The Paul Cain Omnibus (64 page)

It was raining hard by now—he rolled his coat collar up, pulled the brim of his soft hat down.

He slipped once in the mud, almost fell. In righting himself he remembered his wounded leg suddenly, sharply. It was throbbing steadily, swollen and hot with pain.

He went close to the building. It was very dark there, but looking up he could see the vague outline of a fire escape against the yellow glow of the sky.

He smiled to himself in the darkness, put the back of his hand against his forehead. It was hot, dry.

He felt his way along the wall of the building until he was under the free-swinging end of the fire escape. It was almost four feet beyond his reach. He went back the way he had come, to the fence, went along it until, in the corner the fence made with a squat outbuilding, he found a fairly large packing case. He stood on it and found that it would hold his weight; he balanced it on his shoulder and carried it back into the shadow of the building.

Standing on the box, he could just reach the end of the fire escape; he put his weight on it, slowly. It creaked a little, came slowly down.

When the bottom step was resting on the packing case he crawled slowly, carefully up to the first landing. He lay on his side, held the free-swinging part so that it would come up noiselessly. Then he stood up.

Two windows gave on the second landing. One was boarded up snugly, no light came through. Kells put his ear to it, could hear only a confused hum of voices. The other window had been painted black on the inside, but a long scratch ran diagonally across one of the four panes. He took off his hat, put his eye close to the scratch.

He was looking into the office that ran almost the width of the building, was partitioned off from the big upstairs room by a wall of rough, unpainted pine boards.

The first person he saw was a woman whom he had never seen before. She was sitting on a broad desk, talking to two men. One of the men was in ill-fitting dinner clothes, was unfamiliar—the other man turned as he watched; Kells recognized him as Lieutenant Reilly.

Reilly was heavy, shapeless. A cast in one eye gave his bloated, florid face a shrewdly evil quality. He was holding a tall glass of beer in one hand; he lifted it, drank deeply.

There were two large washtubs full of bottled beer and ice on the floor near the desk.

Another woman, unfamiliar, in a bright orange evening gown, crossed Kells’ line of vision, stooped and took two bottles from one of the tubs, disappeared.

Kells’ lips framed the word “Party.” He was grinning.

Then he saw Ruth Perry. She was sitting on a dilapidated couch at one side of the room. She was swaying drunkenly back and forth, talking loudly to the man beside her. Kells put his ear to the pane but couldn’t quite make out the words.

The man beside her was MacAlmon—MacAlmon who had seen Crotti killed, who had filed the charges against Kells and Granquist and Borg.

Then the rough pine door in the middle of the far wall opened and two men came in. In the moment the door was open, Kells saw a swirl of people around one of the crap tables in the big gambling room. Then the door closed; Kells looked at the two men.

One of them was a short-bodied, long-armed man whom Kells remembered vaguely from somewhere. His face was broad and bland and childlike.

The other was Jack Rose.

Kells slid the big automatic out of its holster.

Rose’s long, tanned, good-looking face was cheerful; his thin red mouth was curved to a smile. He crossed the room, sat down beside Ruth Perry, and spoke across her to MacAlmon.

Kells looked thoughtfully down at the three dark slippery flights beneath him. Looking down made him suddenly dizzy—he blinked, shook his head sharply, put one hand on the railing for support. He thought he was going to be sick for a moment but the feeling passed. He was very hot and the rain felt terribly cold on his head.

Then he looked up again, at the door. There was a big planed two-by-four up and down its middle that could be swung sideways into two iron slots—one on each side of the door.

As he watched, the woman and Reilly and the other man whom he had seen first took up their glasses, went out of the room. That left—as nearly as he could judge—six or seven people. Rose, Ruth Perry, MacAlmon, the short man who had come in with Rose, the woman in the orange dress; perhaps two or three more men or women whom he hadn’t seen.

He looked at the crosspieces between the four panes of the window, felt their thickness with his fingers. Then he stood up and braced himself against the railing, released the safety on the automatic, put one foot against the crosspieces and pushed suddenly with all his weight. They gave way with a small splintering noise, glass tinkled on the floor.

