“I was smart. When I become too big to be inconspicuous I just quit and become a bookie. I had a terrific technique, too, for those days.”
“All right, you’re wonderful. Let’s look around for that Lansing dough.”
It was a small, three-room apartment, sparsely furnished, and there weren’t many likely hiding places. With a fine disregard for the furnishings, Mack took a jackknife from his pocket, and began slashing open cushions, pillows and bed mattress.
Cellini checked through closets and cupboards, searched under rugs and behind pictures, pawed through drawers, and even sounded walls. There was nothing even remotely suggesting the Lansing Investment loot. The only item of interest was a small cache of tools he came upon in the icebox. It contained hammer, nails, a spool of wire, pliers, and some files. It was, decided Cellini, a very sorry-looking burglar’s kit.
He remembered that people often rolled money into shades and walked over to a window in time to hear the squeal of brakes as a car came to a halt in the street below. There was familiar authority about that squeal and Cellini looked down. Detective-sergeant Ira Haenigson and a couple of his men were getting out of the car below. Across the way, Manny Simms and his fellow hood climbed into their black sedan and decided to mosey along.
Cellini said: “We weren’t the only ones with the bright idea of casing this place. The minions of the law are here.”
“Let ’em come,” replied the disgusted bookmaker. “They’ll only find magnolia.”
Cellini went into the kitchen and looked out the back window. It was just an empty lot below. He returned to the living-room. “No fire escape.”
“It’s all right. There’s a back way.”
They went out, proceeded down the end of the hallway, and started down the back stairs as they heard the Homicide men come up the opposite way. They reached the street and saw no sign of Manny Simms.
“I could use a drink,” declared Mack. “Let’s try the Greek’s.”
Cellini agreed and a couple of minutes later they pulled up in front of a hole-in-wall honky-tonk.
They stepped out of the coupe and started inside when Cellini heard the sudden acceleration of a supercharged engine. He whirled in time to see a black sedan charging down the block toward them. Automatically, he wedged a foot between Mack’s ankles, bringing the big man crashing to the ground, and, in the same instant, threw himself prone.
It was only split seconds before the sedan was by them and dime-turning the next corner. But in that time there was a crashing, trip-hammer rat-a-tat that made it seem very long, a vicious spatter of bullets that seemed never to stop. The counterpoint of a woman’s hysterical scream, the hoarse shout of a passing motorist, the running, panicky feet that wanted only to get far away — all made the moments seem that much longer.
And when Cellini and Mack finally stood up they could see a strip of small holes against the building that housed the Greek’s saloon. The strip was at a height of some forty inches. If they had been standing up the bullets from Manny Simms’ sub-machine gun would have flattened out inside their stomachs.
“Shades of Capone,” said Cellini unsteadily.
Chapter Four
Wild Goose
The Greek, a bulbous-nosed, stocky man, shoved two more glasses of suspect Scotch over the bar to Mack and Cellini Smith. “That kind shootings is beeg time,” he said. He patted an obsolete and rusty .455 Webley revolver on the liquor case. “But next time they shoot bullets into my building I geeve them with this.”
“I’ll geeve that — Manny Simms the lumps,” said Mack darkly. He and Cellini were both several sheets to windward, their anger over serving as targets for Simms increasing with each drink.
Cellini tapped the bar for emphasis. “There can be only one explanation why he’s gunning for us.”
“He only needs one,” Mack pointed out.
“He saw us go into Jimmy Legg’s apartment and there must be something there that Simms was afraid we’d see or get our hands on.”
“The haul from the Lansing job,” guessed Mack.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. That doesn’t explain why Simms held up the judge to get Legg off. He would have let Jimmy go to jail and then gotten the loot for himself.”
“I geeve them shootings,” said the one-tracked Greek.
“Furthermore,” Cellini persisted, “if it’s just for the dough that Legg stole, then Manny Simms would be trying to get it from us — not just kill us.”
“All right,” hiccupped the overgrown bookie, “so you explain me why I got to go around ducking Thompson subs.”
“I wish I knew.”
The Greek said hopefully: “Thees people who do the shootings — maybe they are Eyetalian.”
Cellini drained his glass. “We had plenty time to go through Jimmy Legg’s apartment before Haenigson got there and we found nothing out of the ordinary — excepting what’s in the icebox.”
“What about it?”
“That’s where Legg hid the tools of his trade.”
“Such as?” asked Mack interestedly.
“Pliers, wire, nails, and stuff.”
“That Legg was small-time,” declared Mack professionally. “All I ever needed to clean a box was a fine sewing needle. But it still don’t explain why Simms got Homicidal about us.”
The Greek refilled their glasses with the dubious Scotch. Cellini snapped his fingers as a thought crossed his mind. “Say, do you think my luscious client is in back of this?”
“I love Winnie madly but I got to admit there’s nothing that slut ain’t capable of.”
“Let’s see.” Cellini went to the wall phone and dialed the Hamilton Apartments. When he heard Winnie Crawford’s voice he said: “A hundred-buck retainer doesn’t give you the right to try and get me chopped down.”
“What are you talking about? You sound drunk.”
“That’s only from the liquor in me and I’m talking about Manny Simms. Is he the guy who pays your bills?”
“Damn you!” Winnie Crawford exploded. “I told you I was alone and liking it. Cut out the sex stuff.”
“O.K., Winnie. Simmer down. Do you know Manny Simms?”
“I never heard of the guy.”
The throaty voice was hesitant and falsely casual. Cellini knew she was lying. She said: “Listen, I gave you a century to find out why Jimmy was killed. What about it?”
“Give me time, Winnie. I’m lousy with clues.”
He pronged the receiver and returned unsteadily to the bar for another drink.
“What’d she say?” asked Mack.
“Nothing much. She blew her own strumpet about males and claimed she never heard of Manny Simms when I know damned well she read all about him in the papers.”
“I love her,” Mack sighed. “It’d be funny if she killed Legg.”
Cellini finished his drink. “Haenigson’s probably still messing around Legg’s place. I’ll go see what he knows about Simms.”
“And I’ll see if I can pick up Simms,” declared the bookie.
Cellini shook his head. “You wait here for me. I want to be around when we catch up with Manny Simms.”
Cellini Smith’s head was somewhat clearer and his step steadier by the time he got back to Jimmy Legg’s apartment. He pushed open the door to find the police still at it. Two of them were taking apart the plumbing in the hope of finding some tell-tale residue in the U-traps, another was dusting for prints, and yet another was tape-measuring the rooms to make sure they had missed no hiding place. Ira Haenigson was doing a thorough job.
The detective-sergeant himself sat on the ripped living-room sofa, supervising the proceedings. He fish-eyed Cellini. “I know,” he said. “You were passing by downstairs and you saw the squad car.”