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  “I didn't want to be seen following her through the lobby, you know.”

  “No.”

  Beery was still standing in the kitchen doorway, staring bewilderedly at Fenner.

  “I knocked but she hadn't come up yet,” Fenner went on, “so I opened the door—it was unlocked—and came in.”

  Kells said: “The door was unlocked?”

  Fenner nodded. “In a few minutes I heard her coming up the hall and she was talking to a man. I went into the kitchen, of course, and she and Bellmann came in. They were arguing about something. Bellmann went into the bathroom I think, and then I heard the two shots during one of the peals of thunder. I didn't know what to do— and then when I was about to come out and see what had happened, you knocked at the door.”

  Fenner paused, took a long breath. “I didn't know it was you, of course, so I hid in the cupboard.”

  Kells said: “Oh.”

  “I thought it would be better if I didn't get mixed up in a thing of this kind, in any way.”

  Kells said, “Oh,” again. Then he looked up at Beery, said: “Sit down, Shep—I want to tell you a story.”

  Beery sat down near the door.

  Kells stretched one long leg over the arm of his chair, made himself comfortable. “This afternoon I told Mister Fenner”—he inclined his head toward Fenner in one slow emphatic movement—“that I knew a gal who had some very hot political info that she wanted to sell.”

  Beery nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “He was interested and asked me to send her to his hotel tonight. I had a talk with her, and the stuff sounded so good that I got interested too—took her to Fenner's myself.”

  Fenner was extremely uncomfortable. He looked at Kells and dabbed at his forehead; his lips were bent into a faint forced smile.

  “We offered the information—information of great political value—to Mister Fenner at a very fair price,” Kells went on. “He agreed to it and called the manager of his hotel and asked him to bring up an envelope containing a large amount in cash.”

  Kells turned his eyes slowly from Beery to Fenner. “When the manager came in a couple of benders came in with him. They'd been waiting in the next apartment, listening across the airshaft to find out what they had to heist—it was supposed to look like Rose's stick-up—or Bellmann's....”

  Fenner stood up.

  Kells said: “But it was Mister Fenner's. Mister Fenner wanted to eat his cake and have crumbs in his bed, too.”

  Fenner took two steps forward. His eyes were flashing. He said: “That's a lie, sir—a tissue of falsehood!”

  Kells spoke very softly, enunciating each word carefully, distinctly: “Sit down, you dirty son of a bitch.”

  Fenner straightened, glared at Kells. He half turned toward the door.

  Kells got up and took three slow steps, then two swiftly, crashed his fist into Fenner's face. There was a sickening crackly noise and Fenner fell down very hard.

  Kells jerked him up and pushed him back into the chair. Kells' face was worried, solicitous. He said very slow— almost whispered: “Sit still.”

  Then he went back to his chair and sat down, went on: “One of the boys sapped the manager. They fanned me and made a pass for Granquist's handbag. She tossed it out the window, smacked one of them and the other one went after the bag. Granquist faked going after the bag too and I sent Fenner after her, figuring that the stuff wasn't in the bag and that she'd come back here and that the three of us would get together here for another little talk.” .

  Fenner was pressing himself back into the corner of the chair. He was holding his hands to his bloody face and moaning a little.

  “When I sent Fenner after Granquist,” Kells went on, “I gave him a gun—one of the boy's. He was so excited about getting to the bag, or keeping G in sight that he forgot to frisk the manager for his big dough....”

  Kells took the yellow envelope out of his pocket. “So I got it.” He leaned forward, pressed the edges of the envelope and a little packet of cigar coupons fell out on the floor.

  “Almost enough to get a package of razor blades.”

  Beery grinned.

  Kells said: “Granquist headed over here, so Fenner knew that the bag had been a stall, followed her. When she came in past the office he ducked up the side way and, figuring that she had come right up, knocked at her door.”

  Beery said: “How did he know which apartment was hers?”

  “He had us tailed from my hotel early this evening. His man got her number from the mail-boxes in the lobby, gave it to him before we got to his place tonight.”

  Beery nodded.

  Kells said: “Am I boring you?”

  “Yes. Bore me some more.”

  “Bellmann had come up here after some things he wanted—some very personal things that he couldn't trust anyone else to get. He probably paid his way into the apartment—I'll have to check up on that—and didn't find what he was looking for, and when Fenner knocked he thought it was either Granquist, who he wanted to talk to anyway, or whoever let him in.”

  Kells took a deep breath. “He opened the door, and...” Kells paused, got up and went to Fenner, looked down at the little twisted man and smiled. “Mister Fenner knows a good thing when he sees it—he jockeyed Bellmann into a good spot and shot him through the heart.” Fenner mumbled something through his hands. “He waited for a nice roll of off-stage thunder and murdered him.”

