One, Two, Three Paul Cain ONE OF THE TRUE mystery men of pulp fiction, Paul Cain was discovered to be the p...
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One, Two, Three Paul Cain ONE OF THE TRUE mystery men of pulp fiction, Paul Cain was discovered to be the pseudonym of the successful screenwriter Peter Ruric. Then, not so many years ago, it was further learned that even that name was a disguise for the author’s actual name, George Carrol Sims (1902‐1966). His fame as a writer of crime fiction rests with a single novel, Fast One (1933), which Raymond Chandler called “some kind of high point in the ultra hard‐boiled manner.” The novel had its genesis in a series of short stories published in Black Mask, beginning with “Fast One” in the March 1932 issue, followed by four other adventures of Gerry Kells and his alcoholic girlfriend, S. Granquist. Cain had been writing pulp stories in New York but moved to Los Angeles when Cary Grant began filming Gambling Ship, which was loosely based on these stories. The sale of the film to Hollywood inspired him to pull the stories together as a novel, which was both savaged by the review media at the time while praised by others. It sold few copies and he never wrote another. He did write films, however, most famously The Black Cat (1934), about a Satanic cult, that starred Boris Karloff, with whom he became friends, as well as Affairs of a Gentlemen (1934), Grand Central Murders (1942), and Mademoiselle Fifi (1944). “One, Two, Three” was first published in Black Mask in May 1933 and collected in his short story collection, Seven Slayers (1946).
‘D BEEN IN Los Angeles waiting for this Healey to show for nearly a week. According to my steer, he’d taken a railroad company in Quebec for somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred and fifty grand on a swarm of juggled options or something. That’s a nice neighborhood. My information said further that he was headed west and that he dearly loved to play cards. I do, too. I’ll take three off the top, please. I missed him by about two hours in Chicago and spent the day going around to all the ticket‐officers, getting chummy with agents, finally found out Healey had bought a ticket to LA, so I fanned on out there and cooled.
Pass. Sunday afternoon I ran into an op for Eastern Investigators, Inc., named Gard, in the lobby of the Roosevelt. We had a couple drinks and talked about this and that. He was on the Coast looking for a gent named Healey. He was cagey about who the client was, but Eastern handles mostly missing persons, divorces, stuff like that. Monday morning Gard called me and said the Salt Lake branch of his outfit had located Healey in Caliente, Nevada. He said he thought because she said she was too nervous to wait for Healey in LA—she said she had to see Healey and try to make their scrap up right away, or she’d have a nervous breakdown or something, and Gard—the big chump—fell for it.
He said he was the most surprised man in the world when the shooting started, and that when she came galloping down and they scrammed for LA she’d told him that she’d walked in on Mackay ventilating Healey, just like the sheriff said, and that Mackay had shot at her as she ran away. Gard had fallen for that, too. She had the poor sap hypnotized. Gard knew I’d been up at Caliente, of course—he’d seen me; so when I walked into his place in the morning he’d figured I had some kind of slant on what it was all about and he’d taken me over to her place so they could put on their “comfort her in her bereavement” turn for my benefit. Then, Tuesday night, when I’d walked in on the shakedown and knocked Raines out, Gard, who had had a load of what Raines had to say to Mrs. Healey and who half believed it, calculated that his best play was to take the air with her. He was too much mixed up in it to beat an accessory rap anyway, so he’d sapped me with a bookend and they’d tied Raines, who was coming to, and he’d helped her pack her things. They were going to light out for New Zealand or some quiet place like that; only she’d sneaked up behind him and smacked him down at the last minute. A lovely lady. We all stopped talking about that time— Raines and Gard and me—and looked at one another. Gard laughed. He squinted at me and said: “You looked silly when I clipped you with the bookend!” Raines said: “You didn’t look particularly intelligent when our girlfriend let you have it.” Gard snickered on the wrong side of his face and got up and went out into the kitchen for a drink of water. He found a bottle out there— almost a full fifth of White Horse. He
brought it in, I untied Raines and we all had a snort. I was thinking about what suckers we’d been, I’d popped Raines and Gard had popped me and Mrs. Healey had popped Gard—all of us. One, two, three. Tinker to Evers to Chance— only more so. I think we were all pretty washed up with La Belle Healey. It was a cinch Gard wouldn’t want any more of her. I don’t know about Raines. But I know I didn’t. We finished the bottle and Raines snooped around and found a full one and we did a little business with that. I didn’t find out I had a concussion till next morning. I was a week and two days in the hospital at twenty dollars a day, and the doctor nicked me two‐fifty. He’ll get the rest of it when he catches me. The whole Healey play, what with one thing and another, cost somewhere in the neighborhood of a grand. I got a lame skull and about two‐bits’ worth of fun out of it. I pass.