Paul Cain: Seven Slayers

Shane said: “Did you see Rigas go in?”

The youth shook his head. “No — an’ my partner swears he didn’t go in while he was on watch. He must’ve gone in the back way.”

Shane took a cigar out of a blue leather case, bit off the end, lighted it. “And you say you were figuring you were wrong about thinking you’d seen her?”

The youth laughed. “Yeah — that’s what I figured then. But that ain’t what I figure now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I pride myself, Mister Shane, on being able to look at a dame what is supposed to have just bumped a guy off, an’ knowing whether she did it or not. That’s why I’m in the business.” He turned his head and looked very seriously at Shane.

Shane smiled faintly in the darkness.

The youth said: “It wasn’t McLean.” He said it very positively.

Shane said: “Why didn’t you tell the Captain about this?”

“Christ! We got to protect our clients.”

The cab stopped in front of the drugstore, the driver turned around and looked at Shane questioningly.

Shane blew out a great cloud of gray-blue smoke, glanced at the youth, said: “Where do you want to go?”

“This is oke for me.” The youth leaned forward, put his hand on the inside handle of the door. Then he paused, turned his head slightly towards Shane.

“I’m in a spot, Mister Shane. My wife’s sick — an’ I took an awful beating on the races the other day, trying to get enough jack for an operation...”

Shane said: “Does anybody besides your partner know about Mrs. Rigas?”

The youth shook his head.

Shane tipped his hat back on his head, drew two fingers across his forehead, said: “I’ll see what I can do about it. Where do you live?”

The youth took a card out of his pocket, took out a thin silver pencil and wrote something on it. He handed the card to Shane, said, “So long,” and got out of the cab and ran across the sidewalk to the drugstore.

Shane said: “Downtown.”

On Twelfth Street, a little way off Sixth Avenue, Shane rapped on the glass, the cab swung to the curb. He told the driver to wait, got out and went down a narrow passageway between two buildings to a green wooden door with a dim electric light above it. He opened the door, knocked on another heavier door set at an angle to the first. It was opened after a little while and he went down four wide steps to a long and narrow room with a bar along one side.

There were seven or eight men at the bar, two white-aproned men behind it: a squat and swarthy Italian and a heavily built Irishman.

Shane went to the far end of the room, leaned on the bar and spoke to the Italian: “What’ve you got that’s best?”

The Italian put a bottle of brandy and a glass on the bar in front of him: Shane took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, held the glass up to the light, wiped it carefully. He poured a drink, tasted it.

He said: “That’s lousy — give me a glass of beer.”

The Italian picked up the glass of brandy, drank it, put the bottle away and drew a glass of beer. He skimmed off the foam, put the tall glass on the bar.

He said: “Seventy-five cents.”

Shane put a dollar bill on the bar, asked: “Kenny around?”

The Italian shook his head.

Shane said: “Where’s the phone?”

The Italian inclined his head towards a narrow door back of Shane. Shane went into the booth and called the Valmouth, asked for Miss Johnson. When the connection had been made, he said: “Hello, Lorain — what room are you in?... All right, stay there until I get back — don’t go out for anything — anybody... I’m down at Jack Kenny’s... Tell you when I see you... Uh-huh... G’bye...” He hung up and went back to the bar.

The Italian and the Irishman were talking together. The Irishman came down to Shane and said: “Jack’s upstairs, asleep. Wha’d you want to see him about?”

“You’d better wake him up — I want to tell him how to keep out of the can.” Shane tasted the beer, said: “That’s lousy — give me a glass of water.”

The Irishman looked at him suspiciously for a minute, put a glass of water on the bar, went to the door at the end of the room. He said: “Who’ll I say it is?”

“Shane.”

The Irishman disappeared through the door.

He was back in a little while, said: “You can go on up — it’s the open door at the top of the stairs.”

Shane went back and through the door, across a dark, airless hallway. He lighted a match and found the bottom of the stair, went up. There was a door ajar at the top of the stair through which faint light came, he shoved it open, went in.

Jack Kenny was big and round and bald. He was sitting deep in a worn and battered wicker armchair. He was very drunk.

There was another man, lying face down across the dirty, unmade bed. He was snoring loudly, occasionally exhaled in a long sighing whistle.

Kenny lifted his chin from his chest, lifted bleary eyes to Shane. He said: “Hi, boy?”

Shane asked: “What kind of a rod did you give Del Corey?”

Kenny opened his eyes wide, grinned. He leaned heavily forward, then back, stretched luxuriously.

“I didn’t give him any — the louse stole it.”

Shane waited.

Kenny was suddenly serious. He said: “What the hell you talking about?”

Shane said: “Charley Rigas was killed tonight with a .38 Smith & Wesson automatic — the safety was knocked off, an’ the number on the barrel started with four six six two.

Kenny stood up suddenly, unsteadily.

Shane said: “I thought you might like to know.” He turned and started towards the door.

Kenny said: “Wait a minute.”

Shane stopped in the doorway, turned.

All the color had gone out of Kenny’s bloated, florid face, leaving it pasty, yellow-white.

He said: “You sure?” He went unsteadily to a little table in the room, picked up an empty bottle, held it up to the light, threw it into a corner.

Shane nodded, said: “Pretty damned dumb for Del to get so steamed up about Lorain an’ Charley that he killed Charley — huh? Lorain’s been washed up with Charley for months — an’ Del ought to’ve known about it if anybody did...”

Kenny said: “He wasn’t worrying about Lorain. It was that little cigarette gal — Thelma, or Selma, or something — that works for Charley. Del’s been two-timing Lorain with her for the last couple weeks. That’s what he was shooting off his mouth about this afternoon — he had some kind of office on her an’ Charley.”

Kenny went to a dresser and opened a drawer and took out a bottle of whiskey.

Shane said: “Oh.”

He went out and down the dark stair, out to the bar. The glass of beer and the glass of water were on the bar where he had left them. He picked up the glass of water, tasted it, said: “That’s lousy,” and went out through the front door and the passageway to the cab.

It was a few minutes before eleven when Shane got out of the cab, paid off the driver and went into the Valmouth. The clerk gave him a note that a Mister Arthur had telephoned, would call again in the morning.

Shane went up to his rooms, sat down with his coat and hat on and picked up the telephone.

He said: “Listen, baby — tell the girl that relieves you in the morning that when Mister Arthur calls, I’m out of the city — won’t be back for a couple months. He wants to sell me some insurance.”

He hung up, looked up the number of 71 in his little black book, called it. A strange voice answered. Shane said: “Is Nick there?... Is Pedro there?... Never mind — what I want to know is what’s Thelma’s last name? Thelma, the cigarette girl?... Uh-huh — Never mind who I am—

I’m one of your best customers... Uh-huh... How do you spell it?... B-u-r-r... You haven’t got her telephone number, have you?”... The receiver clicked, Shane smiled, hung up.