Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 27, No. 2 — September 1945)

Chapter Three

Dead Drunk

Sporting what he probably called a smoking jacket, Howard drummed on the desk top waiting to speak until he was sure that Cellini would understand.

“Mr. Smith,” he said finally, “you are not to hit members of my staff.”

Cellini slowly sat up straight on the divan. “Why not?” he asked.

“That is not why they are here.”

“Then tell them to keep their hands off me. Besides,” said Cellini, remembering, “one of your goons knocked me out from behind. If that’s the way you cure people, I’ll stick to the disease.”

“We only use force when necessary, Mr. Smith. Alcoholism cannot be beaten out of existence. What were you doing in my office?”

“Looking for a drink.”

“Miss Banks told you it could be found in the pantry.”

Efficient reporting, Cellini noted and said: “That stuff is so cut it tastes like the Gordian knot. I was looking for your private stock.”

“I have no private stock, Mr. Smith, and if I had it would be private.”

“I feel like a poor relation in a charity home.”

“This is not a charitable institution. You’ll learn that when you get our bill.” Howard picked up a printed sheet from his desk. “While we’re on the subject, you might as well sign this.”

Cellini glanced over the fine printing. “It seems to give you the power to do a great deal.”

“Certainly, Mr. Smith. It’s merely substituting my will-power for yours because if you had any you wouldn’t be here.”

Cellini picked up a pen and signed. “If I had any sense I wouldn’t be here.”

“This is not a joking matter,” said Howard. “You are already at the point where alcohol has become a narcotic instead of just a pleasant social lubricant.”

“Suppose your cure doesn’t work?”

“Its success will depend on you. It has worked in many difficult cases, as with Miss Banks who was once a patient here. We can supply occupational therapy, healthful exercise, good food and give you a better understanding of the dangers of alcoholism. However, all our medical, psychological and re-educational treatment is useless unless you cooperate.”

Cellini nodded absently. It was time to get back to Henry Fields and ask more questions. He said: “I guess I’ll return to my cell for some sleep.”

“Fine, Mr. Smith. I’ll send Miss Banks along with a glass of warm milk.”

“That will be peachy.”

Cellini left with an acute feeling of dissatisfaction. Howard seemed to be too smooth an article. People who had something to conceal neither talked nor acted with such frankness and ease. It required a lot of self confidence to refrain from asking, for example, why Cellini was walking around in his stocking feet. And if Howard had nothing to conceal, then the supposed plot against Henry Fields was nonexistent.

Cellini opened the door to Fields’ room and entered. The lights were off and he could hear no sound.

“This is Smith. Are you awake?”

There was no answer and he turned on the ceiling lights. The bed was empty and the pillow lay on the floor beside it. Cellini took two more steps forward before he saw the red, oozing liquid that was forcing its way out of the semi-open bathroom door.

Carefully, Cellini Smith stepped over the puddle of blood. Henry Fields, clad in pajamas, lay dead on the tile floor — so obviously dead that further verification would have been pointless.

The blood which had spattered over wall and glass and tile came from a severed artery in the dead man’s right wrist. The straight-edged razor, which had done the job, lay in the bathtub. Perhaps not neat but very efficient and plenty gaudy. The stopper was in the wash basin and it was nearly full with red-tinged water. Cellini dipped his hand into it and found it was luke warm.

Suicide?

All the elements were there. It was a classic method of killing oneself. The keen-edged razor — a swift stroke over the artery — and then plunge the arm into the basin of warm water to ease any pain.