The Paul Cain Omnibus (62 page)

Granquist held her glass in both hands, her elbows on the table. She tipped the glass, drank, said: “Not bad. Not
good
, but not bad.”

Kells raised his head, called towards the kitchen: “Bring out the bottle, Jake.”

Borg opened his eyes, stared gloomily at his drink.

The radio sputtered to sound: “KGPL…. Attention all cars—attention all cars…. Repeat as of eight-fifteen on Crotti killing…. Persons wanted are: Number One—Gerard A Kells. Description: six foot one—a hundred and sixty pounds—about thirty-five—red hair—sallow complexion—wearing a dark blue suit, black soft hat—walks with a limp, recent leg wound….”

Jake came out of the kitchen carrying a bottle of whiskey by the neck. He put it on the table and Kells took out the cork and tipped the bottle, sweetened Granquist’s, Borg’s, and his own drink. He waved the bottle at the driver. The driver slid off the table and came over and held out his glass and Kells poured whiskey into it. The driver went back and sat down on the table and Jake went back into the kitchen.

He said, “Ham an’ eggs coming up,” over his shoulder as he went through the door.

The radio droned on: “Number Two—a woman, thought to be Miss Granquist—first name unknown—also wanted in connection with Bellmann murder. Description: five eight—a hundred and twenty pounds—twenty-seven—blonde-high color…. Number Three—Borg—Otto J. Description: five six—a hundred an’ ninety pounds—forty—sandy complexion…. Particular attention cars on roads out of Los Angeles: these people are probably trying to get out of town…. Don’t take any chances—they’re dangerous…. That is all…. Gordon.”

The driver put his glass down, slid off the table. He said, “I forgot to turn off my lights,” started towards the door.

Borg said: “Sit down.” He had not raised his head or straightened up in his seat. The heavy snub-nosed revolver glittered in his left hand.

Kells stood up slowly, squeezed out of the booth and limped back to the kitchen door. He stood in the doorway and said: “You can put down that phone and bring out our ham and eggs now.”

He continued to stand in the doorway until Jake came out past him with four orders of ham and eggs on a big tray. Jake’s nose and forehead were shiny with sweat. He put the tray on the table and stood wiping his hands on his apron.

The driver turned and went back and sat down on the table. He was very pale and there was a weak smile on his face. He picked up his drink.

Borg gestured with his head and Jake went over and sat down in the booth with the driver.

Kells went into the kitchen.

Granquist’s eyes were hard, opaque. She took one of the plates of ham and eggs off the tray, sat staring down at it.

Kells’ voice came from the kitchen: “Madison two four five six…. Hello—
Chronicle
? …. City desk, please…. Hello—is Shep Beery there? ….” There was a short wait.

Then he lowered his voice and they could not hear.

He called another indistinguishable number, talked a long time in a low voice.

Granquist ate mechanically. Borg finished his drink, got up and handed the driver’s plate across to him. The driver sat down beside Jake, sliced the fried ham into thin strips.

After a while Kells came in and sat down. He pushed his plate away, poured whiskey into the glasses on the table.

He said quietly: “They’ve picked up Shep.”

No one said anything. Granquist tipped her glass and Borg stared expressionlessly at Kells.

“And they’ve been tipped to our reservations on the Chief tomorrow night—they’re watching all trains, all roads—they’ll ride that train to Albuquerque.” Kells drank. He looked at Granquist, then slowly turned his head and looked at Borg. “And they’ve tied us up with Abner here—or his bus.” He moved his head slightly towards the cab driver.

Borg said: “Beery’s talked.”

“No.” Kells shook his head slowly. “No. I don’t think so.”

Granquist put down her glass. “Don’t be a sap, Gerry,” she said—“he has.”

Kells leaned across the table and slapped her very sharply across the mouth.

She stared at him out of wide, startled eyes and put her hands up to her face, slowly. Kells looked at her mouth and his face was very white, his eyes were almost closed.

Borg was sitting up very straight.

Kells’ hand was lying palm up on the table. Granquist put out one hand slowly and touched his and then she said, “I’m sorry,” very softly.

