Five men sat in Fenner’s apartment at the Knickerbocker.
Fenner sat at one end of the divan. Hanline, Fenner’s secretary, sat beside him, then Abe Gowdy, Fenner’s principal contact man with the liberal element. They hadn’t been able to reach Dickinson.
Gowdy swung the vote of practically every gambler, grafter, bootlegger and so on in the county, except the few independents who tried to get along without protection. He was a bald, paunchy man with big white bulbs of flesh under his eyes, a loose pale mouth. He wore dark, quiet clothes; didn’t drink.
Hanline was a curly-haired, thin-nosed Jew. He drank a great deal.
He and Beery and Kells all drank a great deal.
Kells got up and walked to one of the windows. He said: “Try him again.”
Fenner reached wearily for the phone, asked for a Fitzroy number, listened a little while and hung up.
Kells turned, came back and stopped near Fenner, looked first at Gowdy, then Hanline.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Lee” — he indicated Fenner with a fond pat on the shoulder — “Lee and I have entered into a partnership.” He paused, picked up a small glass full of whiskey and cracked ice, drank most of it.
“We all know,” he went on, “that things haven’t been so good the last three or four years — and we know that unless some very radical changes are made in the city government things won’t get any better.” Hanline nodded slightly.
“Lee and I have talked things over and decided to join forces.” Kells put down the glass.
Gowdy said: “What do you mean: ‘join forces,’ Mister Kells?”
Kells cleared his throat, glanced at Beery. “You boys have the organization,” he said. “You, Gowdy — and Frank Jensen, and O’Malley — and Lee here. My contribution is very important political information, which I’ll handle in my own way and at my own time — and a lot of friends in the East who are going to be on their way out here tomorrow.”
Hanline looked puzzled. Gowdy glanced expressionlessly at Fenner.
“Bellmann’s dead,” Kells went on — “and the circumstances of his murder can be of great advantage to us if they’re handled in exactly the right way. But that, alone, isn’t going to swing an, election. We’ve got the personal following of all the administration to beat — and we’ve got Rose’s outfit to beat...”
Hanline asked: “Rose?”
Kells poured himself another drink. “Rose has built up a muscle organization of his own in the last few months — and a week or so ago he threw in with Bellmann.”
Hanline and Gowdy glanced at one another, at Fenner.
Kells said: “There it is.” He sat down.
Fenner got up and went into the bedroom. He came back presently, said: “It’s a good proposition, Abe. Mister Kells wants to put the heat on Rose—”
Kells interrupted: “I want to reach Dickinson tonight and see if we can’t get the first number of the Guardian on the streets by morning. There are certain angles on the Bellmann thing that the other papers won’t touch.”
Hanline said: “Maybe he’s at Ansel’s — but they won’t answer the phone there after ten.”
“Who’s Ansel?”
Hanline started to answer but Gowdy interrupted him: “Did you know Rose was backing Ansel?” Gowdy was looking at Fenner.
Fenner shook his head, spoke to Kells: “Ansel runs a couple crap games down on Santa Monica Boulevard — Dickinson plays there quite a bit.”
Kells said: “So Dickie is a gambler?”
Hanline laughed. “I’ll bet he’s made a hundred thousand dollars with the dirt racket in the last year,” he said. “And I’ll bet he hasn’t got a dollar and a quarter.”
Kells smiled at Fenner. “You ought to take better care of your hired men,” he said. Then he got up, finished his drink and put on his hat. “I’ll go over and see if I can find him.” Beery said: “I’ll come along.” Kells shook his head slightly.
Hanline stood up, stretched, said: “It’s the second or third building on the south side of the street, west of Gardner — used to be a scene painter’s warehouse or something like that — upstairs.”
“Thanks.” Kells asked Fenner: “Dickinson’s the guy that was typewriting at the place downtown?”
Fenner nodded.
Hanline said: “If you don’t mind, I’m going back downstairs and get some sleep. I was out pretty late last night.”
“Sure.” Kells glanced at Gowdy.
Kells and Hanline went out, down the elevator. Hanline got off at the fifth floor. Kells stopped at the desk, asked for the house detective. The clerk pointed out a heavy, dull-eyed man who sat reading a paper near the door. Kells went over to him, said: “You needn’t hold the man Fenner was going to file charges against.”
The house detective put down his paper. He said: “Hell, he was gone when I got upstairs. There wasn’t nobody there but Mister Dillon.”
