Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 27, No. 2 — September 1945)

Chapter One Bottoms Up

Cellini Smith carefully engineered his big friend toward the bar of the Kitty Klub. “Easy does it,” he said. However, it was Cellini and not Duck-Eye Ryan who collided with two of the tables before they reached their destination.

Mario, who doubled as manager and bartender, frowned at sight of them, and said, with undisguised disgust in his tone: “Oh, it’s you again.”

“That’s what you tell me every time I come in here,” Cellini Smith said. “Can’t you find a different tune to blow?”

“Well, every time you come in here, it’s you again,” replied Mario not illogically.

Cellini scowled. “Suppose you set out two wholesome, nutritious glasses of whiskey for me and my friend. I will pay you for it, the owner of this dump will make a handsome profit, he’ll be able to hire you for another week and everybody will be happy. When I want any chatty comments, witty limericks or soft-shoe routines I’ll let you know.”

Though the sibilants were slightly blurred, Cellini delivered each word with the extreme care and precision of a drunk trying to maintain an appearance of sobriety. He fooled nobody.

The barkeep plied his trade but continued to grumble. “Sure if that’s all you wanted. But you always look for trouble. Like Mrs. Madigan’s thigh the other day.”

“It was not I but Mrs. Madigan’s thigh that was looking for trouble.”

Mario set out two glasses. “Sure. It spoke to you.”

“It shouldn’t be so obscenely fat and it shouldn’t have sat down next to me.”

“That still don’t give you no call to pinch it. We try to keep this a family place.”

“I have no family,” Cellini observed. “I just have Duck-Eye Ryan.”

Duck-Eye Ryan downed the contents of his glass and his large moon-face beamed at Cellini vacuously.

“Mr. Madigan heard about it,” the bartender pursued. “He was simply furious. We nearly barred you from the Kitty Klub.”

Cellini Smith said: “Shut up.”

They had three more drinks and Duck-Eye said: “This is heaven. Can I have more?”

“Sure. I told you there’s no limit.”

“You’re wonderful to me, Cellini.” The dull, round eyes suddenly grew misty. “I stink, Cellini.” The mist coagulated into twin tear drops in the outside corners of each eye.

“Stop bawling and get that drink down.”

Duck-Eye’s lips trembled and his hands rubbed his boxing-ring scarred face. “I’m just a lousy has-been—”

Cellini nodded agreement.

“—but you treat me like I still rated a semifinal, like I was on top of the heap.” Duck-Eye Ryan’s head fell forward on his arms and he began to sob into the bar.

Cellini regarded him with disgust and ordered more drinks. After a while the sobs ceased but Duck-Eye’s head did not raise. Cellini shook the massive shoulders but there was no response. Duck-Eye had passed out.

Mario nodded toward Duck-Eye Ryan. “What gives with the goon?”

“Duck-Eye couldn’t take it,” Cellini replied. “He passed out. A hell of a bodyguard!” he muttered to himself.

“You’ve been at it three days,” said Mario. “I wonder you don’t pass out.”

“Four days,” corrected Cellini Smith. “Today is Friday.”

“It’s no good for you,” moralized the bartender. “Why don’t you give up and go home to sleep?”

“I got a shecret shorrow.” Cellini stood up, holding on to the bar for support. “Looking for a fight?”

Mario waved him back to the stool. “All right. Cool off and watch the floor show. Tanya’s going to sing so shut up and listen.”

Cellini drank and watched Tanya sing. When she had finished he yelled: “Boo!” A bouncer put a quieting finger to his lips. An accordian duet took the stage and this time Cellini didn’t wait for the end to indicate his displeasure. The bouncer left his station and came toward Cellini.

“You shouldn’t do that, mister,” he said pleasantly. “Just don’t applaud if you don’t like them.”

Cellini decided that he was living in a democracy and no one could tell him what to do. He drained his glass and then threw it at the bouncer. It went wide by over three yards and smashed into an array of bottles behind the bar.

“Now,” said Mario, “you’re really going to have a secret sorrow.”

The bouncer slid in expertly. Cellini let loose a punch, missing him completely but hitting a patron on the adjoining stool. The bouncer caught him by the left wrist and pulled back sharply, neatly depositing Cellini over his shoulder. Then, as if carrying a sack of potatoes, he walked out unhurriedly and into the manager’s office where he dropped his inert burden on a sofa.

Mario, who had followed, said: “I hope he doesn’t get sick in here.”

“Not this one. His plumbing is zinc-lined.”

“I shouldn’t have let him have that last couple.”

The bouncer nodded. “I been keeping my eye on him the last few days. Guess I’ll call a cop.” He left.

Cellini slowly stirred and sat up. He realized that the thing on the table in front of him was a fifth of brandy. He tilted the bottle to his lips and, after taking a long swig, began to sing I Got Sixpence. Mario slapped him over the face and took away the bottle. Cellini beamed and continued to sing.

He was still singing when the bouncer returned with a policeman. Obviously bored, the cop listened to the story.

“I hate to do this,” Mario concluded. “It’s no good for our reputation to arrest customers.”

“Then what do you want me for?” asked the cop.

“On the other hand, I don’t want them to get the idea they can come in here and rough up the place.”

Cellini suddenly lunged for the brandy bottle, which was now on a bookcase, and fell fiat on his face. The cop nudged him with a shoe and Cellini mumbled something that sounded like: “I wanna sleep. Lemme alone.”

“If you don’t want to charge him with nothing,” said the cop, “why don’t you keep him here overnight?”

“He’ll only wake up in the morning and start all over again.”

“That’s right,” the bouncer agreed. “The guy’s on a perpetual binge and he’ll be in looking for trouble again.”

“I just don’t want him around here and he’ll head back as soon as he starts drinking. I’ve tried kicking him out before but he gets tough and it’s bad for business.” Mario snapped his fingers. “Say, maybe we can talk him into going on the wagon. If we can get him to take that alcoholic cure, he’ll be out of circulation for a few weeks.”

“Do what you want,” said the cop, “but get it over with.”

Mario bent over Cellini. “We’ll give you a break, brother. You can either take the cure or you can go to jail. Which will it be?”

“I wanna drink,” came the voice from the carpet.

Mario straightened up. “He’ll take the cure. It’ll be more comfortable than spending the same time in jail.”

“As long as he agrees, it’s no skin off my badge,” said the cop and added suggestively: “Kind of cool out tonight.”

Mario indicated the brandy bottle, said, “Try that fuel oil,” consulted the telephone directory and made a call.

The cop had left when, some twenty minutes later, two competent-looking young men entered the office of the Kitty Klub. The initials, H.A.C., on their white jackets, stood for Howard’s Alcoholic Cure.

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.

“They cut it fifty per cent,” she said, “but that’s one better than forty-nine. Don’t they wear shoes where you come from?”

“What are shoes?” Cellini accepted the drink. “Thanks. Who are you?”

“Ivy Collins. They put cigarettes out on me. Do you think I’m better off dead?”

“Maybe. I couldn’t say.”

Ivy Collins opened the wrapper she wore and modeled the black negligee underneath.

