Paul Cain: Fast One

Rose went to the desk and sat down, took a gray leather key case out of his pocket and unlocked one of the desk drawers. He slid the drawer open and took out a cigar box and opened it, took out a sheaf of hundred-dollar notes, slid the rubber band off onto two fingers and counted out twenty-four. He put the rest back in the box, the box back in the drawer, locked it. He counted the money again and held it out toward Kells. “Now, if you’ll give me a receipt...” he said.

Kells took the money and tucked it into his inside breast pocket, said: “Sure. Write it out.” His face was hard and expressionless.

Rose scribbled a few words on a piece of paper and went to the desk and leaned over and signed it.

Swanstrom was still standing in the middle of the room looking self-consciously at Kells, a meaningless smile curving his mouth. He said: “Well, I guess I better go up and see if everything’s ready for the first load.” Kells said: “We’ll all go.”

There was silence for a moment and then a new thin voice lisped: “Please lock your hands together back of your neck.” Kells slowly turned his head and looked at the narrow white door behind the desk. It had been opened about three inches and the slim blue barrel of a heavy-caliber revolver was stuck through the opening. As he watched, the door swung open a little farther and he saw a little dark man standing in the dimness of the passageway. The little man was leaning against the side of the passageway and holding the revolver pointed at Kells’ chest and smiling through thick-lensed glasses. Kells put his hands back of his neck.

Rose came around the desk and took the automatic out of Kells’ belt, held it by the barrel and swung it swiftly back and then forward at Kells’ head. Kells moved his hand enough to take most of the butt of the automatic on his knuckles, and bent his knees and grabbed Rose’s arm. Then he fell backwards, pulled Rose down with him.

The little man came into the room quickly and kicked the side of Kells’ head very hard. Kells relaxed his grip on Rose and Rose stood up, brushed himself off and went over and kicked Kells very carefully, drawing his foot back and aiming, and then kicking very accurately and hard.

The kitten jumped off the desk and went to Kells’ bloody head and sniffed delicately. Kells could feel the kitten’s warm breath. Then everything got dark and he couldn’t feel anything any more.

There was very dim yellow light coming from somewhere. There were voices. One was O’Donnell’s voice but it was from too far off to make out the words. Then the voices went away.

Kells moved his shoulder an inch at a time and turned his head slowly. It felt as if it might fall in several pieces. He closed his eyes. The yellow light was coming through a partially-opened door at the other end of a long dark storeroom. Kells could dimly see cases piled along the sides. He could see a man pitting on one of the cases, silhouetted against the pale light.

The man stood up and came over and looked down at him. Kells closed his eyes and lay very still and the man walked back and sat down and put his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. There was thin jazz music coming from somewhere above; the man tapped his foot, in time.

Kells watched him for a long time; then the man got up and came over again and lighted a match and held it down near his face. He went away through the door and closed it behind him. In the moment that the door was open Kells saw that the room was very big, and rounded at the end opposite the door — following the line of the ship’s stern. There were hundreds of cases piled along the sides. Then the door closed and it was dark.

Kells got up slowly, holding his head between his hands, took out a handkerchief and tried to wipe some of the dried blood from his face. He went swiftly to the door, found it locked. He leaned against the bulkhead, and sharp buzzing hammers pounded inside his skull.

In a little while he heard the man coming back. He stood flat against the bulkhead just inside the door, and when the man came in Kells slid one arm around his neck and pulled it tight with his other hand. The man’s curse was cut to a faint gurgle; they fell down and rolled across the deck. Kells kept his arm pressed tightly against the man’s throat and after a time he stopped struggling, went limp. Kells lay panting beside him for a few minutes without releasing his hold and then, when he was sure that the man was unconscious, got up. He stooped and fumbled in the man’s pockets, found a box of matches and a small woven-leather blackjack.

He went swiftly to the door, through to a narrow L-shaped room where unused chairs, stools, tables were stored. There was a hatchway with a steep-sloped stair leading down to another compartment. Kells went quietly down.

There was a paper-shaded light over the flat desk; there were two bunks. A man in overalls was snoring in one. There was a watertight door in one bulkhead and Kells went through it to a dark passageway that led forward along the ship’s side. About thirty feet along the passageway he stepped on something soft, yielding; he lighted a match and held it down to the drained face of the little man who had said “Please lock your hands together back of your neck.” There was a dark stain high on the front of his shirt; the heavy blue revolver was gripped in his outstretched hand. He was breathing.

Kells pried the revolver out of the little man’s hand and stood up. He balanced the revolver across his fingers and a kind of soft insanity came into his eyes. He shook out the match and went back along the dark passageway, through the compartment where the overalled man was sleeping, up to the L-shaped storeroom. In the far end of the L there was another narrow door. Kells swung it open softly.

Swanstrom was sitting at the desk with his back to the door. Another man, a spare thin-haired consumptive-looking man was sitting on a chair on the platform, one of the 30–30’s across his knees. He looked at Kells and he looked at the big blue revolver in Kells’ hand and he put the .30–30 down on the platform.

Swanstrom swung around and opened his mouth, and then he smiled as if he were very tired.

Kells said: “Twenty-four hundred, and goddamned quick.”

The thin moan of saxophones came down to them from somewhere above.

Swanstrom inclined his head toward the desk. He said, still with the tired smile: “I ain’t got a key.”

The lock of the other door clicked and the door opened and Rose and O’Donnell came in. They stood still for perhaps five seconds; O’Donnell was almost behind Rose. He closed the door and then he reached for the light-switch on the bulkhead. Kells squeezed the big Colt; O’Donnell fell forward to his hands and knees, shook his head slowly from side to side, sank down and forward onto his face.

Most of Kells’ face was dark with dried blood. His eyes were glazed, insane. He said: “Anybody else?”

He swayed. He moved slowly toward Rose. Swanstrom was staring at O’Donnell; Swanstrom stood up, and in the same instant someone knocked heavily on the door, the knob rattled. Someone shouted outside. Kells moved toward Rose. His cold eyes and the slim blue barrel of the revolver were focused on Rose’s belt buckle.

Rose licked his full lower lip, and sweat glistened on his dark forehead. He put one hand into his inside pocket and took out the folded sheaf of hundred-dollar notes, held them towards Kells.

Kells took them, nodded. He grinned, and the grin was a terrible thing on his bloody face. He backed slowly, carefully to the door through which he had entered, said, “First man through gets one in the guts,” backed out and closed the door.

He went swiftly to the hatchway, down. The man who had been asleep had gone. Kells went through the passageway to the little man, lighted a match and saw that he was conscious.