The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

Robert Reeves (1912–1945) was born in New York City and raised on the south shore of Long Island. He received an A.B. in history, english, and anthropology from New York University and worked as a driver of an armored post-office department truck, carpenter, cabinet maker, candy maker, reader for Fox Films, and in various jobs for Broadway theaters, including casting director, play doctor, stage manager, and assistant producer. He moved to Hollywood in the late 1930s, probably hoping to break into the movie business, as so many writers of the time did. In 1942, he joined the army, serving in the air corps, and was killed a month before the end of World War II, being buried with four other soldiers in a common grave, suggesting they died together in a single plane.

His career cut short, he is less remembered today than some of his contemporaries, having produced only three novels and eleven short stories, nine of which ran in Black Mask and two in Dime Detective. He wrote three stories about “Bookie” Barnes — not a gambling nickname but one earned because he went to college and, unusual for pulp characters, actually read books. But most of his work — all three novels and seven stories, were about Cellini Smith, a private eye, most of whose cases take place in Los Angeles. The first Smith adventure was the novel Dead and Done For (1939); the last the posthumous story “Alcoholics Calamitous” (September 1945).

“Blood, Sweat and Biers” was published in the January 1945 issue.

The Bly-Wheaton fight lasted thirty-five seconds and ended in a one-punch knockout. Cellini Smith’s job was to find out if the fight had been fixed, but his talents were soon diverted by more important matters — Murph, strong-arm man for gambler Jerry Lake, Bly’s wrestler girl-friend, the Blond Bomber, “so round, so firm, so fully-packed,” and a three-time killer who felt equally at home using a .38 automatic, an andiron, and sulphuric acid.

Chapter One Ringside for Murder

It was a good prelim. Two boys — one called Lopez, the other Sanchez — were trying to beat each other into a jelly, and with a marked degree of success.

It was a good fight because the boys were young, with strong biceps and backs, because they were evenly matched and because they didn’t mind getting hurt for the customers. They stood flat-footed, in the center of the ring, hammering away blindly on the theory that one of those hard-thrown punches would sooner or later connect for a knockout.

A good scrap, thought Cellini Smith as he watched from his aisle seat in the second row, but a lousy boxing match.

The customers, too, thought that each of the boys was earning his fifty bucks for the night’s work. Most of Hollywood’s sporting crowd had shown up at the stadium. The ringside seats were filled with sports jackets, low-cut gowns and a sprinkling of uniforms.

Stately young starlets, hiding behind sun glasses, screamed delightedly as Sanchez or Lopez would go down for a couple of counts and bounce back. Some of the girls shielded their faces with a program as the soggy gloves connected and threw out a spray of sweat. Others, as if they welcomed the spattering, didn’t bother with a program but sat forward on the edge of the seat, looking up into the ring.

As the bell was called on the final round, Cellini turned to his companion and asked: “What do you think, Duck-Eye?”

Duck-Eye Ryan shrugged gloomily and stared at nothing with those round, unblinking eyes. “Toss-up,” he finally replied.

Cellini Smith frowned. “What’s the matter with you? Did you get up on the wrong side of the whiskey bottle this morning?”

Duck-Eye merely shrugged again. He was a huge, powerful man whose limited mental gifts had been limited still further by a long succession of beatings received in prizefighting rings during his youth. He had followed Cellini to L.A., from the East Coast, with a blind devotion and loyalty that Cellini did not fail to appreciate.

Duck-Eye Ryan’s ring-scarred face relaxed for a moment as he sighted something, then returned to the grim task of concentrating on some inner problem. Cellini looked around to find the cause of Duck-Eye’s momentary interest.

Two women had just come down the aisle and taken ringside seats. The large, eagle-beaked one, who could have smoked a cigarette in the rain, looked as if she belonged on a broom. It was the other who must have caught Duck-Eye’s attention. She had a full, hard, youthful body, a round, full-lipped, clear-skinned face. She was small, very blond and her beauty was inviting and accessible — a relief from that of the gilded starlets.

Someone behind Cellini clicked twice with his tongue and murmured: “So round, so firm, so fully-packed.”

The referee lifted two tired arms. The fight was a draw. The crowd roared approval, Sanchez and Lopez began hugging each other and the seconds started arguing the decision. The lights went on for a fifteen-minute intermission.

Cellini turned to his huge friend. “Snap out of it, Duck-Eye. You’ll be out of here in an hour.”

“It don’t make no difference where I am, Cellini. I got a problem.”

“You stick to the problem I gave you,” Cellini advised him.

Cellini Smith made his way up the aisle as the customers stood up and stretched their legs before the main bout that featured Eddy Bly and Hank Wheaton. Bly and Wheaton were both newcomers to the City of the Angels and Cellini wondered how the betting was going.

It wasn’t going too well. The betting section was located high up in the back rows, next to the bandstand, and usually showed a lot of quiet activity before a main bout. There wasn’t much activity this time and Cellini found it strange.

Ordinarily, betting was pretty heavy on new boys because no one had seen them box locally and the odds had to be set on the basis of records that could be phony. It gave the suckers the idea that they might outsmart the gamblers.

A few bets were being made and some greenbacks were changing hands but it looked mostly like small fry. The big gamblers like Dan Turner or Jerry Lake sat back and waved away anyone who tried to place a bet. Cellini tried to catch Dan Turner’s eye and the gambler suddenly became interested in the label on his cigar.

Cellini approached Jerry Lake and asked, “Who you betting on in the next one?”

“I’m not having any,” was the reply.

“Why? Is it fixed?”

“I told you I’m not betting,” Jerry Lake said. Then he added: “Any more.”

“O.K., but what are the odds?” Cellini persisted. “Who’s the favorite? Bly or Wheaton?”

The gambler hailed a passing candy butcher and bought a bottle of pop. Cellini let the matter drop. Once again he tried unsuccessfully to catch Dan Turner’s eyes and then returned to his seat. Duck-Eye Ryan was still the picture of a man who had lost his best dope sheet.

“You shouldn’t eat so much chocolate,” Cellini said. “It’ll always stuff you up.”

“It ain’t that, Cellini. It’s my problem.”

“All right. Let’s have it.”

“I need money.”

Cellini extracted a five-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to his companion. “Now relax and watch this next clambake. I’ve got to know if it’s fixed.”

Duck-Eye moodily wound the bill around his fingers and said: “This ain’t enough, Cellini. I need a fortune of money. Two hundred bucks I need.”

“What would you do with it?”

Duck-Eye sighed. “Cellini, I’m gonna be a father.”

“Congratulations. I suppose you want all that dough for a Father’s Day card.”

“No, Cellini, it’s—”

“All right, Duck-Eye. Let me use my imagination. We’ll discuss it later. Right now try to concentrate on the next fight. Something smells about it.”

From his pocket Cellini took a plain envelope that bore no return address. He extracted the typewritten note it contained and studied it once again: Let me know if you think the main event isn’t on the level.

The envelope had been addressed to Cellini’s office and also contained a crisp twenty and two tickets to the fight. That was all. But Cellini didn’t have to guess its source. It had to be Dan Turner, the gambler. Turner trusted him, Turner had thrown jobs his way before. Turner had an occupational disinclination to sign his name to anything and, finally, only Turner was sufficiently tight-fisted to think that a twenty was adequate pay for a job like this.

Celebrities took bows and the lights were dimmed. After a while, the two fighters came down the aisles and ducked through the ropes. They were lightweights, with Eddy Bly weighing one forty and giving Hank Wheaton two pounds.

Bly was from Fresno and Wheaton was a Seattle product. Both had excellent records, with a fair quota of knockouts, but they were records made against local, hometown talent. They had the long, loose arms of natural boxers and they looked ring-wise. The substantial blonde, who had come in just before intermission, yelled something to Eddy Bly and he waved a greeting.

Cellini said to Duck-Eye: “Pay attention, daddy.”

Duck-Eye shuddered. The bell sounded for the first round and the stools were whisked from under the fighters. Wheaton rushed for the center of the ring and stopped short when he saw that Bly wasn’t coming to meet him. For a long moment, Eddy Bly leaned against the ropes and measured his opponent. Then slowly, deliberately, he walked forward.

As they closed, Wheaton’s left arm shot out and Eddy Bly took three jabs to the face in rapid succession. Bly did not step back, did not even bother to defend himself. He kept moving in and took a rapid one-two to the heart. The shoulders of the two men were now almost touching. Suddenly, Bly’s right hand shot up. It moved no more than six inches but it was sure and powerful. Wheaton’s mouthpiece flew into the air and he sagged to the floor.

The count was hardly more than a formality and people began leaving before it was finished. Bly helped Wheaton to his corner and watched anxiously till the fighter was fully revived.

“Well,” asked Cellini Smith, “what do you think?”

“That sock was no fake,” said Duck-Eye Ryan.

“I suppose not,” Cellini conceded, but he was worried. Perhaps Wheaton had left his chin hanging out on purpose. It wasn’t easy to detect a fix in a fight, let alone in one that lasted only thirty-five seconds.

The stadium was nearly empty before Cellini finally moved. He said: “Come on. And stick close because there might be trouble.”

“Where will I get the two hundred bucks?”

“Right now I’m trying to earn just twenty.”

They left the building, walked down an alley to its left and reentered the stadium from the rear. A few fight fans were still in the corridor arguing the night’s card.

Cellini decided that he’d let someone else take the chances for twenty dollars and said: “I’ve got another job for you, Duck-Eye.”

“Sure, Cellini.”

“I want you to hit somebody when I tell you to and to stop hitting him when I tell you to. Is that clear?”