“You’re better off this way,” said Cellini sincerely. “Who claims otherwise?”

“That Banks dame.” Moodily, Ivy stirred her drink. “I bet she even rides her broom sidesaddle.”

“Do you know someone called Henry Fields around here?”

“What’s it to you?” snapped Ivy Collins.

“Very little,” said Cellini, taken aback. “I heard he’s here and I happen to know him.”

“Oh. I thought you might be a detective on something.” She grinned and Cellini suddenly realized that she was as drunk as one can possibly be and still remain vertical.

“Would my being a detective be good or bad?”

“Bad. It would mean that Henry was trying to pin things on me with my boy-friend. If you get what I mean,” she finished lamely.

“And you like your boy-friend?” Cellini prompted.

“I can’t stand him. He ought to get together with Banks. He says that women who drink are the bane of humanity. That’s why he sends me here every few months.”

“Then how come he’s your boy-friend?”

“He loves me for what I am, not for what I drink. And I love him for his money. Sometimes I think it would be better to get back to the runway.”

The pantry door swung open and Tom Sprigley entered.

“Ah, so you’ve met our star boarder, Smith. I don’t blame you for ducking the pinochle.”

“I’m looking for someone called Henry Fields. Know him?”

“Good friend of mine, though I don’t usually go for the worrying kind”

Ivy finished mixing three more drinks and distributed the glasses. She raised hers for a toast.

“Here’s to the next one to die.”

Cellini said: “If he’s such a good friend, you might tell me where his room is.”

“Sixth door down the hall to the right.”

The ceiling light suddenly blinked off and on three times in rapid succession.

“Oh, oh,” said Ivy. “I guess they want us out of here.”

Cellini stopped by the doorway. “What did you mean about Henry Fields being the worrying kind?”

“He’s got troubles,” Sprigley replied, “and he never lets you forget them. But,” he added slyly, “why don’t you ask Ivy? She knows him much better than I do.”

The door to Henry Fields’ room was open and Cellini Smith eased himself inside and shut it behind him.

A voice said: “Drop your gun and raise your hands.”

“I haven’t got a gun, my hands are raised and my name is Cellini Smith.”

“You’re lying!” snapped the testy voice from the blackness of the room. “Cellini Smith was here yesterday. I’ll give you three seconds to get out before I shoot.”

Cellini looked at the weak shaft of moonlight forcing itself through the window. The odds on the owner of the voice missing him in that darkness were worth taking. Hoping that this room was identical with his, Cellini suddenly grabbed for the wall switch and simultaneously dropped to the floor.

There was no explosion of any bullet in the light that flooded the room. Only silence, as Cellini slowly stood up. From a photograph he had seen, he recognized the man who was huddled under the bedclothes as Henry Fields.

Cellini sat down on a chair beside the bed and lit a cigarette. He said: “Never give anyone three seconds. Especially if you haven’t got a gun.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m here to find out what you want,” Cellini countered. He took an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the bed.

Fields picked up the envelope and fumbled for the letter inside. “How did you get this?”

“From you through the mail with a hundred-dollar check which I’ve already cashed.”

Doubt appeared on Fields’ face. “If you’re Smith, who was the other person?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“But his business card—”

“I’m not carrying identification because I was afraid I might be searched but for two bucks I can get cards printed saying I’m the Andrews Sisters. How did this other guy get in here?”

“As a visitor. They don’t let me have any so he came ostensibly to visit a girl I know here and I managed to get a few minutes alone with him.”

“I suppose you told him your whole story.”

“Of course.”

“Well, you might as well repeat it to me now.”

Fields regarded him with baleful eyes. “I’m still not sure he wasn’t Cellini Smith and that you’re not the phony.”

There followed a strained silence and then Cellini said: “Think it over like a bright business executive, Fields, and tell me what earthly difference it makes whether or not I’m a phony.”

“Smith, even if you’re no fake I don’t like your attitude.”

“It’ll have to do till the war’s over. Apparently you’re no intellectual giant, Fields, so listen carefully while I try to explain. You’re in some sort of jam and you wrote one Cellini Smith to do something for you. Is that right?”

Henry Fields nodded.

“Obviously someone else doesn’t want you to get that thing done, otherwise you wouldn’t be locked up here and you wouldn’t have to call in a private operative. Now this other person also knows what you want done. Isn’t that so?”

“Naturally.”

“Fine. Now put away your yo-yo and listen. This other person sent someone here to masquerade as Cellini Smith and fool you. If your visitor was the real Smith then he’s doing what you asked him. In that case, it won’t hurt to tell me the story because if I’m with the other side I already know it. If, on the other hand, your visitor was a phony then he’s doing nothing in your interests. In that case, I’m the real thing so, again, you should tell me the story.”

Fields considered it and then said reluctantly: “Very well. I suppose you know who I am and about my job.”

“Yes, I checked all that.”

“What you probably couldn’t check was the financial standing of the firm for which I work. It’s so good that at a secret board meeting a few weeks ago we decided to cut our shares four ways. That means that we will take in the outstanding shares of stock and return four for each one.”

“And,” Cellini noted, “make a fortune for whoever owns stock in the outfit.”

“That’s right. Each share is paying two and a half dollars quarterly interest and that will continue after the split. Naturally, I did something about it.”

“You bought a large block?”

“No, I couldn’t take a chance on the firm changing its mind about the four-way split so I went to a call broker and reserved five thousand shares to be called for within thirty days. I don’t know if you understand how a put and call broker operates but it’s something like a real estate dealer. You can put down a small sum of money which gives you the option to buy a piece of land within a certain period. If you decide not to buy, you lose your deposit but if you decide to go through the broker has to deliver at the original price. It’s the same way with a call broker and shares of stock.”

“I’m with you,” said Cellini, “but who started pitching a curve?”

Fields’ voice was bitter. “I wish I knew. Everything went smoothly and by way of celebrating all the the money I’d make on the deal, I went on a drinking bout. As I wrote you — if you really are Smith — I went to the Kitty Klub and woke up here. I seem to have signed some kind of paper which gives Howard the right to do what he wants.”

“How much time,” asked Cellini Smith, “do you have in which to exercise your option?”

“Very little. If I don’t get in touch with Byron and Keever by noon this Monday, they will no longer hold the shares for me and I’ll forfeit my original call deposit.”

“That’s plenty of time,” said Cellini.

“Don’t be naive, Mr. Smith! If it were so easy don’t you think I would have found a way to do it the past three weeks? I can’t write or even use a phone — let alone think of getting out of here and to my brokers by then.”

“How true,” said Cellini absently. He stared at the end of his cigarette for a while, then asked: “This visitor you had, did he come to visit Ivy Collins?”

“Yes. How do you know her?”

“I just picked a name at random. What gives between you and Ivy? The old urge?”

“What of it?” demanded Henry Fields. “I’ve been locked up in this prison for over three weeks and—”

“I’m proud of you,” Cellini said, “but my only interest in Ivy is whether or not she knew that the visitor she passed on to you was a phony. Has she been making trouble?”

