Paul Cain - The Paul Cain Omnibus

Brennan straightened up, said: “Give me another shot of that.”

Freberg took the bottle out of his pocket and handed it to Brennan. Brennan took a long drink and put the bottle on the table.

“She killed herself,” he said. “Strychnine, I guess...”

Freberg smiled, nodded.

“Colt came in and found her, dead. Colt called Ed Harley but he wasn’t in the hotel. She went downstairs to figure things out and ran into me in the drug store. I came up with her, and called Johnnie with the story and told him to call you.”

“An’ Carnera?”

“He came in and shoved a rod into my guts and then clipped me before I knew what it was all about.”

“He don’t fit into the suicide picture very well, does he?” Freberg lighted a cigarette, leaned back again and stared skeptically at Brennan.

Brennan did not answer.

Freberg said: “Listen. Joice Colt left the hotel about five-thirty this evening. Before she went out she shook up a highball for Barbara Antony that had enough strychnine in it to kill the National Guard. She came back about a quarter of seven — as near as the elevator boy can figure — and found out how well it had worked, and then she got scared. She called Harley to plant the idea with him that Barbara had committed suicide. Harley wasn’t in. She didn’t know whether to call the police or to take it on the lam. While she was trying to make up her mind she ran into you, and you looked like a swell sucker to plant the suicide angle with...”

Brennan said slowly: “You’re crazy, Gus. That’s full of holes. In the first place, Joice was Barbara’s pal — what the hell would she want to poison her for?...”

“Don’t give me that.” Freberg was leaning forward scowling. “Colt hated Barbara for taking Harley away from her.”

Brennan said: “Oh. How did you know about that?”

“Harley told me.”

Brennan nodded slowly, ponderously, with mock seriousness. “When?”

“A little while ago — he was up here while you were out.”

Brennan nodded again. “So Mister Harley told you that? And because Mister Harley owns this joint and a string of clubs, and has a sixteen-inch bankroll, and wields a lot of influence, you take his lousy steer and want to nail Joice for this?” Brennan’s tone was elaborately ironic.

Freberg said: “Don’t be a damned fool.”

Brennan’s smile was very thin. “What about Lou Antony getting out of Atlanta this morning?”

“I’ve got a tracer on him. He’s the reason the play looked so good to Colt. It’d look like Barbara killed herself because she was scared of Antony.”

“Uh-huh.” Brennan shook his head disgustedly. “What about the guy that bopped me? Does he fit into your murder picture any better than he fits into my suicide picture?”

Freberg said: “I don’t care about him. He was probably in some kind of cahoots with Colt...”

Brennan stood up, walked to the window, back. He said: “Lousy! I didn’t think such stupidity was possible!” He said it very emphatically.

Freberg started to speak but Brennan interrupted him. “What the hell makes you so sure it wasn’t suicide?”

Freberg said, as if he was making a great effort to speak deliberately, gently: “For one thing, there isn’t a sign of anything in here or in Barbara’s room that strychnine could have been in. For another thing...”

The phone rang. Freberg answered it, stood with the receiver at his ear, silent except for an occasional grunted affirmative. He finally said: “Okay — call you back,” hung up and grinned coldly at Brennan. “Antony caught the noon train out of Atlanta,” he said. “That train doesn’t get in until some time around eight tomorrow morning. So Antony’s out.” Freberg’s grin broadened. “And this strychnine — Somebody forced it down her throat, or stood over her with a club. How do you like that?”

Brennan said: “I like that fine. That gets us to the point.”

“What point?”

“Harley.”

Freberg shook his head slowly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking sense. Your Mister Harley rubbed Barbara because he was afraid she’d squawk to Antony about the way he’d treated her.” Brennan was almost shouting; his eyes were hot, intent. “Harley stuffed that strychnine into her while Joice Colt was out. He figured that with Barbara out of the way he could bluff Antony into believing that the talk about him and Barbara was a lot of hooey.”

Freberg shook his head again. He said: “Harley was at the Glass Slipper from five o’clock on — until he came back here and talked to me.”

Brennan’s laugh dripped sarcasm. “So he told you that, too, did he?” he said. “I don’t suppose you went to the trouble to check on it. Mister Harley is too big a man to check on...”

Freberg stood up slowly. He said: “Listen, Brennan — when I want a two-by-four reporter to tell me what to do an’ what not to do I’ll send for you.” His voice was low, his words clear, distinct.

Brennan stared at him incredulously. “Do you mean you’re going to railroad Colt?”

“I’m not going to railroad anybody. I think she’s guilty as hell. I’m going to pick her up and let her railroad herself. And I don’t need any lousy newsdog to tell me what to do and what not to do.”

Brennan’s face got a little white. “No?” he said slowly. “But sometimes a lousy newsdog has intelligence at least a grade above a lousy dog’s son of a flatfoot.”

Freberg’s face was blank. He raised his head slowly and looked at Brennan and his blue eyes were cold and impersonal. He moved slightly sidewise then he lunged suddenly forward, there was sharp smack as his fist crashed into Brennan’s face.

Brennan moved very swiftly. He caught Freberg by the throat with his right hand drew his left far back and snapped it suddenly forward; he could feel his hard fist sink into the soft pallor of Freberg’s face. Freberg crashed into the wall, sank slowly to the floor.

Brennan stood with his feet wide apart, looking down at Freberg a little while. Then he picked up his hat and put it on and went to the door. He glanced back at Freberg once, expressionlessly, then he went out and closed the door. In the elevator he took out his watch, noticed that the crystal was broken. It was ten minutes after eight.

In the Eagle ’s city room, Brennan leaned across the littered desk and waggled his finger at Johnson, the City Editor.

“I told you to have ’em send Freberg because he was the brightest boy they had — and so help me, he’s the prize dope of the season.” He straightened up. “I wanted you to know. From now on that bastard is on the wrong side of our list.”

Johnson was a squarely built pink-faced man. He peered at Brennan through thick tortoise shell glasses, said acidly: “I’ve asked you to lay off coppers for the last time, Cy. Don’t you realize that a paper like the Eagle owes its existence to the goodwill of the people like Freberg — the Police Department?”

Brennan smiled. He said softly: “Listen, Johnnie — have we ever gone very far wrong playing my hunches?”

“There’ll be a first time.”

Brennan leaned across the desk again, started intently at Johnson. “I’m going to stick Ed Harley for the Antony gal’s murder,” he said quietly. “That’s our spot page story for the early Sunday edition — I’ll have it finished ahead of the noon deadline tomorrow. I’m going to clean up the details tonight, an’ make the case tight if I have to choke a confession out of Harley. This is the strongest hunch I’ve had in years and I’m going to play it if I have to make a monkey out of Freberg, an’ the Police Department, an’ the whole damned city government.”