The Paul Cain Omnibus (52 page)

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, Fenner’s secretary, 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,” and 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 on 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 was excited. “West Adams—about a block west of Figueroa.”

“That wasn’t even a good imitation of the baby, 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 or 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 and 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 towards 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 towards 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 went 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 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 a 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 at 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 and 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.

Kells slept most of the afternoon. Doctor Janis stopped by at seven. The leg was pretty stiff.

Janis said. “You ought to stay in a couple days, anyway. You’re damned lucky it was the edge of the fan that got you—Dickinson got the middle….”

Kells asked: “How is he?”

“He’ll be all right. He’s too tough.”

Janis put on his coat and hat, finished his drink, and went to the door. “You had a break,” he said. “Don’t press it.” He went out.

Kells telephoned Fenner. There had been several steers on Rose, all of them bad. Sheedy hadn’t been located. The Mexican who had been with Rose was probably Abalos, from Frisco. He lived at a small hotel on Main Street. The hotel was being watched. Reilly was being tailed.

Beery came up about eight. He sat down, grinned broadly, and ordered a highball. “Everything’s lovely,” he said. “All the evening papers carried the
Guardian
stuff, and I’m the fair-haired boy at the
Chronicle
office.” He put down his glass. “You want me to keep the
Chronicle
job too, don’t you?”

Kells said: “Sure.”

Beery stood up, stooped over the low table and mixed himself another drink. “I’m going to the fights. Swell card.”

“So am I.”

Beery squinted over his shoulder. “You’d better stay in the hay,” he said.

Kells swung up, sat on the edge of the bed. “Got your ducats?”

“Yeah. I was going to take the wife.”

“Sure—we’ll take her. Call up and see if you can get three together, close.” Kells got up and limped into the bathroom, turned on the shower.

Beery sat tinkling ice against the sides of his glass. When Kells turned off the shower Beery yelled: “The old lady don’t want to go anyway.”

Kells stood in the bathroom door, grinning.

Beery looked up at him and then down at his glass. “I guess she don’t like you very well.” He picked up the phone and asked for a Hollywood number.

Kells disappeared into the bathroom again and when he came out Beery smiled happily, said: “Okay. She’d rather go to a picture show.”

The seats were fifth row, ringside—two seats off the aisle. The second preliminary was in its last round when Kells and Beery squeezed past a very fat man in the aisle seat, sat down.

The preliminary ended in a draw and the lights flared on. Kells nodded to several acquaintances, and Beery leaned forward, talked to a friend of his in the row ahead. He introduced the man to Kells: Brand, feature sports writer for an Eastern syndicate.

Kells had been looking at his program. He asked: “What’s the price on Gilroy?”

“The boys were offering three to two before dinner—very little business. I’ll lay two to one on Shane.”

Gilroy was a New York Negro, a heavyweight who had been at the top of his class for a while. Too much living, and racial discrimination—too few fights—had softened him. The dopesters said he’d lost everything he ever had, was on the skids. Shane was a tough kid from Texas. He was reputed to have a right-hand punch that made up for his lack of experience.

Kells remembered Gilroy from Harlem; had known him well, liked him. He said: “I’ll take five hundred of that.”

Brand looked at him very seriously, nodded.

Beery looked disgusted. He leaned toward Kells and said quietly, “For God’s sake, Gerry, they’re grooming Shane for a title shot. Do you think they’re going to let an unpopular boogie like Gilroy get anywhere?”

Kells said: “He used to be very good. He can’t have gone as bad as they say in a year. I’ve only seen Shane once, and I thought he was lousy….”

“He won, didn’t he?”

“Uh-huh.”

Beery was looking at Kells sidewise with wide hard eyes.

The man sitting with Brand turned around and drawled: “You don’t happen to have any more Gilroy money, do you?”

“Sure.”

The man said: “I’ll give you eighteen hundred for a grand.”

Kells nodded.

Beery looked like he was going to fall off his chair. He muttered expletives under his breath.

A man crawled into the ring followed by two Filipinos with their seconds. The house lights dimmed.

“Ladies and gentlemen…. Six rounds…. In this corner—Johnny Sanga…a hundred an’ thirty-four….”

Kells said: “I’ll be back in a minute.” He got up and squeezed out past the fat man.

At the head of the corridor that led to the dressing rooms a uniformed policeman said: “You can’t go any farther, buddy.”

Kells looked at him coldly. “I’m Mister Olympic,” he said. “I own this place.” He twisted a bill around his finger, stepped close and shoved it into the copper’s hand, went on.

Gilroy was sitting on the edge of a rubbing table while a squat heavily sweatered youth taped his hands. A florid Jew sat in a chair tilted back against the wall, smoking a short green cigar. He stood up when Kells opened the door, said: “You can’t come in here, mister.”

Gilroy looked up and his face split in a huge grin. “Well Ah’ll be switch’—Mistah Kells!” He got up and came towards Kells, held out his half-taped hand.

Kells smiled, shook hands. “H’are ya, Lonny?”

Gilroy’s grin was enormous. He said: “Sit down—sit down.”

Kells shook his head, leaned against the table. He glanced at the Jew and at the boy who had resumed taping the big Negro’s hand. He looked at Gilroy, said: “You win?”

“Shuah—shuah.” Gilroy’s grin was a shade less easy. “Shuah, Ah win.”

Kells kept looking at, him. Gilroy looked at the Jew, then looked back at Kells. He shook his head slightly. “How long you been out hyah, Mistah Kells?”

Kells didn’t answer. He stared at Gilroy vacantly. The Jew looked at Gilroy and then glanced icily, without expression, at Kells, went out of the room. The squat youth kept on taping Gilroy’s hand mechanically.

Gilroy said: “No. Ah don’t win.” He said it very softly.

“How much are you getting?”

Gilroy’s face had become very serious. “Nothin’,” he said. “Not a nickel.”

Kells rubbed the back of one hand with the palm of the other.

Gilroy went on: “Not a nickel—but Ah get plenty if Ah don’t throw it….”

“What are you talking about?”

The boy finished one hand. Gilroy flexed it, looked at the floor.

“They’ve put the feah of God in me, Mistah Kells. If Ah win, Ah don’t go home tonight—maybe.”

Kells turned to face him squarely. He said: “You mean you’re going to take a dive for
nothing
?”

“If that’s the way you want to put it—yes, sah.”

The boy started on the other hand. Gilroy went on: “Ah been gettin’ letters an’ phone calls an’ warnin’s for a week….”

“Who from?”

“Don’t know.” Gilroy shook his head slowly.

Kells glanced at his watch. He said: “Do you figure you owe me anything, Lonny?”

Gilroy looked at him and his eyes were big. “Shuah,” he said—“shuah—Ah remembah.”

“This is
my
town, now. I want you to go in and win, if you can. I’ll have a load of protection here by the time you get in the ring. You can stick with me afterwards.” Kells looked at him very intently, very seriously. “This is important.”