A headline read: WOMAN IN BELLMANN KILLING ESCAPES.
He glanced out the window at a tangle of traffic as the cab curved into Vine Street; then leaned back again slowly, read the story:
Early this morning, Miss S. Granquist, alleged by police to be the self-confessed slayer of John R. Bellmann, prominent philanthropist and reformer, was “kidnapped” from Detectives Breen and Rail after the car in which they were taking her from the Hollywood Police Station to the County Jail had been forced to the curb near Temple Street and Coronado, crashed into a fire plug. Officer Breen was slightly injured, removed to the Receiving Hospital. Rail described the “abductors” as, “eight or nine heavily armed and desperate men in a cream-colored coupe.” He neglected to explain how “eight or nine” men and a woman got away in a coupe. Our motor-car manufacturers would be interested in how that was done. It is opportune that another example of the inefficiency of our police department occurs almost on the eve of the municipal primaries. The voters...
Kells folded the paper, knocked on the glass and told the driver to make it fast. They cut over Melrose to Normandie, out of the heavy traffic, over Normandie to Wilshire Boulevard and into the big parking circle of the Ambassador.
Kells told the driver to wait, hurried up to his room and changed clothes. He called the desk, was told that Mister Beery had called twice, called Beery back at the Hay ward Hotel downtown. The room line was busy. He took a long drink and went back down and got into the cab. It took twenty-five minutes to get through the traffic on lower Seventh Street to the Hayward. Fenner opened the door of the small outer room on the fourth floor; they went through to the larger bedroom. Kells said: “You’re down early, Lee.”
Fenner glanced at the rolled newspaper in Kells’ hand, nodded, smiled wanly.
“Where’s Beery?” Kells took off his hat and coat. Fenner sat down on the bed. “He went over to the print shop about an hour ago. He ought to be back pretty soon.” Kells sat down carefully. Fenner asked: “How’s the leg?”
“Doc Janis picked eleven shot out of it like plucking petals off a daisy. It came out odd — he loves me.” Kells unrolled, unfolded the paper, looked over it at Fenner. “Do you know anything about this?”
“I do not.” Fenner said it very quietly, very emphatically.
“What do you think?”