Paul Cain: Seven Slayers

In five minutes he was out, had put on a long dark-green robe, slippers, and was sitting at the low table cutting a thick T-bone steak into dark pink squares.

As he poured coffee the phone buzzed; he leaned side-wise, picked it up, said: “Hello.” Then he said: “Mister Shane is not in... She’s on the way up!... What the hell did you let her start up for?...”

He slammed the phone down, went swiftly to the door and turned the bolt. He stood near the door a moment, then shrugged slightly, turned the bolt back and went slowly back and sat down.

Lorain Rigas was slender, dark. Her black eyes slanted upward a little at the corners, her mouth was full, deeply red, generous. She wore a dark close-fitting raincoat, a small suede hat. She closed the door and stood with her back to it.

Shane said: “Coffee?”

She shook her head. She said: “Charley called me up this afternoon and said he was going to give me the divorce-that he wouldn’t fight it.”

“That’s fine.” Shane put two lumps of sugar in a spoon, held it in the coffee and intently watched the sugar crumble, disappear. “So what?”

She came over and sat down near him. She unbuttoned her coat, crossed her slim silken legs, took a cigarette out of a tiny silver case and lighted it.

She said: “So you’ve got to help me locate Del before he gets to Charley.”

Shane sipped his coffee, waited.

“Del started drinking last night,” she went on, “an’ he kept it up this morning. He went out about eleven, and some time around one, Jack Kenny called up an’ told me that Del was over at his joint — roaring drunk, and howling for Charley’s blood. He gets that way every time he gets boiled — crazy jealous about Charley and me.”

She leaned back and blew a thin cone of smoke at the ceiling. “I told Jack to let him drink himself under the table, or lock him up, or something — an’ in a little while Jack called back and said everything was all right — that Del had passed out.”

Shane was smiling a little. He got up and went to the central table and took a long green-black cigar from a humidor, clipped it, lighted it. Then he went back and sat down.

The girl leaned forward. “About three o’clock,” she said, “the Eastman Agency — that’s the outfit I’ve had tailing Charley for evidence — called up and said they’d located the apartment house up on the West Side where Charley’s been living with the McLean woman...”

Shane said: “How long have they been on the case?”

“Three days — an’ Charley’s ducked them until today — they traced a phone call or something.”

Shane nodded, poured more coffee into the little cup.

Lorain Rigas mashed out her cigarette. “I told Eastman to keep his boys on the apartment until they spotted Charley going in — then I figured on going over tonight and crashing in with a load of witnesses — but in a little while Charley calls me and says everything’s okay, that he’ll give me the divorce any time, any place, and so on.”

Shane said: “You’ve had a busy day.”

“Uh-huh.” She reached over and picked up the cup of coffee, sipped a little. “I didn’t call Eastman back — I figure on going through with it the way I intended to — get the evidence an’ the affidavits an’ what not. Then if Charley changes his mind...” She put the cup back on the tray, leaned back and lighted another cigarette. “But we’ve got to find Del.”

Shane said: “I thought he was cold at Kenny’s.”

She shook her head, smiled. “I called Kenny to see how Del was, and Del was gone. He came to and started where he left off — stole a gun out of Jack’s trunk, and went out the back way. I don’t think he’d really go through with it, but he goes nuts when he gets enough red-eye under his belt...”

Shane was leaning far back in the deep chair, staring vacantly at the ceiling. He said: “If you think Del would really make a pass at Charley—” He puffed at the cigar, finished slowly: “You don’t seem quite as excited about it as you should be.”

“What the hell’s the use getting excited?” She stood up. “It’s a cinch they won’t let Del into 71 — an’ he wouldn’t wait outside for Charley — not when he’s drunk. He gets big ideas about face to face and man to man when he’s drunk. I know Del.”

“Then what are you worrying about?” Shane looked up at her, smiled gently. “He’s probably at home waiting for you.”

“No — I just called up.” She went over to the window.

Shane looked at her back. He said: “You’re pretty crazy about Del — aren’t you?”

She nodded without turning.

Shane put his cigar down, reached for the phone. “Where do you think we ought to start?”

She turned, cocked her head a little to one side and looked at him sleepily. “If I knew where we ought to start, Dick,” she said, “I wouldn’t have had to bother you. You’ve known Del for years — you know the screwy way his mind works as well as I do — and you know the places. Where would he go, do you think, looking for Charley — besides 71?”

Shane picked up the phone, stared at it a little while, put it down. He got up, said: “I’m going to put on some clothes,” and went into the bedroom.

Lorain Rigas sat down near the window. She pushed the small suede hat back off her forehead, leaned back and closed her eyes.

When Shane came in, knotting his tie, she was lying very still. He stood over her a moment, looking out the window. Then he finished his tie and looked down at her and put one hand out tentatively, touched her forehead with his fingers. She opened her eyes and looked up at him expressionlessly for a little while; he turned and went to the chair where he had thrown his coat, put it on.

The phone buzzed a second after Shane had closed and locked the door. He swore under his breath, fished in his pockets. The girl leaned against the wall of the corridor, smiled at his futile efforts to find the key.

The phone buzzed insistently.

He finally found the key, unlocked the door hurriedly, and went to the phone. Lorain Rigas leaned against the frame of the open door.

Shane said: “Hello... Put him on...” He stood, holding the phone, looking at the girl; spoke again into the phone: “Hello, Bill — Yeah — Yeah — What the hell for...?” Then he was silent a while with the receiver at his ear. Finally he said: “Okay, Bill — thanks.” Hung up slowly.

He sat down, gestured with his head for the girl to come in and close the door. She closed the door and stood with her back to it, staring at him questioningly.

He said: “Charley was shot to death in the Montecito Apartments on West Eighty-Second, some time around eight-thirty tonight.”

Lorain Rigas put her hand out slowly, blindly a little way. Her eyes were entirely blank. She went slowly, unsteadily to a chair, sank into it.

Shane said: “They’re holding the McLean gal — an’ they’ve found out that Charley and I had an argument this evening — they want to talk to me. They’re on the way over to pick me up.”

He glanced at his watch. It was nine-forty. He got up and went to the table, took a cigar from the humidor, lighted it. Then he went to the window and stared out into the darkness.

“One — base of brain. One — slightly lower — shattered cervical.” The autopsy surgeon straightened, tossed the glittering instrument into a sterilizer and skinned off his rubber gloves. He glanced at Shane, turned and started towards the door.

Sergeant Gill and an intern turned the body over.

Gill said: “Rigas?” looked up at Shane.

Shane nodded.

Gill spread a partially filled-out form on the examining table near Rigas’ feet, took a stub of pencil from his pocket and added several lines to the form. Then he folded it and put it in his pocket and said: “Let’s go back upstairs.”