Kells shook his head sharply, closed his eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them and looked down at the table. He said: “I’m sorry too, baby.” He patted the back of her hand.

He stood up and leaned against the back of the booth, stared a long minute at Jake and the driver.

The driver looked up from his plate, said: “Ain’t we goin’ on to San Berdoo?”

Kells didn’t show that he had heard. His eyes were blank, empty. He spoke sidewise to Borg: “I’m going back into town and find out what it’s all about.”

Granquist stood up swiftly. Her eyes were very bright and her face was set and determined. She said: “So am I.”

Kells bent his head a little to one side. “You’re going to stay here—and Fat is going to stay here. If I don’t make out, I’ll get a steer to you over the radio—or some way.” He moved his eyes to Borg. “You snag a car and take her to Las Vegas or some station on the UP where you can get a train.”

Borg nodded almost imperceptibly.

“I’m going to find out what happened to the immunity we were promised by Beery’s pal, the captain,” Kells went on. “He’s supposed to have the chief of police in his pocket—and the DA is his brother-in-law.” He poured a drink. “Now he puts the screws on us for knocking over Crotti, Public Enemy Number One.” He drank, smiled without mirth. “God! That’s a laugh.”

Kells glanced at Granquist, moved his head and shoulders slightly, turned and went out into the kitchen. She followed him. He was half sitting on a big table, and she went to him and put one arm around his shoulders, one hand on his chest. She moved her head close to his.

He spoke very quietly, almost whispered: “I’ve got to go by myself, baby. It’s taking enough of a chance being spotted that way—it’d be a cinch if we were together.”

“Can’t we wait here till it cools off, or take a chance on getting away now?” Her eyes were hot and dry; her voice trembled a little.

Kells said: “No. That’d mean getting clear out of the country—and it’d mean being on the run wherever we were. I had that once before and I don’t want any more of it.”

He took a small package wrapped in brown paper out of his inside breast pocket and handed it to her. “There’s somewhere around a hundred and ninety grand here,” he said. “Don’t let Borg know you’ve got it. I think he’s okay but that’s a lot of money.”

She took the package and put it in one of the big pockets of her long tweed topcoat.

Kells asked: “Have you got a gun?”

She nodded, patted her handbag. “I picked up the Spick’s—the guy who was with Crotti.”

Kells kissed her. He said: “I’ll get word to you some way, or be back by tomorrow noon. Watch yourself.”

He limped to the door, through it into the other room.Granquist followed him to the door, stood leaning against the frame; her face was dead white and she held her deep red lower lip between her teeth.

Kells spoke over his shoulder to the driver: “Come on.”

The driver jumped up and followed him to the outer door.

Kells turned at the door, said, “Be seeing you,” to Borg. He did not look at Granquist. He went out and the driver went out after him and closed the door.

On Kenmore near Beverly Boulevard, Kells leaned forward and tapped on the glass. The cab swung to the curb and the driver slid the glass. Kells asked: “Are you married?”

The driver looked blank for a moment, then said: “Uh-huh—only we don’t get along very well.”

Kells smiled faintly in the darkness. “Maybe you’d get along better if you took her for a little vacation down to Caliente—or Catalina.” He held out four crumpled bills and the driver reached back and took them. He held them in the dim light of the taxi meter and whistled, and then he stuck the bills hurriedly in his pocket and said: “Yes, sir.”

Kells said: “I want you to remember that you took us up to Lankershim and that we transferred to another car there and headed for Frisco. Is your memory that good?”

“Yes, sir.” The driver nodded emphatically.

“If it isn’t,” Kells went on—“I give you two days. My friends here would be awfully mad if anything happened to me on account of your memory slipping up.” He lowered his voice, spoke each word very distinctly: “Do you understand what I mean?”

The driver said: “Yes, sir—I understand.”

Kells got out and stood at the curb until the cab had turned down Beverly, disappeared. Then he went to the drugstore on the corner and called the taxi stand at the Lancaster, asked if Number Fiftyeight was in. He was on a short trip, was expected back soon. Kells left word for Fifty-eight to pick him up on Beverly near Normandie, went out of the drugstore, west.

