They looked down at Cellini and the blond one asked: “Does he get mean?”
“A little,” nodded Mario, “but he’s not likely to come to for ten or twelve hours.”
The blond one asked some more questions and then he and his companion hauled Cellini up by the armpits and dragged him out. The way led through the kitchen and out the rear door where a private ambulance was parked. After they had tossed Cellini on a rubber-sheeted litter inside the car, the two attendants locked the door and went back to the Kitty Klub.
They returned in a little while and looked in on Cellini. He was breathing heavily and one of them loosened his collar. The other took out Cellini’s wallet, found an identification card and announced: “The guy’s name is Cellini Smith.”
While returning the wallet, he deftly palmed a five-dollar bill by way of a self-given tip and then the two of them got into the front of the car.
The ambulance headed for Hollywood Boulevard and then turned into one of the winding grades that lead up into the hills. The blond one looked back through the panel of glass into the interior of the car and saw that Cellini had rolled off the litter onto the floor. They continued to climb for another five minutes, turning into a side road which finally led to a gate with bronze lettering that read, simply: HOWARD’S.
The driver touched his horn lightly and the gate swung back, giving them access to the grounds which were completely enclosed by a seven-foot cement wall. When they had reached the sanitarium building, the attendants stepped from the car and hauled the still inert Cellini from the rear. They carried their burden inside and stopped in the hallway when a figure approached them.
“Who have you there, Freddy?”
“Another stew, Mr. Howard,” the blond one said.
“I can smell him from here. Who is he?”
“His name’s Cellini Smith.”
“A Smith again?” said Howard. “Well, I don’t care what they call themselves. Where did you find Smith?”
“We picked him up at the Kitty Klub where he passed out,” Freddy replied. “We checked and it looks like he’s been on a binge for some time.”
“All right. C-32 is vacant.” Howard walked away.
The attendants carried Cellini around a bend in the corridor, opened a door and dropped him on a bed.
“Undress him?” asked one.
“He’d never know the difference,” said the other and they left.
The room was completely dark and silent. From far away came the muted wailing of a dog but nothing could be heard from within the house. Ten maddeningly long minutes passed as Cellini lay, unmoving, on the bed. Then a hand quietly reached down and began unlacing a shoe.
Carefully, he placed the shoe on the floor. He had heard nothing but he thought there was an off-chance that the two lads in white were still lingering in the corridor. The other shoe went beside the first, then he eased himself off the bed without a sound and stood up.
Fully sober, his eyes took in the quarter-moon through the barred window. He looked around, identifying the various shapes in the room, and then moved for the door.
Chapter Two
The Nut Club
Cellini Smith stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind him. It all seemed too simple but then Howard probably didn’t mind having his patients wander around the building. It would no doubt be another matter to get out the front door, past the guards, over the wall into the world again.
Cellini wondered about the time and checked his watch. Just 12:30. It seemed to him that his drunk act had taken longer. He wondered, also, which way to go and finally decided to turn right. There were probably more rooms down that way since the attendants had taken, by actual count, exactly sixty-two steps after bringing him in. On a purely percentage basis, the odds were that Henry Fields was located somewhere deeper in the building. If, thought Cellini glumly, Fields was in the building at all.
Quietly, Cellini moved down the hallway, then suddenly flattened himself against the wall. A white shape was approaching from around a bend in the corridor. It was a young, severe-faced nurse wearing the uniform of her profession. Cellini’s mind raced to invent a story to explain his presence there for she could hardly miss seeing him.
Looking neither to right nor to left, the nurse swept by.
Cellini waited but she did not turn around. Something was wrong for he knew beyond a shadow of any doubt that she had seen him. Cellini didn’t like it. He would have preferred an argument. Perhaps she didn’t talk to strange men.
He continued on his way, passing several doors, and finally stopped in front of one showing a slit of light above the saddle. Henry Fields would certainly be awake and this would be as good a place as any to start. Without knocking, he entered.
It was a room similar to his own and sprawled on the bed, reading a mystery book, was a middle-aged, genial-faced man.
“Beg pardon,” said Cellini. “Wrong pew.”
The stranger sat up. “Come right in. Always glad to meet a fellow dipsomaniac. I’m Tom Sprigley.”
Cellini took the proffered hand and supplied his own name. He asked: “Do they let you stay up all night in this joint?”
“Only if they feel like it, Smith. Why?”
“They operate in a queer way around here.”
“You just don’t recognize that you’re in a classy place, my friend. There’s no such thing as a padded cell here. It’s called a detention room.”
“It’s still queer. A nurse just passed six inches from me in the hallway and she went right by without a word.”
“That’s Banks,” said Sprigley. “Miss Banks is the only woman between sixteen and sixty I’ve never wanted to kiss.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Cellini. “Isn’t she alive?”
“They don’t have to be alive for me. It’s only that she’s gone overboard on the Florence Nightingale stuff. I don’t want anybody to feel that sorry for me. I just want to drink.”
“How come she didn’t say anything to me?”
Sprigley laughed. “You were lucky. If you think she didn’t know you ought to be in bed you’re mistaken. They know pretty well everything that goes on.”
“You seem to have been here a long time. Are you a permanent guest?”
“On and off,” Sprigley replied. “Whenever I sober up and take a look at my wife, I run here to Howard’s. How about a few quick hands of pinochle?”
“Thanks but I’ve got no vices. I’m perfect.” Cellini waved a farewell.
“Come on, Smith,” Tom Sprigley coaxed. “I promise to lose.”
“Maybe later.” Cellini stepped into the corridor again and continued on his way. It was nearly one in the morning and Henry Fields still had to be found. He heard a rustle of linen behind him and turned to see Miss Banks.
This time she stopped and asked: “You’re new here, aren’t you?” The colorless voice matched her appearance.
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ll find it in the pantry down there.”
“What will I find there?”
“Liquor.” The word was spat out like a tainted oyster.
“I get it,” said Cellini. “The hair of the dog that bit me.”
The gray eyes, set in a face that could have been pretty, studied him. “No. It’s simply that we want you to realize your position while undergoing treatment. An alcoholic needs his drink to face reality. It’s a crutch.”
“That’s fine, Miss Banks. And you say I can find my liquid crutch in the pantry?”
“Yes. Down there.”
He had no choice but to go the way she indicated.
When Cellini Smith reached the pantry he found someone already there. It was a woman, crowding thirty, who was the complete antithesis of Miss Banks. The wise, somewhat shopworn though attractive face was over-painted and the figure was full-blown. Automatically, she mixed a drink from a bottle labeled Blended Whiskey and handed it to him.