“Sure.” It never occurred to Duck-Eye to question or to doubt his friend.

They walked down the corridor and stopped by a dressing room. Through the half-open door they could see Hank Wheaton buttoning his shirt and they entered. There were three others in the room, watching as the scowling fighter dressed himself. Emphasizing his every word with a cigarette holder, Jerry Lake was talking to Wheaton in a high-pitched, angry voice. A handler, who had seconded the fighter, listened interestedly. The third member was the over-sized, unhandsome woman who had escorted the small blonde into the stadium.

Jerry Lake cut himself short and whirled on the intruders. “What are you looking for now, Smith?”

“Don’t let me interrupt. Go on with your conversation.”

“Is he the guy I hit, Cellini?”

“No, Duck-Eye. I’ll designate the right party when the time comes.”

The gambler said: “What the hell’s the matter with you, Smith? Has everybody gone crazy?”

“What else has gone crazy?” countered Cellini. “The way the fight turned out?”

Lake made no answer. Cellini nodded to Hank Wheaton. “That’s the one, Duck-Eye. Try hitting him.”

Duck-Eye lumbered forward. The blow he let loose could have flattened a case of K-rations. Hank Wheaton leaped to one side but could not entirely escape the huge fist and he staggered back, tripping over a bench.

Cellini had seen enough. “O.K., Duck-Eye. Let’s go.”

Duck-Eye said: “I’ll kill him. I’ll murder the guy. I’ll—”

Cellini grabbed the back of his collar. “Stop making speeches. Wheaton’s liable to realize he can take you.”

Jerry Lake caught up with Cellini Smith and Duck-Eye Ryan in the corridor.

“What was the meaning of that, Smith?”

“I’m trying to earn an honest nickel, Lake. I wanted to find out just how good Hank Wheaton is.”

“Did you?”

“Uh-huh. He’s slow on the take. Duck-Eye couldn’t touch any first-class man with a little speed. Besides, Duck-Eye threw his fist too high, but instead of ducking under it and moving in, Wheaton tried to jump to one side. That’s not being bright.”

“Go on,” said the gambler.

“That’s where it stops. I like this kind of thing to be give and take, and you don’t give.”

“Where do you get that idea?”

“You know damned well,” said Cellini impatiently. “I asked you what you were betting on the fight and what the odds were, but you didn’t seem interested. Then, a half hour later, I find you in Hank Wheaton’s dressing room, reading him the riot act. If you know him that well, you’d know whether to take bets for or against him. What have you got to say to that?”

Jerry Lake had nothing to say to that. He turned on his heels and walked away.

Cellini said: “We’ll try it again, Duck-Eye. And try to let me do the talking this time. You just take the beating.”

“Sure, Cellini, sure.”

There was no need to hunt for Eddy Bly’s dressing room, for they could see him coming down the corridor with the small, tightly packed blond number hanging on his arm. The dark, set face was out of place for a fighter who had just won the main bout.

Cellini stepped in front of them. The blonde’s eyes gave him a practiced glance. She didn’t seem to like what she saw.

Bly said: “All right. I did a great job and I’m terrific. Thanks, and now get out of our way.”

“That’s not the idea,” said Cellini. “My friend here claims he’s tougher than you are. Try it again, Duck-Eye.”

Cellini got out of the combat area. Automatically, Eddy Bly’s arm came up and knocked Duck-Eye’s first pass aside. The boxer leaned back against the corridor wall and then bounced forward with a fast, chopping blow. It was a smooth and efficient right that jarred Duck-Eye’s huge form down to the patched toes of his socks.

Cellini called: “Cut.” He took Duck-Eye’s arm and they walked out, leaving the puzzled pair behind.

“I need two hundred bucks,” Duck-Eye Ryan said.

“You won’t make it with fighting.”

They found Dan Turner tallying the night’s bets in front of the stadium. When he saw Cellini he said: “You can drop that matter I wrote you about.”

“Do you want all the money back?” asked Cellini with obvious sarcasm.

“No. Keep it.”

“That’s good, because I can tell you it wasn’t fixed. Eddy Bly’s a good boy. Wheaton doesn’t belong in the same ring with him.”

“It makes no difference,” the gambler said. “I was betting on Bly and I would have been interested only if he lost. Thanks anyway.” He nodded and walked away.

Cellini and Duck-Eye headed for the parking lot. They had gone not more than twenty yards when they heard a shot. It came from the direction of the stadium and a moment later they heard a woman’s full-lunged scream. It sounded like the big, homely woman.

As Cellini raced back, he wondered why the blond number hadn’t uttered a sound, hadn’t even moved an eyelid, when Duck-Eye Ryan suddenly threw a punch at Eddy Bly.

Chapter Two Cold Meat

Cellini Smith, Duck-Eye Ryan behind him, pulled up short at the alley entrance to avoid colliding with a couple hurrying out. The two were Eddy Bly and his blond friend.

Cellini moved next to Duck-Eye to block their exit effectively and asked: “What’s the rush?”

“Get out of our way!” Bly’s fists were already in position to start swinging.

“Didn’t you hear that shot? That was a gun, and that screaming sounded as if someone got in front of it.”

“I don’t give a damn what it sounded like,” said Bly carefully. “Me and the lady are leaving. For the last time, get out of our way.”

“You’re good, Bly. But you’re not good enough to stop the two of us.”

There were others who had heard the scream behind Cellini now, trying to get into the back of the stadium.

Eddy Bly surveyed the crowd, shrugged and his arms dropped. “You know who I am and anyone knows where to find me if I’m wanted. I just don’t feel like hanging around here.”

“Get back in there, Bly. It’s a bad time to leave. I’m a private dick and I pack a gun.” Cellini didn’t add that this was one of the times he had neglected to do so.

For the first time the blonde spoke. She thumbed a carmine fingernail at Cellini and observed: “I don’t like that shtoonk.” Then she said, “What the hell! Come on,” and returned down the alley with Bly.

In the corridor, someone was shouting incoherently into the wall phone. They could make out the words: “Hurt...ambulance...police...”

Cellini shouldered his way through the crowd that overflowed Hank Wheaton’s dressing room. The little blonde, who had preceded him, fought her way to the middle of the room with sharp jabs of her elbow. When she got there, she took in the scene at a glance and put her arm around the convulsing shoulders of her large, homely friend.

“Come, Prunella,” she said calmly. “You can’t help him now. You better sit down.”

They moved aside, Cellini took Prunella’s place and examined the cause of the commotion. Hank Wheaton had lost for the second time that night. There was no need for an ambulance, for the bullet had been neatly placed, entering behind the fighter’s left ear. The body had been raised from the floor and put on a massage table and the onlookers gazed at it more in curiosity than in grief. Prunella’s sobs, which punctuated the babble at clock-like intervals, provided the only tragic overtone.

In a knowing, triumphant voice, someone suddenly shouted: “Don’t nobody touch anything till the cops get here.”

The reminder of the police created a sudden, uncomfortable silence. Cellini knew that within another minute there would be a stampede for the doors. He flagged Duck-Eye and went out into the corridor.

“Have you got any friends around here?”

“Sure, Cellini. There’s Sariola. He stopped me in the first round at an Elk smoker. And Rojo, there, fouled me below—”

“O.K. Get a few of them together and tell them to stop this gang from leaving. You take that exit and put someone at the other end. Have a couple of the others keep an eye on the windows.”

“This is sure a load offa my mind, Cellini.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You got a job now to work on this killing and you’ll make the two hundred skins I need for—”

“We’ll talk about it later, Duck-Eye. Get busy.”

Cellini wondered why he bothered saving suspects for Homicide. Ira Haenigson would probably answer a call like this and he held no love for Haenigson. It was the Homicide man who had talked up Cellini’s drinking at the induction station until they took ulcer-revealing X-rays that barred him from the army.

Cellini returned to the dressing room. The window which fronted on the outside alley was broken. A round hole centered the pane and lines, where the glass had cracked, radiated from it. A couple of splinters of glass lay on the inside window sill. The shade was rolled to the top. From the alley, Wheaton had no doubt been a clear and well-lit target.

Cellini walked outside and headed up the alley. When he was nearly abreast of the late Hank Wheaton’s dressing room, he found the object of his search. The gun, a flat .38 automatic, simply lay on the pavement where it had been dropped. The murderer had not even bothered to toss it over the brick wall that sided the alley.

“If the killer was in such a hurry to get rid of that, he’s probably still inside there.” The voice at Cellini’s elbow belonged to Dan Turner.

“I suppose,” Cellini replied. “But how did you get out here past the guards I posted?”

“That subnormal friend of yours, Duck-Eye Ryan, let me by. He said it was all right because you were working for me.”

“And?”

“And I just wanted to make it clear that you’re not.” The gambler reached into his flannel jacket for a cigarette case. “You’re not working for me, Smith, because I haven’t the faintest interest in who killed Wheaton or why.”

“So it’s as hot as all that,” commented Cellini.

The police cars, followed by the wailing ambulance, did not come too soon. Duck-Eye Ryan was having trouble. The men he had chosen to help guard the exits liked the implication that they were on the side of law and authority for a change and they didn’t bother being tactful about it. Several men were banding together to rush the guards when Detective-Sergeant Ira Haenigson strode in with his crew of men from the Homicide Division.

The police, Cellini had to admit, acted swiftly and competently. Within a few minutes, Haenigson had the broader details of the event and he had sifted out those who seemed to have a direct connection with the murder, dismissing the rest to an adjoining room.