“She’s been trying some blackmail but I’m not worried.”

“If you’re not, maybe she is. How about Howard? Is he friend or foe?”

“He a friend? He’s locked me up here and—”

“All right.” Cellini stood up. “Stick around. I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

Cellini didn’t answer. He was headed for Howard’s office to check the files and see if Henry Fields was lying about not being able to leave the place, to learn if there was a visitors’ list and, if so, to find out who had visited Ivy, posing as Cellini Smith. A volley of questions and protests still poured from Fields as Cellini again stepped into the corridor.

There was neither light nor noise from the pantry as he walked by. Tom Sprigley and Ivy Collins must have left for their respective rooms — or maybe not so respective. He kept going toward the front of the building and finally stopped by a pair of curtained, glass doors. This looked like the place. He tried the doorknob, found that it turned and eased himself inside.

He could make out the shadowy shapes of desks and filing cabinets. He regretted kicking out a traveling salesman who had tried to sell him a pencil flashlight a few weeks before and made for a desk lamp. Suddenly he stopped. Someone else had entered the room. The newcomer seemed to slide along the wall and then the ceiling lights snapped on.

It was Freddy, the blond one.

“At which corner,” asked Cellini, “does the trolley stop?”

“So you sobered up, eh?” Freddy walked over and clamped a hand on Cellini’s shoulder. A paralyzing thumb dug into the side of his neck.

Cellini remembered the rough way in which Freddy had thrown him into the ambulance. Without hunting for a better reason, he pulled back and hit the orderly in the stomach. Freddy fell down, rolled over and began to be sick on Mr. Howard’s carpeting.

Out of the comer of his eye, Cellini caught sight of movement behind him. He had no time to turn, or duck or even move — only to curse himself for forgetting that these boys traveled in pairs. Then something caught him on the back of his head and he joined Freddy on the floor.

Chapter Three Dead Drunk

Sporting what he probably called a smoking jacket, Howard drummed on the desk top waiting to speak until he was sure that Cellini would understand.

“Mr. Smith,” he said finally, “you are not to hit members of my staff.”

Cellini slowly sat up straight on the divan. “Why not?” he asked.

“That is not why they are here.”

“Then tell them to keep their hands off me. Besides,” said Cellini, remembering, “one of your goons knocked me out from behind. If that’s the way you cure people, I’ll stick to the disease.”

“We only use force when necessary, Mr. Smith. Alcoholism cannot be beaten out of existence. What were you doing in my office?”

“Looking for a drink.”

“Miss Banks told you it could be found in the pantry.”

Efficient reporting, Cellini noted and said: “That stuff is so cut it tastes like the Gordian knot. I was looking for your private stock.”

“I have no private stock, Mr. Smith, and if I had it would be private.”

“I feel like a poor relation in a charity home.”

“This is not a charitable institution. You’ll learn that when you get our bill.” Howard picked up a printed sheet from his desk. “While we’re on the subject, you might as well sign this.”

Cellini glanced over the fine printing. “It seems to give you the power to do a great deal.”

“Certainly, Mr. Smith. It’s merely substituting my will-power for yours because if you had any you wouldn’t be here.”

Cellini picked up a pen and signed. “If I had any sense I wouldn’t be here.”

“This is not a joking matter,” said Howard. “You are already at the point where alcohol has become a narcotic instead of just a pleasant social lubricant.”

“Suppose your cure doesn’t work?”

“Its success will depend on you. It has worked in many difficult cases, as with Miss Banks who was once a patient here. We can supply occupational therapy, healthful exercise, good food and give you a better understanding of the dangers of alcoholism. However, all our medical, psychological and re-educational treatment is useless unless you cooperate.”

Cellini nodded absently. It was time to get back to Henry Fields and ask more questions. He said: “I guess I’ll return to my cell for some sleep.”

“Fine, Mr. Smith. I’ll send Miss Banks along with a glass of warm milk.”

“That will be peachy.”

Cellini left with an acute feeling of dissatisfaction. Howard seemed to be too smooth an article. People who had something to conceal neither talked nor acted with such frankness and ease. It required a lot of self confidence to refrain from asking, for example, why Cellini was walking around in his stocking feet. And if Howard had nothing to conceal, then the supposed plot against Henry Fields was nonexistent.

Cellini opened the door to Fields’ room and entered. The lights were off and he could hear no sound.

“This is Smith. Are you awake?”

There was no answer and he turned on the ceiling lights. The bed was empty and the pillow lay on the floor beside it. Cellini took two more steps forward before he saw the red, oozing liquid that was forcing its way out of the semi-open bathroom door.

Carefully, Cellini Smith stepped over the puddle of blood. Henry Fields, clad in pajamas, lay dead on the tile floor — so obviously dead that further verification would have been pointless.

The blood which had spattered over wall and glass and tile came from a severed artery in the dead man’s right wrist. The straight-edged razor, which had done the job, lay in the bathtub. Perhaps not neat but very efficient and plenty gaudy. The stopper was in the wash basin and it was nearly full with red-tinged water. Cellini dipped his hand into it and found it was luke warm.

Suicide?

All the elements were there. It was a classic method of killing oneself. The keen-edged razor — a swift stroke over the artery — and then plunge the arm into the basin of warm water to ease any pain.

In addition, Henry Fields had been psychologically ripe for such a deal. All suicides by relatively sane people are born of despair. It must have been a shock for Fields to discover that his previous visitor had not been a detective, that no one was working in his cause. Ample reason for hopeless despair.

Still Cellini hesitated. True, the elements were all there but they could add up to anything. He bent over to see if there were any further marks on the body. The vague, reddish band around the left wrist was probably from a wrist watch. However, the welt over the right temple, just below the hairline, was a different matter. It could have come from hitting the edge of the bathtub when Fields fell unconscious. Or it could have come from a blow delivered by some visitor.

Cellini returned to the bedroom. Nothing seemed disturbed or missing. The dead man’s wallet and pockets held the usual collection. But no receipt, no piece of paper or anything else that seemed to have any connection with stocks or brokers.

There was little to do but try Howard’s office again and see what the files on Fields contained. Cellini turned off the lights and went out into the hallway.

“Mr. Smith! I thought you were supposed to be going to bed.” It was Miss Banks carrying the glass of milk.

“I’ve been busy examining a corpse.”

“After you’ve stayed a while you’ll learn I have no sense of humor. I’ll take you to your room. You shouldn’t be running around the corridors.”

Cellini followed meekly. Above all, he didn’t want her to report to Howard.

At the door to his room, Cellini said: “Good-by, we must do this again some time.”

She swept by him and entered. “Don’t be silly. I want to see you safely asleep. You’ll find pajamas, tooth brush and anything you want in there.”

“Look, Miss Banks. I’m a grown boy now. I shave twice a month.”

Coldly, she said: “If you’re modest, you can go in the bathroom. If you’re insubordinate, I’ll call for help.”

Cellini changed into pajamas and crawled into bed. He would have to wait for her to leave before starting out again. She sat on the edge of the bed and handed him the milk which he drank with distaste.

