Paul Cain: Fast One

He dialed a number printed in large letters on the cover of the telephone book, asked for the Reporters’ Room. When the connection was made, he asked for Shep Beery, spoke evenly into the instrument: “Listen, Shep, this is Gerry. In a little while you’ll probably have some news for me... Yeah... Call Granite six five one six... And Shep — who copped in the fourth race at Juana?... Thanks, Shep. Got the number?... OK.”

Cullen was pouring drinks. “If all this is as bad as you’re making it look — you have a very trusting nature,” he observed.

Kells was dialing another number. He said, over his shoulder: “I win twenty-four hundred on Kiosque.”

“That’s fine.”

“Perry shot Doc Haardt to death about four o’clock.”

“That’s fine. Where were you?” Cullen was stirring his drink.

Kells jiggled the hook up and down. “Goddamn telephones,” he said. He dialed the number again, then turned his head to smile at Cullen. “I was here.”

The telephone clicked. Kells turned to it, asked: “Is Number Four on duty?” There was a momentary wait, then: “Hello, Stella? This is Mister Kells... Listen, Stella, there weren’t any calls for me between two and four today... I know it’s on the record, baby, but I want it off. Will you see what you can do about it?... Right away?... That’s fine. And Stella, the number I called about three-thirty — the one where the line was busy... Yes. That was Granite six five one six... Got it?... All right, kid, I’ll tell you all about it later. ’Bye.”

Cullen said: “As I was saying — you have a very trusting nature.”

Kells was riffling the pages of a small blue address book. “One more,” he said, mostly to himself. He spun the dial again. “Hello — Yellow? Ambassador stand, please... Hello. Is Fifty-eight in?... That’s the little bald-headed Mick, isn’t it?... No, no: Mick... Sure... Send him to two eight nine Iris Circle when he gets in... Two... eight... nine... That’s in Hollywood; off Cahuenga...”

They sat for several minutes without speaking. Kells sipped at his drink and stared out of the window. Then he said: “I’m not putting on an act for you, Willie. I don’t know how to tell it; it doesn’t make much sense, yet.” He smiled lazily at Cullen. “Are you good at riddles?”

“Terrible.”

The phone rang. Cullen got up to answer it. Kells said: “Maybe that’s the answer.” Cullen called him to the phone. He said, “Yes, Shep,” and was silent a little while. Then he said, “Thanks,” hung up and went back to the deep leather chair. “I guess maybe we can’t play it the way I’d figured,” he said.

“There’s a tag out for me.” Cullen said slowly, sarcastically: “My pal! They’ll trace the phony call that your girl friend Stella’s handling, or get to the cab driver before he gets to you. We’ll have a couple carloads of law here in about fifteen minutes.”

“That’s all right, Willie. You can talk to ’em.”

Cullen grinned mirthlessly. “I haven’t spoken to a copper for four years.”

Kells straightened in his chair. “Listen. Doc went to Perry’s to see me... What for? I was with Jack Rose being propositioned to come in with him and Doc, on the Joanna. They’re evidently figuring Fay or Hesse to make things tough and wanted me for a flash.” He looked at his watch. Cullen was stirring ice into another drink.

Kells went on, swiftly: “When I open the door at Perry’s, somebody lets Doc have it and goes out through the kitchen. Maybe. The back door slammed but it might have been the draft when I opened the front door. Dave is cold with an egg over his ear and Ruth Perry says that a little queen with glasses shot Doc and sapped Dave when he spoke out of turn...”

Cullen said: “You’re not making this up as you go along, are you?”

Kells paid no attention to Cullen’s interruption. “The rod is on the floor. I tell Ruth to stick to her story... Cullen raised one eyebrow, smiled faintly with his lips. Kells said: “She will,” went on: ”... and try to keep Dave quiet while I figure an alibi, try to find out what it’s all about. I smack her to make it look good and then I get the bright idea that if I leave the gun there they’ll hold both of them, no matter what story they tell. They’d have to hold somebody; Doc had a lot of friends downtown.”

Kells finished his drink, picked up his hat and put it on. “I figured Ruth to office Dave that I was working on it and that he might keep his mouth shut if he wasn’t in on the plant.” Cullen sighed heavily.

Kells said: “He was. Shep tells me that Dave says I had an argument with Doc, shot him, and clipped Dave when he tried to stop me. Shep can’t get a line on Ruth’s story, but I’ll lay six, two, and even that she’s still telling the one about the little guy.” He stood up. “They’re both being held incommunicado . And here’s one for the book: Reilly made the pinch. Now what the hell was Reilly doing out here if it wasn’t tipped?”

Cullen said: “It’s a set-up. It was the girl.” Kells shook his head slowly. “Dave knows it and is trying to cover for her,” Cullen went on. “She told you a fast one about the little guy and I’ll bet she’s telling the same story as Dave right now.”

“Wrong.”

Cullen laughed. “If you didn’t think it was possible you wouldn’t look that way.”

“You’re crazy. If she wanted to frame me she wouldn’t’ve put on that act. She wouldn’t’ve...”

“Oh, yes, she would. She’d let you go and put the finger on you from a distance.” Cullen scratched his side, under the arm, yawned.

Kells said: “What about Dave?”

“Maybe Doc socked Dave.”

“She’d cheer.”

“Maybe.” Cullen got up and walked to a window. “Maybe she cheered and squeezed the heater at the same time. That’s been done, you know.”

Kells shook his head. “I don’t see it,” he said. “There are too many other angles.”

“You wouldn’t see it.” Cullen turned from the window, grinned. “You don’t know anything about feminine psychology—”

Kells said: “I invented it.”

Cullen spread his mouth into a wide thin line, nodded ponderously. “Sure,” he said, “there are a lot of boys sitting up in Quentin counting their fingers who invented it too.” He walked to the stair and back. “Anyway, you had a pretty good hunch when you left Exhibit A on the floor.”

“I’m superstitious. I haven’t carried a gun for over a year,” Kells smiled a little.

Cullen said: “Another angle — she’s Fay’s sister.”

“That’s swell, but it doesn’t mean anything.”

“It might.” Cullen yawned again extravagantly, scratched his arms.

Kells asked: “Yen?”

“Uh huh. I was about to cook up a couple loads when you busted in with all this heavy drama.” Cullen jerked his head toward the stair. “Eileen is upstairs.”

Kells said: “I thought the last cure took.”

“Sure. It took.” Cullen smiled sleepily. “Like the other nine. I’m down to two, three pipes each other day.”

They looked at one another expressionlessly for a little while.

A car chugged up the short curving slope below the front door, stopped. Kells turned and went into the semidarkness of the kitchen. A buzzer whirred. Cullen went to the front door, opened it, said: “Come in.” A little Irishman in the uniform of a cab driver came into the room and took off his hat. Cullen went back to the chair and sat down with his back to the room, picked up his drink.

The phone rang.

Kells came out of the kitchen and answered it. He stood for a while staring vacantly at the cab driver, then said, “Thanks, kid,” hung up, put his hand in his pocket and took out a small neatly folded sheaf of bills. “When you brought me here from the hotel about four o’clock,” he said, “I forgot to tip you.” He peeled off two bills and held them toward the driver.