A plainclothesman beckoned to Cellini and he entered Hank Wheaton’s dressing room. Duck-Eye followed in his faithful fashion. The photographers seemed to be finished, but a couple of fingerprint experts were wandering around with hopeless looks in their eyes. Prunella and her blond friend were still there, as well as Eddy Bly. Jerry Lake was absent but Dan Turner leaned against the wall in his indolent manner and took in the proceedings.

Ira Haenigson waved affably. “It’s good to see you, Smith.”

“Why?”

The detective-sergeant rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “There must be some reason. I hope you’re not still carrying a grudge against me on your notion that I kept you out of the Army. You’re over twenty-six anyway, so you wouldn’t have made it.”

“What do you want?” asked Cellini.

“I want to thank you for posting guards and saving this gang till I got here.”

“You’re welcome. Shall I leave now?”

“I also want to know whose axe you’re grinding.”

“Duck-Eye Ryan,” said Cellini, “is going to be a father and he needs money — but you wouldn’t understand.”

“Cut the doubletalk!” The Homicide man’s voice became less affable. “Look, Smith, this isn’t my birthday and I’d like to know why you went to that trouble for me.”

“I like to turn the other cheek, Haenigson. Not the one on my face.” Cellini reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun which he had rolled into a handkerchief. “I found this outside the window and picked it up in case someone else took a yen for it. I marked the spot where it was with a pencil.”

“Better every minute. This may help a lot.” Haenigson passed the automatic to one of his men.

“I doubt it,” said Cellini. “This job looks like the work of a cool hand who probably knew it couldn’t be traced.”

The tall, eagle-beaked girl named Prunella had watched with fascination as the gun was being passed over. She suddenly screamed, “It’s your job!” and leaped for Cellini. Her hands caught his left wrist unexpectedly but firmly, her right shoulder went under his left armpit and he found himself sailing through the air to end up against the wall.

The blonde yelled: “Good for you, Pruney!”

Duck-Eye Ryan leaped for Prunella and wound his arms around her. Ira Haenigson began to roar with laughter.

Duck-Eye asked: “Should I hit her?”

“No,” said Cellini. He stood up unsteadily.

Prunella was suddenly composed and said to Duck-Eye in a lady-like fashion: “Take your paws off me, you big ape.” Then she returned to her seat beside the blonde.

Haenigson’s body still shook uncontrollably from laughter and Cellini snapped: “What the hell’s so funny?”

The detective-sergeant blew his nose and wiped the tears from his eyes. He turned to Prunella. “That wasn’t bad, madam, but would you mind telling me what it’s all about?”

She pointed to Cellini. “That last week’s garbage did it. He even had the gun.”

“Let’s start at the beginning. First, would you mind telling me exactly who you two girls are?”

“Do you want our professional names or our real ones?”

“Your professional names?” Haenigson arched an eyebrow.

Eddy Bly was quick to pick it up. “It’s not what you think, copper.”

“We’re wrestlers,” said Prunella hotly. She indicated the blonde. “She’s known as the Blond Bomber but her real name’s Juno Worden. I’m Prunella Wheaton, the... the” — she paused, then remembered the right phrase — “the wife of the deceased.”

“Lady wrestlers,” murmured Haenigson. “You’ve been thrown by a professional, Smith, so you don’t have to feel so badly. Now, Mrs. Wheaton, do you mind explaining your accusation?”

“That guy had the gun, didn’t he? And he was in here before, getting that big baboon to beat up on my husband.”

“It was only a friendly experiment like,” Duck-Eye explained. “We’re working for Mr. Turner and—”

“Nobody’s working for Mr. Turner now,” provided Dan Turner.

Haenigson threw up his hands. “Shut up, everybody! You, Duck-Eye, get out and find your intellectual equal to explain things to. And don’t take away his rattle!”

Ira Haenigson waited till the door had closed on Duck-Eye Ryan, then said: “Now, let’s have it, Smith.”

Cellini said: “Turner asked me to find out if tonight’s bout between Wheaton and Bly was fixed. As you may know, it ended so quickly it was hard to tell, so I came back here and matched Duck-Eye against Wheaton and then Bly. I decided that Wheaton was no good, but Bly was, and I told Turner the brawl was on the level.”

“What about it?” asked Haenigson of Turner.

“That’s right,” said the gambler. “I was taking a lot of bets and didn’t want to be caught with the short end.”

“What made you think it might be fixed?”

“Just some things I overheard. Nothing to do with the killing. Do you want me any longer?”

“Not right now, but stick around.” Haenigson watched Turner leave. The police usually left Turner alone, as he had carefully built up a reputation for honest dealing. The unofficial policy was to allow Turner and others like him to operate, in the open and honestly, in preference to crooked underground activity that could not be watched.

“Is there anything you can add to your statement?” asked the detective-sergeant.

“Very little,” Cellini replied. “Maybe you’d like to know that Jerry Lake was in here when I came in with Duck-Eye. Lake wasn’t acting too friendly toward Wheaton.”

“I would like to know that,” Haenigson replied. He nodded to one of his men. “Get Jerry Lake.”

When Lake came in, Haenigson asked: “What kind of an argument were you having with Wheaton?”

“I suppose Smith called it that,” the gambler said, “but it wasn’t an argument. Mrs. Wheaton was here all the time. I was just telling Hank he was asking for a knockout by leaving his chin stuck in the open the way he did.”

“Did you lose much on the fight?”

The shrug that Jerry Lake gave tried to indicate that money meant little to him.

“What else, Smith?” asked Haenigson.

“When I went out,” Cellini said, “Mrs. Wheaton and Lake were still in here. Eddy Bly and Miss Worden were in the corridor where Duck-Eye and I left them. I was out of the building when I heard the shot about a minute later.”

“You didn’t leave me anyplace,” Juno Worden snapped. “Right after you left I went to the toil — the powder room, so I have an alibi.”

“An excellent alibi,” was Haenigson’s gentlemanly observation to the Blond Bomber. “However, that leaves Eddy Bly in the corridor alone when the shot was fired.”

“No, it doesn’t,” put in the fighter. “Jerry Lake was talking with me just at the time the gun went off, so I couldn’t have gone into the alley to do the job — even if I wanted to.”

“Did you?”

“Why should I? I took care of him in the ring. Besides, we were old friends.”

Haenigson asked of the gambler: “Do you agree to all that?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Lake.

“You’d be stupid not to,” noted the Homicide man, “because if you claim you were talking with Bly at the right time, out in the corridor, it will not only alibi him, but also yourself.”

“Do me and Miss Worden have to stick around here any more?” asked Eddy Bly.

“I suppose not. I’ll probably want you again tomorrow.”

“You better make it the afternoon. I’ll be busy all morning.”

“If I want you in the morning you won’t be busy.”

As Eddy Bly walked out with Juno Worden, he said, over his shoulder: “In the morning I’m burying my sister.”

The detective-sergeant gazed speculatively at the closed door and asked: “Who knows anything about that?”

“I do,” replied Jerry Lake. “Some hit-and-run driver knocked over his sister. She died this morning.”

“When was she run down?” asked Cellini.

“Yesterday, on Wilshire.”

“What difference would that make?” asked Haenigson.

“I was wondering how long she was in pain.”

“You got a heart as big as all humanity, Smith. Now, suppose you beat it and don’t start messing in this case, because as far as I can make out, you’re not representing anybody. I’ll be quite capable of managing everything.”

Cellini said, “Bully for you,” and left.

Duck-Eye Ryan was waiting in the corridor. “Cellini, what am I gonna do for that two hundred smackers?”

Cellini said: “I recommend you marry the girl and borrow the money from her.”

“It’d be a hell of a life,” Duck-Eye Ryan pronounced. “I’m going out to get drunk five bucks’ worth.”

Chapter Three Client Found

Cellini Smith looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after one in the morning, so there was still time before he had to show up for the two-to-eight shift at the aircraft plant in the Valley. He could make out Dan Turner at the other end of the corridor and decided to try his luck again.

“How’d you get along?” asked the gambler.

“With Haenigson? Fine. We can’t stand each other from way back. I don’t think Jerry Lake or Eddy Bly approves of me, though.”

“I would watch Lake if I were you.”

“How about Bly?”

“I don’t know much about him,” the gambler said.

“I should think you did,” Cellini persisted. “You knew enough about him to win a lot of money on his fight.”

“I never said I won money on him. I just said I bet on him. Besides, it’s none of your business, Smith.”

“You’re right there. How’s your alibi for the killing?”

“I’m not worried.”

Cellini gave it up. Turner wasn’t using detectives today. He nodded to the gambler and went outside. On the street he paused to light a cigarette.

A figure stepped from the shadows and said: “Hold the match.”

As Cellini extended his arm to light the other’s cigarette he was wide open for the sudden, unexpected blow. The stranger’s right fist caught him on the side of the jaw and sent him sprawling. He leaped up, then stopped short. Maybe it was a pipe that the stranger was pointing through the pocket of his jacket — or maybe it was a gun. It wasn’t worth the chance to try and find out.

With an effort, Cellini controlled himself. He rubbed his jaw and looked at the other as if carefully memorizing every line and detail of the hard, shrewd face. Finally, he said: “What was that for?”

“I’m a meanie,” replied the other. “I send caterpillars up telephone poles.”

“Who are you?” asked Cellini. “I remember the smell but I don’t seem to recognize the face.”

“Now there’s no cause for personalities,” said the other. “You can call me Murph. All my friends do.”

“I still want to know what this is all about?”

“Oh, it’s kind of a message from Jerry Lake. He wants you should be more civil to him.”