Kells said: “Oh.” He scratched the back of his head. “How’s Dillon?”
“He’ll be all right.” Kells went out and got into a cab.
Ansel’s turned out to be a dark, three-story business block set flush with the sidewalk. There were big For Rent signs in the plate-glass windows and there was a dark stairway at one side.
Kells told the cab driver to wait, went upstairs.
Someone opened a small window in a big heavily timbered door, surveyed him dispassionately.
Kells said: “I want to see Ansel.”
“He ain’t here.”
“I’m a friend of Dickinson’s — I want to see him.”
The window closed and the door swung slowly open; Kells went into a small room littered with newspapers and cigarette butts. The man who had looked at him through the window patted his pockets methodically, silently.
Another man, a very dark-skinned Italian or Greek, sat in a worn wicker chair tilted back against one wall.
He said: “Your friend Dickinson — he is very drunk.”
Kells said, “So am I,” and then the other man finished feeling his pockets, went to another heavy door, opened it.
Kells went into a very big room. It was dark except for two clots of bright light at the far end. He walked slowly back through the darkness, and the hum of voices grew louder, broke up into words: “Eight... Point is eight, a three-way... Get your bets down, men... Throws five — point is eight... Throws eleven, a field point, men... Throws four — another fielder. Get ’em in the field, boys... Five... Seven, out. Next man. Who likes this lucky shooter?...”
Each of the two tables was lined two deep with men. One powerful green-shaded light hung over each table. The dice man’s voice droned on: “Get down on him, boys... Ten — the hard way... Five... Ten — the winner — All right, boys, he’s coming out. Chuck it in...”
Kells saw Dickinson. He was standing at one end of one of the tables. He was swaying back and forth a little and his eyes were half closed; he held a thick sheaf of bills in his left hand.
“Seven — the winner...”
Dickinson leaned forward and put his forefinger unsteadily down beside a stack of bills on the line. The change man reached over, counted it and put a like amount beside it.
“Drag fifty, Dick,” he said. “Hundred-dollar limit.”
Dickinson said thickly: — “Bet it all.”
The change man smiled patiently, picked up a fifty-dollar bill and tossed it on the table nearer Dickinson.
A small, pimpled old man at the end of the table caught the dice as they were thrown to him, put them into the black leather box, breathed into it devoutly, rolled.
Kells elbowed closer to the table.
“Eleven — the winner...”
Dickinson stared disgustedly at the change man as a hundred dollars in tens and twenties was counted out, lain down beside his line bet. The change man said: “Drag a C, Dick.”
“Bet it!” Dickinson said angrily.
Kells looked at the change man. He said: “Can you raise the limit if I cover it behind the line?”
The man glanced at a tall well-dressed youth behind him for confirmation, nodded.
Kells took a wad of bills out of his trouser pocket and put two hundred-dollar bills — down behind the line. Dickinson looked up, and his bleary, heavy-lidded eyes came gradually to focus on Kells.
He said, “Hello there,” very heartily. Then he looked as if he were trying hard to remember, said: “Kells! How are ya, boy?”
At mention of Kells’ name it became very quiet for a moment.
Kells said: “I’m fine.”
The little pimpled man rolled.
The dice man said: “Six — an easy one... He will or he won’t... Nine pays the field... Six — right...”
The change man picked up Kells’ two hundred-dollar bills, tossed them down beside Dickinson’s bet.
Dickinson grinned. He said: “Bet it.”
Kells took a thousand-dollar note from his breast pocket, put it down behind the line.
Dickinson said: “Better lay off — I’m right...”
“Get down on the bill.” Kells smiled faintly, narrowly.
“Damned if I won’t.” Dickinson counted his money on the table and the money in his hand: “Four hundred, six, eight, nine, a thousand, thousand one hundred an’ thirty. Tap me.
The tall young man said: “Hurry up, gentlemen — you’re holding up the game.”
Several men wandered over from the other table. The little man holding the dice box said:
“Jesus! I don’t want...”
Kells was counting out the additional hundred and thirty dollars.
Dickinson said: “Roll.”
“Eleven — the winner.”
The change man picked up Kells’ money, cut off a twenty for the house, threw the rest down in front of Dickinson.
The little man raked in the few dollars he had won for himself, walked away.
The dice man picked up the box.
Kells said: “Got enough?”
“Hell, no! I’ll bet it all on my own roll.” Dickinson held out his hand for the box.
