Paul Cain - The Paul Cain Omnibus

All the fear came back into Crandall’s face suddenly. He started to speak.

Druse interrupted him, went on: “I’m going to let you have it when you reach for your gun, of course — that’ll take care of any technicalities about taking the law into my own hands — anything like that.”

Crandall’s face was white, drained. He said: “How come I’m elected? What the hell have you got against me?”

Druse shrugged. “You shouldn’t jockey ladies into trying to nick insurance companies...”

“It was her idea.”

“Then you should have been on the level about the rubies.”

Crandall said: “So help me God! I gave her back the stuff I took!” He said it very vehemently, very earnestly.

“How do you know? How do you know the man you had do the actual job didn’t make the switch?”

Crandall leaned forward. “Because I took them. She gave me her key and I went in the side way, while she was out, and took them myself. They were never out of my hands.” He took up a lighter from the desk and relighted the stump of cigar with shaking hands. “That’s the reason I didn’t take her threat seriously. I thought it was some kind of extortion gag she’d doped out to get some of her dough back. She got back the stones I took — and if they weren’t genuine they were switched before I took them, or after I gave them back.”

Druse stared at him silently for perhaps a minute, finally smiled, said: “Before.”

Crandall sucked noisily at his cigar. “Then, if you believe me” — he glanced at the derringer — “what’s the point?”

“The point is that if I didn’t believe you, you’d be in an awfully bad spot.”

Crandall nodded, grinned weakly. “The point,” Druse went on, “is that you’re still in an awfully bad spot because no one else will believe you.”

Crandall nodded again. He leaned back and took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed at his face.

“I know a way out of it.” Druse moved his hand, let the derringer hang by the trigger-guard from his forefinger. “Not because I like you particularly, nor because I think you particularly deserve it — but because it’s right. I can turn up the man who really murdered her — if we can get back the rubies — the real rubies. And I think I know where they are.”

Crandall was leaning far forward, his face very alive and interested.

“I want you to locate the best peterman we can get.” Druse spoke in a very low voice, watched Crandall intently. “We’ve got to open a safe — I think it’ll be a safe — out on Long Island. Nothing very difficult — there’ll probably be servants to handle but nothing more serious than that.”

Crandall said: “Why can’t I do it?” He smiled a little. “I used to be in the box business, you know — before I straightened up and got myself a joint. That’s the reason I took the fake rubies myself — not to let anyone else in on it.”

Druse said: “That’ll be fine.”

“When?” Crandall stood up.

Druse put the derringer back in his pocket. “Right now — where’s your car?” Crandall jerked his head towards the street. They went out through the crowded gambling room, downstairs, got into Crandall’s car. Crossing Queensborough Bridge Druse glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes past twelve.

At three thirty-five Druse pushed the bell of the penthouse, after searching, vainly as usual, for his key. The Filipino boy opened the door, said: “It’s a very hot night, sir.”

Druse threw his hat on a chair, smiled sadly at Mrs Hanan, who had come into the little entrance hall. “I’ve been trying to teach him English for three months,” he said, “and all he can say is ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘No, sir,’ and tell me about the heat.” He turned to the broadly grinning boy. “Yes, Tony, it is a very hot night.”

They went through the living room, out onto the terrace. It was cool there, and dim; a little light came out through the wide doors, from the living room.

Mrs Hanan said: “I’d about given you up.”

Druse sat down, sighed wearily. “I’ve had a very strenuous evening — sorry I’m so late.” He looked up at her. “Hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Why didn’t you have Tony fix you something?”

“I wanted to wait.” She had taken off her suit coat, hat; in her smartly cut tweed skirt, white mannish shirt, she looked very beautiful.

Druse said: “Supper, or breakfast, or something will be ready in a few minutes — I ordered it for four.” He stood up. “Which reminds me — we’re having a guest. I must telephone.”

He went through the living room, up four broad, shallow steps to the little corner room that he used as an office. He sat down at the broad desk, drew the telephone towards him, dialed a number.

Hanan answered the phone. Druse said: “I want you to come to my place, on top of the Pell Building, at once. It is very important. Ring the bell downstairs — I’ve told the elevator boy I’m expecting you... I can’t tell you over the phone — please come alone, and right away.” He hung up and sat staring vacantly at his hands a little while, and then got up and went back to the terrace, sat down.

“What did you do with yourself?”

Mrs Hanan was lying in one of the low chairs. She laughed nervously. “The radio — tried to improve my Spanish and Tony’s English — chewed my fingernails — almost frightened myself to death with one of your damned demon books.” She lighted a cigarette. “And you?”

He smiled in the darkness. “I earned thirty-five thousand dollars.”

She sat up, said eagerly: “Did you get the rubies?”

He nodded.

“Did Crandall raise much hell?”

“Enough.”

She laughed exultantly. “Where are they?”

Druse tapped his pocket, watched her face in the pale orange glow of her cigarette.

She got up, held out her hand. “May I see them?”

Druse said: “Certainly.” He took a long flat jewel case of black velvet out of his inside coat pocket and handed it to her.

She opened the case and went to the door to the living room, looked at its contents by the light there, said: “They are awfully beautiful, aren’t they?”

“They are.”

She snapped the case closed, came back and sat down.

Druse said: “I think I’d better take care of them a little while longer.”

She leaned forward and put the case on his lap; he took it up and put it back in his pocket. They sat silently, watching the lights in buildings over towards the East River. After awhile the Filipino boy came out and said that they were served.

“Our guest is late.” Druse stood up. “I make a rule of never waiting breakfast — anything but breakfast.”

They went together through the living room, into the simply furnished dining room. There were three places set at the glittering white and silver table. They sat down and the Filipino boy brought in tall and spindly cocktail glasses of iced fruit; they were just beginning when the doorbell rang. The Filipino boy glanced at Druse, Druse nodded, said: “Ask the gentleman to come in here.” The Filipino boy went out and there were voices in the entrance hall, and then Hanan came into the doorway.

Druse stood up. He said: “You must forgive us for beginning — you are a little late.” He raised one hand and gestured towards the empty chair.

Hanan was standing in the doorway with his feet wide apart, his arms stiff at his sides, as if he had been suddenly frozen in that position. He stared at Mrs Hanan and his eyes were wide, blank — his thin mouth was compressed to a hard, straight line. Very suddenly his right hand went towards his left armpit.

Druse said sharply: “Please sit down.” Though he seemed scarcely to have moved, the blunt derringer glittered in his hand. Mrs Hanan half rose. She was very pale; her hands were clenched convulsively on the white tablecloth.