“What are you, his strong arm?”

“In a way,” said Murph. “Lake’s made me a sort of vice president in charge of complaints. It makes me feel like a white-collar worker. It—”

“Stop drooling. What does Lake want from me?”

“I don’t know. Honest.” Murph sounded hurt. “He just told me to take you down a couple of pegs. By the way, I never got that light. Just throw them matches, if you don’t mind.”

Murph caught the match book and struggled with one hand against his body until he had produced the light. “Thanks, Smith. I guess I’ll toddle along. And don’t try stopping me, because I can draw this rod real fast.”

“It would never occur to me.”

“Fine. No hard feelings, is there, Smith?”

“No, Murph, no hard feelings.”

“It isn’t like I had anything against you, personally, Smith. It’s just like I was a surgeon with a job to do.”

“I said, no hard feelings.”

Cellini watched Murph disappear down the street. The night was cool but he could feel the beads of sweat on his brow. Being thrown at walls by a lady wrestler and hit by a gambler’s bodyguard was a little too much to take in one night’s work. Certainly too much for a twenty-dollar job with no prospect of more to come. Cellini looked at his watch. It was nearing one-thirty. Maybe, he thought, he’d have a chance to stick around this mess. For one thing, he was anxious to meet Murph again.

Cellini Smith did not reach his office till two the following afternoon. He sorted through his mail with bad humor. He had not had more than two hours of sleep and the events of the preceding night still stung him.

There was the sound of heavy footfalls in the outside hallway and three men entered. The sight of Ira Haenigson did little to make Cellini feel better. The other two visitors were Boggs, Haenigson’s beefy, young assistant, and Dan Turner. They found chairs and ranged themselves in front of the desk.

It was a long moment before the detective-sergeant spoke. “Smith, we haven’t got much use for each other but I’ve had the feeling that each of us respected the other in a way.”

Cellini frowned. When Haenigson talked in circles it usually meant trouble.

“That’s why,” the Homicide man went on, “I’m sorry I have to nail you on a thing like this. I know you, Smith, and I don’t trust you too much but I’ve always felt that there were some things even you wouldn’t do. Maybe I never liked the way you did things but you usually did them for the right reasons.”

“You give me something to live for, Haenigson. Go on.”

“This isn’t funny, Smith. If you lose only your license you’ll be lucky. Blackmail isn’t a minor offense.”

“Blackmail?” Cellini looked at each of the faces in front of him and his frown deepened.

Dan Turner said: “Ordinarily, I’d let a thing like this go by — especially with you, Smith — but the deal’s too big. In the kind of a spot I’m in, I can’t afford it.”

“Wait a minute.” Cellini enunciated each word carefully, as though he were speaking to children. “This is supposed to have something to do with blackmail. In the first place, what have Haenigson and the Homicide Department got to do with blackmail? In the second place, what blackmail?”

“Your letter happens to tie in with the murder of Hank Wheaton,” replied the detective-sergeant.

“Now we’re getting someplace. What letter?”

“Stop playing cat-and-mouse, Smith. Mr. Turner handed it over to me.” Haenigson reached into his pocket and tossed a sheet on the desk blotter.

Cellini picked it. It was a piece of his own stationery and bore the preceding day’s date. It read:

Underneath, in its broad, typical lettering, was Cellini Smith’s signature. Cellini tossed the letter back.

“It was a little too thick for me to let it pass,” said Dan Turner almost apologetically. “I couldn’t afford to ignore it.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen it,” stated Cellini.

“That’s your signature, isn’t it, Smith?” asked Haenigson.

“I said I never saw it before.”

“Your signature and your stationery,” the detective-sergeant went on, “and Mr. Turner received it this morning in one of your envelopes. Now, what have you to say.”

Cellini said: “Your slip is showing.”

Haenigson sighed. He nodded to Boggs. The young cop went over to the typewriter, inserted a sheet, typed a few words and then passed the paper over to his chief. Haenigson started comparing the type with that on the note to Turner. Finally, the Homicide man asked: “Have you got another typewriter, Smith?”

“No.”

“Well, you didn’t type this letter on your machine. That’s obvious. Where did you?”

The knuckles on Cellini’s hands whitened on the edge of the desk. “Listen carefully, you animated septic tank, because I am repeating for the last time: I did not write that letter.”

“That’s your signature, isn’t it?”

“I don’t give a damn what it is!” Cellini grabbed at the letter. The signature, he had to admit, did look like his. He held it up to the light of his desk lamp, and asked: “Do one of you Philo Vances sport a magnifying glass?”

Haenigson shook his head and Boggs said: “Never touch ’em.”

“You use reading glasses, don’t you, Haenigson? Let’s have them.”

“Sure, what’s mine is yours.” The detective-sergeant handed over a pair of spectacles.

Again, Cellini held up the letter to the light and examined the signature, using the lenses as a magnifier. A faint line, cutting into the surface of the paper, could be clearly discerned underneath the inked signature. Ira Haenigson, looking over Cellini’s shoulder, whistled softly. “So somebody traced your name.”

Cellini Smith leaned back and laughed mirthlessly. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence that was broken by the gambler.

“I’m sorry about all this trouble I made for you, Smith, but you must admit I had no other choice. Do we forget the whole thing?” Dan Turner extended a hand, which Cellini took.

“That goes for me, too,” Ira Haenigson said. “When I nail you, Smith, I want it to be on something clean and wholesome like grand larceny — not a chiseling blackmail stunt.”

“I’ll bet,” said Cellini dryly. “Only next time wait till you hear my side of a story before you start licking your chops. All right, we’ll forget it but there’s something else I want to know. Who faked my name and wrote that letter?”

Dan Turner nodded. “That’s what I’d like to know, too. I don’t care for its implications. Suppose you try your hand at finding the answers, Smith.”

Cellini shook his head. “We can assume that the letter was written by someone closely connected with the killing or by the murderer himself. In that case he wants to involve me in this deal, so I’d be playing into his hands by taking the job.”

“It’s more likely that he wanted me to go gunning after you, figuring he’d rid himself of two birds with one letter. In any event, I’ll give you five hundred dollars now to see how far you can get with this.” Turner took out a wallet and counted bills onto the desk.

After a moment of hesitation, Cellini reached for the money. “Whoever sent that letter, Turner, must have known I’d be able to prove it was a fake.”

With a casualness that fooled no one, Ira Haenigson said: “Maybe the signature was a fake and the rest of the letter wasn’t.”

“Meaning,” asked the gambler, “that perhaps I did have a share in the killing?”

“That’s right, Turner.” It was no longer Mr. Turner. “Where did you say you were when the shot was fired?”

“In front of the stadium, looking for a cab.”

The detective-sergeant tried to look mild and trusting and Cellini snapped: “Stop being clever, Haenigson. It’s out of character. You have plenty of others to work on before Turner.”

“What others?”

“Eddy Bly and that Blond Bomber of his, Juno Worden, were in a hurry to get away after the shot was fired.”

“Bly had to go to his sister’s funeral this morning and he didn’t feel like staying around. Besides, he was in the corridor when the shot was fired, waiting for the girl to come out of the powder room, and he was talking to Jerry Lake at the time.”

Cellini remembered Murph and said: “Lake might be lying.”

“Why should he? He’s only sticking his own neck out.”

“Besides,” Dan Turner added, “I happen to know that Jerry Lake was a friend of Hank Wheaton’s, so he’d have every reason to help find the killer.”

“Then Bly and Lake are in the clear,” admitted Cellini, “if all that is so. But that doesn’t clear the girl. Instead of going to the powder room she might have gone around to the alley. And what about Wheaton’s handler I saw hanging around there?”

“He’s out, too,” Haenigson replied. “He was in the middle of a crap game in the back.”

“Then that would leave Wheaton’s wife, Prunella, alone in the dressing room. The window’s on street level and she could have climbed out into the alley, closed the window behind her, shot her husband and then reentered the room the same way and screamed.”

“A woman as homely as all that,” Haenigson remarked, “would hold on to any husband. Besides, what excuse could she give Wheaton for wanting to go climbing out of windows?”

“Any number of excuses. They probably didn’t know why I had been in there with Duck-Eye, so she might have told Wheaton she was going out by way of the alley to follow me and find out.”

The detective-sergeant stood up. “All of which leaves us where it finds us. Don’t think that five hundred bucks and a client give you the right to pull any fast ones, Smith.”

“I won’t. What about the gun?”

“You were right there. No fingerprints and it doesn’t seem likely that it can be traced.” Haenigson lifted himself from the chair, said bitterly: “Nobody’s giving me five hundred dollars to work on this case,” and stalked out, followed by Boggs.

Chapter Four Odds and no Ends

When the door had closed, Cellini Smith reached into a desk drawer and hauled out a bottle of some blended whiskey and two glasses. He poured, gave one of the glasses to Dan Turner and asked: “Was there any truth at all in that letter?”

“I didn’t kill Hank Wheaton,” said the gambler, “and even if I had, I expect you to play it my way. You’re working for me now.”

Cellini’s grunt was noncommital. “We’ll try it another way. Could you have had any reason or desire to kill Wheaton?”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me, Smith. If you have wax in your ears, don’t use a toothpick. The corner of a handkerchief—”

Cellini interrupted: “I’ll patronize my corner druggist for such advice. You claim I’m working for you and you’ve paid for it, so act like it. I’ve got to get some kind of lead to work on and if you’re not willing to cooperate, then—” Cellini caught himself. He had almost offered to return the five hundred.

“All right, Smith. I didn’t kill Wheaton and I had nothing against him. Happy?”

