“No. I grabbed O’Donnell’s gun when he fell — anyway, I think Rose was too scared to think about that.” Kells said: Go on.
Beery looked immensely, superior. “Well, the old rapid-fire Beery brain got to work. I figured that you had to be out of there quick and I remembered what you’d said about this place next door. Fenner was about to go into his fit — I got the key from him and talked about thirty seconds’ worth of sense, and carried you in here — and the gun.” He nodded at the revolver on the couch beside Kells.
“Where’s Fenner now?”
“Over at the Station filing murder charges against Rose and the greaser.”
Kells said: “That’s swell.”
“The house dick and a bunch of coppers and a lot of neighbors who had heard the barrage got here at about the same time. It was the fastest police action I’ve ever seen; must have been one of the radio cars. I listened through the airshaft. Fenner had pulled himself together, told a beautiful story about Rose and O’Donnell and the Mex crashing in, O’Donnell getting it in an argument with Rose.”
Beery mashed out his cigarette. “He’s telling it over at headquarters now — or maybe he’s on his way back. You’ve been out about a half-hour.”
Kells sat up unsteadily, said: “Give me a drink of water.” He bent over and very carefully rolled up his trouser leg, examined his injured leg.
A little later there was a tap at the door and Beery opened it, let Fenner in.
Fenner looked very tired. He said: “How are you, Gerry?”