The Paul Cain Omnibus (22 page)

The few scattered men at desks at the end of the room had turned to watch them. As the girl went on in a low voice into the mouthpiece and Brennan stood silently, tensely beside her, they turned back to their work.

In about a minute the girl pulled out the plug, turned to Brennan. “It was a pay station—Bradhurst exchange,” she said. “That’s in Harlem. The supervisor’s going to call me back with the number in a minute.”

Brennan nodded, grunted: “Thanks.” He went slowly back to his desk, sat down and poured the rest of the whiskey into the cup. He drank it slowly, put the cup back into the drawer and dropped the empty bottle into the wastebasket. Then he sat staring thoughtfully at his hands.

It was a quarter after nine when Brennan got out of a cab near the corner of One Hundred and Thirty-sixth Street and Seventh Avenue. He paid the driver, crossed the street and shook hands with a slim blond young man who stood at the curb.

The young man ginned broadly, said: “Howdy, Cy.”

“Swell.” Brennan relighted his cold cigar. “Been waiting long?”

The young man shook his head. “Came up on the subway—that’s faster than a cab. I been here about ten minutes.”

Brennan said: “Listen Nick—we’ve got a big night ahead of us. All you need to know about it for now is that I’m going to stick Harley for the murder of Lou Antony’s wife. The Law figures a friend of mine, Joice Colt, did it—they’re looking for her. Harley or Harley’s men have got her but she knows too much for them to turn her in so—knows what they’ll do to her. A little while ago they made her call me a fake a confession—figured I’d go to it an’ drop the Harley angle I guess. The call came from a little bar around the corner”—Brennan gestured with his head—“on a Hundred an’ Thirty-seventh. That’s where we’re going first.”

Nick said: “Fine.”

They went around the corner down the dimly lighted street. The bar was about a third of the way down the long block—a dingy place with a frosted plateglass window. There were two pool tables crowded into a narrow space with a door at the farther end leading into a room at the back of the place. In the back room was a short imitation mahogany bar. There were a dozen or more Negroes around the pool tables, but when Brennan and Nick went into the back room there was no standing at the bar. There was a phone booth at the end of the bar nearest the door.

The bartender, a squat chocolate-colored man with polished hair, slid off his stool at the far end of the bar, came down to them and smiled ingratiatingly.

Brennan said: “Beer.”

Nick nodded and the bartender drew two tall headed glasses of beer from the spigot, set them on the bar.

Brennan’s eyes were cold, lusterless; they caught the Negro’s eyes, held them. There was little expression in Brennan’s face. The Negro smiled meaninglessly.

Brennan said: “About a half hour ago a lady used your telephone.” He jerked his head slightly towards the booth. “Who was with her—and where did they go?”

The Negro’s face was blank. He stuck his thick lips out, shook his head slowly. “Ah don’t know, sah,” he said. “They’s been a lot of people use that phone tonight.”

Brennan leaned slightly forward across the bar. “Who was with her and where did they go?” He spoke like an automaton, barely moving his mouth.

The Negro shook his head.

Nick said: “Think hard.” He had not appeared to move but he held a small Luger against the right side of his chest, its muzzle focused steadily on the Negro’s stomach. Brennan stepped over to the door leading to the poolroom. He stood for a moment in the opening, then closed the door, slipped a bolt in the lock and came back to the bar.

The Negro’s mouth opened slowly; his eyes moved from the Luger to Nick’s face, back to the Luger. He stammered: “Ah don’ know who they was.”

Nick did not move, nor speak; he took the cigar out of the corner of his mouth, held it between his fingers on the bar in front of him, stared at the Negro.

The Negro glanced once, hurriedly, towards the door of the room; then his eyes moved back to the Luger and he said: “One of the men was Ernie White—he works at the Gateway, down the street. Ah don’t know who the other one was. He was a big fella. He tol’ me to forget about them comin’ in but ah don’ see as it’s any of mah business.”

Brennan said: “Right.” He put a quarter on the bar, put the cigar back into his mouth. Nick slid the Luger under his coat, back into its holster; they went out of the place.

The small neon sign of the Gateway glittered about a half-block east, on the other side of the street.

Nick asked: “Ain’t the Gateway the place they used to call Ike an’ Jerry’s?”

Brennan nodded.

“Harley backed their places,” Nick went on, “an’ even if the joint has changed hands, I’ll bet he’s got a cut in it.”