“Frightfully. You said, last night, that you bet on Eddy Bly but didn’t make any profit. How come?”

“A lot of Wheaton money suddenly showed up and I got scared. I covered my bets and played both sides.”

“Where do you think the Wheaton money came from?”

“I’m not sure but I know why it came. Bly’s sister was run over by a car and some of the boys must have figured that Bly would be too upset to know what he was doing in the ring.”

Cellini poured refills. “But that had nothing to do with your thinking the fight was fixed. You wrote asking me that I check on that two days before the fight, and that was one day before the girl was run over.”

“That’ll be your headache, Smith. Some friends dropped a few hints and I promised to keep them to myself. It’s a matter of keeping my word. I couldn’t stay in this racket if I didn’t.”

“So be it. Do you know a goon called Murph who tags after Jerry Lake?”

“I’ve seen him around. Lake picked him up a couple of days ago. The idea of having a bodyguard probably builds up his ego.”

“And what about this Blond Bomber?” pursued Cellini. “Do you think she might be married to Eddy Bly?”

“No, but she ought to be. She’s married to a milquetoast called Forsythe Worden. He’s well-named.”

“There might be something there. I’d like to meet him.”

“He’ll probably be over at my house with his wife tomorrow,” Turner said.

“I sleep late Sundays.”

“This is a party and it’ll keep going all afternoon. I throw them occasionally for the gang, to keep up with the latest gossip. If you want to come around, you’ll find me in the phone book.”

Cellini tried more questions and the answers became progressively less satisfactory. Dan Turner finished his drink and left. Cellini stayed at his desk, stabbing at the blotter with a letter opener. There was no place from which to start, no definite lead from which to work. That was the trouble. The only sure thing was that Duck-Eye could get his two hundred dollars now. He’d first have to know exactly how it would be spent — if he gave it to him.

After a while, Cellini locked the office and went down to his car. None of the bookie joints, gambling places or so-called poker clubs he visited seemed to know or care about who had won or lost on the Bly-Wheaton fight. The back numbers of newspapers, found in a library, revealed only that an eighteen-year-old girl named Jeanette Bly had been run over by a hit-and-run driver near the corner of Wilshire and La Brea. She had died a few hours later in the hospital.

It was nearing six when Cellini Smith entered the Main Street Gymnasium and not many of the boys were around. Someone was sweating over a rowing machine and Duck-Eye Ryan was earning a few cents by sparring with a fighter Cellini didn’t recognize. Candido Pastor, one of the better welters, idly skipped rope in one corner. An old man, called Cyclops because of an eye lost in the bare-knuckles days, wandered about under the impression he was tidying the place.

Duck-Eye broke off when he sighted Cellini and hurried over. The big, grooved face wrinkled into a grin.

“I got big news, Cellini.”

“What is it?”

“It was a mistake. You know. About what I told you.”

“You mean you don’t need the two hundred?”

“Uh-huh.” The grin spread from one mangled ear to the other.

Cellini’s mouth was open for a speech about flowers and bees and social conduct when he decided to postpone it until a more convenient time. Instead, he said: “Climb into your clothes. We’re going to a wrestling match.”

Duck-Eye lumbered off and Cellini wandered over to Candido Pastor. “Fighting soon, Candy?”

“How’ya, Smith? Next week.” His words came brokenly, timed with the steady slap of the rope against the floor.

“What did you think of the Bly-Wheaton brawl last night?”

“Bly has a mean right but I’d like to see him go a few rounds against someone good.”

“I thought it was supposed to be a fix, Candy.”

The boxer’s eyes swept the large loft-like room. The hopping feet didn’t miss a beat. “You working on Wheaton’s killing, Smith?”

“Something like that, Candy. What about the fix?”

“The fight game’s funny,” Candido Pastor observed. “You get a guy like Jerry Lake against you and you never get on a decent card again — no matter how good you are.” He dropped the rope and moved over to a punching bag.

Cellini didn’t feel like shouting to be heard over the rhythmic pounding of the leather and he accepted the not too subtle hint. Besides, he had gained an important item of information. He crossed the room to where the old man was hauling weights into a corner.

“Candy tells me you know about the fix that Jerry Lake made on last night’s fight.”

Cyclops snorted indignantly through his chew of tobacco. “Candy didn’t tell you nothing like that, Mr. Smith.”

“That’s right. But you do know about the fix.”

“Not at these prices, I don’t,” retorted the old man.

“At what prices do you think you can start remembering?”

The one eye measured Cellini as if trying to divine the contents of his wallet. “Ten bucks is a nice, even figure,” he finally said, and added hastily: “Prices are high in everything.”

Cellini took the tenner from his wallet but did not give it to Cyclops. “We’ll see if it’s worth it,” he said.

The old man spat tobacco juice on the floor and spread it around with the sole of a shoe. “It’s just a few things I picked up around here, Mr. Smith, and I ain’t one to talk.”

“I’m like Mr. Anthony. You can tell me anything. What gives with Lake?”

“Well, he wanted Wheaton to win.”

“Why? Was he betting dough on him?”

“Not too much. I heard tell he was building him up.”

“I don’t get it. What has Lake got to do with that?”

“He owns Hank Wheaton. Not since Wheaton was killed, I guess, but he owned him before.”

“So Jerry Lake was Hank Wheaton’s manager,” said Cellini softly. “You’re doing fine, Cyclops. Now tell me why a smart boy like Lake would try to build up a second-rater like Wheaton.”

“Wheaton’s record fooled Lake,” stated the old man, “so he got him down here from Seattle thinking he had something good.”

“And when he found out otherwise,” Cellini said, “he decided to fix the fight and save Wheaton’s pretty record for a big killing later on.”

“A big killing!” chortled Cyclops. “That’s a good crack, Mr. Smith. He sure got himself a big killing.”

“You ought to see me with my trained seals sometime. Now tell me about the fix, Cyclops.”

“That there’s kind of funny because I heard they would go fast for the first nine rounds and then Bly would dive in the tenth.”

“What’s funny about it?”

“It didn’t happen, did it?”

“That’s what I want to know. Why didn’t it?”

“The kind of scum you get nowadays, Mr. Smith, it’s even hard to arrange an honest fix.” The old man started laughing. “A big killing! That was sure funny, Mr. Smith.”

Cellini added another five to the ten and headed for the locker room and the comparatively brighter company of Duck-Eye Ryan.

The matches were already under way when Cellini Smith and Duck-Eye Ryan arrived at the arena. The place was only half-filled but the spectators made up for this deficiency by roaring their approval and providing a continuous stream of comments on the goings-on in the ring.

As Cellini and Duck-Eye leaned over the railing in back of the grandstand to watch, they found those goings-on very strange indeed. Four female wrestlers and a referee crowded the ring. The girls were apparently paired into two teams and they tossed each other around with a zest and gusto that somehow reminded Cellini of a jitterbug jamboree.

“Gee! Four of ’em!” was Duck-Eye’s critical comment.

Despite the recent murder of her husband, Prunella Wheaton was meeting her professional obligations tonight. Her role was that of the villainess, for, to the delight of all, she confined her tactics to biting, kicking and gouging of eyes.

A red-head leaped across the ring and delivered a right-hand bar smash to Prunella’s mid-section. Prunella replied by grabbing a handful of hair and swinging her opponent against a ring post. The red-head stood up and felt her hair. “You, you dirty thing, you,” she sputtered, enraged over the ruin of an expensive permanent. The red-head jumped for Prunella and they tumbled to the mat. Prunella managed to get a choke hold on the other’s neck.

The crowd yelled to the referee: “Choke, choke...Watch the ugly one, Sam.”

Sam bent over to check the hold. Another girl jumped to the wrestler’s aid, knocking Sam over, and then the fourth one came in on top of them. Sam crawled out of the tangle of arms and legs and pulled them apart. Prunella grabbed the red-head around the neck while her partner did the same with the fourth one. Then, in a moment of inspiration, they ran forward, bumping the two heads together. The match was over.

Cellini turned to find Murph next to him, leaning against the railing. Cellini produced a thin smile and used it by way of greeting.

Murph said: “Sure there’s no hard feelings about last night?”

“No. Your boss here with you?”

“Sure. Lake and me are like two peas in a pod. Whatever a pod is. After this business is over I’ll keep working with him.”

The next match, between the Blond Bomber and a large girl called Maggie Scott, was announced. Juno Worden, straining against her purple one-piece suit like an overstuffed baloney, drew the usual quota of whistles. The two wrestlers received their instructions, slipped out of the referee’s hold and began circling for an opening.

Cellini asked: “After what business is over?”

“After he don’t need a bodyguard anymore. I guess I talk too much, don’t I, Smith?”

The Blond Bomber was sitting on Maggie Scott’s back, rowing back and forth on her right leg in a toe hold. It was a well-rehearsed act.

Murph yelled: “Stick a fishbowl in her hand!” He turned to Cellini. “Production for use. That’s what she is. Lake, he’s getting interested in that dish.”

“I thought Juno was interested in Eddy Bly — not to speak of her husband.”

“Nobody ever speaks of him. Lake just hangs around so he’ll be handy when she gets tired of Bly. Like she got tired of Wheaton.”

Cellini turned from the ring to Murph. “Tired of Wheaton? If that’s true, why would Prunella and Juno be good friends?”

Murph shrugged. “Ask her.”

“I will,” said Cellini, and started to leave. Duck-Eye tore his eyes from the wrestlers and followed reluctantly.

Murph said: “If you don’t mind, I’ll tag along.”

