At eleven-twenty, Woodward was announced. Granquist went into the bedroom and closed the door, and Borg let Woodward in.
Woodward’s eyes were excited behind wide-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses. He bowed nervously to Beery and Borg, sat down in the chair near Kells at Kells’ invitation.
“How would you like to buy the originals of all the dirt on Bellmann?” Kells began.
Woodward smiled faintly. “We’ve discussed that before Mister Kells,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s too late to do anything about it now — your Coast Guardian has published several of the pictures and the story...”
Kells said: “You can doctor the negatives and claim they’re forgeries — and I can give you additional information with which you can prove that the whole thing was a conspiracy to blackmail Bellmann.”
Woodward pursed his lips. He glanced at Beery, said: “Don’t you think we might discuss this alone, Mister Kells?”
Kells shook his head shortly.
“In addition to all that,” he went on “the pictures and the information — I can give you” — he paused, leaned forward slightly — “absolute proof that L.D. Fenner shot Bellmann.”
Woodward’s eyes widened a little. He leaned back in his chair and wet his lips, stared at Kells as if he wasn’t quite sure that he had heard correctly.
“L.D. Fenner killed Bellmann,” Kells repeated slowly. He took a crumpled piece of paper out of the breast pocket of his dressing gown, straightened it out and tossed it on Woodward’s lap.
Woodward picked it up and held it close to his face, put his hand up and adjusted his glasses. He put the paper back on the arm of Kells’ chair in a little while. He cleared his throat, said: “Who is Beery, who witnessed Fenner’s signature with you?”
Kells inclined his head towards Beery, who was sitting at the table watching Borg’s solitaire.
Woodward said: “How much do you want?”
“Plenty.” Kells picked up the piece of paper, held it by a corner. He grinned at Beery. “It’s lousy theater,” he said. “The ‘incriminating confession’” — he said it melodramatically. “All we need is the Old Homestead, some papier-mâché snow, and a couple of bloodhounds.”
“And you ought to have a black mustache.” Beery looked up, smiled.
Woodward said: “As I told you — my, uh — people are pressed for cash.”
“I don’t give a damn how pressed they are. They can do business with me now — big business — and get their lousy administration out of the hole, or they can start packing to move out of City Hall. This is the last call...”
Woodward started to speak and then the phone rang. Borg answered it, put his hand over the transmitter, nodded to Kells. Then he got up and brought the phone over.
Kells said: “Hello... Wait a minute — I want you to meet a friend of mine.”
He spoke to Woodward: “In case you’re figuring this for a plant, I want you to talk to this guy. You’d know Fenner’s voice, wouldn’t you?”
Woodward nodded. He took the phone from Kells, hesitantly said: “Hello.”
Kells reached over and took the phone back. He spoke into it, smiled at Woodward, and said: “Hello, Lee... That was Mister Woodward, a big buyer from downtown... Uh-huh... Now don’t get excited, Lee — we haven’t made a deal yet... Why don’t you come on over?... Yes — and bring plenty of cash — it starts at fifty grand... Okay, make it snappy.”
He hung up, stared vacantly at Woodward’s cravat.
“Now I’m not going to argue with you,” he said. “You heard what I told Fenner. You’d better get going — first here, first served.”
Woodward stood up. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. He put on his hat, nodded to Beery and Borg and started towards the door.
Kells said: “And don’t get ideas. If you come back here with the law, and try to hang a ‘conspiracy to defeat justice’ rap on me, I’ll swear that the whole goddamned thing is a lie — and so will my gentlemen friends.” He jerked his head at Beery and Borg.
Woodward had turned to listen. He nodded, then turned again and went out and closed the door.
Kells said: “This is going to be a lot of fun, even if it doesn’t work.”
“You said something about being all washed up with the fun angle...” Beery got up and poured himself a drink. “You said something about being out for the dough.”
“Watch it work.” Kells leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
Fenner put thirty thousand-dollar notes on the arm of Kells’ chair. Kells took the piece of crumpled paper out of his breast pocket and handed it to Fenner, and Fenner unfolded it and looked at it and then took a cigarette lighter out of his pocket and touched the flame to a corner of the paper.
Kells said: “Now get out of here while you’re all together.” He said it very quietly.
They were alone in the room.
Fenner said: “What could I do, Gerry? I had to go to Crotti when you told me he had this.” He put the last charred corner of paper in an ashtray. “It took me a couple days to get to him — I was damned near crazy...”
“Right.” Kells moved his head slowly up and down and his expression was not pleasant. “You were plenty crazy when you offered Crotti my scalp.”
Fenner stood up. He didn’t say anything, just stood there looking out the window for a minute, then he turned and started towards the door.
“I’ll give you a tip, L.D.,” Kells’ voice was low, and he stared with hard cold eyes at Fenner. “Take it on the lam — quick.”
Fenner opened his mouth and then he closed it, swallowed.
He said: “Why — what do you mean?”
Kells didn’t answer; he stared at Fenner coldly. Fenner stood there a little while and then he turned and went out. Borg and Granquist came out of the kitchen.
Kells said: “Thirty. I wonder if we’ll do as well with Woodward. These guys don’t seem to take me seriously when I talk about fifty thousand. Maybe it’s the depression.”
At a few minutes after one, Woodward telephoned.
The crutches that Janis had called about had been delivered, and Kells was practicing walking with them. He put them down, sat down at the table and took the phone from Borg.
He said, “Hello,” and then listened with an occasional affirmative grunt. After a minute or so he said, “All right — make it fast,” and hung up.
He grinned at Granquist. “Twenty more,” he said. “Up to now it’s been a swell day’s work. If we get it...”
Borg said: “Do you mind letting me in on how the hell you’re going to sell this thing to Woodward when you’ve already sold it to Fenner?”
Kells took two more pieces of creased crumpled paper from his pocket, tossed them on the table in front of Borg.
Borg looked at the two, smiled slowly. “How about making them up in gross lots?” he said.
Kells inclined his head towards Granquist. “The lady’s work,” he said. “She used to be in the business — she went over to the Venice early this morning and snagged the letterheads.”
Granquist was sitting in the big chair by the window. Kells picked up the two pieces of paper and put them back in his pocket, got up and hobbled over to her, sat down on the arm of the chair.
“God! You’re awfully quiet, baby,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
She looked up at him and her eyes were frightened.
“I want to go — I want us to go,” she said huskily. “Something awful’s going to happen...”
Kells put his arm around her head, pulled it close against his chest.
“If we get the twenty from Woodward,” he said very quietly — “and the big stuff from Crotti, it’ll make almost two hundred grand—”