Brennan grinned, relighted his cigar, said: “We’re getting warm.”

They crossed the street, went towards the Gateway.

Brennan pushed the button and after a minute or so a five-inch slit in the heavy door opened, two wide-set brown eyes surveyed them dispassionately.

Nick said: “Is Jerry here?”

The eyes moved horizontally back forth. “Jerry ain’t been here fo’ three months—This is the Gateway, now.”

“We’ll come in an’ have a drink.”

The eyes moved horizontally. “We ain’t open yet—we open at eleven.”

Nick said: “Aw, nerts! We want a drink now. Is Ernie White here?”

“Uh-huh—he’s heah. You know him?” The eyes moved up and down.

Brennan nodded.

The slit was closed, the door opened. They went through a short, wide passageway into a square room. The ceiling was low, the lighting indirect and soft. There was an elevated orchestra platform in one corner and a small square dance floor in the center. The walls were painted with wide vertical stripes of black and silver.

Brennan and Nick sat down at a little round table at one corner of the dance floor. The man who had let then in, a cream-colored Negro in dinner clothes, went to a table at the back of the room where a half dozen waiters were sitting; one of the waiters got up and came over and took their order. Brennan ordered straight Scotch and Nick ordered a whiskey sour.

The cream-colored Negro disappeared through a door near the orchestra platform and in a little while he came out with two men. One was fat and an entirely bald mulatto. The other was Ed Harley.

Harley was big, good looking. His dark curly hair was combed straight back from a wide, high forehead, his nose was straight, well cut; his eyes were wide, candid, smiling. He crossed the dance floor swiftly, said: “Well, well—Brennan—it’s good to see you.”

Brennan smiled up at him, said: “This is Mister MacRae—Mister Harley.”

Harley held out his hand and Nick took it without standing up, bobbed his head. Harley sat down, moved his smile to Brennan. “What’re you doing so far uptown at this time of the night?” he asked. “Things don’t get going up here until two or three o’clock.”

Brennan said: “We’ve got a date with Joice Colt.”

Harley’s face became very serious. “You shouldn’t kid about it Brennan,” he said—“the poor kid’s in a bad jam.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Do you know where she is?” Harley was leaning forward.

“Sure.” Brennan nodded slowly.

Harley’s eyes brimmed with sincerity. “I’d like to help her,” he said. “I’d like to help her get away—or something. Is there anything I can do?”

Nick said: “You can put your hands on the table.” Nick had tilted his chair back; his hands were deep in the pockets of his dark blue coat. The cloth of the right pocket bulged and a dark blunt point protruded towards Harley.

Harley cleared his throat. “Don’t do anything you’ll be sorry for,” he said slowly. He looked up and back of Nick. The fat bald Negro who had come in with Harley was leaning against a table and he held a heavy nickel-plated revolver in front of his big paunch. His bulging eyes were fixed in white bloodshot vacancy on the back of Nick’s head; the nostrils of his wide, flat nose were flared. The cream-colored Negro in dinner clothes had circled to the outer door. He, too, held a revolver, and as Harley moved his head slightly, he came forward and stood about ten feet back of Brennan.

The waiters, at the table against the wall, whispered together and then were suddenly silent. The waiter who had taken Brennan and Nick’s order came in through one of the swinging doors to the kitchen with two drinks on a tray; he stared at Harley and at the fat Negro and then started back into the kitchen.

Harley said: “Bring the gentlemen their drinks.”

The waiter came over and put the glasses on the table and went back into the kitchen.

Brennan took the cigar out of his mouth and put it in an ashtray on the table. “You murdered Barbara Antony,” he said. He spoke without looking at Harley, his eyes were fixed on the white tablecloth. “You made it look like suicide—the suicide motive looked like a cinch, with Lou getting out of the pen and Barbara being scared of him and all. You thought Joice would back up the suicide slant but she didn’t go for it so big—and when your man came up to smash the glass you’d been careless enough to leave in one piece, he slugged me and took Joice with him so she couldn’t talk, and so it would look like she’d given Barbara the junk and ducked.”

Harley smiled sadly, shook his head. “Brennan, you’re off your nut,” he said.

“You’ve got Joice,” Brennan went on—“here or someplace. You made her pull that confession act for me over the phone from the little joint down the street because you were afraid I’d trace the call—an’ you didn’t think that nigger would talk… .”