He asked: “Aren’t you afraid to be alone with a man like me?”

“No, Mr. Smith. Chronic inebriates are not interested in women.”

“That guy Sprigley is interested and he seems as chronic as they make them.”

“He hasn’t been here long enough for me to find out. Please finish the milk.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A few years.”

“And no stew has ever” — he hunted for the proper euphemism and continued — “made advances toward you?”

“Certainly not.” Her cold fingers began stroking his forehead. “You must try to sleep now.”

“How about Henry Fields?”

The fingers seemed to press harder. “That poor man should be put out of his misery. He worries so.”

“That’s interesting. I didn’t know that mercy killing was a house specialty.”

“Euthanasia?” she said. “Why not? It would be a mercy to society, let alone to him. Alcoholic insanity accounts for about five per cent of all hospital cases.”

“But would you put Fields out of the way if you had the opportunity?”

She said something in reply but he did not hear her. An overwhelming urge to sleep had come over him. Through the drowsiness that swept over him he understood the cause.

“Damn it, you put veronal in the milk.”

He made out the words: “Not veronal... sedative... sleep...” A hand pressed against his chest, preventing him from rising. She was stronger than he had supposed. Strong enough to drag a body around. The cold fingers still stroked his forehead.

Someone had hold of Cellini Smith’s shoulders and was shaking him violently.

“Wake up! What’s the matter with you?”

Reluctantly, Cellini opened his eyes. For a full thirty seconds, he stared at the anxious face above him, trying to recognize the features. Then he remembered that they belonged to Tom Sprigley and he sat upright.

“Well, it’s about time,” Sprigley said. “Do you realize it’s after two o’clock?”

“What about it?”

“You’d better decide what to say to the cops.”

“I’m just deciding what to say to Miss Banks.” Cellini frowned. “What is this cops routine you’re giving out with?”

“Henry Fields killed himself last night and the cops are going around talking to everybody. You asked about Fields last night in front of me and Ivy Collins. What I want to know is whether we should mention it to the police?”

“It doesn’t make much difference, does it?”

“Probably not, Smith. They’ll just bother you with a lot of extra questions. That’s all.”

“In that case, let’s forget about it.”

Sprigley winked. “O.K. I’ll pass the good word on to Ivy.” He stopped by the door. “Do you think Fields might have killed himself because Ivy got out of hand? A fit of depression and that kind of stuff?”

“Could be.”

While Cellini shaved and showered he tried to decide what to do. The paramount fact was that there was no longer any money in it. His client was dead. And along with his death went the answers to a lot of questions.

Cellini stopped scrubbing. Perhaps there would be some money in this. In any event, it would be worth trying.

Fully clothed, Cellini stepped outside. The subdued voices and the sober faces of those who passed were familiar. He knew from experience that they had already heard of Henry Fields’ death. He stopped an orderly and was shown to the dining room where he was fed breakfast.

Someone said: “Did you hear—”

Cellini said: “I heard.”

After breakfast, he was led to a small projection room and shown a film depicting the perils of drink which gave a somewhat detailed picture of how the body’s various organs reacted to alcohol. When it was over, Miss Banks came in and led him out to the grounds.

“The next time,” said Cellini, “you want me to drink milk, you’ll have to bring the cow over and let me draw it myself.”

“It’s for your own good,” she replied. “You will stay out here till called for.”

This seemed to be the sunning hour, for most of the patients were outside, strolling about or sitting on garden furniture. At the far end, he recognized the bulky form of Detective-Sergeant Ira Haenigson, of Homicide, questioning somebody. Ivy Collins was talking to a middle-aged man encased in tweeds and Cellini walked over.

“Mr. Smith, I want you to meet Larry Coomb.” Hastily, she added: “My fiancé.”

Coomb pointed his sharp nose at Cellini like a bird dog and slapped a trouser leg with the gloves he carried. He did not offer to shake hands.

Cellini asked: “Hear about Henry Fields being dead?”

“Good riddance,” said Larry Coomb.

“Why, because he made a pass at Ivy?”

The nose seemed to leap up and the pair of gloves slapped Cellini across the mouth.

“I’m getting tired of all this,” said Cellini. “Very sick and very tired.” His left hand closed around Coomb’s throat and his other grabbed the gloves. “Now open your mouth.”

Coomb pawed the air and fell to one knee. As his mouth opened, Cellini stuffed the gloves between his teeth and then pushed him roughly aside.

Ivy Collins let out a slight giggle that turned into raucous laughter. Unable to speak, she pointed. Four of Howard’s henchmen were converging on him.

The attendants respectfully led Cellini into Howard’s office. The owner sat behind his desk, frowning.

“Mr. Smith, I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Why don’t you try penicillin?”

“The reason for your alcoholism, I would say, is that you’re a psychopathic inferior and the only way you can express yourself is by unleashing aggressive behavior.”

“It’s really nothing,” said Cellini modestly.

“I wouldn’t mind it if you weren’t a troublemaker. You’ve broken into my private office twice.”

“Once.”

“I know better,” snapped Howard.

“It was still once.”

“Last night one of my men walked by here and heard someone putting the receiver back on the telephone. When he entered, it was dark and the intruder got away. That’s why he was waiting for you the second time you returned. You have no business making phone calls or coming here without permission.”

“Go on.”

“Then you hit Freddy and he became sick all over my carpet. Today you attacked Mr. Coomb, a guest of Miss Collins.”

“It was a pleasure. Tell me, was this Coomb character here last night?”

“Yes, he came in late and stayed at the guest house but that is none of your concern. I’m trying to decide the treatment for you. I could give you the usual harmless medicines which create acute discomfort for the patient and tend to cause abstinence so that he won’t be subjected to the medicine again. But you’re too intelligent to be taken in with that sort of thing.”

“I certainly won’t take milk again.”

“You’ll take what we give you,” Howard said. “You’re in our care and we can be stem if necessary. We intend to cure you whether you like it or not.”

“All right,” said Cellini. “Let’s cut out the comedy. You know who I am, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then you know I’m a private operative?”

Howard nodded.

“Fine — so I’m not interested in getting cured of anything, but I am interested in Fields who was my client.”

Again, Howard nodded.

“Now that that’s understood, I want you to do a few things for me.”

“The police are already investigating Fields’ death.”

“I don’t get along too well with them,” Cellini said. “I want access to your files on Fields and also a list of the visitors Ivy Collins has had the last few days. Also, pass the word around to your staff and patients that they would do well to answer my questions.”

Howard tugged at an earlobe. “Surely, Mr. Smith. Is that all?”

“I’ll let you know if I want something else.”

“Good. Now suppose you go to your room and rest for a while.”

Cellini stared at him.

“You see, Mr. Smith, I’ve already been warned about this obsession of yours that you are a private detective. It seems that you are sicker than I thought.”

Cellini gripped his knees and tried to speak calmly. “There’s a man from Homicide outside called Haenigson. Call him in and ask him.”

“Very well.” Howard flipped a button and spoke a few words into the telephone. They sat silently, watching each other until Haenigson appeared.

Howard asked: “Is this man a private detective?”