“Make it snappy, boys.” The tall young man frowned, nodded briefly at Kells.
Dickinson was checking up on the amount. He said: “Two thousand, two hundred and forty...”
Kells put three thousand-dollar notes behind the line. The dice man threw a dozen or more glittering red dice on the table; Dickinson carefully picked out two.
“Get down your bets, men... A new shooter... We take big ones and little ones... Come, don’t-come, hard way, and in the field... Bet ’em either way...”
Dickinson was shaking the box gently, tenderly, near his ear. He rolled.
“Three — that’s a bad one...”
Kells picked up his three notes; the change man raked up the bills in front of Dickinson, counted them into a stack, cut off one and handed the rest to Kells.
“Next man... Get down on the next lucky shooter, boys...”
Kells folded the bills and stuck them into his pocket.
Dickinson looked at the-tall young man, said: “Let me take five hundred, Les.”
The young man looked at him with soft unseeing eyes, turned and walked away. Kells gestured with his head and went over to a round green-covered table out of the circle of light. Dickinson followed him, they sat down.
Kells said: “Can you get the paper out by tomorrow morning?”
Dickinson was fumbling through his pockets, brought out a dark brown pint bottle. He took out the cork, held the bottle toward Kells. “Wha’ for?”
Kells shook his head but Dickinson shoved the bottle into his hands. Kells took a drink, handed it back.
“Bellmann was fogged tonight and I want to give it a big spread.”
“The hell you say!” Dickinson stared blankly at Kells. “Well, wha’d’y know about that!” Then he seemed to remember Kells’ question. “Sure.”
Kells said: “Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute. Let’s have another drink.”
They drank.
Dickinson said: “Listen. Wha’dy’ think happened tonight? Somebody called me up an’ offered me ten grand, cold turkey, to ditch Lee.”
“Ditch him, how?”
“I don’t know. They said all I had to do was gum up the works some way so that the paper wouldn’t come out. They said I’d get five in cash in the mail tomorrow, an’ the rest after the primaries.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Listen, sister, Lee Fenner’s been a damned good friend to me.’ I said—”
Kells said: “Sister?”
“Yeah. It was a broad.”
They got up and went through the semidarkness to the little room, out and downstairs to the street. It was raining very hard. Dickinson said he had a car; Kells paid off the cab and they went into the vacant lot alongside the building.
Dickinson’s car was a Ford coupe; he finally found his keys and opened the door. Then a bright spotlight was switched on in a car at the curb. There was a sharp choked roar and something bit into Kells’ leg, into his side. Dickinson stumbled, fell down on his knees on the running board; his face and the upper part of his body sagged forward to the floor of the car. He lay still.
Kells lay down in the mud beside the car and drew-up his knees and he could taste blood in his mouth. His teeth were sunk savagely, deeply into his lower lip, and there were jagged wires of pain in his brain, jagged wires in his side.
He knew that it had been a shotgun, and he lay in the mud with rain whipping his face, wondered if Dickinson was dead, waited for the gun to cough again.
Then the spotlight went out and Kells could hear the car being shifted, into gear; he twisted his head a little and saw it pass through the light near the corner — a Cadillac.
He crawled up onto the running board of the Ford and shook Dickinson a little, and then he slowly, painfully, pushed Dickinson up into the car — slowly.
He pressed the knob that unlocked the opposite door and limped around the car and crawled into the driver’s seat. He could feel blood on his side; blood pounded through his head, his eyes. He pried the keys out of Dickinson’s hand and started the motor. Dickinson was an inert heap beside him. He groaned, coughed in a curious dry way.
Kells said: “All right, boy. We’ll fix it up in a minute.” Dickinson coughed again in the curious way that was like a laugh. He tried to sit up, fell forward and-his head banged against the windshield. Kells pulled him back into the seat and drove out of the lot, turned east on Santa Monica. Dickinson tried to say something, groped with one hand in the side pocket. He finally gave it up, managed to gasp: “Gun — here.”
Kells said. “Sit still.”
They went down Santa Monica Boulevard very fast, turned north on La Brea. Kells stopped halfway up the block and felt in Dickinson’s pocket for the bottle, but it had been broken, the pocket was full of wet glass.
They went up La Brea to Franklin, over Franklin to Cahuenga, up Cahuenga and Irish to Cullen’s house.