“I don’t mind.”

“That’s good, because I’d come anyway. Lake likes me to keep him informed on what you do. I’m sure glad we let bygones be bygones, Smith.” He eyed the mammoth Duck-Eye. “Especially with that guy tailing after you.”

They were stopped by a watchman at the entrance leading to the back dressing rooms of the arena. Cellini Smith sent in a note and it was some minutes before Prunella Wheaton appeared. She wore a flowered print dress and hardly looked like a woman who had been widowed twenty-four hours earlier.

Cellini hunted for the proper words of flattery to bestow on a lady wrestler, and said: “That was quite a free-for-all you put on.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” replied Prunella coldly.

“He didn’t say he liked it,” Murph noted.

Prunella said, “Shut up,” to Murph and, “What do you want?” to Cellini.

“I’m working on your husband’s murder, Mrs. Wheaton, and I wonder if you happened to look out of the window just before or after the shot was fired through it.”

“I didn’t before and when the shot came I ran over to see how badly my husband was hurt. It was my first duty,” she added primly.

Cellini decided he might as well ask it. “Do you happen to know of any enemies your husband might have had, any former girl-friends, for example?”

“He had no girl-friends.”

Her eyes looked beyond Cellini and he turned around. Juno Worden and Maggie Scott had finished their match and they were coming toward them. A ring robe was draped around the Blond Bomber’s shoulders and the powder on her skin was caked by sweat. She stopped by them and nodded pleasantly to Cellini. He wondered if Eddy Bly had told her to change her attitude toward him.

Prunella said: “This guy is trying to find out if Hank had any girl-friends. You tell him.”

Juno looked shocked. “That’s a hell of a thing to say so soon after the tragedy. Hank and Pruney were an ideal couple.”

“Like you and your husband?” asked Cellini.

“Why, you louse!” Juno’s body curved into the familiar crouch, ready to leap.

Cellini cautiously stepped to one side. Duck-Eye said: “I’ll take care of it, Cellini. Please let me take care of it.”

Prunella said, “Don’t dirty your hands, Juno,” and the two of them stalked toward the dressing room.

Murph began to laugh. Cellini regarded him sourly and said: “I could do with a drink. There’s a bottle in my car.”

“That’s what I like to hear, Smith.”

Cellini led the way out to the parking lot and to his car. The wrestling matches were still going on and, other than an attendant at the far end, the place was deserted.

“The time has come,” said Cellini. He suddenly grabbed Murph’s arm, twisted it behind his back and pressed him, with crushing force, over a fender. With his free hand, Cellini reached into a pocket, removed a gun and tossed it to Duck-Eye.

Then he said: “No hard feelings, are there?”

There was a dubious and unsure “No” from Murph.

“That’s nice, because I want to see how good you are when you’re not asking for a light.”

“Good enough for you,” said Murph, and suddenly lunged forward.

Cellini took the blow on his forearm and hit out heavily at the other’s heart. They circled cautiously in the restricted area, with Murph’s left fist darting out in quick defensive jabs. Murph was fast on his feet and he seemed to know what he was doing.

Cellini side-stepped quickly and his left looped out and caught the other under the ear. Again and again, Cellini tried it until Murph’s defense automatically moved higher. Abruptly, Cellini stepped in, feinted at the head, then shifted and delivered a smashing right deep into Murph’s stomach. Murph stopped, stood unmoving and a tight-lipped groan escaped him. His arms dropped down and his head was unprotected, virtually inviting a knockout blow. But that was not Cellini’s intention.

Cellini’s arm lashed out and his knuckles struck down on the other’s cheek as if he were splitting wood. Murph fell against the car, blood coming from a wide gash in the face. Then, with a scientific and ruthless precision, Cellini went to work. His blows came slower and more exactly, aimed now at the eyes, now the nose, now the teeth.

Cellini’s left hand pressed Murph’s chest, steadying him against the car door. The resistance was feeble and Cellini could calculate the probable effect of each blow as with a billiard shot. After a while, his arms began to feel a little tired. Now he was striking at a red, pulpy mess that bore little resemblance to flesh. It felt, to his fists, like the insides of a huge oyster.

Cellini stepped back to observe the artistry of his work and Murph slid to the ground. He said, “Now, there are really no hard feelings.”

The car attendant suddenly showed up and began to yell. With his two hands, Duck-Eye Ryan gently lifted him by the waist and set him atop the radiator of an adjoining car. The attendant stopped yelling.

Cellini pushed Murph’s inert figure out of the way with his feet. He was feeling hungry. He said: “Let’s go out and see if we can find a good steak.”

Chapter Five Death of the Party

Dan Turner’s house, in one of the Hollywood canyons, was large, rambling, Spanish-style. When Cellini Smith drove into the grounds, shortly after four on Sunday afternoon, he could see that the party had been under way for some time. A few guests were having a swimming race in the pool, apparently unaware that it contained no water. Others staggered about or lay asleep in some corner. The guests all seemed to represent a segment — and not the highest — of the sporting world. Duck-Eye Ryan, who had come on the promise of free drinks, wet his lips in happy anticipation.

They left the car, tried to get someone to answer the front door knocker, and finally entered. People were wandering about, drinking, and announcing their views on some phase of sport. Cellini could understand why Turner thought it wise to throw these clambakes every few weeks. Duck-Eye sighted a lonely bottle and made for it.

A small, brunette item yelled, “A man!” and threw her arms around Cellini’s neck.

He tried, vainly, to free himself and she said: “I’m Toby but you’re sober.” She thrust a glass in his hand. “Try this. Good, huh?”

“That stuff could pull a nail out of a board,” he replied, but he felt better.

Cellini quickly poured more liquid into his glass and drank it down. He asked: “Where’s our host?”

“I thought it was you,” replied Toby, her arm tightening around his neck.

He walked into the next room, the girl trailing after him. Prunella, a fixed, bleary smile on her unlovely face, waved at him from the depths of a club chair.

“I saw him first,” snapped Toby. “He ain’t in public domain.”

“You can keep him, dearie. I just want to apologize about yesterday.”

“What about it?” asked Cellini.

She emptied her glass before answering. “About me and Hank. It was a lie he had no girl-friends. Me and Hank were finished.”

“Was Juno Worden one of his girls?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. I never bothered to check. Hank said he’d never divorce me if I let him do what he wanted.”

“I bet that’s a lie,” Toby snarled. “She’s two-faced and I don’t know which one I hate most.”

Prunella struggled to get up and at Toby as Dan Turner and Eddy Bly came by. Bly took in the situation, shoved Prunella back and said: “Relax.”

“Glad you came, Smith,” said Turner. “How’s your drink?”

“I wouldn’t feed it to a robot.”

“You’ll get used to it after a while. Or at least you won’t care after a while. How’s the job coming?”

“I’m still trying to separate the lies from the half-truths. Everybody here or you expecting some more?”

“Everybody except Jerry Lake. He called a little while ago and said he’ll be around later.”

Eddy Bly said: “Smith, Mr. Turner says I had you tabbed all wrong. Why don’t we make up?”

“Good enough.” Cellini shook hands. “If you don’t mind, we’ll have a little talk later.”

“Sure,” replied Bly with well-restrained enthusiasm. “Any time you want.” He nodded and moved off with Turner.

Toby said to Prunella: “Keep your chins up, dearie,” and steered Cellini away.

Cellini refilled his glass from a large pitcher, tasted the stuff and gagged. Toby started laughing. “That’s grape punch, you man.”

“Why didn’t you warn me?” He hunted over the sideboard and appropriated a nearly full bottle of bourbon. He raised it to his lips, and drank long and deeply. The party began to seem less dull, the guests much brighter.

A little man, wearing elevator shoes, who had observed Cellini admiringly, said: “I wish I could drink like that.”

He was quite drunk and Cellini replied: “You have.”

“Not like that. I’m not man enough. I’d choke. I got to mix it with all kinds of things so it shouldn’t taste like liquor.”

Cellini guessed that this was Forsythe Worden, the Blond Bomber’s husband. He liked the wispy, mild-looking character and said: “It’s all a matter of how your belly is lined. It has nothing to do with being a man.”

Toby said: “Belly ain’t a nice word, you wonderful thing. Use tummy. Like in soft undertummy of Europe.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel good,” said Forsythe Worden. “There are other things.” He pointed. “Do you know my wife?”

Cellini looked to see Juno Worden entering with Candy Pastor, their arms hooked in friendly intimacy. She disengaged herself and came over.

“I see you met my loving husband, Smith.” Juno giggled and appropriated the drink in her husband’s hand.

The intonation of her words sounded ugly and mean and Cellini shivered slightly. “This one’s my man,” persisted Toby.

Juno said: “Forsythe, watch out what you tell Smith. He’s a peeper and he’s snooping around on Wheaton’s killing.”

Forsythe Worden was puzzled. “In that case don’t you think we should try to help him?”

“You do as I say.”

“He has something there, Juno,” observed Cellini. “How about trying to be helpful for a change?”

“Forsythe is a milkhead,” said the Blond Bomber. “I’m not trying to hide anything. I just don’t want him to go around making up stuff about people.”

“What people?”

“I mean generally. Anybody.”

“She means nothing of the sort,” stated Forsythe Worden. “She probably doesn’t want me to tell you about Eddy Bly.”

“Forsythe!” Juno’s voice was sharp and threatening.

Eddy Bly joined the group. “What’s going on here?” His face was flushed and he was drunker than before.

Juno indicated her husband and said: “He’s making nasty cracks about you and me.”

The fighter laughed. “Well, they’re true, aren’t they?”