Harley interrupted, spoke with elaborate patience as if reasoning with a child: “In the first place, Brennan, I was at the Glass Slipper from five until seven-fifteen—”

Brennan said: “I’ll lay ten to one I can break that alibi.”

Harley shook his head again.

“And what’s more,” Brennan went on—“I’m so sure I can break it, an’ I’m so sure it happened the way I’ve said that I’ve written the story—it runs tomorrow, with swell pictures of you an’ Barbara in four colors.”

Harley laughed. Then he said very seriously, “Brennan, you’re crazy. If you run that story I’ll sue that cheap sheet of yours for every nickel it’s got. I’ll run you and Johnson and your whole damned outfit out of the newspaper business—out of New York, by God!”

“I’ll take that chance.” Brennan smiled easily, glanced up at the fat Negro behind Nick. “It’d be a swell clincher, an’ Johnson could write a pip of a finish for my story if anything should happen to Nick or me.” He turned his smile to Harley. “Johnson knows where we are—and he knows we’re after evidence against you.”

Harley did not answer.

Brennan went on: “Don’t you think you’d better have your boyfriends put those cannons away? They make me nervous.”

Harley stood up slowly. “You get to hell out of here Brennan” he said—“you and your two-bit gunman.” He glanced contemptuously down at Nick. “And go ahead with that story and see what happens to the
Eagle
. Go on—beat it!”

Brennan shook his head. He said: “Uh-huh. We came after Joice—we’ll take her with us.”

No one moved or spoke for perhaps ten seconds; then Brennan took his glass of whiskey up from the table and drained it.

Harley was very white. The skin was drawn tightly over his jaw muscles, his mouth drawn to a thin line. He twisted his body towards Nick slowly and then his face relaxed, puckered to a thin, forced smile. He said: “Okay.” He shook his head at the cream-colored Negro. “You and Ernie wait down here.” He jerked his head at Brennan and turned and went towards the door near the orchestra platform.

Brennan and Nick got up; Nick went swiftly behind Harley to keep close to him and Brennan followed more slowly. They went into a small office and Brennan closed the door; they crossed the office to another door, went through to a dimly lighted hallway and up two flights of heavily carpeted stairs. Harley knocked at a door at the end of the dark second-floor hallway. The door opened and Harley went in and Nick went in directly behind him. Nick had taken the small Luger out of his pocket, held it against Harley’s back. Brennan stopped in the doorway and leaned against the frame.

The room was very large, very dimly lighted. There was a floor lamp with a deep red shade that threw a circle of warm light on a couch against one wall. Joice Colt was lying on the couch. She lay on her side and her eyes were nearly closed; her mouth was curved to a drunken and meaningless smile.

There was a man standing just out of the circle of light. There was not enough light to see him very clearly but he was a very tall man and there was something in the way he stood that made Brennan sure he was the man who had knocked him out in Joice’s room. Another figure, who in the semidarkness appeared to be a Negro woman, had opened the door; she stood with her hand on the edge of the door and her head was turned towards Harley and Nick.

Harley said: “Put it away, Sam.”

As Brennan’s eyes became used to the darkness he saw that the tall man held a gun in his hand—the same short, blunt automatic he had used on Brennan.

The tall man was silent, did not move.

“Put it away.” Harley’s toned was plaintive. “This guy”—he jerked his head at Nick who stood very close behind him—“is itching to let me have it.”

A new thin voice said sarcastically, “Fancy that!” from the darkness beyond the Negress.

At the same instant Harley whirled, grabbed Nick’s arm; there were two spurts of bright yellow flame in the darkness, and deep beating sound. Harley and Nick were locked in a low, savage dance; Nick’s gun roared, belched yellow flame. As Brennan went forward the lamp was struck, the room went black, lighted only by the searing yellow glare of gunfire. Brennan dimly saw Harley and Nick topple, fall, still locked together; then it felt as if something exploded in the top of his head, the darkness was split by a great blinding light and he fell forward, down, into nothingness.

The high-pitched brassy music of a phonograph came to Brennan before he opened his eyes. He listened to it a long time. It sounded very far away. His head was one vast pain and he did not want to open his eyes because it might hurt more. He was lying on his back and he moved one hand up slowly and felt his face; it was wet and sticky and he thought about it a little while and knew that it was blood. It was very hard to think.