her left arm from around Kells and grasped the wheel. She let the clutch in and the big coupé slid away from the curb.

“Duck down Gardner.” Borg snapped on the dashlight, pulled Kells’ overcoat and suit coat off his shoulder, ripped his shirt open and looked at the wound on the outer muscle of his left arm. “Just a crease,” he said. Then he glanced through the rear window and went on: “Turn right, here — no — the next one. This one’s full of holes.”

Granquist was bent over the wheel, staring intently through the dripping windshield. She jerked her head at Kells and asked: “Why’s he coughing blood?” She spoke in a small, harsh, breathless voice.

Borg shrugged, went on examining Kells.

He glanced again through the rear window, said: “Here they come — give it everything.”

They swung around a corner and the car leaped ahead, the engine throbbed, thundered. When Borg looked back again the headlights that marked the pursuing car were almost three blocks behind them.

He had bent Kells forward, was examining his back. He said: “God! He’s bleeding like a stuck pig from a little hole in his back. Wha’ d’ya suppose done that?”

Kells straightened suddenly, sat up, struggled into his coat. He looked at Granquist, smiled faintly and put up one hand and rubbed it down over his face. He said: “I guess I passed out — where we going?”

“Doctor’s.”

Kells said: “Don’t be silly. We’re going north — fast.” He started coughing again, took out a handkerchief and held it to his mouth.

Borg said slowly: “I thought south — I guess I’m a lousy guesser.”

“I told the cab driver who turned us in north — they’ll probably figure us for south — the Border.” Kells spoke hoarsely, with a curious halting lisp. He leaned forward and began coughing again.

Granquist swung the car right, around another corner.

Borg was looking back. After a couple of blocks, he said: “I think we’ve lost ’em.”

Kells sat up again as Granquist turned east on Sunset Boulevard. He said: “The other way, baby — the other way.”

“We’re going to a doctor’s.” She was almost crying.

Kells put his two hands forward and pulled the emergency brake back hard. The car skidded, turned half around, stopped.

Kells said, “Drive, Fat,” wearily. He looked down at Granquist and went on patiently: “Listen. We’ve got one chance in a hundred of getting away. Every police car and highway patrol in the county is looking for us by now...”

Borg had opened the door, jumped out. He ran around the car and opened the other door and climbed in. Granquist and Kells moved over to make room for him.

Then, before Borg could close the door, a car bore down on them on Borg’s side — a car without lights. Yellow-orange flame spurted from its side as it swerved sharply to avoid hitting them — Borg sank slowly forward over the wheel, sank slowly sideways, fell out the door into the street. The car was going too fast to stop suddenly — it went on towards the next corner, slowing. Flame spurted from its rear window; the windshield shattered and showered Kells and Granquist with glass.

Kells moved very swiftly. He crawled across Granquist, slammed the door shut, had flipped off the emergency and was headed west, in a second, before the other car had turned around. He shifted to high, pressed the throttle to the floor.

Granquist was slumped low in the seat.

Kells glanced at her, asked: “You all right, baby?”

“Uh-huh.” She pressed close against him.

They went out Sunset at around seventy miles an hour, went on through Beverly Hills, out Beverly Boulevard. At the ocean they turned north. The road was being repaired for a half-mile or so; Kells slowed to forty.

Granquist had been watching through the rear window, had seen no sign of the other car. She was close against Kells, her arm around his shoulders. Her eyes were wide, excited.

She kept saying: “Maybe we’ll make it, darling — maybe we’ll make it.”

Kells started coughing again — Granquist held the wheel while he leaned against the door, coughed terribly, as if his lungs were being torn apart.

Rain swept in through the broken windshield.

Kells took the wheel again, said in a choked whisper: “I’ll get a doctor in Ventura — if we get through.” He stepped on the throttle until the needle of the speedometer quivered around seventy again.

There were very few cars on the road.

A little way beyond Topanga Canyon, Kells threw the car out of gear, jerked on the brake.

He said: “I guess you’d better drive...”

Granquist helped him slide over in the seat, crawled across him to the wheel — they started again.