I smiled a little. But I didn’t say anything. He kept on shaking his head. After awhile he lighted a cigaret.
“I wouldn’t waste too much time, Senna,” I told him. “This wind may not hold up that plane too much.”
He shook his big head.
“I ain’t going away, Benn — or whatever your name is,” he said slowly, tonelessly. “I’ve been leaving places for a long time now. Going places — far places. Spots I didn’t like, see? They’ve been after me a long time. I ain’t saying I did for Fess, but if ever a guy rated a dose of lead, that rat did, see? But me, I’m staying here.”
“Don’t be a fool, Senna,” I said. “The law doesn’t want you—”
He looked suddenly tired.
“These guys are worse than the law, Benn,” he said wearily. “I tell you, I’m tired of running away. I’m staying here. Now you—” he raised a big forefinger and pointed it at me — “get the hell out of here!”
I said as I rose slowly:
“Well, I warned you. I may be all wrong — but I tipped you, Senna.”
There was irony in his eyes.
“Sure, Benn,” he said. “Now you get the hell away from me.”
The plane landed at 12:10 by my wristwatch. It landed in a nasty wind, after circling the lighted field three times. She was a small monoplane, cabin type. I had my car on the Frejus road, with the lights out. After about ten minutes a car that had been waiting at the field turned into the main road and moved toward Cannes. I had to drive very fast to follow it. I was several squares behind when it reached the Grand Hotel. The wind was raising the devil with the palms along the Croisette; it seemed to be steadily increasing.
I parked a square away and went into the hotel by a side entrance. When I reached the main lobby no one was about but the concierge. He knew me. He said that the two gentlemen had said they didn’t want Monsieur Senna disturbed, but was he in his room. And he said that he had told them that Monsieur Senna was at the Blue Frog. And they had thanked him and departed. They had not engaged rooms and they had not brought any baggage into the hotel.
“How do you know Monsieur Senna is at the Blue Frog?” I asked.
The concierge shrugged.
“He has told me that he thought he would go there,” he returned. “He has asked me for a quiet place to drink, where there is music and yet not a crowd. And where the lights would not hurt his eyes.”
“C’est ça,” I muttered grimly.
Well, it was so. The Blue Frog was a small drinking and dancing place; there was a two-piece orchestra and the lights were dim. It was not smart and it didn’t get much of a crowd. I reflected that dim lights would give Senna a better chance, and that a small crowd would mean less chance of humans other than those concerned being hit by stray bullets. I wasn’t sure that Senna cared much about other humans, but every man has his particular code of what he calls honor. Senna was no exception.
The Blue Frog was just off the Route d’Antibe, the main business street of Cannes, at the east end of town. It was set back in some palms and there were no buildings very close to it. In my car I drove fast, parked a half square away and hurried on. I went in a side entrance and spotted Senna right away. His eyes were narrowed on mine and he was smiling. He wasn’t slumped in any lounging chair this time. He sat on a small, wooden chair. It had no arms. Both hands were in the pockets of his light suit coat, and he was seated slightly to the left of the table. He faced the side entrance directly, and the main entrance to the place was in a line with his big body.
I stood for several seconds looking at him. Then I went to the bar. I ordered Scotch, straight. The two-piece orchestra was playing “Ay-yi-yi,” with the guitar dominating the piano. There were only a few people inside, mistrals kept folk at home. And that was good, too.
When I lifted my drink, my fingers were shaking a little. There was a mirror beyond the bar, and I looked into it. I could see the front entrance. The barman saw my shaking fingers and guessed wrong. He said that the mistral was not good, it did bad things with one’s nerves. I agreed and downed the Scotch. As I set the glass on the counter my eyes went to the mirror, and I saw a tall, hard faced man come in. I turned and looked toward the side entrance. A shorter, heavier man stepped inside the dimly lighted room, letting a rush of wind in with him. A girl laughed shrilly, and the orchestra continued its swift rhythm.
I think they both saw Senna at the same instant. With so few people in the place that wasn’t hard. I saw the shorter one of the two stiffen, and his coat material came up from the bottom. There were two terrific crashes. No Maxim silenced guns, these. There were screams. The short one took one step forward and crashed to the floor.
I swung around and stared at Senna. There was another gun crash and his big body jerked. But his right hand came up. His left battered the table aside and he walked toward the main entrance and toward the tall, hard faced man. There was another gun crash and Senna’s left arm hung limp at his side. His gun was up, extended in his right hand. He kept walking, his face twisted in a terrible smile. The tall one was staring at him; he fired again but the bullet went wild. It tore artificial flowers from a wall behind Senna.
And then Senna worked his gun. It crashed again and again. I counted four shots, and then all sound was merged into a terrible roar. When the roar died away, I went toward the two motionless figures on the floor near the door. The tall one was dead. Senna was alive; he said weakly, as I leaned over him:
“The others — done?”
I left him and went to the side entrance door. The thickset one was dead, too. The bullet had ripped upward through his mouth. I went back and kneeled beside Senna.
“Both done,” I told him.
He tried to grin, but it was too tough. He said, very weakly:
“Sure — I got — Al Fess.” And a few seconds later he said, “Guy — I can’t hear — that damn wind—”
“Take it easy, Senna—”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say. He closed his eyes and after a few seconds more he said weakly:
“Funny — if it hadn’t been for that damn wind — I might have — run again. But it just — made me sore — made me want to — stick here—”
He didn’t say any more. He was dead when a very excited gendarme reached my side and asked a dozen questions one after another. I answered one of them and went to the bar for another drink. It was some time before I got it. As I sipped it I decided that it was just as well Senna had had a funny idea about the wind, if he had had it. You can’t always be running away from things.
The mistral lasted three days, and when it was over the sun was very hot.
The Blue Frog did a big business; the proprietor put a frame around a hole made by one of the bullets that missed Senna. The smart crowd went in for a look, and the French townspeople went in too. The proprietor told me he would have liked to frame one of Tony Senna’s bullets, but that couldn’t be done. Senna hadn’t missed.
Frederick Nebel
(1903–1966)
There were a great many hard-drinking detectives in the pulp magazines and novels of the 1930s. Consumption of alcohol in large amounts not only was a reaction to the demons of poverty and the Depression, but was considered chic in some circles, a badge of honor in others. Nick and Nora Charles, Dashiell Hammett’s husband-and-wife team, are crime fiction’s champion boozers of that bygone era. A close second is Louis Frederick Nebel’s wisecracking newspaperman, Kennedy of the Free Press.