Haenigson looked. “I never saw him before in my life,” he said blandly and left Cellini felt a curious tingle come over him. “I tell you I’m a private dick!”

“Yes, of course.” Howard pressed a buzzer on his desk. “You will please go to your quarters now and rest. You will find it more comfortable than a detention room.”

Several attendants filed into the office. The rage within Cellini burst out suddenly and violently. Blindly, he began hitting out on all sides. He still hit and struggled as the weight of five large men bore him to the floor and he was dragged out.

Chapter Four Dipso-Facto

Stretched out on the bed, Cellini stared at the ceiling with a hard, expressionless face. He tried not to think, tried not to remember, tried only to concentrate on a black spot in the ceiling’s comer. He did not move when he heard the key turn in the lock and someone entered.

“Now we can talk, Smith.” It was Ira Haenigson.

“I thought you didn’t know me.”

“I was playing your game. How could I guess what you were up to with Howard?”

It sounded reasonable. Cellini said: “It’s no game. Someone told him I’m cracked and that I imagine I’m a detective. At least, that’s Howard’s story.”

“We’ll get to him later,” said Haenigson. “What about Fields?”

“The suicide? I’ve been hearing rumors. I wish you’d tell me about it.”

The detective-sergeant said to the chest of drawers: “He’s been hearing rumors. He wants me to tell him about it. He just came here to read the papers.”

Cellini was forming a reply that was short and to the point when he remembered his mistake. A stupid, amateurish mistake. His prints were all over the dead man’s room and if Haenigson didn’t already know it, he would in a few hours.

Cellini turned away from the ceiling and said: “I have no interest in this thing other than being mad because my client is dead. But I’m real mad. As they say in cross-word puzzles, I’m irate and I’ll level with you if you do the same with me.”

“I’ll listen.”

“A few days ago I received a letter from Henry Fields with a hundred-dollar retainer. It said he had been shanghaied from the Kitty Klub and brought here and he wanted me to do a job because he couldn’t get out.”

“Why did he pick on you?”

“The phone book, I suppose. We’ll never know. He couldn’t have visitors so I came here the hard way through the Kitty Klub. It looks as if they shill for Howard.”

Ira Haenigson shrugged. “I’m interested in homicide.”

“You ought to try being interested just in crime some time. I managed to see Fields last night. He told me that the outfit he worked for is cutting its shares four ways so he went to a call broker and took an option on a large block of shares. The next thing he knew, he was stuck in here, getting cured of alcoholism.”

“What did he want from you?”

“He wanted someone to pick up the option on the shares before it lapsed. I figured this place was pitching a curve since they kept such close tabs on him so I went to case Howard’s office. When I got back, Fields had committed suicide.”

A short, mocking laugh escaped the detective-sergeant. “You know better.”

“You caught the wrist watch? You’re getting brighter, Haenigson. Unfortunately, we’ll never have the chance to ask more questions of Fields — and I won’t get a chance at any more dough.”

“You’ve been overpaid already, Smith, with the hundred-buck retainer, but are you sure you haven’t got another angle?”

“What would that be?”

“Are you sure you’re not going to pick up the option on those shares?”

“So you couldn’t find the receipt.” Cellini swung his legs down and sat on the edge of the bed. “Get this — if I did find any receipt and cashed it, you’d know in a half hour. In addition, no broker would honor such a transaction with a stranger. Also—”

“All right, all right. Money means nothing to you. You’re just a great big champion of justice.”

Cellini’s face twisted in a grimace. “Let’s hear what you found out?”

“Hardly worth mentioning.” Haenigson stood up. “Guess I’ll toddle along.”

“What about Howard? What will we do about him?”

“We?” asked the detective-sergeant with affected surprise. “You’ve decided to take his cure and I think it’s a wise decision. Let me know how you make out.”

“You mean you’re not going to spring me out of here?”

Ira Haenigson said pleasantly, “Of course not,” and left.

Minutes after the key had again turned in the lock, Cellini Smith still stared at the door.

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.”

Howard himself appeared and demanded the cause of the commotion. An attendant pointed to Duck-Eye and replied: “That guy barged in here dragging the other one. He’s like a bull and there’s no stopping him.”

“All right,” nodded Howard. “Will everybody please clear this place?”

Cellini turned to Mario again. “It is Thursday, isn’t it?” He thought Mario nodded and said: “Does the Klub send out invitations to people to come around and visit the joint?”

Howard indicated Mario. “Bring him into my office.”

A look of sheer terror crossed the bartender’s face. He suddenly shouted, “You’ll never get me,” and dashed out through the door.

Howard snapped, “Go after him,” and walked away.

“That’s fine,” said Cellini Smith. “You’re glad to see me. Now tell me how you got here.”

Duck-Eye Ryan rubbed his round, unblinking eyes which were misty with pleasure and replied: “When I woke up at that joint you wasn’t there and they said you was home. You wasn’t.”

“Then what?”

“I went back tonight and asked again from that bar jockey and he told me.”

“Well, why did you drag him here?”

Duck-Eye rubbed his knuckles. “He wouldn’t tell at first so I shoved him around. When he gave in I didn’t know if he was leveling so I brought him along.”

Cellini scratched at his chin. That still didn’t explain Mario’s terror of Howard.

Duck-Eye said: “Gee it’s good to see you. What about a drink?”

Cellini began to lead the way toward the pantry when Tom Sprigley appeared at the doorway. He had a finger to his lips and he beckoned them to follow him outside into the grounds.

They went after him. It was a cool night, with a slight drizzle and their feet made no sound on the sodden ground. They followed as Sprigley walked around the large building, hugging the walls to minimize the danger of being seen by those inside.

As they reached a wing in the far end of the building, Sprigley waved them down. Carefully, they closed in and stopped in front of a lighted window. The drapes were partly open and they could see inside.

As they looked, they saw three men. Mario sat on the floor wedged in the right angle of one of the room’s corners. As they watched, Freddy kicked him in the stomach. Mario did not cry out because a gag bound his mouth and he did not hit back because his arms were stretched across his chest, inside a straitjacket. On a bed, smoking a cigarette, sat Howard taking in the scene.

Freddy’s foot moved again, this time catching the victim in the ribs. Through the partly-open window, Cellini could hear the thud of the kick. Freddy paused, as if waiting for some sign from Mario, then moved in again. He seemed quite bored as his fists and feet lashed out at ten-second intervals.

Within the space of a minute, the helpless bartender’s face became a red jelly, his body a mass of flesh throbbing with pain. The blows fell, the blood ran. Mario’s head seemed to nod.

Sprigley shivered. “God, I can’t watch that any more!” he cried. “I’m getting out of here. I need a drink.” Rapidly, he walked away.

Inside the room, Freddy and Howard froze as they heard the voice. Then one of them leaped for the wall switch and darkness flooded the room.

Cellini and Duck-Eye began to make their way back, but it was too late. Attendants were beginning to scour the grounds for them.