Kells’ side and leg had become numb. He got out of the car as quickly as he could, limped up the steps. Cullen answered the first ring, stood in the doorway looking elaborately disgusted, said: “Again?”
Kells said: “Give me a hand, Willie. Hurry up.” He started back down the steps.
“No! God damn you and your jams!”
Kells turned and stared at Cullen expressionlessly, and then he went on down the steps. Cullen followed him, muttering; they got Dickinson out of the car, carried him up into the house.
Cullen was breathing heavily. He asked: “Why the hell don’t you take him to the Receiving Hospital?”
“I’ve been mixed up in five shootings in the last thirty-two hours.” Kells went to the telephone, grinned over his shoulder at Cullen. “It’s like old times — one more and they’ll hang me on principle.”
“Haven’t you got any other friends? This place was lousy with coppers yesterday.”
“Wha’s the matter, darling?”
Kells and Cullen turned, looked at the stairway. Eileen, Coin’s girl, was standing halfway down. She swayed back and forth, put her hand unsteadily on the banister. She was very drunk. She was naked.
She drawled: “Hello, Gerry.”
Cullen said: “Go back upstairs and put on your clothes, slut!” He said it very loudly.
Kells laughed, said: “Call Doc Janis — will you, Willie?” He limped to the door, looked down at his torn, muddy, bloodstained clothes. “And loan me a coat. Willie — or I’ll get wet.”
A black touring car with the side curtains drawn was parked in the reserved space in front of the Knickerbocker. Kells had been about to park across the street; he slowed down, blinked at it. The engine was running and there was a man at the wheel. It was a Cadillac.
He stepped on the throttle, careened around the corner, parked in front of the library. He jumped out and took the revolver out of the side pocket, slipped it into the pocket of Cullen’s big coat; he turned up the deep Collar and hurried painfully back across the street, down an alley to a service entrance of the hotel.
The boy in the elevator said: “Well, I guess I was right — I guess it’s going to rain all night.”
Kells said: “Uh huh.”
“Tch tch tch.” The boy shook his head sadly.
“Has Mister Fenner had any visitors since I left?”
“No, sir — I don’t think so. Not many people in and out tonight. There was three gentlemen went up to nine little while ago. They was drunk, I guess.” He slid the door open. Ten, sir.
Kells said: “Thank you.”
He listened at the door of ten-sixteen, heard no sound, rang the bell and stood close to the wall with the revolver in his hand. The inner hallway was narrow — the door would have to be opened at least halfway before he could be seen.
It opened almost at once, slowly. A yellow-white face took form in the darkness, and Kells stepped in to the doorway. He held the revolver belly-high in front of him. The yellow-white face faded backwards as Kells went in until it was the black outline of a man’s head against orange light of the living room, until it was the figure of a short Latin standing with his back against the wall at one side of the door, his arms stretched out.
Beyond him, Fenner and Beery kneeled on the floor, their faces to the wall. On the other side of the room O’Donnell stood with a great blue automatic leveled at Kells’ chest. O’Donnell was bareheaded and a white bulge of gauze and cotton plastered across his scalp. His mouth was open and he breathed through it slowly, audibly. Except for the sharp sound of his breathing, it was entirely still.
Kells said: “I’ll bet I can shoot faster than you, Adenoids.” O’Donnell didn’t say anything. His pale eyes glittered in a sick face and the big automatic was glistening and steady in his fat pink hand.
Fenner leaned forward, put his head against the wall. Beery turned slowly and looked at Kells. The Mexican was motionless, bright-eyed.
Then Beery said, “Look out!” and something dull and terrible crashed against the back of Kells’ head, there was dull and terrible blackness. It was filled with thunder and smothering blue, something hot and alive pulsed in Kells’ hand. He fell.
There was light that hurt his eyes very much, even when they were closed. Someone was throwing water in his face. He said: “Stop that, damn it — you’re getting me wet!” Beery said: “Sh — easy.”
Kells opened his eyes a little. “The place is backwards.”
“This is the one next door, one across the airshaft where Fenner’s stick-up men were stashed. Fenner had the key.” Beery spoke very quietly.
“God! My head. How did I get in here?”
Beery said: “Papa carried you.” He stood up and went to the door for a minute, came back and sat down. “And what a piece of business! You were out on your feet — absolutely cold — squeezed that iron, one, two, three, four, five, six — like that. One in the wall about six inches above my head, five in baby-face.”
