The Paul Cain Omnibus (63 page)

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, picked his nose violently with his other hand, and 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 kill. 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 on back to bed.”

He turned back towards 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 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, L.D. 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 Dave 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, picked up the telephone receiver with one hand, and 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’ve had in 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 was trying to remember something, then said proudly: “You got a prosecution complex, that’s what you got. A prosecution complex.”

Kells stood up.

Larson nodded 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 goddamned,” 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.

Then the man got into the second car, its lights were switched on and it too drove away.

Kells said: “Give ’em enough room.”

Fifty-eight waited until the other car was more than halfway down the long block, then he let the clutch in slowly. Kells felt in his pockets until he found the tin box of aspirin tablets, took two. The other car turned left on Third Street. Fifty-eight stepped on it, swung into Third; there were two taillights about a block and a half ahead. He followed the faster one north on Rossmore, got close enough to see that he’d guessed right, fell back.

They turned west again on Beverly, to La Brea.

Kells was sitting sideways on the seat looking through the rear window. He leaned forward suddenly, spoke rapidly to Fifty-eight: “Keep that car in sight—an’ you’ll have to do it by yourself. I’ve got something else to watch. We’re being tailed.”

“Sure,” Fifty-eight said.

They turned off La Brea, west on Santa Monica Boulevard.

Then Kells was sure they were being followed. The car was a big blue or black coupé—shiny, powerful.

On Santa Monica, a little way beyond Gardner, Fifty-eight said over his shoulder: “They’re stopping.”

“Go on past ’em—slow.”

Kells squeezed back into the corner, saw four men get out of the touring car and start across the street. He thought one of them was Detective Lieutenant Reilly; wasn’t sure. He didn’t recognize any of the others.

Fifty-eight asked: “What’ll I do?”

“Go on—slow.” Kells took the automatic from its shoulder holster, balanced it across his hand. He watched the big coupé come up slowly.

It overtook them in the second block, stayed alongside.

Kells said: “Turn off right, at the next side street.” He was deep in the dark corner of the cab, watching the coupé narrowly. Then the driver of the coupé put up his hand and Kells saw that it was Borg. They turned together into the side street, drove up about a hundred yards to comparative darkness. Borg parked a little way ahead of the cab.

Kells got out and went up to the coupé. He said. “That’s the way people have accidents,” unpleasantly.

Borg was silent.

Granquist was sitting very low in the seat beside Borg. She straightened, said: “Your other driver spilled his guts an’ the tip went out on the joint we were at—”

Borg interrupted her: “That’s a swell invention, the radio. I don’t know what we would’ve done without it.”

“Then while we were getting out,” Granquist went on, “the call went out to the car in Larson’s neighborhood to go and pick you up—we got the address from that. Fat couldn’t find a car so we hired this one at a garage—”

“An’ damn near busted our necks getting to Larson’s,” Borg finished.

Kells asked: “Where did you pick me up?”

“We were turning off Third onto Gramercy when you turned into Third.” Borg lighted his stump of cigar. He bent his head towards Granquist. “Miss Eagle-eye here thought she spotted you in the cab—an’ I thought she was nuts. She wasn’t.”

“Did you know I was following another car?”

Granquist said: “Sure.”

“That was one of Rose’s cars.” Kells put one foot on the running board, leaned on the door. “It was planted across from Larson’s to smack me down when the cops brought me out.” He hesitated a moment. “That’s what happened to Shep when they were taking him in.”

Borg swallowed, started to speak: “They….” He was silent.

Granquist said: “Gerry—for God’s sake, get in and let’s get out of here.” Her voice was low, almost hoarse; she spoke very rapidly. “Please, Gerry, let’s go now—we can make the Border by three o’clock….”

“Sure. In a little while.” Kells was looking at the black and yellow sky.

It began to rain a little.

Borg said: “So what?”

“That car stopped at Ansel’s.” Kells jerked his head back towards Santa Monica Boulevard. “Ansel runs a crap game that’s backed by Rose—I’ve been there. It’s a pretty safe bet that Rose is there—that his carload of rods went back there to report to him.”

Borg said: “Uh-huh. So, what?”

Kells stared at Borg vacantly.” So I’m going up an’ tell Rose about Beery—about Beery’s wife.”

Granquist opened the door suddenly, got out on the sidewalk on the other side of the car. She held her arms stiff at her sides and her hands were clenched; she was trembling violently. She walked up the sidewalk about thirty feet—walked as if she was making a tremendous effort to walk slowly. Then she turned and leaned against a telephone pole and looked back at the car.

Kells watched her. He could not see her face in the darkness, only the dim outline of her body. He turned slowly to Borg.

“You can wait here,” he said. “Or maybe you’d better wait down at the first corner this side of Ansel’s. And stay with the car—both of you.”

Borg said: “All right.”

Kells walked up to Granquist. He stood looking down at her a little while, asked: “What’s the matter, baby?”

Her voice, when she finally answered, was elaborately sarcastic. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” Then her tone changed abruptly—she put one trembling hand on his arm. “Gerry, for God’s sake, don’t do this,” she said. “Let it go—please—this time….”

He was smiling faintly. He shook his head very slightly.

She took her hand from his arm. Her voice was suddenly acid, metallic. “You—and your goddamned pride! Your long chances—your little tin-horn revenge!” She laughed shrilly, hysterically. “You’ve seen too many gangster pictures—that’s what’s wrong with you….”

Kells was staring at her expressionlessly. He turned abruptly, strode back towards the car.

She was behind him, sobbing, trying to hold his arm.

“Gerry!” Her voice was blurred by tears. “Gerry—can’t you think of me a little—can’t you let this one thing go—for me? For us?”

He shook her hand off his arm, spoke briefly to Borg: “An’ stay with the car this time—I’ll be wanting it in a hurry, when I want it.”

Borg said: “Okay. First corner this side of the joint.”

Kells went back to the cab, got in, said: “Take me down to Gardner, about a half-block the other side of the Boulevard.”

Fifty-eight grunted affirmatively and swung the cab around in the narrow street.

Kells glanced back through the rear window. Granquist was standing motionlessly in the middle of the street, silhouetted against the glow of a street light on the far corner.

It began raining harder, pounded on the roof of the cab. Fiftyeight started the windshield wiper and it swished rhythmically in a wide arc across the glass.

They stopped in the shelter of a wide palm on Gardner. Kells got out.

Fifty-eight asked: “Can I help, Mister Kells?”

Kells shook his head. “I’ll make out.” He peeled two bills off the roll in his pocket, handed them to the little Irishman. He turned swiftly and went into the darkness between two houses, heard Fiftyeight’s “Thank you, sir,” behind him.

The driveway ended in a small garage; there was a gate at one side of it leading to a kind of narrow alley. Kells crossed the alley and walked north along a five-foot board fence for about a hundred feet. Then he climbed over the fence and went across a vacant, weed-grown lot towards the rear end of the building that housed Ansel’s.

It was a three-story business block, dark and forbidding in the rain; no light came from the rear, and the side that Kells could see seemed entirely windowless. He remembered that at one time it had been a scenery warehouse.