Cellini Smith and Duck-Eye Ryan turned and raced the other way. There was a yell as they were sighted. A man suddenly appeared in front of them but Duck-Eye charged ahead as if he were a bulldozer and the man a weed. They were around in the rear of the building now. They sighted another door and made for it.

It was open and they were inside again, inside where they were relatively safe, for Howard could not be sure who had watched him working on the bartender.

They paused as Cellini attempted to orient himself, trying to remember where the room had been. They heard a moan, which gradually became louder and more strident, and they made toward the sound. It was probably Mario who had succeeded in working himself free of the gag.

The sound had not come from Mario, however, but from Miss Banks who stood blocking the entrance. Roughly, Cellini pushed past her. This was the room. Mario still lay in the comer, the gag was still on his mouth — but there was a difference. Now, a knife was imbedded within his body.

It was an ordinary kitchen knife, no doubt sharp-pointed for it had made a clean cut through the tough cloth of the straitjacket. The blood-encrusted face seemed twisted in a mixture of fright and pain. He had probably seen his murderer come through the doorway and had watched as the knife was carefully plunged into him. He had seen it without being able to shout or to make any move to defend himself.

Cellini turned and faced Miss Banks. “Well, what about it? Is this another mercy killing?”

She had stopped moaning and he thought she might faint. Instead, she stared at the body for another moment, then turned and fled.

Duck-Eye asked: “Should I bring that goon back?”

“Let her go. I’ll catch up with her later.”

He saw a phone on a table and dialed Ira Haenigson’s home number. This was evidently another guest room, since the patients were not allowed such a convenience. No doubt Coomb was staying nearby — perhaps in this very room.

There was a growl on the other end of the receiver and Cellini said: “Get your fat rump over here.”

“What are you up to now, Smith?” demanded the detective-sergeant suspiciously.

“I’ve got a nice hunk of sirloin for you to look over. With a knife in it.”

“Knife?”

“Sure. Think of the fun you’ll have spreading powder over it and then finding out that the nasty killer heard about fingerprints and was wearing gloves to—”

There was an oath and the sound of the receiver being smashed down by Haenigson.

Duck-Eye said: “We got company, Cellini.”

He tuned to find Howard staring at the body. “That took a lot of courage, didn’t it?” he asked.

“Courage?” repeated Howard stupidly. He started for the phone.

“Don’t bother. I’ve already called Haenigson.”

“You have? That was very clever of you.”

“Not especially, Howard. Learning to dial a telephone is just a matter of coordination. Anybody can learn.”

“It was clever because it diverts suspicion from you. Smith,” he announced, “you may consider yourself under arrest.”

“I’ll be glad to consider it,” said Cellini amiably. “In the meantime I want a drink and I’m sick of that fuel oil you have in the pantry. Where’s your private stock?”

“I told you I have none. This is a horrible murder—”

“Save it for your memory book,” said Cellini and left.

Sprigley’s hand shook as he poured drinks for Cellini and Duck-Eye. He said: “We’ve got to do something about that poor man Howard and his thug were beating.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” Cellini snapped as he began pulling open drawers and cupboards.

Sprigley eyed him curiously. “That’s rather callous — or cowardly.”

“Maybe both.” Cellini found some cutlery, “Don’t they keep any larger knives around here?”

“How should I know? Frankly, I’m disappointed in you, Smith.”

“Where’s the kitchen?”

“Not far. The three of us should have gone in and stopped that beating.”

“If I remember right, Sprigley, you’re the one who ran first. Every attendant in the place is outside right now, curry-combing the grounds because they heard you. Howard would probably give your right arm to find out who watched him going over the guy.”

“I suppose so,” Sprigley admitted glumly. He drained his glass and shivered. “I have no stomach for that sort of thing.”

“Is it easy to get into the kitchen?” Cellini asked.

“Sure. I’ve raided it plenty of times. Why do you ask?”

“Because then it would be easy to get hold of a knife.”

“Smith, if you’re thinking of a knife to save that poor man from being beaten, you’re crazy. Howard’s a dangerous man and he’s got a lot of helpers.”

“Stop drooling. The guy will never be beaten again because he’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Murdered. A knife was stuck into him ten minutes ago.”

“Smith, you’re lying. I don’t know what your game is but I’m going to find out.” He hurried out, white-faced and distraught.

Duck-Eye said sadly: “You shouldn’t ought to let him to talk like that. Cellini, this stuff ain’t even fit for me to drink.”

“Then don’t drink it.”

“But that would be a waste,” said Duck-Eye, downing a glassful of the watered liquor.

Cellini remembered that Haenigson and his crew would be arriving soon. If any sense were to be made out of the whole thing it would have to be done now. He polished off a half tumbler of the watered whiskey and left as Duck-Eye began to beg him to return to the Kitty Klub for some decent liquor.

Chapter Five Alcoholic Solution

Ivy Collins yelled, “Scram,” to Cellini’s knock.

He entered. Ivy smiled at him from the depths of an easy chair and patted her lap in invitation. Her fiancé, who was sitting stiffly on an up-ended suitcase, made no move but his thin nostrils flared in apparent anger. He wore his hat, as if ready to leave.

Cellini sat down on the bed and asked: “May I come in?”

“Always,” she cooed.

“Thank you. Just go on with your discussion.”

“It’s finished.”

“It is not,” snapped Larry Coomb. “And you, Smith, get out of here. Incidentally, I’m going to sue you for assault.”

Cellini was beginning to feel the effects of the whiskey. “You must be tolerant and forgiving, Larry — or I’ll really assault you.”

“He wants me to go home with him,” Ivy explained. “Right now.”

“And you will!” Coomb’s hands trembled. “I’ve done everything I could for you, Ivy. I’ve brought you here to be cured of drinking that rotgut, I’ve given you everything you want, I—”

His fiancée observed: “Nuts.”

Cellini suddenly realized that Coomb was in love with her — deeply, desperately and hopelessly so. He began to feel sorry for him. “Why don’t you trade her in for a zither, Larry? She’s no good.”

“There!” exclaimed Ivy. “That’s what I’ve been telling him. He doesn’t understand me. The real no-good me.”

Coomb stood up. “This is all very crude and unpleasant. Ivy, get packed. I’m in a hurry.”

“You have plenty of time,” said Cellini, “because nobody’s leaving this nuthouse. There’s been another murder.”

Cellini could read nothing in the silence which greeted his announcement and he continued: “The first one, which you no doubt know about, was Henry Fields. The second was Mario, the former bartender at the Kitty Klub.”

Coomb said: “And if you don’t leave Ivy alone, the third one will be you.”

“That’s what I’m wondering about because I know you have a temper that might easily lead you to murder. You had good reason to kill Fields and you had ample opportunity.”

“Ivy, get packed!”

“I told you no one can leave till the cops get here. I can’t figure why, but you’re as crazy about Ivy as she is about whiskey. Maybe it’s the old sex appeal we read about. You knew that Fields made a play for her and you came here last night and stayed in a guest room without letting Ivy know.”

“That was because I arrived late.”

“Or because you wanted to catch the two of them. You might have visited Fields, had a fight — and you won. But what worries me is what your connection with Mario could have been.”