“That was O’Donnell.” Kells closed his eyes and moved his head a little. Beery nodded. “Who hit me?”
“Rose.”
Kells looked interested. “What with — a piano?”
“A vase...”
“Vahze.”
Beery said: “A vase — a big one out of the bedroom. I don’t think he had a gun.”
“Would you mind beginning at the beginning?” Kells closed his eyes again.
“After you left, Fenner and Gowdy sat there like a couple bumps on a log, afraid to crack in front of me.”
Kells nodded carefully, held his head in his hands.
“After a while, Gowdy got bored and went home — he lives around the corner. I was sucking up a lot of red-eye, having a swell time. Then about five minutes before you got here the bell rang and Fenner went to the door, backed in with Rose and O’Donnell and the spiggoty. O’Donnell and the spick was snowed to the eyes. Rose said, ‘What did Kells get from that gal that bumped Bellmann, and where is it?’ Fenner went into a nose dive — he was scared wet, anyway. They made us get down on the floor—”
Kells laughed, said: “You looked like a couple communicants.”
“—and Rose frisked both of us and started tearing up the Furniture. Some way or other I got the idea that whether he found what he was looking for or not, we weren’t going to tell about it afterwards.”
Beery paused, lighted a cigaret, went on quietly: “Rose was sore as hell, and O’Donnell and the greaser were leaking C out of their ears. The greaser kept fingering a shiv in his belt — you know: the old noiseless ear-to-ear trick.”
Kells said: “Maybe. They popped Dickinson and me outside Ansel’s. If they’re that far in the open maybe they’d want to get Fenner too.”
“And Beery — the innocent bystander...”
“I doubt it, Shep. I don’t think Rose would have come along if it was a kill.”
“Well, anyway — he’d got around to the bedroom when you rang. He switched out the light and waited in there in the dark. You came in and went into your Wild West act with baby-face, and Rose came behind you and took a bead on your skull with the vase — vahze. Then he and the greaser scrammed — quick.”
Kells reached suddenly into his inside pocket, then took his hand out, sighed. “Didn’t he fan me?”
“No. I grabbed O’Donnell’s gun when he fell — anyway, I think Rose was too scared to think about that.” Kells said: Go on.
Beery looked immensely, superior. “Well, the old rapid-fire Beery brain got to work. I figured that you had to be out of there quick and I remembered what you’d said about this place next door. Fenner was about to go into his fit — I got the key from him and talked about thirty seconds’ worth of sense, and carried you in here — and the gun.” He nodded at the revolver on the couch beside Kells.
“Where’s Fenner now?”
“Over at the Station filing murder charges against Rose and the greaser.”
Kells said: “That’s swell.”
“The house dick and a bunch of coppers and a lot of neighbors who had heard the barrage got here at about the same time. It was the fastest police action I’ve ever seen; must have been one of the radio cars. I listened through the airshaft. Fenner had pulled himself together, told a beautiful story about Rose and O’Donnell and the Mex crashing in, O’Donnell getting it in an argument with Rose.”
Beery mashed out his cigarette. “He’s telling it over at headquarters now — or maybe he’s on his way back. You’ve been out about a half-hour.”
Kells sat up unsteadily, said: “Give me a drink of water.” He bent over and very carefully rolled up his trouser leg, examined his injured leg.
A little later there was a tap at the door and Beery opened it, let Fenner in.
Fenner looked very tired. He said: “How are you, Gerry?”
“I’m fine, Lee — how are you?” Kells grinned.
“Terrible — terrible! I can’t stand this kind of thing.” Fenner sat down.
“Maybe you’d better take a trip, after all.” Kells smiled faintly, picked up the revolver. “Things are going to be more in the open from now on, I guess — I’ll have to carry a gun.” He looked down at the revolver.
“By God, I’ll get a permit for a change,” he said: “Can you fix that up?”
Fenner nodded wearily. “I guess so.”
“And Lee, we made a deal tonight — I mean early — the twenty-five grand, you know. I’m going to handle the stuff, of course; but in the interests of my client, Miss Granquist, I’ll have to consummate the sale.”
Fenner looked at the floor.
“A check’ll be all right.”
Fenner nodded. “I’ll go in and make it out,” he said. “Then I’ll have to say goodnight — I’m all in.”
“That’ll be all right.”
Fenner went out and closed the door.
Kells sat looking at the door for a moment and then he said: “Shep — you’re the new editor of the Coast Guardian. How do you like that?”
