Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 27, No. 2 — September 1945)
- Автор: Холлидэй Бретт, Reeves Robert
- Год: 1945
- Язык: английский
- Год: Fictioneers
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 27, No. 2 — September 1945)». Краткое содержание книги:
Howard himself appeared and demanded the cause of the commotion. An attendant pointed to Duck-Eye and replied: “That guy barged in here dragging the other one. He’s like a bull and there’s no stopping him.”
“All right,” nodded Howard. “Will everybody please clear this place?”
Cellini turned to Mario again. “It is Thursday, isn’t it?” He thought Mario nodded and said: “Does the Klub send out invitations to people to come around and visit the joint?”
Howard indicated Mario. “Bring him into my office.”
A look of sheer terror crossed the bartender’s face. He suddenly shouted, “You’ll never get me,” and dashed out through the door.
Howard snapped, “Go after him,” and walked away.
“That’s fine,” said Cellini Smith. “You’re glad to see me. Now tell me how you got here.”
Duck-Eye Ryan rubbed his round, unblinking eyes which were misty with pleasure and replied: “When I woke up at that joint you wasn’t there and they said you was home. You wasn’t.”
“Then what?”
“I went back tonight and asked again from that bar jockey and he told me.”
“Well, why did you drag him here?”
Duck-Eye rubbed his knuckles. “He wouldn’t tell at first so I shoved him around. When he gave in I didn’t know if he was leveling so I brought him along.”
Cellini scratched at his chin. That still didn’t explain Mario’s terror of Howard.
Duck-Eye said: “Gee it’s good to see you. What about a drink?”
Cellini began to lead the way toward the pantry when Tom Sprigley appeared at the doorway. He had a finger to his lips and he beckoned them to follow him outside into the grounds.
They went after him. It was a cool night, with a slight drizzle and their feet made no sound on the sodden ground. They followed as Sprigley walked around the large building, hugging the walls to minimize the danger of being seen by those inside.
As they reached a wing in the far end of the building, Sprigley waved them down. Carefully, they closed in and stopped in front of a lighted window. The drapes were partly open and they could see inside.
As they looked, they saw three men. Mario sat on the floor wedged in the right angle of one of the room’s corners. As they watched, Freddy kicked him in the stomach. Mario did not cry out because a gag bound his mouth and he did not hit back because his arms were stretched across his chest, inside a straitjacket. On a bed, smoking a cigarette, sat Howard taking in the scene.
Freddy’s foot moved again, this time catching the victim in the ribs. Through the partly-open window, Cellini could hear the thud of the kick. Freddy paused, as if waiting for some sign from Mario, then moved in again. He seemed quite bored as his fists and feet lashed out at ten-second intervals.
Within the space of a minute, the helpless bartender’s face became a red jelly, his body a mass of flesh throbbing with pain. The blows fell, the blood ran. Mario’s head seemed to nod.
Sprigley shivered. “God, I can’t watch that any more!” he cried. “I’m getting out of here. I need a drink.” Rapidly, he walked away.
Inside the room, Freddy and Howard froze as they heard the voice. Then one of them leaped for the wall switch and darkness flooded the room.
Cellini and Duck-Eye began to make their way back, but it was too late. Attendants were beginning to scour the grounds for them.
Cellini Smith and Duck-Eye Ryan turned and raced the other way. There was a yell as they were sighted. A man suddenly appeared in front of them but Duck-Eye charged ahead as if he were a bulldozer and the man a weed. They were around in the rear of the building now. They sighted another door and made for it.
It was open and they were inside again, inside where they were relatively safe, for Howard could not be sure who had watched him working on the bartender.
They paused as Cellini attempted to orient himself, trying to remember where the room had been. They heard a moan, which gradually became louder and more strident, and they made toward the sound. It was probably Mario who had succeeded in working himself free of the gag.
The sound had not come from Mario, however, but from Miss Banks who stood blocking the entrance. Roughly, Cellini pushed past her. This was the room. Mario still lay in the comer, the gag was still on his mouth — but there was a difference. Now, a knife was imbedded within his body.
It was an ordinary kitchen knife, no doubt sharp-pointed for it had made a clean cut through the tough cloth of the straitjacket. The blood-encrusted face seemed twisted in a mixture of fright and pain. He had probably seen his murderer come through the doorway and had watched as the knife was carefully plunged into him. He had seen it without being able to shout or to make any move to defend himself.
Cellini turned and faced Miss Banks. “Well, what about it? Is this another mercy killing?”
She had stopped moaning and he thought she might faint. Instead, she stared at the body for another moment, then turned and fled.
Duck-Eye asked: “Should I bring that goon back?”
“Let her go. I’ll catch up with her later.”
He saw a phone on a table and dialed Ira Haenigson’s home number. This was evidently another guest room, since the patients were not allowed such a convenience. No doubt Coomb was staying nearby — perhaps in this very room.
There was a growl on the other end of the receiver and Cellini said: “Get your fat rump over here.”
“What are you up to now, Smith?” demanded the detective-sergeant suspiciously.
“I’ve got a nice hunk of sirloin for you to look over. With a knife in it.”
“Knife?”
“Sure. Think of the fun you’ll have spreading powder over it and then finding out that the nasty killer heard about fingerprints and was wearing gloves to—”
There was an oath and the sound of the receiver being smashed down by Haenigson.
Duck-Eye said: “We got company, Cellini.”
He tuned to find Howard staring at the body. “That took a lot of courage, didn’t it?” he asked.
“Courage?” repeated Howard stupidly. He started for the phone.
“Don’t bother. I’ve already called Haenigson.”
“You have? That was very clever of you.”
“Not especially, Howard. Learning to dial a telephone is just a matter of coordination. Anybody can learn.”
“It was clever because it diverts suspicion from you. Smith,” he announced, “you may consider yourself under arrest.”
“I’ll be glad to consider it,” said Cellini amiably. “In the meantime I want a drink and I’m sick of that fuel oil you have in the pantry. Where’s your private stock?”
“I told you I have none. This is a horrible murder—”
“Save it for your memory book,” said Cellini and left.
Sprigley’s hand shook as he poured drinks for Cellini and Duck-Eye. He said: “We’ve got to do something about that poor man Howard and his thug were beating.”
“We don’t have to do anything,” Cellini snapped as he began pulling open drawers and cupboards.
Sprigley eyed him curiously. “That’s rather callous — or cowardly.”
“Maybe both.” Cellini found some cutlery, “Don’t they keep any larger knives around here?”
“How should I know? Frankly, I’m disappointed in you, Smith.”
“Where’s the kitchen?”
“Not far. The three of us should have gone in and stopped that beating.”
“If I remember right, Sprigley, you’re the one who ran first. Every attendant in the place is outside right now, curry-combing the grounds because they heard you. Howard would probably give your right arm to find out who watched him going over the guy.”
“I suppose so,” Sprigley admitted glumly. He drained his glass and shivered. “I have no stomach for that sort of thing.”