“Larry knew him,” Ivy Collins supplied, “because he used to come to the Kitty Klub to drag me out.”

“Which means that you knew him, too,” Cellini said. “You were blackmailing Fields, weren’t you?”

“A girl has to live.”

“But maybe Fields didn’t. Last night when I asked about Fields you showed your fangs because you thought I might be a detective.”

“Last night,” she said moodily, “I was afraid you’d queer the pitch. But I don’t give a hoot now. I’m going back to the runway.”

“What changed your mind?”

“You did, when you made him eat the gloves. You and your damned gloves!” she shouted at Larry Coomb. “Are you an Eskimo? You don’t need them around here. What do you always carry them for?”

“Ivy, please.” Coomb sounded distressed. “Forget little things like that. We want each other.”

“I want you like a hole in the head! We’re through. Do you understand? You’re not a man. I wouldn’t take you with a keg of caviar!”

“Let’s get back to you, Ivy,” Cellini said, “because I am a detective.”

“Oh I knew that. I can spot one in the last row of the balcony right in the middle of a show.” She winked. “But I still like you.”

“If you had me spotted then, why did you try to warn me off Fields last night?”

“What do you think?”

“Because,” replied Cellini, “you had Fields figured as an easy touch. You probably have some notes from him asking you to drop around to his room at night and you were ready to cash in.”

“You’re so understanding.”

The door suddenly burst open and Miss Banks appeared. Her hair was disheveled and her uniform had lost its immaculate appearance. She stood swaying gently from side to side and grinned. “Hullo.”

She was drunk, completely so, down to her very feet which seemed to beat on the floor in a slow dance.

Ivy Collins regarded Miss Banks with astonishment and said: “Well, well. If it isn’t Miss Prissy-Puss. How the mighty have fallen.”

“You’re beautiful,” said Miss Banks with feeling. “I only wish I could be more like you.”

She walked over to a table with a casual innocence that was very obvious. Suddenly she grabbed a handbag from the table, whirled and dashed out.

“Hey!” yelled Ivy. “That’s my purse. I got dough in it.”

Cellini said, “What the hell!” and ran into the corridor. Miss Banks was nowhere in sight. An elderly man walked by and he asked him: “Did you see Miss Banks?”

“Yes, and she stank from liquor — like you, sir. What you must remember is that alcohol is primarily a carbohydrate so—”

“Which way did she go?”

“I’m talking to you, young man. So you must prevent the excess carbohydrate from going to the brain by taking an injection of vitamin B-complex.”

Cellini gave up and raced down the hallway. He saw a half-open door leading down to the basement and he descended the steps two at a time. He found himself in the middle of trunks and boxes and a gas furnace. He saw a distant light and made for it.

It was a welcome sight. Here was a room where Howard kept his private stock — sealed bottles that had not yet been watered down for medicinal use in the pantry.

The walls were lined with wine bottles and cases of liquor and beer stood on the floor. Miss Banks sat on one of the cases by an open bottle of Scotch. She had Ivy’s purse open and she was covering her face with lipstick, rouge, powder and mascara. In her drunkenness, she was producing the effect of an Indian smeared with warpaint.

She waved to Cellini happily and continued the smearing. He pulled out a bottle of Scotch and pried it open with a knife. He drank long and deeply and put the bottle to his lips again. He sat on a case, watching her and when a third of the bottle was empty he went over to her and said: “You’re lousing it all up.”

He wiped her face clean with a handkerchief and began applying cosmetics. The result was no happier for he wasn’t any more sober than she.

They drank and he said: “A fine thing. A nurse getting drunk.”

“I’m not really a nurse. After I was cured I just stayed on to help as a sort of orderly. Kiss me.”

“I thought you weren’t interested in men.”

“I wasn’t. Howard cured me of a lot of things. Even of life until I learned better tonight.”

“What changed your mind?”

She trembled in recollection. “Did you see Fields dead in the bathroom? Did you see the knife in the poor man who was tied up? I couldn’t bear it.” She shuddered and threw one arm around his neck as the other reached for the bottle. She drank, then sighed happily.

Cellini tried to pull away but her arm tightened. He asked: “Did you ever before see the man who was knifed?”

“Often. He used to come to visit Howard. I’m going to live again. Why don’t you help me?”

Cellini considered it and decided not to help her live again. He pulled away and sat down on a case with his bottle. He sat there for five minutes. It had needed some good liquor to do it but now he was suddenly thinking with a beautiful clarity. He was beginning to see sense in everything.

He rose, gathered up an armful of bottles and lurched out

As Cellini Smith again reached the first-floor corridor he found himself facing Howard and Freddy.

“I knew I’d find you here, Smith,” Howard snapped. “I’m locking you up till the police get here. You’re under arrest.”

Freddy said: “Put up your hands, Smith.” There was a .38 automatic in his hands to lend persuasion to his words.

Cellini raised his hands and the bottles of Scotch crashed to the floor. The attendant began to step forward when Duck-Eye Ryan, attracted by the breaking glass, appeared in back of them.

It was the sort of situation that Duck-Eye understood, one of the few things to which he could react quickly. He bounded forward, his huge paw closed over the gun and twisted it from Freddy’s hands. Howard fled.

Duck-Eye beamed with self-pride. “Should I do something else, Cellini? I mean to this guy?”

“No.” Cellini remembered Freddy working over the helpless Mario. “No. I want to do it myself.” He leaned against the wall, sorry that he had had so much to drink. “O.K., Freddy. Let’s see how good you are with someone who’s not in a straitjacket.”

Cellini moved in to be jarred back by a blow on his chest. Freddy sensed his advantage and struck rapidly. Cellini could feel the blows but they did not hurt. They seemed almost pleasant, like the stinging effect of an after-shave lotion. He knew there was a cut over one eye and he could taste blood on his lips. He hit at the face in front of him but he met only air. Why had he drunk so much?

Duck-Eye circled in unbelieving horror as Freddy moved in for the kill. Cellini decided to stop hitting at the face. It was too small There was no percentage in it. He kept taking blows as he tried to remember how he could hurt Freddy most. Then it came to him. By now, the attendant was not concerned with defending himself and he stepped back for the finishing blow. Suddenly, Cellini ducked and lunged at his opponent’s groin.

There was an agonized scream from Freddy and he dropped. The blood tasted salty on Cellini’s lips. His mind’s eye saw Freddy hammering at the bound Mario. This was not enough punishment. He took careful aim and kicked Freddy’s jawbone. He heard a satisfying crack.

“Gee,” said Duck-Eye, “you look like a mess.”

Cellini felt happy and exhilarated. His face was still pleasantly numb and did not hurt. With the one eye that was not closed he gazed ruefully at the broken bottles. He needed more.

He pushed through the group of chattering and excited patients, who had gathered toward the end of the fight, and made his way down to the cellar again. Miss Banks was now lying on the floor where she had passed out. He gathered up another armful of bottles, stumbled out.

The sound of approaching sirens came to Cellini Smith as he kicked at Ivy Collins’ door.

She gasped with delight as he entered, and helped relieve him of the bottles. “This is wonderful. All for me?”