“Lousy. I don’t carry enough insurance.”
“You’ll be all right. A hundred a week and all the advertising you can sell on the side.”
“When do I start?”
“Right now. I parked Dickinson up at Bill Cullen’s. I’ll drop you there and you can get the details from him — if he’s conscious. I’ll turn the, uh — data over to you...”
Beery rubbed his eyes, yawned. He smiled a little and said: “Oh well, what the hell. I guess I’m beginning to like it.”
Kells looked at his wrist. “The bastards smashed my watch — what time is it?”
“Twelve-two.”
Kells picked up the telephone and called a Hempstead number. He said: “Hello, baby... Sure... Have you got any ham and eggs?... Have you got some absorbent cotton and bandages and iodine?... That’s fine, I’ll be up in about ten minutes... I’ve been on a party.”
Doctor Jams looked wiser than any one man could possibly be. His head was as round and white and bare as a cue ball; his nose was a long bony hook and his eyes were pale, immensely shrewd.
He jabbed forceps gently into Kells’ leg, said: “Hurt?”
Kells stuck out his lips, shook his head slightly. “No. Not very much.”
“You’re a damned liar!” Janis straightened, glared.
Bright sun beat through the wide east windows; the old instrument case against one white wall glistened. Kells was half lying on a small operating table. He stared at the bright point of sunlight on the wall, tried not to think about the leg.
“God deliver me from a sadistic doctor,” he said.
Janis grinned, bent again over the leg, probed deeper. “That Was a dandy.” He held a tiny twisted chunk of lead up in the forceps’ point, exhibited it proudly. “Now you know how a rabbit feels.”
“Now I know how it feels to be a mother. You’re as proud of a few shot as a good doctor would be of triplets.”
Janis chuckled, jabbed again with the forceps.
At a little after eight-thirty, Kells left Janis’s office in the Harding Building. It had rained all night; the air was sharp, clear. He limped across Hollywood Boulevard to a small jewelry store, left his watch to be repaired and asked that they send it to him at the hotel as soon as possible. He went out and bought a paper and got a cab, said, “Ambassador,” leaned back and spread the paper. Then he sat up very straight.
A headline read: WOMAN IN BELLMANN KILLING ESCAPES.
He glanced out the window at a tangle of traffic as the cab curved into Vine Street; then leaned back again slowly, read the story:
Early this morning, Miss S. Granquist, alleged by police to be the self-confessed slayer of John R. Bellmann, prominent philanthropist and reformer, was “kidnapped” from Detectives Breen and Rail after the car in which they were taking her from the Hollywood Police Station to the County Jail had been forced to the curb near Temple Street and Coronado, crashed into a fire plug. Officer Breen was slightly injured, removed to the Receiving Hospital. Rail described the “abductors” as, “eight or nine heavily armed and desperate men in a cream-colored coupe.” He neglected to explain how “eight or nine” men and a woman got away in a coupe. Our motor-car manufacturers would be interested in how that was done. It is opportune that another example of the inefficiency of our police department occurs almost on the eve of the municipal primaries. The voters...
Kells folded the paper, knocked on the glass and told the driver to make it fast. They cut over Melrose to Normandie, out of the heavy traffic, over Normandie to Wilshire Boulevard and into the big parking circle of the Ambassador.
Kells told the driver to wait, hurried up to his room and changed clothes. He called the desk, was told that Mister Beery had called twice, called Beery back at the Hay ward Hotel downtown. The room line was busy. He took a long drink and went back down and got into the cab. It took twenty-five minutes to get through the traffic on lower Seventh Street to the Hayward. Fenner opened the door of the small outer room on the fourth floor; they went through to the larger bedroom. Kells said: “You’re down early, Lee.”
Fenner glanced at the rolled newspaper in Kells’ hand, nodded, smiled wanly.
“Where’s Beery?” Kells took off his hat and coat. Fenner sat down on the bed. “He went over to the print shop about an hour ago. He ought to be back pretty soon.” Kells sat down carefully. Fenner asked: “How’s the leg?”
“Doc Janis picked eleven shot out of it like plucking petals off a daisy. It came out odd — he loves me.” Kells unrolled, unfolded the paper, looked over it at Fenner. “Do you know anything about this?”
“I do not.” Fenner said it very quietly, very emphatically.
“What do you think?”
“Rose.”
