That room was larger. Fenner, a slight, silver-haired man of about fifty, was lying on a bed in his trousers and undershirt. There was an electric light on the wall behind the bed. Fenner put down the paper he had been reading and swung up to sit facing Kells. He said, “Sit down,” and picked up his shoes and put them on. Then he went over and raised the blind on one of the windows that looked out on Spring Street. He said:
“Well, Kells — is it hot enough for you?”
Kells nodded, said sarcastically: “You’re harder to see than De Mille. I called your hotel and they made me get a Congressional Okay and make out a couple dozen affidavits before they gave me this number.” He jerked his head toward the little room through which he had entered. “What’s it all about?” Fenner sat down in a big chair and smiled sleepily. He took a crumpled package of Home Runs out of his pocket, extracted a cigarette and lighted it. “About a year ago,” he said, “a man named Dickinson — a newspaperman — came out here with a bright idea and a little capital, and started a scandal sheet called the Coaster.” Fenner inhaled his cigarette deeply, blew a soft gray cone of smoke toward the ceiling. “He ran it into the ground on the blackmail side and got into a couple libel jams...”
Kells said: “I remember.”
Fenner went on: “I got postponements on the libel cases and I got the injunction raised. Now it’s the Coast Guardian; A Political Weekly for Thinking People. Dickinson is still the editor and publisher, and” — he smiled thinly — “I’m the silent partner. The first number comes out next week — no sale, we give it away.”
Kells said: “The city campaign ought to start rolling along about next week...”
Fenner slapped his knee in mock surprise. “By George! That’s a coincidence.” He sat grinning contentedly at Kells. Then his face hardened a little and a faint, fanatical twinkle came into his eyes. He spoke, and it was as if he had said the same thing many times before: “I’m a wording boss, Mister Kells. I gave this city the squarest deal it ever had. They beat my men at the polls last time but by God they didn’t beat me — and next election day I’m going to take the city back.”
Kells said: “I doubt it.” He smiled a little to take the edge off his words, went on: “What did you get from Perry?”
“Nothing.” Fenner yawned. “I got to his wife right after you called and gave her your message and arranged for her bail. She’s witness number one for the State. It took me a little longer to beat the incommunicado on Perry, and when I saw him and told him she had confessed, he closed up like a clam.”
Kells took off his hat and rubbed his scalp violently with his fingers. “It must have taken a lot of pressure to make a yellow bastard like him pipe down.”
Fenner said: “Who killed Haardt?”
“Perry’ll do for a while, won’t he?” Kells put on his hat.
“Are you sure you’re in the clear?”
“Yes.” Kells stood up. “You’ve got enough to work on. Lieutenant Reilly, who was your best in the force, is in a play with Jack Rose to take over the town and open it up over your head. Dave Perry was in on it. They want it all — and they figure that you and I and a few more of the boys are in their way.”
He walked over to the window and looked down at the swarming traffic on Spring Street. “Doc Haardt was in their way — figure it out for yourself.”
Fenner said: “You act like you know what you’re talking about.”
“I do.”
Fenner went on musingly: “One of the advantages of a reform administration is that you can blame it for everything. Maybe opening up the town for a few weeks isn’t such a bad idea.”
“But it’s nice to know about it when you’re supposed to be the boss...” Kells smiled. “And it won’t be so hot when it gets so wide open that a few of Reilly and Rose’s imports from the East come up here and shove a machine gun down your throat.”
Fenner said: “No.” Me — I’m going to scram,” Kells went on. “I came out here to play, and by God if I can’t play here I’ll go back to Broadway. My fighting days are over.”
Fenner stared quizzically at Kells’ bruised, battered face, smiled. “You’d better stick around,” he said, “I like you.”
“That’s fine.” Kells went to a table and poured himself a glass of water from a big decanter. “No — I’m going down to the station and see if they want to ask me any questions, and then I’m going home and pack. I’ve got reservations on the Chief: six o’clock.”
Fenner stood up. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I have a hunch that you and I would be a big help to one another.”
He held out his hand. Kells shook it, turned and went to the door. Then he turned again, slowly. “One other thing,” he said. “There’s a gal out here — name’s Granquist — came out with a couple of Rose’s boys; claims to have a million dollars’ worth of lowdown on the administration. I can’t use it. Maybe you can get together.”
Fenner said: “Fine. How much does she want?”
Kells hesitated a bare moment. “Fifteen grand.”
Fenner whistled. “It must be good,” he said. “Send her out to my hotel. Send her out tonight — I’ll throw a party for her.”
“She’ll go for that. A lush.” Kells smiled and went out the door and closed it behind him.
He went into the Police Station, into the Reporters’ Room to the right of the entrance. Shep Beery looked up over his paper and said: “My God! What happened to your face?”
They were alone in the room. Kells looked with interest at the smudged pencil drawings on the walls, sat down. “I got it caught in a revolving door,” he said. “Does anyone around here want to talk to me?”
“I do, for one.” Beery put the paper down and leaned across the desk. He was a stoop-shouldered gangling man with a sharp sad face, a shock of colorless hair. “What’s the inside on all this, Gerry?”
“All what?”
Beery spread the paper, pointed to headlines: PERRY INDICTED FOR HAARDT MURDER; WIFE CONFESSES. Beery’s finger moved across the page: GAMBLING BARGE BURNS; 200 NARROWLY ESCAPE DEATH WHEN JOANNA D SINKS.
Kells laughed. “Probably just newspaper stories.”
“No fooling, Gerry, give me a lead.” Beery was intensely serious.
Kells asked: “You or your sheet?”
“That’s up to you.”
Kells trailed a long white finger over his discolored right eye. “If you read your paper a little more carefully,” he said, “you’ll find where an unidentified man was found dead near a wharf at San Pedro.” He put his elbows on the desk, leaned close to Beery. “That’s Nemo Kastner of Kansas City. He shot Doc Haardt on Jack Rose’s order and helped frame it for me. He was shot by O’Donnell, his running mate, when they had an argument over the cut for Haardt’s kill. He set fire to the ship—”
“... And swam four miles with a lungful of lead.” Beery had been thumbing through the papers; pointed to the item.
“Uh huh.”
“Who shot O’Donnell?”
Kells said: “You’re too god-damned curious. Maybe it was Rose. Is he going to live?”
“Sure.”
“That’s swell.” Kells took a deep breath. Now that’s for you,” he said, “Perry’ll have to take the fall for Doc’s murder for the time being; he was in on it plenty, anyway. Kastner’s dead and I couldn’t prove any of it without getting myself jammed up again. If anything happens to me you can use your own judgment, but until something happens that is all under your hat. Right?”
Beery nodded.
Kells stood up, said: “Now let’s go upstairs and see if the captain can think of any hard ones.”
They went out of the room into the corridor, upstairs. Captain Larson was a huge watery-eyed Swede with a bulbous, thread-veined nose.
Beery said: “This is Kells... He thought you might want to talk to him.”