It was another half hour before the door to Cellini’s room opened and two attendants wheeled in a tea-cart that bore an enticing array of food. Behind, followed Howard who waved the two men out.
It was an abject, apologetic Howard. “Mr. Smith, it’s all been a terrible mistake.”
“Get out of here,” said Cellini with an effort to remain calm. “Get the hell out!”
“You can’t blame me for not believing you were a private detective. After all, you came here under false pretenses.”
“I didn’t come here — I was carried.”
“But you agreed to take the cure and I was under the impression you were an alcoholic. Not until Sergeant Haenigson told me of the mistake I made did I believe you.”
Howard laughed uneasily. “It’s rather late and I suppose you must be hungry, Mr. Smith. You had better eat before you leave.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“That’s fine,” said Howard without enthusiasm. “You’ll be my guest. Incidentally Haenigson told me that Fields’ wrist watch proved he had been murdered. Could you explain what he meant?”
“The mark of his watch band was on the left wrist which would indicate that he was right-handed.”
“So?” prompted Howard.
“Fields’ right wrist was slashed which means that he would have had to hold the knife in his left hand — and he wouldn’t have done that because he wasn’t a southpaw.”
“I see.”
“That was a stupid blunder on the part of the killer. Someone simply walked in and stunned Fields with a blow on the head — with one of those heavy, glass ashtrays perhaps — then dragged him to the bathroom, put his arm into the wash bowl, cut the artery and let the body slide to the floor.”
“But who, Mr. Smith?”
Cellini didn’t reply but said: “I want to see your complete files on Ivy Collins and Fields.”
Howard hesitated a moment, then left. He returned shortly, carrying two folders which he gave to Cellini.
The one on Henry Fields supplied scanty information. He had been picked up at the Kitty Klub and admitted on Thursday the 26th. The medical record spoke of extreme irritability and a psychopathic condition and recommended that he be permitted no visitors or phone calls.
The one on Ivy Collins was hardly more illuminating. Medically, she was diagnosed as being emotionally immature. Cellini’s eyebrows went up. She had seemed to him emotionally overripe. His chief interest, however, was in the visitor who had come to see her and had then gone to Fields, posing as Cellini Smith. This was Saturday and the imposter had come two days before. According to the record, Ivy Collins had had no visitors on that day.
Cellini tossed the cards aside and Howard asked again: “Who could have killed Fields?”
“Maybe you.”
“You have no reason to think that!”
“No? In the first place, you’re treating me with kid gloves. You’re afraid I might discover something. In the second place, you’re a liar. Haenigson would never have told you I’m a private detective because he likes the idea of me stewing here.”
“You’re being unfair, Mr. Smith.”
“Nor would he have told you of the wrist watch. If he had, however, it would have been with good reason and he would have explained what he meant. You found it necessary to ask me because all you knew was what you overheard — eavesdropping on us.”
Howard pointed to the door. “That’s solid pine. It would be impossible to hear anything through that.”
“Maybe so.” Cellini pulled the bed aside and looked behind it. He examined the base and the picture moldings and ripped the drapes from the window. His search ended with the radiator grill set in the wall.
He reached inside and tore out a small microphone that had been placed behind the grill.
Nervously, Howard said: “The people I bought this place from wired the rooms with dictaphones. I’ve never bothered to take them out but I don’t use them.”
“My aching back!” commented Cellini Smith.
“There’s no reason for us to be unfriendly,” Howard continued. “I’d like to part with you on better terms and I do wish you’d eat some of that food because you must be hungry.”
“Stop cueing me like a ham actor, Howard, because we haven’t come to the parting of the ways yet. I’m sticking around to nail you for the killing. As for your food—”
Cellini picked up a bowl of soup and hurled it against the wall. He picked up the salad dish and threw it at the barred window. “That’s what I’ll do. I’ll nail you whether you’re guilty or innocent!”
Hurriedly, Howard left. Methodically, with extreme precision, Cellini picked up each dish and threw it with all his strength. “Psychopathic inferior,” he said and hurled the coffee. “Social lubricant... euthanasia... occupational therapy...” When the tea-cart was bare, he stood motionless, calming himself. Then he walked out, feeling a little better.
It was nearing eight P.M. when he again stepped into the corridor and headed for the pantry.
Tom Sprigley and Larry Coomb were there but they were not drinking.
Sprigley welcomed Cellini with a wink and said: “This milkhead was trying to find out where you were hiding. He says he wants to break your dirty neck.”
“Is there a phone in that guest room of yours,” asked Cellini.
Coomb mustered what dignity he could and said: “You stay away from her. This is a final warning.”
“Have you got an Ameche in your room?” Cellini repeated.
“Do you hear me?” Coomb was again slapping his thighs nervously with his gloves. “Stay away from her.”
“Damn it!” shouted Cellini. “Is there a phone in your room?”
“Yes, there is, but I’m warning you that I’ll kill you if you don’t stay away from Miss Collins. I intend to marry her.”
Miss Banks entered. “Gentlemen, please.” Slowly, she looked at each of the men. Her pale, unattractive face seemed to be under a strain. “Please be quiet. There is group singing going on in the social room. If you wish to join them—”
“I don’t wish to join anybody,” snapped Cellini. “I just want to find out who killed Henry Fields and get out of here!”
“Killed?” repeated the nurse.
“That’s right. Perhaps a mercy killing. As for you, Coomb, your motive might have been jealousy.”
“Take it easy,” said Sprigley. “Maybe you are a detective but you had a chance to do it yourself, you know.”
“How do you know I’m a detective?”
“Howard told me. Why?”
“Did you tell Ivy?”
“Yes, I told her this afternoon. I even told her not to mention to the police your asking about Fields last night. You seem mighty ungrateful—”
He stopped. From some place in front of the building they could hear hoarse shouts. There was something familiar about one of the voices and Cellini headed for the noise.
It was a strange scene that met his eyes when he reached the entrance. The mammoth figure of Duck-Eye Ryan stood just inside the doorway. Three white-jacketed men were trying to get at him without meeting the huge fist that lashed out like a piston. Duck-Eye’s left arm was wrapped around the neck of Mario, the bartender of the Kitty Klub.
As Duck-Eye sighted Cellini, he delivered a yelp of pleasure, dropped Mario to the floor and said, “Gee,” three times.
Cellini dodged his friend’s embrace and bent over Mario.
“When do you have your night off at the Klub?” he asked. “It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”
Mario stood up slowly and began to rub his neck.
Howard’s patients began to crowd out of the social room and one of them announced triumphantly: “I always said whiskey was a stimulant and not a depressant.”