  Beery said: “That's certainly swell. And I haven't got any more job than a rabbit.” He stood up, stared disconsolately at Kells. “My God! Bellmann killed by the boss of the opposition—the most perfect political break that could happen, for my paper—and I turn in an innocent girl, swing it exactly the other way politically. My God!”

  Beery sat down and reached for the telephone. Kells said: “Wait a minute.”

  Beery held up his right hand, the forefinger pointed, brought it down emphatically towards Kells. “Nuts!”

  Kells said: “Wait a minute, Shep.” His voice was very gentle. His mouth was curved in a smile and his eyes were very hot and intent. Beery sat still.

  Fenner got up. Holding a darkening handkerchief to his face, tottered toward the door.

  Kells went past him to the door, locked it. He said: “Both you bastards pipe down and sit still till I finish.” He shoved Fenner back into the chair. “As I was about to say: you were a little late, you heard Granquist outside the door, wiped off the rod—if you didn't, I did—put in under the table and ducked into the cupboard.”

  Beery said slowly: “What do you mean: you wiped it off?”

  Kells didn't answer. He squatted in front of Fenner, said: “Listen, you—what do you think I put on that act for— ribbed Granquist into taking the fall? Because she can beat it.” His elbows were on his knees. He pointed his finger forcibly at Fenner, sighted across it. “You couldn't. You couldn't get to first base....”

  Fenner's face was a bruised, fearful mask. He stared blankly at Kells.

  “A few days ago—yesterday—all I wanted was to be let alone,” Kells went on. “I wasn't. I was getting along fine— quietly—legitimately—and Rose and you and the rest of these—gave me action.”

  He stood up. “All right—I'm beginning to like it.” He walked once to the window, back, bent over Fenner. “I'm taking over your organization. Do you hear me? I'm going to run this town for a while—ride hell out of it.”

  He glanced at Beery, smiled. Then he turned again to Fenner, spoke quietly: “I was going East tomorrow. Now you're going. You're going to turn everything over to me and take a nice long trip—or they're going to break your goddamned neck with a rope.”

  Kells went to the small desk, sat down. He found a pen, scribbled on a piece of Lido stationery. “And just to make it 'legal, and in black and white', as the big business men say—you're going to sign this—and Mister Beery is going to witness it.”

  Beery said: “You can't get away with a—”

  “No?” Kells paused,
glanced over his shoulder at Beery. “I'll get away with it big, young fella. And stop worrying about your job—you've got a swell job with me. How would you like to be chief of police?”

  He went on writing, then stopped suddenly, turned to Fenner. “I've got a better idea,” he said. “You'll stay here where I can hold a book on you. You stay here and in your same spot—only you can't go to the toilet without my okay,” He got up and stood in the center of the room and jerked his head toward the desk. “There it is. Get down on it—quick.”

  Fenner said, “Certainly not,” thickly.

  Kells looked at the floor, said: “Call Hayes, Shep.”

  Beery reached for the telephone.

  Fenner didn't look at him. He held his hands tightly over his face for a moment, mumbled, “My God!”—then he got up and went unsteadily to the desk, sat down. He stooped over the piece of paper, read it carefully.

  Kells said: “If Granquist beats the case—and she will— and you don't talk out of turn, I'll tear it up in a month or so.”

  Fenner picked up the pen, shakily signed.

  Kells looked at Beery, and Beery got up and went over and read the paper. He said: “This is a confession. Does it make me an accessory?”

  Kells said: “It isn't dated.”

  Beery signed and folded the paper and handed it to Kells.

  Kells glanced at it, turned to Fenner. “Now I want you to call your Coast Guardian man, Dickinson, and any other key men you can get in touch with, and tell them to be at your joint at the Knickerbocker in a half-hour.”

  Fenner went into the bathroom, washed his face. He came back in a little while and sat down at the telephone.

  Kells held the folded paper out to Beery. “You're going downtown anyway, Shep,” he said. “Stick this in the safe at your office—I'll be down in the morning and take it to the bank.”

  Beery said: “Do I look that simple? I've got a wife and family.”

  Kells put the folded paper in his own pocket.

  “Anyway, I'm not going downtown. I'm coming along,” Beery picked up his hat. Kells nodded abstractedly, glanced at his watch; it was twenty-two minutes past ten. Outside, there was a long ragged buzz of faraway thunder and the telephone clicked as Fenner dialed a number.

  Chapter Four

  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?”