He put his arms around her waist and started to kiss her. After a moment of struggle, she gave in and her arms coiled around his neck. It was a full half minute before they parted and she said: “Maybe they are true.”

Forsythe Worden leaped to his feet, trembling. “Do you have to do it in front of everybody?”

Eddy Bly chuckled. “Keep your pants on, half-pint.”

With a blind, unreasoning bravery, the little man rushed at the fighter. Eddy Bly barely moved as his right shot out and connected with Worden’s jaw. Bly had not bothered to put any power behind the blow but it was enough to drop Forsythe Worden in an unconscious heap. Eddy Bly sighed. He went to the sideboard, got the pitcher of grape punch and poured it over Worden’s face. The harassed Filipino houseboy took the pitcher and refilled it. Others in the room had barely given the scene a second glance. They were used to it.

Toby said to Cellini: “I’m tired of watching other people’s scandals, you wonderful man. Let’s make our own.”

Cellini led her back to the first room, where Duck-Eye caressed his bottle in an easy chair. He picked up Toby and set her in Duck-Eye’s lap. She sighed contentedly, curled up and immediately went to sleep.

Duck-Eye said: “Thanks a lot, Cellini. When should I return her?”

“Don’t bother to. And don’t get too drunk.”

Cellini found Eddy Bly on the back veranda and said: “Did you have to beat up that little guy that way?”

“No, I didn’t,” replied the fighter, “but I can’t be blamed if I forget myself every once in a while. I’ve just lost a sister and a friend of mine is murdered and then that little mutt that Juno married starts yapping at my heels. I tell you it’s too much, Smith.”

“Maybe it’s too much for him, too,” said Cellini coldly. “Juno is his wife — not yours.”

“That’s just it. I wish she was mine.”

“Won’t he give her a divorce?”

“I never bothered to find out because it wouldn’t make any difference. The trouble is Juno don’t want a divorce. I think she likes the idea of being married to him because that way she has more freedom. I like her but I got to admit she’s just a tramp.” He stared gloomily at nothing.

There was a pause and after a while, Cellini said: “I’ve been trying to find out about the fix that was supposed to be arranged on your fight with Wheaton.”

“What about it?”

“Everything. I’d like to know just what happened.”

“Keep this between us, Smith, but after the fight was booked, Wheaton came to me with a proposition and I agreed to throw the fight.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I got to know Wheaton better and we became friends and I found out he was a bum fighter, so I told them I wouldn’t throw the fight because I didn’t want it on my record that I was licked by third-class stuff like Wheaton. That’s about all.”

“Did Juno Worden go around with Hank Wheaton?”

“That’s what I heard, Smith.”

Forsythe Worden appeared and leveled a finger at the fighter. “You’re just a bum. That’s all you are. A bum.”

Eddy Bly said: “I think I need a drink.” He got up and left.

Cellini asked: “How’s your jaw?”

Forsythe Worden sank into an ottoman and began to sob. It lasted for several minutes after which he blew his nose and said: “That’s typical of me. I’m not a man. I only wear pants. That’s all. But at least I’m not a bum, am I?”

“No,” Cellini said, “you’re not a bum. And I will tell you something else. You are a man.”

Forsythe Worden gazed at Cellini gratefully but said: “We’re both a little drunk and you’re only trying to make me feel good.”

“I don’t give a damn how you feel, Worden. I just think you have guts — the real kind of guts, because you haven’t got the body to back it up. The other kind, Bly’s kind, is easy.”

“Thanks. Thanks. Thanks a lot,” repeated the little man.

Cellini said: “I also think you know the difference between right and wrong, and it makes me wonder why you ever married Juno.”

“I suppose she’s no good,” Forsythe Worden admitted, “but a man doesn’t stop wanting a woman because of that. And I want my wife. I wanted her when I married her and I still want her.”

“I could understand that, but why did she marry you?”

“Because I was handy, and she was tired of the small town, and above all, I had money.”

“Lots of it?” asked Cellini.

“Comparatively. About twenty thousand. Today I have nothing.”

“What happened? Did Juno spend it?”

“Mostly. I lost the last eight thousand on Friday when I bet that Wheaton would beat Bly. Today I have nothing and Juno knows it. I’ve lost even that hold over her.”

Cellini looked at the little man curiously. “Why did you bet dough like that? Did you think it was fixed or did you think Wheaton was better than Bly?”

“Neither one,” Forsythe Worden replied. “I happened to be with Jeanette Bly when the accident happened.”

“Who’s Jeanette? Bly’s sister?”

“Yes. A very sweet girl, and no matter what I think of Bly I have to admit he was crazy about her. That’s why, after I did what I could for Jeanette, I went down and placed the bet on the fight. I figured Bly would be sure to lose, the way he cared for Jeanette, and I didn’t see any harm in making money on it.”

“Tell me about the accident,” said Cellini.

“There’s nothing to it. Jeanette stepped off the curb, near Desmond’s, where I took her shopping, and a car knocked her over and didn’t stop.”

“Did you get a look at the driver?”

“Yes. A very quick look but I think I can recognize him if I ever see him again.”

“You’re sure you never saw him before?”

“Very sure,” said Forsythe Worden.

From inside the house came the voice of the Blond Bomber calling her husband. Meekly, he said, “Yes, dear,” and left.

Cellini went back into the house but couldn’t find Prunella Wheaton. He mixed himself a triple shot of whiskey and very little soda and went out on the grounds. Prunella wasn’t visible there either and he returned to the veranda. Through the window came the sound of angry voices. Cellini walked over to look. Eddy Bly was baiting Forsythe Worden again, as he suggestively stroked the Blond Bomber’s neck and shoulders. Juno seemed to be having fun.

The little man screamed: “Can’t you go away someplace? Why don’t you leave me alone?”

Eddy Bly laughed loud and long. “Tell me what to do, crumb! You can’t even hold a woman!”

Forsythe Worden jumped at the fighter. Cellini ran for the door but as he heard the sound of a fist against flesh and bone, he knew he was too late to save the little man from being knocked cold again. When he reached the room, Eddy Bly had already emptied the pitcher of grape punch over Worden’s face again.

Bly pushed Juno away, almost as if in disgust, and mixed himself a drink. He saw Cellini and said: “I know, but I can’t help it.”

“Try that again and Worden’s liable to kill you.”

Forsythe Worden slowly began to stir. His hands went to his eyes and he rolled over on his stomach. He started moaning and Cellini walked over. There was a peculiar odor in the air.

Candy Pastor said: “He’ll be right out of it, Smith.”

As consciousness returned fully to Forsythe Worden the moans became louder and gradually turned into screams. Puzzled, Cellini knelt down to examine the little man.

Suddenly, Cellini exclaimed: “Holy mother of hell! Someone grab his legs!”

Candido Pastor came over quickly and did so. Cellini put his hands under the little man’s armpits and they rushed him toward a bathroom. Over his shoulder, Cellini called: “Get a doctor!”

With little ceremony, Cellini shoved Worden into the shower stall and turned on the water full blast. Quickly, Cellini ripped away the little man’s clothes and sponged water over his face. Now he knew what had happened.

“Get some sodium bicarbonate and make a solution,” Cellini snapped. “Maybe it will help till the doctor gets here.”

Candy Pastor hurried away. Others, hearing Worden’s groans, crowded into the bathroom. Cellini said: “Someone hold his hands down so I can get at him.”

The bicarbonate solution arrived and Cellini said to Pastor: “Wash his face with it and wherever the stuff got to him. I have to go down.”

Cellini had stood under the shower while working over Worden and was completely and thoroughly drenched. He peeled off his coat, shirt and shoes and spread them on the floor. Then he returned to the room where the trouble had started. Turner, looking angry and baffled, was there talking with Eddy Bly.

“What the hell has happened?” demanded the gambler. “What’s going on, Smith?”

“Nothing very pleasant,” said Cellini. “Eddy Bly just poured a little grape juice and a pitcherful of what I think is sulphuric acid over Forsythe Worden’s face.”

Chapter Six Swansong

The boxer strode the room with a pardine lope, drawing deeply and nervously on a cigarette. For the fourth time, he said: “I can’t understand it. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes plenty of sense,” said Cellini Smith.

“That’s right,” Dan Turner agreed. “You had a nice little habit of socking Worden and pouring my punch over him to revive him and everyone knew you had that habit. So someone simply emptied a bottle of sulphuric acid into the pitcher of punch and waited for you to get around to having your fun with Worden.”

“But why? Why?”

The gambler shrugged. “I paid five hundred dollars to Smith to find out why Wheaton was killed, why a letter was written to me in Smith’s name. There are plenty of whys.”

“I think we can get around to answering some of them,” Cellini said, “but first, what do you know about this?” He held up a bottle. “I found this behind that potted plant there where some grape juice was emptied from the pitcher and replaced with acid from this bottle.”

“That’s my bottle,” said Dan Turner.

“Really? And how come you have a bottle of sulphuric acid in your house?”

“I don’t care for your tone of voice, Smith. Change it before I pitch you out of this house.”

“Remind me to worry about all that later, Turner. At the moment, my main interest is to find out about the acid bath that was given Forsythe Worden — and I’m staying till I find out. If you have any plans about throwing me out, include Duck-Eye over there.”

Duck-Eye Ryan stirred in a corner of the room to indicate his presence. Cellini poured himself another drink. His fingers shook, not from any nervousness but from a cold anger that knotted his insides.

“And Duck-Eye’s heeled,” Cellini continued. “With Murph’s gun. By the way, what happened to Jerry Lake? He was supposed to come.”

