Paul Cain: Fast One

After he had rung the bell four or five times, a light was switched on upstairs, he heard someone coming down. The lower part of the house remained dark, but a light above him — in the ceiling of the porch — snapped on. He stood with his chin on his chest, his hat pulled down over his eyes, watching the bottom of the door.

It opened and Captain Larson’s voice said: “Come in,” out of the darkness. Kells went in.

The light on the porch snapped off, the light in the room snapped on. The door was closed.

It was a rather large living room which, with the smaller dining room, ran across all the front of the house. The furniture was mostly Mission, mostly built-in. The wall paper was bright, bad.

Larson stood with his back to the door in a nightshirt, big, fleece-lined slippers. He held a Colt .38 revolver steadily in his right hand. He said: “Take a chair.”

Kells sat down in the most comfortable-looking chair, leaned back. Larson pulled another chair around and sat down on its edge, facing Kells. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees — he held the revolver in his right hand hanging down between his legs, said: “What’s on your mind?”

Kells tipped his hat back a little and stared at Larson sleepily.

“You gave me a free bill this afternoon,” he said, “in exchange for some stuff that would have split your administration — your whole political outfit — wide open.” He paused, changed his position slightly. “Now you clamp down on me because somebody gets the dumb idea I had something to do with the Crotti chill. What’s the answer?”

“Crotti’s the answer.” Larson spat far and accurately into the fireplace, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He leaned back and crossed his legs and held the revolver loosely in his lap. “There’s a lot of water been under the bridge since I seen you this afternoon,” he went on. “In the first place I didn’t give you no free bill, as you call it — I told you that you and your gal would probably be wanted for questioning in connection with a lot of things. An’ I hinted that if you wasn’t around when question time came we wouldn’t look too far for you.” He took a crumpled handkerchief from the pocket of his nightshirt, blew his nose gustily. “Crotti’s something else again.”

Kells smiled slowly. “Crotti was your Number One Gangster,” he said. “If I had something to do with his killing I ought to be getting a medal for it — not a rap.”

A woman’s cracked querulous voice came down the stairs: “What is it, Gus?”

Larson spat again into the fireplace, looked at the stairs. “Nothin”. Go back to bed.”

He turned back toward Kells and his big loose mouth split to a wide grin. “You’re way behind the times,” he said. “Crotti hooked up with my people this morning. They were tickled to death to get an organization like his behind them and they were plumb disappointed when you bumped him off. That’s one of the reasons there’s a tag out for you...”

Kells held his handkerchief to his bleeding cheek. He said: “What are the other reasons?”

“Jack Rose moved into Crotti’s place.”

Kells laughed soundlessly. “You’re kidding.”

“No.” Larson spun the revolver once around his big forefinger. “Rose made a deal with Crotti a couple of days ago. When Crotti was shot this evening, Rose didn’t lose any time putting the pressure on my people and they didn’t lose any time putting it on me. You’re it.”

“But Rose is wanted for the O’Donnell—”

“Not any more.” Larson chuckled. “I told you you wasn’t keeping in touch with things. For one thing, Lee Fenner shot himself about eight o’clock tonight. He was the only one there was to testify against Rose on the O’Donnell angle — so that’s out. And Rose says you killed O’Donnell, says he’ll swear to it — an’ he’s got another witness.”

Kells said wearily: “Is that all — I’m only wanted on two counts of murder?”

“That’s all for tonight. Matheson called me up a couple hours ago an’ said the Perry woman had phoned in, drunk, an’ said she wanted to repudiate her confession that Perry killed Doc Haardt.” Larson grinned broadly, stood up. “Maybe we can tie you up to that in the morning.”

He took two sidewise steps to a small stand and picked up the telephone receiver with one hand, squatted down until his mouth was near the transmitter. He held the revolver in his right hand, watched Kells closely while he spoke into the phone:

“Gimme Michigan six one one one, sister. Uh huh... Hello, Mike — this is Gus... Kells is out here — out at my house... Come on out an’ get him... Uh huh.”

He hung up the receiver, stood up and went back to the chair and sat down.

“You been mixed up in damn near every killing we had the past week,” he said. “It looks to me like you been our Number One Gunman — not Crotti.”

Kells leaned forward slowly.

Larson said: “Sit still.”

Kells asked: “What do you think my chances are of getting to the Station on my feet?”

“Wha’ d’you mean?” Larson was blowing his nose.

“I mean they got Beery on the way in after he’d been pinched tonight. I mean your desk sergeant has tipped Rose that I’m out here by now — he’ll be here by the time your coppers are-will be waiting outside. They’ll take me in to a slab.”

Larson said: “Aw, don’t talk that way.” He squinted his eyes as if he were trying to remember something, then said proudly: “You got a prosecution complex, that’s what you got — a prosecution complex.”

Kells stood up.

Larson jerked his head emphatically at the chair, snapped: “Sit down.”

Kells said slowly: “I work pretty fast, Gus. I’ll bet you can shoot me through the heart an’ I’ll have my gun out an’ have a couple slugs in your belly before I hit the floor.” He smiled a little. “Let’s try it.”

Larson said, “Sit down,” loudly.

“I’ll bet you can’t even hit my heart — I’ll bet you’re a lousy shot.” Kells took a short step forward, balanced himself evenly on both feet.

Larson was white. His big mouth hung a little open.

Kells said: “Let’s go.” His hand went swiftly to his side.

Larson’s shoulders moved convulsively, his right hand went forward, up, with the revolver. At the same time he threw his head forward and down, fell forward out of the chair. The revolver clattered on the floor.

Kells was standing on the balls of his feet, an automatic held crosswise against his chest. He stared down at Larson and his eyes were wide, surprised.

He said, “Well, I’ll be god-damned,” under his breath.

Larson was on his hands and knees; his big shoulders and thick neck were pulled in tightly, rigidly.

Kells stooped and picked up the revolver, stuck it into his overcoat pocket. Then he laughed quietly, said: “Copper yellow. That’s the first time my reputation ever did me any good.”

He went to the door swiftly, turned once to glance hurriedly at Larson. Larson had risen to his knees. He did not look at Kells; he looked at the wall — he was breathing heavily.

Kells opened the door and went out and closed it behind him.

Fifty-eight said: “There it is.”

They were parked in the deep shadow between two street lights in the next block to the one Larson’s house was in. A big touring car had come up quietly, without lights, stopped across the street from Larson’s.

Kells didn’t say anything. He sat huddled in a corner of the cab and although the night was fairly warm he shivered a little.

After a few minutes another car swung around the corner, pulled up in front of Larson’s. Kells leaned forward and watched through the glass. Three men got out and went into the house. In a little while they came out; one of them went across the street and stood beside the car that had come up first, the others got into the other car and drove away.