Paul Cain - Fast One

Borg went to the man at the door and patted his pockets, felt under his arms.

They went out through the kitchen, out through the service entrance into the hall. They heard someone pounding at the front door as they went out. They went down the hall, down the back stairs and out a side door to a small patio. At the street side of the patio Borg stood on a bench and looked over the wall. He shook his head and stepped down, said: “Faber’s gone.”

Kells said: “Maybe we can get through to the next street.”

They went to the other end of the patio and through a gate to a kind of alleyway that led down to Fountain. They went down the alleyway and turned west on Fountain. They went into a drugstore on the corner and Kells drank a Coca-Cola while Borg called a cab.

While they were waiting for the cab Kells bought some aspirin, swallowed two tablets.

Borg said: “That’s just a habit. That junk don’t do you no good.”

Kells nodded absently.

In a little while the cab came along.

Kells and Granquist and Beery, and Borg sat in Kells’ room at the Ambassador.

“Here’s the laugh of the season...” Beery tilted his chair back against the wall. “The apartment at the Miramar was in Fenner’s name. We had the maid service cut out — none of the help ever saw you there...”

Kells finished his drink, put the glass on a table.

Beery went on like a headline: “Fenner is being sought for questioning in connection with the Woodward murder.”

Borg chuckled.

“And there’s a warrant out, for him for Bellmann’s shooting on the strength of the confession they found on Woodward.” Beery tilted his chair forward, reached for his glass. “The Woodward one is being blurbed as ‘The Through the Window Murder.’”

Kells asked: “Who found the body?”

“Some glass from the window fell down into the driveway and somebody went up to find out who was carrying on.”

Granquist said: “There must be something there they can trace to us.” She didn’t look very happy.

Kells glanced at her, grinned at Beery. “Miss Pollyanna G will now recite—”

She interrupted him: “Let’s go, Gerry — please...” She stood up.

Kells said: “Buy us all a drink, baby.”

He went on to Beery: “They’ll probably trace us through Doc Janis — or telephone calls — or something.”

Beery shook his head. “They’ll be tickled to death to hang the whole thing on Fenner.”

“Do you think they’ll be so tickled they’ll drop the case against me entirely?” Granquist turned from the table, came toward them with three tall glasses between her hands.

Kells said: “Shep and I will find out about that in about a half hour.”

“And we’ll find out what happened at MacAlmon’s after you left.” Beery stood up and took his drink from Granquist.

Someone knocked at the door.

Granquist froze, with a glass held out toward Borg; Beery opened the door and a porter came in.

He smiled, nodded to Kells. “You want your luggage to go down sir?”

Kells said: “Yes. The trunk’s to go on the Chief tomorrow night. Put the other stuff where we can load it into a car.”

The porter said: “Yes, sir.” He tilted the trunk and dragged it out through the door. Beery went back and sat down.

Borg had taken his drink from Granquist. He said: “What I want to know is how the hell am I going to get my automobile.”

Kells turned from the desk. “Will you please stop wailing about that wreck?” he said. He held out a singly folded sheaf of bills and Borg reached up and took it.

Kells went back to his chair, sat down and tossed another sheaf of bills in Beery’s lap.

Beery looked down at it a moment, and then he picked it up and stuck it in his pocket, said: “Thanks, Gerry.”

Granquist gave Kells one of the tall glasses. “Stirrup cup.”

They all drank.

The porter came back into the room and loaded himself down with hand luggage, went out.

Kells said: “We’re all in a swell spot. The baby here” — he nodded toward Granquist — “is still wanted for Bellmann’s murder — maybe. Shep and I have got to go down and okay our signatures on Fenner’s confession — and maybe they’ll want to talk to me about Woodward, or what happened at MacAlmon’s, and if there’s been any squawk from MacAlmon’s they’ll be looking for Fat.” He grinned at Borg.

Beery took a long envelope out of his inside coat pocket, turned it over several times on his lap. “If this doesn’t square any beef they can figure,” he said, “I’m a watchmaker.”

The porter came back into the room for the last of the hand luggage. They all finished their drinks and went out to the elevator, down to the cab stand.

They took two cabs. Kells and Beery got into the first one; Granquist and Borg got into another, and all the hand luggage was put in with them. Kells told the driver of the second cab to keep about a half-block behind them when they stopped downtown.

Then he went back to the other cab and got in with Beery and said: “Police Station.”

Beery signed the affidavit and pushed it across the desk to Kells.

Captain Larson blew his nose. He said: “You understand you both will be witnesses for the state when we get Fenner?”

Kells nodded.

“An’ this Granquist girl — she’s a material witness too.” The captain widened his watery blue eyes at Beery, leaned far back in his swivel chair.

Kells read the affidavit carefully, signed.

Larson said: “What do you know about the Woodward business?”

“Nothing.” Kells put his elbow on the desk, his chin in his hand, stared at Larson expressionlessly. “I lost Fenner’s confession shortly after it was signed — before I could use it. Woodward evidently got hold of it someway and was trying to peddle it back to Fenner.”

“If Fenner was in his place at the Miramar when Woodward was shot, how come he left the confession there?” Larson was looking out the window, spoke as if to himself.

Kells shook his head slowly.

Larson said: “I suppose you know you’re tied up with all this enough for me to hold you.” He said it very quietly, kept looking out the window.

Kells smiled a little, was silent.

Beery leaned across the desk. “Fenner killed Bellmann,” he said. “That’s a swell break for the administration. It’d be even, a better break if all the dirt on Bellmann that the Coast Guardian published was proven to be fake — wouldn’t it?”

Larson turned from the window. He took a big handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose violently, nodded.

Beery took the long envelope out of his pocket and put it on the desk and shoved it slowly across to Larson.

“Here are the originals of the photographs and a couple of letters. You can burn ’em up and then challenge the Coast Guardian people to produce — or you can have ’em doctored so they’ll look like phoneys.”

Larson looked down at the envelope. He asked: “Who are the Coast Guardian people?”

Kells smiled, said: “Me — I’m them.”

Larson slit the envelope, glanced at its contents. Then he put the envelope in the top drawer of his desk and stood up; Kells and Beery stood up, too. Larson reached across the desk and shook hands with them. They went out of the office, downstairs.

Kells said: “It looks like MacAlmon hasn’t squawked — maybe he got away with the junk after all.”

They passed the Reporters’ Room and Beery said: “Wait a minute — maybe I can find out.” He went in and telephoned and came out, shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

Their cab was across the street. Kells looked up First Street to where the second cab had been parked on the other side of Hill Street. It had gone. He stood there a moment looking up First, then he said, “Come on,” and crossed the street, asked the driver: “What happened to the other cab?”