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:
“Is it easy to get into the kitchen?” Cellini asked.
“Sure. I’ve raided it plenty of times. Why do you ask?”
“Because then it would be easy to get hold of a knife.”
“Smith, if you’re thinking of a knife to save that poor man from being beaten, you’re crazy. Howard’s a dangerous man and he’s got a lot of helpers.”
“Stop drooling. The guy will never be beaten again because he’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Murdered. A knife was stuck into him ten minutes ago.”
“Smith, you’re lying. I don’t know what your game is but I’m going to find out.” He hurried out, white-faced and distraught.
Duck-Eye said sadly: “You shouldn’t ought to let him to talk like that. Cellini, this stuff ain’t even fit for me to drink.”
“Then don’t drink it.”
“But that would be a waste,” said Duck-Eye, downing a glassful of the watered liquor.
Cellini remembered that Haenigson and his crew would be arriving soon. If any sense were to be made out of the whole thing it would have to be done now. He polished off a half tumbler of the watered whiskey and left as Duck-Eye began to beg him to return to the Kitty Klub for some decent liquor.
Chapter Five
Alcoholic Solution
Ivy Collins yelled, “Scram,” to Cellini’s knock.
He entered. Ivy smiled at him from the depths of an easy chair and patted her lap in invitation. Her fiancé, who was sitting stiffly on an up-ended suitcase, made no move but his thin nostrils flared in apparent anger. He wore his hat, as if ready to leave.
Cellini sat down on the bed and asked: “May I come in?”
“Always,” she cooed.
“Thank you. Just go on with your discussion.”
“It’s finished.”
“It is not,” snapped Larry Coomb. “And you, Smith, get out of here. Incidentally, I’m going to sue you for assault.”
Cellini was beginning to feel the effects of the whiskey. “You must be tolerant and forgiving, Larry — or I’ll really assault you.”
“He wants me to go home with him,” Ivy explained. “Right now.”
“And you will!” Coomb’s hands trembled. “I’ve done everything I could for you, Ivy. I’ve brought you here to be cured of drinking that rotgut, I’ve given you everything you want, I—”
His fiancée observed: “Nuts.”
Cellini suddenly realized that Coomb was in love with her — deeply, desperately and hopelessly so. He began to feel sorry for him. “Why don’t you trade her in for a zither, Larry? She’s no good.”
“There!” exclaimed Ivy. “That’s what I’ve been telling him. He doesn’t understand me. The real no-good me.”
Coomb stood up. “This is all very crude and unpleasant. Ivy, get packed. I’m in a hurry.”
“You have plenty of time,” said Cellini, “because nobody’s leaving this nuthouse. There’s been another murder.”
Cellini could read nothing in the silence which greeted his announcement and he continued: “The first one, which you no doubt know about, was Henry Fields. The second was Mario, the former bartender at the Kitty Klub.”
Coomb said: “And if you don’t leave Ivy alone, the third one will be you.”
“That’s what I’m wondering about because I know you have a temper that might easily lead you to murder. You had good reason to kill Fields and you had ample opportunity.”
“Ivy, get packed!”
“I told you no one can leave till the cops get here. I can’t figure why, but you’re as crazy about Ivy as she is about whiskey. Maybe it’s the old sex appeal we read about. You knew that Fields made a play for her and you came here last night and stayed in a guest room without letting Ivy know.”
“That was because I arrived late.”
“Or because you wanted to catch the two of them. You might have visited Fields, had a fight — and you won. But what worries me is what your connection with Mario could have been.”
“Larry knew him,” Ivy Collins supplied, “because he used to come to the Kitty Klub to drag me out.”
“Which means that you knew him, too,” Cellini said. “You were blackmailing Fields, weren’t you?”
“A girl has to live.”
“But maybe Fields didn’t. Last night when I asked about Fields you showed your fangs because you thought I might be a detective.”
“Last night,” she said moodily, “I was afraid you’d queer the pitch. But I don’t give a hoot now. I’m going back to the runway.”
“What changed your mind?”
“You did, when you made him eat the gloves. You and your damned gloves!” she shouted at Larry Coomb. “Are you an Eskimo? You don’t need them around here. What do you always carry them for?”
“Ivy, please.” Coomb sounded distressed. “Forget little things like that. We want each other.”
“I want you like a hole in the head! We’re through. Do you understand? You’re not a man. I wouldn’t take you with a keg of caviar!”
“Let’s get back to you, Ivy,” Cellini said, “because I am a detective.”
“Oh I knew that. I can spot one in the last row of the balcony right in the middle of a show.” She winked. “But I still like you.”
“If you had me spotted then, why did you try to warn me off Fields last night?”
“What do you think?”
“Because,” replied Cellini, “you had Fields figured as an easy touch. You probably have some notes from him asking you to drop around to his room at night and you were ready to cash in.”
“You’re so understanding.”
The door suddenly burst open and Miss Banks appeared. Her hair was disheveled and her uniform had lost its immaculate appearance. She stood swaying gently from side to side and grinned. “Hullo.”
She was drunk, completely so, down to her very feet which seemed to beat on the floor in a slow dance.
Ivy Collins regarded Miss Banks with astonishment and said: “Well, well. If it isn’t Miss Prissy-Puss. How the mighty have fallen.”
“You’re beautiful,” said Miss Banks with feeling. “I only wish I could be more like you.”
She walked over to a table with a casual innocence that was very obvious. Suddenly she grabbed a handbag from the table, whirled and dashed out.
“Hey!” yelled Ivy. “That’s my purse. I got dough in it.”
Cellini said, “What the hell!” and ran into the corridor. Miss Banks was nowhere in sight. An elderly man walked by and he asked him: “Did you see Miss Banks?”
“Yes, and she stank from liquor — like you, sir. What you must remember is that alcohol is primarily a carbohydrate so—”
“Which way did she go?”
“I’m talking to you, young man. So you must prevent the excess carbohydrate from going to the brain by taking an injection of vitamin B-complex.”
Cellini gave up and raced down the hallway. He saw a half-open door leading down to the basement and he descended the steps two at a time. He found himself in the middle of trunks and boxes and a gas furnace. He saw a distant light and made for it.
It was a welcome sight. Here was a room where Howard kept his private stock — sealed bottles that had not yet been watered down for medicinal use in the pantry.
The walls were lined with wine bottles and cases of liquor and beer stood on the floor. Miss Banks sat on one of the cases by an open bottle of Scotch. She had Ivy’s purse open and she was covering her face with lipstick, rouge, powder and mascara. In her drunkenness, she was producing the effect of an Indian smeared with warpaint.
She waved to Cellini happily and continued the smearing. He pulled out a bottle of Scotch and pried it open with a knife. He drank long and deeply and put the bottle to his lips again. He sat on a case, watching her and when a third of the bottle was empty he went over to her and said: “You’re lousing it all up.”