Kells stared at Fenner steadily. He moved his fingers on the arm of the chair as though running scales. He said: “What for?”
“She’s crossed him up all the way — he’s the kind of a crazy guy that would take a long chance to get even.”
Kells sat staring blankly at Fenner for perhaps a minute. Then he said slowly: “I want you to call Gowdy — everybody you can reach who might have a line on it...”
Fenner got up and went to the phone. He called several numbers, spoke softly, quietly.
After a little while the other door opened and someone came through the outer room. It was Beery. He said: “We can’t get it on the newsstands before noon.”
“That’ll be all right.” Kells was still sitting deep in the big chair. Fenner was at the telephone. Beery took off his coat and hat, flopped down on the bed.
“Maybe I can get a couple hours’ snooze,” he said.
Fenner hung up the receiver and looked at Kells. “You might pick up something at the Bronx, out on Central Avenue. It’s a nigger cabaret run by a man named Sheedy. Rose is supposed to be a partner — he was seen there last night.”
“Who’s Sheedy?”
Beery said: “A big dinge — used to be in pictures...”
“You know him?”
“A little.”
“Get on the phone and see if you can locate him. He wouldn’t be at his joint this time of day.”
Beery sighed, sat up. “The law’s looking for Rose too, Gerry,” he said. “You’re not going to get anything out of any of these boys.”
Kells half smiled, inclined his head toward the phone. Then he stood up.
“If that son of a bitch got her — which is a long shot” — he looked sideways at Fenner — “he’ll give her everything in the book. I got her into it — and by God! I’ll get her out if I have to turn the rap back on Lee and let the whole play slide.” He turned, went to one of the windows. “And if Rose did get her and lets her have it. I’ll spread his guts from here to Caliente.”
Beery got up and went to the phone. “You’re getting plenty dramatic about a gal you turned up yourself,” he said.
Kells turned from the window and looked at Beery, and his eyes were cold, his mouth was partly open, faintly smiling.
He said: “Right.”
Sheedy couldn’t be located.
Fenner got Officer Rail on the phone and Kells talked to him. Rail said he couldn’t identify any of the men who had taken Granquist; he thought one of them was crippled, wore a steel brace on his leg. He wasn’t sure.
Kells called Rose’s place on Fifth Street; there was no answer. He called the Biltmore, was told that Rose hadn’t been in for two days; Mrs. Rose was out of town.
Beery napped for an hour. Kells and Fenner sat in the outer room; Fenner read a detective-story magazine and Kells sat deep in a big chair, stared out the window. Hanline stopped in for a minute. He said he’d speak to one of the bellboys downstairs, send up a bottle.
At a little after ten-thirty the phone rang. Fenner answered it, called Kells.
A man’s high-pitched voice said: “I have been authorized to offer you fifteen thousand dollars for the whole issue of the Guardian, together with the plates and all data used in its make-up.”
Kells said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” hung up.
He told Fenner to hurry down to the switchboard, try to trace the call; waited for the phone to ring again. It did almost immediately. The man’s voice said: “It will be very much to your advantage to talk business, Mister Kells.”
“Who s your authority?”
“The Bellmann estate.”
Kells said: “If you know where Miss Granquist is and can produce her within the next half-hour, I’ll talk to you.”
There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Then the man said: “Wait a minute.” After a little while a woman’s voice said: “Gerry! For God’s sake get me out of this!...” The voice trailed off as if she had been dragged away from the phone. The man’s voice said: “Well?” Fenner came in, nodded to Kells. Kells said: “Okay. Bring her here.” He hung up. The phone rang again but he didn’t answer. He sat grinning at Fenner. Fenner said excitedly: “West Adams — about a block west of Figueroa.”
“That wasn’t even a good imitation of the baby.” Kells stood up. “But maybe they’ll come here and try to do business on that angle. That’ll be swell.”
“But we’d better get out there, hadn’t we?”
Kells said: “What for? They haven’t got her or they wouldn’t take a chance faking her voice. They’ll be here — and I’ll lay ten to one they don’t know any more about where Rose and the kid are than we do.”
Kells went back to his chair by the window. “I told Shep to plant some men at the print shop in case there’s trouble there. Did he?” Fenner nodded.
There was a knock at the door; Fenner said, “Come in,” and a boy came in with a bottle of whiskey and three tall glasses of ice on a tray. He put the tray on a table; Fenner gave him some change and he went out and closed the door.
