“What other ways?”
“Certain political concessions after election — uh — you know.” Woodward glanced nervously at his watch. “And it is imperative that you make a decision quickly.”
Kells said: “I’m not in politics. I want the dough. Lay fifty thousand on the line and show me Miss Granquist” — he looked at his watch, smiled — “and it is imperative that you make a decision quickly.”
Woodward stood up. “Very well, Mister Kells,” he said. His voice had risen in pitch to the near-falsetto of the telephone conversation. “What you ask is impossible. I’ll say good-day.”
He started toward the door and Kells said: “Hold on a minute.” The big automatic that had been O’Donnell’s glittered dully in his hand. “Sit down.”
Woodward’s blue eyes were wide behind his glasses. He went back toward the chair.
Kells said: “No. Over by the phone.”
Woodward smiled weakly, sat down at the telephone stand.
“Now you’d better call up your parties and tell them everything’s all right — that we made a deal.”
Woodward was looking at the rug. He pursed his lips, shook his head slowly.
“There’s a direct line in the other room,” Kells wept on, “if you’d rather not make it through the switchboard.”
Woodward didn’t move except to shake his head slowly; he stared at the floor, smiled a little.
“Hurry up.” Kells stood up.
Then the phone in the bedroom rang; Kells could faintly hear Beery say “Hello.” It was quiet for a moment and then the bedroom door opened and Fenner stood in the doorway looking back at Beery.
Beery said: “You sure?... Just the press and the forms... All out?... All right, I’ll be right over.” The receiver clicked and Beery came into the doorway. He glanced at Woodward, grinned crookedly at Kells.
“They blew up the joint,” he said. “But nearly all the stuff was out. A hand press and a couple of linotypes were cracked up and one guy’s got a piece of iron in his shoulder, but they discovered it in time and got everybody else and the sheets out. The originals are in the safe.”
He struck an attitude, declaimed: “The first issue of The Coast Guardian; A Political Weekly for Thinking People, is on the stands.”
Kells turned slowly, sat down. He looked steadily at Woodward for a while and then he said: “As representative of the Bellmann estate” — he paused, coughed gently — “do you think you’re strong enough to beat charges of coercion, conspiracy to defeat justice, dynamiting, abduction — a few more that any half-smart attorney can figure out?”
Woodward kept his eyes down. “That was a stall about the girl. We haven’t got her, and we don’t know where Rose is...”
“So Rose has got her?”
Woodward looked up, spoke hesitantly: “I don’t know.”
“If you’ve got any ideas, now’s a swell time to spill them.”
Woodward glanced at Beery, Fenner, back to Kells. “My people don’t want to have anything to do with Rose,” he said. “He’s wanted for murder and if he’s caught he’ll get the works.” He smiled again, went on slowly: “He called up this morning and said you shot O’Donnell — said he could prove it...”
Fenner laughed quietly.
Kells said: “Where did he call from?”
Woodward shook his head. “Don’t know.”
Beery had gone back into the bedroom. He came into the doorway again, pulling on his coat. “I’ll be back in about an hour, Gerry,” he said. He poured himself a short drink, swallowed it and went out making faces.
Kells asked Woodward: “Where can I find you?”
Woodward hesitated a moment. “I’ve got an office in the Dell Building — the number’s in the book.”
“You can go.”
Woodward got up and said: “Good-day, sir.” He nodded at Fenner, went out.
Kells took Fenner’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar check out of his inside coat pocket. He unfolded it and looked at it for a minute and then he said: “Let’s go over to the bank and have this certified.”
They went out together
Chapter Five
Kells slept most of the afternoon. Doctor Janis stopped by at seven. The leg was pretty stiff.
Janis said. “You ought to stay in a couple days, anyway. You’re damned lucky it was the edge of the fan got you — Dickinson got the middle...”
Kells asked: “How is he?”
“He’ll be all right. He’s too tough.”
Janis put on his coat and hat and went to the door. “You had a break,” he said — “don’t press it.” He went out.
Kells telephoned Fenner. There had been several steers on Rose — all of them bad. Sheedy hadn’t been located. The Mexican who had been with Rose was probably Abalos, from Frisco. He lived at a small hotel on Main street which was being watched. Reilly was being tailed.
Beery came up about eight. “Everything’s lovely,” he said. “All the evening papers carried the Guardian stuff — I’m the fair-haired boy at the Chronicle.” He put down his glass. “You want me to keep the Chronicle job too, don’t you?”
Kells said: “Sure.”
Beery stooped over the low table and mixed himself a drink. “I’m going to the fights. Swell card.”
“So am I.”
Beery squinted over his shoulder. “You’d better stay in the hay,” he said.
Kells swung up, sat on the edge of the bed. “Got your ducats?”
“Yeah. I was going to take the wife.”
“Sure — we’ll take her. Call up and see if you can get three ether, close.” Kells limped into the bathroom, turned on shower.
Beery sat tinkling ice against the sides of his glass. When Kells turned off the shower Beery yelled: “The old lady don’t want to go anyway.”
Kells stood in the bathroom door, grinning.
Beery looked up at him and then down at his glass. “I guess she don’t like you very well.” He picked up the phone and asked for a Hollywood number.
Kells disappeared into the bathroom again, and when he came out Beery smiled happily, said: “Okay. She’d rather go to a picture show.”
The seats were fifth row, ringside — two seats off the aisle. The second preliminary was in its last round when Kells and Beery squeezed past a very fat man in the aisle seat, sat down.
The preliminary ended in a draw and the lights flared on. Kells nodded to several acquaintances, and Beery leaned forward, talked to a friend of his in the row ahead. He introduced the man to Kells: Brand, feature sports writer for an Eastern syndicate.
Kells had been looking at his program, asked: “What’s the price on Gilroy?”
“The boys were offering three to two before dinner — very little business. I’ll lay two to one on Shane.”
Gilroy was a New York Negro, a heavyweight who had been at the top of his class for a while. Too much living, and racial discrimination — too few fights — had softened him. The dopesters said he’d lost everything he ever had, was on the skids. Shane was a tough kid from Texas. He was reputed to have a right-hand punch that more than made up for his lack of experience.
Kells remembered Gilroy — from Harlem — had known him well, liked him. He said: “I’ll take five hundred of that.”
Brand looked at him very seriously, nodded.
Beery looked disgusted. He leaned toward Kells, muttered: “For God’s sake, Gerry, they’re grooming Shane for a title shot. Do you think they’re going to let an unpopular boogie like Gilroy get anywhere?”
Kells said: “He used to be very good — he can’t have gone as bad as they say in a year. I’ve only seen Shane once and I thought he was lousy...”
“He won, didn’t he?”