“For us,” he corrected. “I’m not getting anything out of this job so at least Howard can pay me off this way.”

She fetched two glasses and they sat down on the carpet. “Your kisser sure looks like beef hash. That’s one thing you got out of it.”

He opened a bottle. “Freddy also got something — a cast on his jaw for a few weeks.”

“Here’s to the next one to die,” she said and they clicked glasses in a toast.

“There won’t be any next one. What happened to the boy-friend?”

“Larry? I guess I convinced him there was no business and he went away.” She giggled and held out her glass. “Some more please. Anyway, you’re cuter than him.”

“It’s just as well. I know your boy-friend didn’t do it.”

“Why not?” she asked in a disappointed tone.

“Motive. He had plenty reason to kill Fields on account of you but there was no reason for Mario. Besides, Coomb stayed in a guest room last night and he had a phone there. He didn’t have to go to the office.”

“A phone yet,” she said. “You’re drunk.”

“Sure. So are you. The motive behind Mario’s killing is missing for you, too. And as for Fields, he wasn’t worth anything to you dead, either.”

“I’d kill for you, Cellini. I’m currrazy about you.”

Cellini shook his head and refilled the glasses. “It all gets back to the stock that Fields optioned. And we mustn’t forget the business about Thursdays.”

“Yes,” agreed Ivy. “We must always remember Thursdays.”

“You see, I don’t like coincidences and three Thursdays in a row is too much. Henry Fields was admitted here from the Kitty Klub on a Thursday. Mario’s night off as bartender was a Thursday. The guy who visited Fields, claiming he was Cellini Smith, came on a Thursday.”

“Pour some more and tell me what all that proves.”

“It proves that the imposter who impersonated me was Mario. Fields didn’t know Mario because he came here from the Klub on a night when Mario was off. And later, Mario was able to leave the Klub and pose as me because that was his night off, too.”

“I don’t care even if I don’t understand you,” she said. “You’re cute but you got blood in your hair.”

“Fields thought Mario got in as a visitor from you but you had no visitor that Thursday. It had to be someone who could come and go from this prison as he wished and Mario had that privilege because he was a regular visitor. He used to come here to get payed off.”

“I like money.” She poured some Scotch onto his head and began shampooing his hair.

“Mario not only got wages as a bartender but he also got a percentage for steering people to this joint. He worked hand in glove with Howard. I think I’ll get Howard and ask him.”

“No you don’t,” said Ivy firmly. “I’m trying to clean your hair out and you’re staying.”

“Say, maybe I can get Howard here without leaving.” Not trusting himself to stand, he crawled on hands and knees to the radiator grill and felt behind it. It was there.

“One, two, three, four,” said Cellini. “One, two, three—”

Ivy asked: “Have you gone nuts?”

“I’m just testing the dictaphone. All right, Howard. I know you’re listening in on all this so you better get over here. And come with Sprigley and Haenigson. I know Haenigson’s there because I heard the sirens twenty minutes ago. If he won’t come, Haenigson, then bring him. That corpse he just showed you had a straitjacket on it a little while ago. I’ll tell you more when you get here.”

Cellini crawled back to where Ivy sat and they drank until Haenigson, Sprigley, Howard and a plainsclothesman crowded into the room.

“What’s this business of a straitjacket?” demanded the detective-sergeant. “And get off the floor and stop making a fool of yourself.”

“Don’t shove, Haenigson. I’m giving you the story, you stinker, not because I like you but because I want Howard nailed.”

“Nailed for what?” demanded Haenigson.

“Mario, for one thing.” He turned to Howard. “You and Freddy were beating him up while he was in a straitjacket. You’ve no doubt taken him out of it since then. At any rate, there were witnesses to the beating. Weren’t there, Sprigley?”

“I’ll sure testify to that,” stated Sprigley.

“In addition,” Cellini said, “this place is a racket even if you do make a limited attempt to cure people of alcoholism. You keep liquor in the pantry, ostensibly for your patients to taper off on the drink but actually to keep them around here longer so they’ll pay more. You had Mario for a shill — and I don’t know how many more — to steer suckers here who were so drunk they didn’t know what they were signing.”

“Howard will be taken care of,” said Haenigson. “Let’s get back to the beating.”

“Mario pulled a fast one. As Howard’s little helper, he gave him the dope on customers he sent here, so he phoned up Howard last night and told him that I had the crazy idea I was a detective and to humor me. Howard later found out it was true and when Duck-Eye dragged Mario here Howard went to work on him to find out what it was all about because he was afraid of losing this lush racket. Before Mario could squeal he was murdered.”

“Good,” nodded Haenigson. “Let’s get to the murders.”

“I told you Fields’ story about optioning stock from a call broker. What happened was one of two things. Either the call broker decided to bet against Fields and didn’t cover himself by optioning the stock, or he did. The broker then heard of the four-way split in shares and if he hadn’t optioned the stock he stood to lose a lot of money when Fields came for the payoff. If he had optioned the stock the broker had a chance to hold on to it and make a lot of money if only Fields could be kept out of the way till the option date had passed. Isn’t that right, Sprigley?”

“Why ask me?”

“Because you must work for that broker. Because you’re the killer.”

The plainclothesman moved next to Sprigley who said: “You’re disgustingly drunk and you’re not making sense.”

“You’re right on only the first count,” said Cellini. “You knew of Mario’s connection with this place and you had the Kitty Klub send an invitation to Fields. Lots of places do that. Then when Fields went to the Klub, Mario had the relief bartender slip him a mickey. Fields woke up here and found he couldn’t get out because Mario had told Howard that Fields had to be watched.

“In the meantime, you came here yourself to keep an eye on Fields and to make friends with him. That was your first mistake, Sprigley, when you told me you had been here before. Miss Banks told me otherwise.”

Cellini continued: “Of course when you made friends with Fields he couldn’t tell you the whole story — or anybody else — because there would have been a run on the stock that would have been traced back to Fields who was a member of the firm. However, he did tell you he was trying to smuggle out a letter to Cellini Smith and probably asked you to mail it. So you got Mario to pose as me in order to make Fields think a dick was working for him.”

“No one can pose as you, sugar,” said Ivy. “Anyway, I once mailed out a letter for Fields.”

“Fine. That’s the one that got me here. When you heard my name you telephoned Mario to warn Howard about my supposed hallucination. That was that first phone call in your office last night, Howard.

“Later, while I was in the office, Sprigley had time to kill Fields. Still later when we watched Mario’s beating he knew the guy was ready to squeal so he talked out loud to stop it until he had a chance to knife him. It was neat — calling us out to watch the beating and then knifing Mario while we were being chased.

“You’re not very bright, Sprigley. You said Howard told you this afternoon that I was a detective. Howard himself didn’t know that till early this evening when he listened in on the dictaphone — and he wouldn’t have told you.”

Haenigson stood up. “Let’s go. Coming Smith?”

“Not for about a week,” replied Cellini. “I’m going to take Howard’s Cure in reverse.”

“You and me both,” cooed Ivy Collins.