Paul Cain - The Paul Cain Omnibus

Pedro only waited, looked at the floor.

The door opened and the slight, white-haired man came in.

Pedro said: “What time did Nick go out tonight?”

The slight man looked at Nick bewilderedly. He cleared his throat, said: “Nick went out right after Charley went home. He said there wasn’t any business anyway, an’ he wanted to go to a picture show, an’ would I take the door for a while. He came back some time around nine.”

Pedro said: “All right — go on back downstairs.”

The slight man gestured with one hand. “You seen me on the door when you went out right after we heard about Charley,” he said. “Wasn’t it all right for me to be on the door?”

“Sure.” Pedro was looking at Nick. “Sure — only I thought Nick was down in the basement or something — I didn’t know he’d gone out.”

The slight man shrugged and went out and closed the door.

Shane said evenly: “Nick had a hunch that Charley was going to Thelma’s. He didn’t follow Charley, but he jumped in a cab, probably, and went to her place. He didn’t find Charley — but he found Del Corey.”

Lorain Rigas put her hands down and looked up at Shane. Her face was drawn, white.

“That’s what Del went there for,” Shane went on — “expecting to find Charley. Del’s been making a big play for Thelma — an’ he knew about Charley and her — was cockeyed an’ burnt up an’ aimed to rub Charley.” Shane was watching Nick narrowly. “Thelma must’ve calmed Del down — Nick found them there...” Shane turned his eyes towards Lorain Rigas. “... And caved in Del’s head.”

Lorain Rigas stood up, screamed.

Pedro crossed to her swiftly, put one hand over her mouth, the other on her back, pushed her back down on the couch gently.

Shane said: “Then Nick beat the hell out of Thelma, made her admit that Charley had been in the woodpile, too, damn near killed her.”

He was looking at Nick again.

“He dragged what was left of her into the bathroom and poured some iodine on her mouth, an’ put the candlestick that he’d smacked Del with in her hands so it would look like she’d killed Del an’ then committed suicide.”

Nick turned to stare at Shane vacantly.

Shane was puffing out great clouds of blue gray smoke, seemed to be enjoying himself hugely.

“She wasn’t quite dead, though,” he went on. He glanced at his watch. “The law ought to be over there by now — getting her testimony.”

Pedro said: “Hurry up.”

Shane shrugged. “Nick took the gun that Del got from Jack Kenny, jumped up to Charley’s. He knew he was in a good spot to let Charley have it because Charley and I had that argument tonight — an’ it’d look like me — or he could make it look like me. Charley evidently stopped some place on the way home — Nick got there first and either stuck Charley up in the corridor and took him into the apartment to kill him, or sneaked in — the door was unlocked — and waited in the dark. Then he went out the back way — the way Charley came in — and came back down here.”

Pedro went to the door, turned to Shane, said: “You and the lady go.”

Shane gestured towards the Eastman man. “What about him?”

“We’ll fix him up — give him some money. It is too bad.” Pedro smiled, opened the door.

Shane looked at Nick. Nick’s face was pasty, yellow, still wore the silly, faraway expression.

Lorain Rigas stood up and took up her hat and went to Shane.

They went together to the door, out into the hallway. Pedro leaned over the balustrade, called down to the little man at the outside door: “Okay.”

Shane and the girl went downstairs, past the doors of the dark and empty barroom, down to the street floor.

The slight, white-haired man and the dealer were whispering together. The slight man opened the door for them, said: “Good night — come again.”

They went out and got into the cab.

Shane said: “Valmouth.”

It had stopped raining for the moment, but the streets were still black and glistening and slippery.

He tossed the cigar out through the narrow space of open window, leaned back, said: “Am I a swell dick? — or am I a swell dick?”

Lorain Rigas didn’t answer. Her elbow was on the armrest, her chin in her hand. She stared out the window blankly.

“You’re not very appreciative.” Shane smiled to himself, was silent a little while.

The light held them up at Fifth Avenue. Theater traffic was heavy in spite of the weather.

Shane said: “The only thing I’m not quite sure about is whether you went to Charley’s to warn him — or whether you’d heard about Del and Thelma — thought that the day Del was yelping about shooting Charley, in front of witnesses, was a swell time for you to shoot Charley yourself.”

She did not answer.

As the cab curved into Sixth Avenue, she said: “Where did you go after you left 71 — before you went back to the hotel?”

Shane laughed. “That lousy alibi held up with the captain,” he said. “He didn’t question it.” He unbuttoned the top button of his topcoat, took something wrapped in tissue paper out of his inside pocket. “You know what a sucker I am for auction sales?”

She nodded.

He unfolded the tissue paper and took out a platinum-mounted diamond ring. The stone was large, pure white, very beautiful.

He said: “Pip?”

She nodded again.

He put the ring back in the tissue paper, folded it, put it back in his pocket.

The cab slid to the curb in front of the Valmouth. Shane said: “Where you going?”

She shook her head.

He said: “You keep the cab.” He pressed a bill into her hand, said: “This’ll take care of it — why don’t you take a nice long ride?”

He brushed her forehead lightly with his lips and got out of the cab and went into the hotel.

I’d been in Los Angeles waiting for this Healey to show for nearly a week. According to my steer, he’d taken a railroad company in Quebec for somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred and fifty grand on a swarm of juggled options or something. That’s a nice neighborhood.

My information said further that he was headed west and that he dearly loved to play cards. I do, too.

I’ll take three off the top, please.

I missed him by about two hours in Chicago and spent the day going around to all the ticket offices, getting chummy with agents, finally found out Healey had bought a ticket to LA, so I fanned on out there and cooled.

Pass.

Sunday afternoon I ran into an op for Eastern Investigators, Inc., named Gard, in the lobby of the Roosevelt. We had a couple drinks and talked about this and that. He was on the Coast looking for a gent named Healey. He was cagey about who the client was, but Eastern handles mostly missing persons, divorces, stuff like that.

Monday morning Gard called me and said the Salt Lake branch of his outfit had located Healey in Caliente, Nevada. He said he thought I might like to know. I told him I wasn’t interested and thanked him and then I rented a car in a U Drive place and drove up to Caliente.

I got there about four in the afternoon and spotted Healey in the second joint I went into. He was sitting in a stud game with five of the home boys and if they were a fair sample of local talent I figured I had plenty of time.

Healey was a big man with a round cheery face, smooth pink skin. His mouth was loose and wet and his eyes were light blue. I think his eyes were the smallest I’ve ever seen. They were set very wide apart.

He won and lost pretty evenly, but the game wasn’t worth a nickel. The home boys were old-timers and played close to their vests and Healey’s luck was the only thing that kept him even. He finally scared two of them out of a seventy- or eighty-dollar pot and that made him feel so good that he got up and came over to the bar and ordered drinks for the boys at the table. He ordered lemonade for himself.