Kells stumbled on the lower part of the window frame, almost fell. He saved himself by grabbing the upper edge, but felt a long sharp splinter of glass sink into the flesh of his hand. He held the automatic low, put one foot slowly down to the floor, then the other.

The woman in the orange dress looked as if she was going to scream, but the man beside her took her arm suddenly, roughly—she put her free hand up to her mouth, was silent.

Rose had stood up; one hand was behind him. Kells jerked the automatic up in a savage gesture—Rose put his hands up slowly. Ruth Perry and MacAlmon were still sitting on the couch, and the short man was standing near them with his back to Kells, looking at Kells over his shoulder. The short man and MacAlmon put their hands up slowly.

Kells went swiftly sideways to the door, swung the bar. A great deal of noise came through the wall from the outer room and it occurred to him that perhaps the crashing of the window hadn’t been heard outside.

Ruth Perry was staring blearily at Kells. She said: “Shay—whatch ish all about?” MacAlmon put down one hand and put it over her mouth, said: “Shut up.” MacAlmon was dead white.

Kells looked at the other man—the one he hadn’t seen before, the one with the woman in the orange dress. He, too, put his hands up, rather more rapidly than the others had.

Someone pounded on the door, a voice shouted: “What’s the matter in there?” Kells looked at Rose.

The automatic was rigid in his hand, focused squarely on Rose’s chest.

Rose looked at the gun, swallowed.

MacAlmon said: “Nothing….”

Rose swallowed again. He smiled weakly, licked his lips. “We’re playing games.”

There was laughter outside the door—a man’s laughter and a woman’s. The voice asked: “Post office?”

The woman in the orange dress giggled. Then her eyes went back in her head and she slumped down softly to the floor.

Ruth Perry pushed MacAlmon’s hand away, stood up. She swayed, stared drunkenly at Kells. She shook her head sharply, staggered forward, and said: “Well, I’m a dirty name—ish Gerry—good ol’ son of a bitch Gerry. Lesh have a drink.” She stooped over one of the tubs, almost fell.

Kells was standing with his back to the door. His face was bloody and blood dripped from his cut left hand. He took a handkerchief out of his overcoat pocket, held it to his face.

He said: “We’ll take a walk, Jakie.”

Rose moved his shoulders a little, half nodded.

Ruth Perry lost her balance, sprawled down on the floor. She sat up slowly and leaned against the wall.

Kells was staring at Rose. His eyes were bright and cold and his mouth was curved upward at the corners, ever so little. He said: “Come here.”

Rose came across the room slowly. When he was close enough, Kells put his left hand on his shoulder suddenly, spun him around, slid his hand down to jerk a small caliber automatic out of Rose’s hip pocket.

Kells said: “We’re going out of here now. You’re going to walk a little ahead of me, on my right. If we have any trouble, or if any of these gentlemen”—he jerked his head toward MacAlmon and the short man and the other man—“forget to sit still, I’m going to let your insides out on the floor.”

He swung the bar up straight, took the key out of the door. “Do you understand?”

Rose nodded.

Ruth Perry staggered clumsily to her feet. She had picked up an ice pick that was lying by one of the tubs; she waved it at Kells. She said: “Don’ go, Gerry—’s a swell party.” She weaved unsteadily towards him.

Kells dropped Rose’s gun into his left coat pocket, shifted his own gun to his left hand and shoved Ruth Perry away gently with his right.

She ducked suddenly under his outstretched arm, straightened up and brought her right hand around in a long arc hard against his back. The ice pick went in deep between his shoulder blades.

Kells stood very still for perhaps five seconds. Then he moved his head down slowly, looked at her.

Rose half turned and Kells straightened the automatic suddenly, viciously against his side. Rose put his hands a little higher, slowly lowered his head.

Ruth Perry was clinging to Kells with both arms. She had taken her hand away from the handle of the ice pick and her arms were around his waist, her face was pressed against his shoulder.

He moved the fingers of his right hand up into her hair and jerked her head back. She opened her eyes and looked up into his face; she was pale, white-lipped. Then she opened her mouth and threw her head back against his hand and laughed.