His leg didn’t hurt so badly now. He wasn’t quite sure whether it was a great deal better or only momentarily numb. Anyway, it felt a lot better—he could walk fairly comfortably.

The cab detached itself from northbound traffic at the corner of Normandie, pulled into the curb. Fifty-eight, the stubby, baldheaded Irishman, stuck his head out and grinned at Kells.

Kells climbed into the cab, asked: “H’ are ya?”

Fifty-eight said: “Swell—an’ yourself? Where to?”

“Let’s go out to the apartment house on the corner of Yucca and Cahuenga first.” Kells leaned back.

They went over Normandie to Franklin, west on Franklin to Argyle, down the curve of Argyle and west two more blocks to Cahuenga. Kells got out, said, “I won’t be long,” and went into the apartment house on the corner. He asked at the desk for the number of Mister Beery’s apartment, went into the elevator and pressed the third-floor button.

Florence Beery was tall—almost as tall as Kells—slim. Her hair was very dark and her eyes were big, heavily shadowed. She stood in the doorway and looked at Kells, and her face was a hard, brittle mask.

She said slowly: “Well—what do you want?” Her voice was icy, bitter.

Kells put up one arm and leaned against the doorframe. He asked: “May I come in?”

She looked at him steadily for a moment, then she turned and went through the short hallway into the living room. He closed the door and followed her into the living room, sat down. She stood in the center of the room, staring at the wall, waiting.

Kells took off his hat and put it on the divan beside him. He said: “I’m sorry about Shep—”

“Sorry!” She turned her head towards him slowly. Her eyes were long upward-slanted slits. “Sorry! This is a hell of a time to be sorry!” She swayed a little forward.

Kells said: “Wait, Florence. Shep wouldn’t be in the can if he hadn’t come in with me. He wouldn’t be ten or twelve grand ahead, either. The dough hasn’t been so hard to take, has it?”

She stood staring at him with blank unseeing eyes, swaying a little. Then she sobbed and the sound was a dry, burnt rattle in her throat, took two steps towards him blindly. She spoke, and it was as if she was trying to scream—but her throat was too tight, her words were low, harsh, like coarse cloth tearing:

“God damn you! Don’t you know Shep is dead—dead!”

The word seemed to release some spring inside her—sight came to her eyes, swift motion to her body—she sprang at Kells, her clawed hands outstretched.

He half rose to meet her, caught one of her wrists, swung her down beside him. The nails of her free hand caught the flesh of his cheek, ripped downward. He threw his right arm around her shoulders, imprisoned her wrists in his two hands; then he took her wrists tightly in his right hand, pressed her head down on her breast with his left. She was panting sharply, raggedly. She gasped, “God! God!” over and over again. Then she relaxed suddenly, went limp against his arm—her shoulders went back and forth rhythmically, limply—she was sobbing and there was no sound except the sharp intake of breath.

Kells released her gradually, gently, stood up. He walked once to the other side of the room, back. His eyes were wide open and his mouth hung a little open, looked black against the green pallor of his face. He sank down beside her, put his arm again around her shoulders, spoke very quietly: “Florence. For the love of Mary!—when?—how?”

After a little while she whispered without raising her head: “When they were taking him to the Station—from a car—they don’t know who it was….”

Kells was staring over her shoulder at a flashing electric sign through the window. His eyes were glazed, cold—his mouth twitched a little. He sat like that a little while and then he took his arm from around her shoulders, picked up his hat and put it on, stood up. He stood looking down at her for perhaps a minute, motionlessly. Then he turned and went out of the room.

It was ten-fifty when the cab swung in to the curb in front of a bungalow on South Gramercy.

Fifty-eight turned around, said: “You’d better be wiping the blood off your face before you go in, Mister Kells.”

Kells mechanically put the fingers of his left hand up to his cheek, took them away wet, sticky. He took out a handkerchief and pressed it against his cheek, got out of the cab and went towards the dark house.

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 was 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 wallpaper was bright, bad.

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