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“The eight hundred smackers Jimmy Legg still owes me,” stated Mack harshly. “I didn’t come here and open this box to do you no favor.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“That’s right, Cellini. So I’m counting out my eight hundred first.” Without taking his eye off Cellini, he reached behind him with his free hand, flipped the safe door open and stuck his huge paw into the opening.

It was empty.

Cellini felt like having a good belly laugh but was afraid that the watchman might be making his rounds nearby. Instead, he said: “Put up the rod, Mack. Fate is forcing you to stay straight. Whatever was in there, it looks like Legg beat us to it.”

Chapter Five

Cooked Goose

After five minutes of searing concentration, Cellini Smith felt virtually certain that that thing next to the bed he was lying on was a telephone. Carefully, he lifted the receiver, brought it to an ear, and asked something. A honeyed voice informed him that he was in a downtown hotel and that it was ten in the morning.

He managed to replace the receiver and suddenly remembered what he was doing there and why someone seemed to be carrying out a scorched earth policy inside his head. It had reason.

After drawing a blank at the Lansing Investment offices, he and Mack had decided to go find Manny Simms — before Simms found them. They had gone from gin-mill to gin-mill but could not find the hood. And at each place they had drinks and after a while forgot to search for Mr. Simms.

Vaguely, he remembered phoning Winnie Crawford at three in the morning to find out if she got her money by blackmailing Lansing Investment. The reply was colorful — so much so that he felt the blackmail hunch wasn’t far wrong.

Somewhat less vaguely, he remembered deciding to sleep at a hotel, safely distant from any visit by Manny Simms during the night. And he did not at all remember what had happened to Mack. The bookie had spent most of the evening bemoaning the $800 he had lost through Legg’s murder and yearning to get his hands on Manny Simms and Winnie Crawford — though for different reasons.

However, the night of alcoholic search had not been entirely fruitless. Nagging at Cellini’s mind had been the problem of why Jimmy Legg troubled to conceal apparently innocent items such as a spool of wire, pliers, and hammer in the icebox of his apartment. Somewhere between the double Scotches the answer had come. It added up beautifully.

Slowly, Cellini eased himself out of bed and floated into the bathroom. A needle shower helped a little and the black coffee and bromo in a cafe downstairs finally decided him against suicide. He tried several nearby parking lots before finding his car and then made for his office.

Cellini Smith sat behind his desk nursing both the hangover and the wisp of an idea that was beginning to form about Legg’s murder. And that was its one fault — that it did everything but solve Legg’s murder. It was an idea founded on the assumption that the Lansing Investment Company was a crooked outfit.

The phone sounded. Cellini lifted the receiver and gave a weak “Hello.”

He heard that horrible, sawmill voice of Howard Garrett’s secretary giggle coquettishly and then tell him to wait a moment as she plugged the lawyer into the board.

A click and Jimmy Legg’s mouthpiece was saying: “Mr. Smith, I am well aware that we dislike each other. Nevertheless, since you’re working on the murder of my former client, I feel there’s an explanation due you.”

“Goody. Let’s have it.”

“As you know, I represented James Legg in court on that Lansing Investment affair and yesterday you found me in those very offices waiting to see Mr. Lansing. That may cause you to suspect something.”

Cellini’s headache wasn’t getting any better. “Come on, Garrett. There’s a shortage of gas, so save it.”

“The point is, Mr. Smith, that I was up there because I’m a stockholder in the Lansing Investment Company.”

“How come Lansing didn’t object to your defending Legg?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Lansing was glad to have me handle the case because he didn’t want Legg punished. He thought I might be able to handle it discreetly.”

“What did you do when Legg was arrested? Chase after him to let you be his mouthpiece?”

“Certainly not. That’s unethical. He got in touch with me.”

Cellini almost felt like laughing. “Lansing would be glad to have you defend Legg just at the moment Legg decides to pick you.”

“It’s not that absurd,” Howard Garfarett conciliated. “Mr. Lansing got in touch with Jimmy Legg and asked him if he wished to have me for counsel.”

A sweet mess, thought Cellini. A man is robbed and then goes to the burglar to recommend a mouthpiece to spring him. He asked: “Are you going to defend Manny Simms when he conies up for trial?”

“Certainly not.”

“Did you or Lansing shell out the dough for Manny’s bail?”

“Mr. Smith, I called to give you information as a favor. I regret that you’re not sufficiently civilized to be polite about it.”

“You didn’t phone because you wanted to do me a favor.”

“Perhaps you know better, Mr. Smith. Why did I phone you?”

“I don’t know. But one thing I do know is that you and Lansing and that whole investment outfit will never have to worry about sunburn — you’re too shady for that.”

Cellini let the receiver drop into its cradle thinking that his parting shot would have been much better if he didn’t have to cope with the damned hangover. He heard heavy, stumbling steps in the hallway outside and a moment later the door pushed in and Mack entered.

The giant bookie gaped silently at Cellini. He made a ludicrous picture. One side of his face was shaved and the other bearded, with lather still smeared over it. His jaw trembled as if from some nervous tic.

“I just heard about Winnie.” Mack spoke as if the words were being jerked out of him. “She’s dying. She’s been shot.”

Cellini pounded Mack with questions until he had, at last, a coherent picture of what had happened. As little as twenty minutes before, there had been several shots in Winnie Crawford’s apartment at the Hamilton. A woman in an adjoining apartment had rushed out to see the back of a man disappearing around a bend in the hallway. She looked into Winnie’s apartment to find the blonde on the floor, still alive but with three bullets lodged in her.

An ambulance from a nearby hospital made the round trip in record time and within ten minutes Winnie was on the operating table. An interne, who placed his bets through Mack, recognized Winnie and phoned him at the barber shop. The bookie had immediately come up to Cellini’s office.

Winnie had evidently tried to put up a fight for the .45 was found by her side. No hope was held for her and her assailant had escaped.

Cellini felt a little sick. He remembered the clumsy way she held the big gun in her hands and thought that, unlike Legg, she was too decorative to be killed. But at last there was something to work on. It was now 11:25 and the murder had occurred at 11:05. It would be easy to check the alibis of the four persons who might have gunned for Jimmy Legg and Winnie Crawford.

Mack’s voice broke hoarsely into Cellini’s thoughts: “What the hell are you waiting for? I told you she’s dying!”

They hurried downstairs and crowded into the coupe. “Which hospital?” asked Cellini.

“Who said anything about going to the hospital? We can’t help her. Drive to the Greek’s. I know I need a drink.”

Cellini considered that to be sensible and turned over the starter. They reached the Greek’s a short while later and entered. It was early and they had the place to themselves. The Greek set out drinks and asked for the ancient Webley Mack had borrowed. After he got it he preserved a discreet silence for he saw that something was up.