At twenty minutes after eleven a Mister Woodward was announced. Fenner went into the bedroom, closed the door.
Woodward turned out to be a small yellow-haired man, wearing tortoise-shell glasses; about thirty-five. He sat down at Kells’ invitation, declined a drink.
He said: “Of course we couldn’t bring Miss Granquist here. She’s being sought by the police and that would be too dangerous. She’ll be turned over to you, together with a certified check for fifteen thousand dollars, as soon as the issue of the Guardian, the plates and the copy are turned over to us.”
Kells said: “What the hell kind of a cheap outfit are you? The stuff’s worth that much simply as state’s evidence — let alone its political value to your people.”
“I know — I know.” Woodward bobbed his head up and down. “The fact of the matter is, Mister Kells — my people are up against it for cash. They’ll know how to show their appreciation in other ways, however.”
“What other ways?”
“Certain political concessions after election — uh — you know.” Woodward glanced nervously at his watch. “And it is imperative that you make a decision quickly.”
Kells said: “I’m not in politics. I want the dough. Lay fifty thousand on the line and show me Miss Granquist” — he looked at his watch, smiled — “and it is imperative that you make a decision quickly.”
Woodward stood up. “Very well, Mister Kells,” he said. His voice had risen in pitch to the near-falsetto of the telephone conversation. “What you ask is impossible. I’ll say good-day.”
He started toward the door and Kells said: “Hold on a minute.” The big automatic that had been O’Donnell’s glittered dully in his hand. “Sit down.”
Woodward’s blue eyes were wide behind his glasses. He went back toward the chair.
Kells said: “No. Over by the phone.”
Woodward smiled weakly, sat down at the telephone stand.
“Now you’d better call up your parties and tell them everything’s all right — that we made a deal.”
Woodward was looking at the rug. He pursed his lips, shook his head slowly.
“There’s a direct line in the other room,” Kells wept on, “if you’d rather not make it through the switchboard.”
Woodward didn’t move except to shake his head slowly; he stared at the floor, smiled a little.
“Hurry up.” Kells stood up.
Then the phone in the bedroom rang; Kells could faintly hear Beery say “Hello.” It was quiet for a moment and then the bedroom door opened and Fenner stood in the doorway looking back at Beery.
Beery said: “You sure?... Just the press and the forms... All out?... All right, I’ll be right over.” The receiver clicked and Beery came into the doorway. He glanced at Woodward, grinned crookedly at Kells.
“They blew up the joint,” he said. “But nearly all the stuff was out. A hand press and a couple of linotypes were cracked up and one guy’s got a piece of iron in his shoulder, but they discovered it in time and got everybody else and the sheets out. The originals are in the safe.”
He struck an attitude, declaimed: “The first issue of The Coast Guardian; A Political Weekly for Thinking People, is on the stands.”
Kells turned slowly, sat down. He looked steadily at Woodward for a while and then he said: “As representative of the Bellmann estate” — he paused, coughed gently — “do you think you’re strong enough to beat charges of coercion, conspiracy to defeat justice, dynamiting, abduction — a few more that any half-smart attorney can figure out?”
Woodward kept his eyes down. “That was a stall about the girl. We haven’t got her, and we don’t know where Rose is...”
“So Rose has got her?”
Woodward looked up, spoke hesitantly: “I don’t know.”
“If you’ve got any ideas, now’s a swell time to spill them.”
Woodward glanced at Beery, Fenner, back to Kells. “My people don’t want to have anything to do with Rose,” he said. “He’s wanted for murder and if he’s caught he’ll get the works.” He smiled again, went on slowly: “He called up this morning and said you shot O’Donnell — said he could prove it...”
Fenner laughed quietly.
Kells said: “Where did he call from?”
Woodward shook his head. “Don’t know.”
Beery had gone back into the bedroom. He came into the doorway again, pulling on his coat. “I’ll be back in about an hour, Gerry,” he said. He poured himself a short drink, swallowed it and went out making faces.
Kells asked Woodward: “Where can I find you?”
Woodward hesitated a moment. “I’ve got an office in the Dell Building — the number’s in the book.”
“You can go.”
Woodward got up and said: “Good-day, sir.” He nodded at Fenner, went out.
Kells took Fenner’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar check out of his inside coat pocket. He unfolded it and looked at it for a minute and then he said: “Let’s go over to the bank and have this certified.”
They went out together