He smiled a little and took his hand from her hair, took his arm slowly from around her shoulder. He put his hand against her breast, pushed her gently away. She staggered back against the wall and slid slowly down to the floor. She lay there laughing, and there was no sound but the sound of her laughter and the low buzz of voices outside.

Kells reached back with his right hand, pulled the ice pick halfway out. He swayed, leaned against the door a moment, jerked it the rest of the way out. It fell and stuck in the floor, the handle quivering.

He straightened then, swung the door partly open, stuck the automatic in his big overcoat pocket and said: “Let’s go.”

Rose put his hands down. He opened the door the rest of the way and went out of the room. Kells went out behind him, closed the door, and said: “Wait a second.”

Rose half turned, looked down at Kells’ overcoat pocket. The muzzle of the automatic bulged the cloth.

Kells watched Rose, locked the door quickly with his left hand. They started down the long room together; Rose a pace to the right, a pace ahead.

There were perhaps thirty or thirty-five people—mostly men—in the room; most of them around the two crap tables, several at two small green-covered tables, drinking.

The lighting was as Kells remembered it: Two powerful shaded globes over the big tables lighting all the rear end of the room. Toward the front of the room—the street—the light faded to partial darkness, black in the far corners.

Kells said, “Talk to me, Jakie,” out of the side of his mouth.

Rose turned his head and twisted his mouth to a terribly forced grin. His eyes were wide, frightened. “What’ll I talk about?”

Several people turned to look at them.

Kells said: “The weather—an’ walk faster.”

Then someone crashed against the locked door behind them. In the same moment Kells saw Reilly. He had risen from one of the smaller tables, was staring at Rose.

He said: “Jack—what the hell? ….”

Then he looked at Kells, his hand dipped toward his hip.

Kells shot from his pocket—twice. Someone yelled.

Reilly put his two hands against the middle of his chest, slowly. He sat down on the edge of the table, slid slowly down as his knees buckled, fell backward half under the table.

Another gun roared and Kells felt the shoulder of his coat lift, tear; felt a hot stab in the muscle of his upper arm.

Rose was running towards the other end of the room, zigzagging a little, swiftly.

Kells started after him, stumbled, almost fell. He jerked the big automatic out of his pocket, swung it towards Rose. Then the door beyond Rose opened and someone came in. Kells couldn’t see who it was; he staggered on after Rose, stopped suddenly as Rose stopped.

Borg said, “Cinch,” out of the darkness.

Kells’ gun roared and almost simultaneously another roared, flashed yellow out of the darkness near the door.

Rose’s hands were together high in the air. He spun as though suspended by his hands from the ceiling, fell down to his knees, bent slowly forward.

Kells went to him swiftly and put the muzzle of the automatic against the back of his head and fired three times. , “Compliments of Flo Beery,” he grunted, and straightened and watched Rose topple forward, crush his dead face against the floor.

He turned to look towards the rear of the room, and in that instant the two big lights went out, and it was entirely black.

Borg’s voice whispered beside him: “Oh, boy! Did I have a swell hunch when I turned off the lights in the little room outside—they could pick us off going out if I hadn’t.”

Borg led him to the door and they went across the little room in the darkness. Kells stumbled over something soft—Borg said: “I had to sap the doorman—he wasn’t going to let me in.”

Borg swung the heavy outer door wide and they went through to the stairs.

About halfway down, Kells put his hand out suddenly and groped for the banister—his body pivoted slowly on one foot, crashed against the wall. He slid to his knees, still holding the banister tightly.

Borg put his hands under Kells’ arms, locked them on his chest and tried to lift him.

Kells muttered something that sounded like, “Wait—minute,” coughed.

Borg pried his hand off the banister and half dragged, half carried him the rest of the way downstairs.

It was raining very hard.

Kells straightened suddenly, pushed Borg away, and said: “I’m all right” Then he leaned against the building and coughed, and the cough was a harsh, tearing sound deep inside him. He stood there coughing terribly until Borg dragged him away, shoved him into the car that had come swiftly up to the curb.

Granquist was at the wheel. She said, “Well—hell….” sarcastically, as if she had been wanting to say that, thinking about saying that for a long time.

Kells’ head sagged to her shoulder. There was blood on his mouth and his eyes were closed.