Turner shrugged. “I’m phoning for the cops.”

“I’ve already done that,” said Cellini. “Let’s hear about that bottle.”

“I do amateur photography as a hobby,” the gambler replied. “I have a laboratory downstairs in the basement and I use the acid to tone the film.”

“Who knows you have a lab?”

“Pretty near everybody, I guess.”

A door opened and the doctor who had come to tend Worden stepped in. The men waited for him to speak.

“He’ll be all right now,” said the doctor. “Placing him under the shower, as you did, helped a lot. Of course, he’ll be blind and scarred the rest of his life, but he’ll live.”

Turner said: “Thank you. Do you mind staying with him?”

“Not at all, though I’ve already given him a hypo to let him sleep for a while.” The doctor left.

Dan Turner said: “I understand how you feel, Smith. I’d like to know myself who rigged up that punch with acid.”

Before Cellini could reply, the door was thrown open and Murph stood on the threshold. It was a Murph with a taped face, puffed, slitted eyes, and swollen, partly open lips.

“Where’s Lake?” he demanded. Then he saw Cellini and his hand made for a pocket.

“I wouldn’t,” snapped Cellini. “Duck-Eye has the drop.”

“I sure have,” Duck-Eye Ryan agreed amiably from the corner.

“That’s O.K. Some other time.” Murph spoke with difficulty and his broken teeth caused him to lisp.

Cellini walked over and removed a gun from Murph’s pocket.

“Do what you want, Smith. I have plenty of time to take care of you.” He turned to the others. “Where’s Lake?”

Bly shrugged and Turner asked: “Where is he supposed to be?”

“He said he was coming right in.” Murph’s voice held a touch of hysteria. “I took the car around to park it and when I come back he wasn’t there.”

“He’s probably out on the grounds some place,” said Turner.

“I tell you he ain’t. I looked.”

“Perhaps he came into the house,” Cellini suggested.

“I was here all the time,” Bly said. “I would have seen him.”

“Maybe he didn’t get this far,” said Cellini. “Let’s look in the front rooms. Lake’s whereabouts interest me, too.”

They left and circled the front rooms and the main hallway. Their search ended in the telephone closet that was located underneath the stairway.

Crumpled underneath the telephone stand was Jerry Lake’s corpse, his head an almost unrecognizable mass of splintered bone. The weapon, a heavy andiron, lay on the floor beside the body.

Detective-Sergeant Ira Haenigson said: “Now we may be able to get someplace.” He had thrown open the doors separating the library and living room and had crowded everyone — servants and guests — inside.

Impressively, Haenigson announced: “There’s a murderer among you. I’ve spent an hour listening to your stories and nothing connects. We may stay here all night but I’m going to find out exactly what happened this afternoon. I want to know where each one of you was when Jerry Lake was murdered and what each one of you was doing while sulphuric acid was being added to a pitcher of punch.”

“What good will that do?” asked Cellini. “Everybody has been drinking all afternoon and most of them haven’t the vaguest idea of what they did — let alone at exactly what time they did it.”

“Maybe you know of a better way to get information than by asking questions, Smith.”

“I don’t need any more information. It’s obvious that someone poured acid into that punch in an effort to blind Worden. Forsythe Worden told me that he was present when Bly’s sister was run over and that he’d be able to identify the driver if he ever saw him again. So obviously, the idea was to fix it so that he’d never be able to identify anything again.”

“Go on,” said Haenigson.

“It all began when Jerry Lake bought the contract of a Seattle fighter with a good record, and booked him to fight here against Bly. When Wheaton came down, Lake found out that he wasn’t much good, so he tried to fix the fight with Bly. Lake was trying somehow to save his investment in Wheaton. Bly agreed to take a dive, but when he found out how bad Wheaton really was, he backed out.”

“So that’s where the sister comes in,” murmured Haenigson.

“That’s right. You caught it. Lake and Wheaton tried to put pressure on Bly to stick to his agreement and take the dive by threatening to hurt the sister. Bly wouldn’t play ball and finally, the day before the fight, they went out to get Jeanette Bly.”

“Who are they?” asked Haenigson.

“We can find out very simply. We’ll bring down Worden and let him identify the person who drove that hit-and-run car. Fortunately his eyes weren’t affected by the acid.”

“I thought—” Haenigson began.

“That will be the fairest way to do it,” interrupted Cellini quickly, “because the person who did that job will probably hang for it.” Cellini called upstairs: “You can bring Worden down now.”

Cellini turned back and waited as the seconds ticked off. In a little while everyone would realize it was a bluff, that Forsythe Worden would not be coming down, that he would never identify anybody.

Ten seconds of utter stillness had elapsed when suddenly Murph leaped to his feet and cried: “I didn’t want to kill her! I swear I didn’t! I just wanted to clip her lightly with the fender! Just to warn Bly! I swear that was all I wanted to do.”

A stream of oaths came from Eddy Bly and he leaped at Murph. Bly’s two hands closed around Murph’s neck and slowly forced him to the floor. Murph’s arms dropped and his face began to whiten. Boggs and Haenigson bore down on Bly but could not tear his hands away from the throat. Boggs produced a blackjack and brought it down sharply on the back of Bly’s head. The fighter sagged to the ground. His hands, however, still clung to Murph’s throat and could be pried off only finger by finger.

The Blond Bomber bent over Eddy Bly’s unconscious form. “You didn’t have to hit him so hard,” she snapped.

“I’m sorry, madam,” replied Haenigson, “but we have courts to try people and we don’t like to have them choked first.”

Most of the guests had already left and Turner said to Cellini: “That was good work.”

“Yes,” agreed Haenigson. “It was a neat way to get the killer to reveal himself.”

“What killer are you talking about?” asked Cellini with irritation. “Murph accidentally killed Bly’s sister when he just wanted to clip her slightly, but he certainly didn’t kill Wheaton or Jerry Lake.”

“That’s so,” considered Ira Haenigson. “I guess he wouldn’t kill his own boss.”

“There’s only one possible answer,” said Cellini. “After the girl was run over, Bly quizzed Forsythe Worden on what the driver of the car looked like and he figured out it must have been Murph, acting on orders from Lake and Wheaton. But Bly didn’t let anyone know he had figured it out. He was crazy about his sister, so he got hold of a gun and decided to take care of matters himself. The one that Bly figured was most guilty was Hank Wheaton. He chopped him down quickly in the ring and later in the corridor he found his chance when Juno left him alone to go to the powder room. Maybe Bly suggested that her slip was showing or something like that to get her out of there. What was it, Juno?”

The Blond Bomber sat on the floor stroking Eddy Bly’s hair. In a low voice she said: “He told me my nose was shiny and to go and fix it.”

“Then it was nicely premeditated,” Cellini went on. “Bly simply went into one of the dressing rooms, climbed out of the window into the alley, shot Wheaton and returned to the corridor the same way without having to go out one of the stadium’s exits.”

The detective-sergeant held up a hand. “Wait a second, Smith. What you forget is that Lake said he was talking with Bly in the corridor when the shot was fired.”

“If you remember, Haenigson, that was Bly’s suggestion and Lake simply backed up Bly’s alibi.”

“Why should he back him up?”

“When Wheaton was murdered, Lake knew it was Bly’s job because Wheaton had threatened Bly on the score of his sister. Lake knew Bly had murdered Hank Wheaton in revenge for the death of his sister, so he had to back up Bly’s alibi. Lake could have sent Bly to the chair but, on the other hand, Bly would then have spilled about Lake and Wheaton having Murph run over his sister. So if Lake had refused to back up Bly’s alibi it would have been a case of cutting his own throat to fit the collar.”

“That makes sense,” Haenigson admitted.

“And the rest of it is obvious. Lake chose to alibi Bly and to have Murph guard him night and day. It was a case of two killers knowing the other knew. Today, when Turner mentioned that Lake was coming over here, Bly decided he had to do something. He knew Lake would bring his bodyguard Murph, and that Worden would recognize Murph as the one who had run over his sister. That of course would bust the case wide open and nail him, Bly, on the murder of Wheaton.

“So Bly figured out a way that Forsythe Worden would never recognize anybody. It was his custom to empty a pitcherful on Worden after hitting him, so he thought it safe to fill it with acid. Everybody naturally thought it was a plant by someone trying to frame Bly. When I took Worden up to the showers, Jerry Lake arrived. He went to the telephone closet to make a call and Bly seized the opportunity to put him out of the way. That’s about the whole thing.”

Prunella Wheaton said: “Thanks, Smith. Hank and me were no longer really married but I’m glad you made it right with him.”

“Sure, sure,” said Haenigson impatiently. “But what about that letter with your name forged on it, Smith?”

“How should I know?” Cellini suddenly yelled. “I’m no mind-reader. Lake or Bly wrote it thinking they could louse up the case. What’s the matter, Haenigson? Aren’t you satisfied? Do you want me to go down to the precinct and write it all out for you? I suppose you think five hundred bucks is a lot of money. I take the lumps and the insults and you do all in your power to block me — and then you want to know about a letter.” The veins stood out on Cellini’s forehead as his fury mounted. “You know where you can stick that letter!” he shouted.

Without another word, Cellini stalked out. As he left, he smiled to himself. He had put on a good act, he thought.

Duck-Eye Ryan caught up with him on the driveway. “Gee, Cellini, you shouldn’t get so mad. He just wanted to know about the letter.”

“I couldn’t tell him,” said Cellini Smith, “that I typed the thing out in a telegraph office and then traced my own name because I wanted a job to pay for your wild oats.”