The Fatal Foursome

by Frank Kane

  “Holy cow,” Johnny groaned. “This shows that we had all the facts on a murder the police don’t even know was committed. If this goes out we’ll end up in the hoosegow for obstructing justice, and I do mean you.” He re-read the proof. “How long have we got before this damn thing hits the streets?”

  The girl consulted a jeweled watch on her wrist. “First edition won’t roll for five hours yet,” she said. “That gives us five hours to make it good with Devlin.”

  Johnny Liddell whistled. “I’m telling Devlin everything we got right now,” he announced. “I’ll protect your scoop by telling him you dug this stuff up yourself. It’s our only out. But when the story appears, he has to get full credit for it.”

  Toni Belden was unconvinced. “Why should Devlin get the credit for it? We did all the work. We’ve still got five hours. Maybe we can crack the case and deliver the killer before he even knows there’s been a killing.”

  Johnny shook his head vehemently. “Don’t be crazy. There’s not a chance of cracking this thing in five hours.”

  The girl argued, but was finally convinced. Fifteen minutes later Johnny Liddell emerged from the telephone booth, wiping beads of perspiration from his forehead and upper lip. “I’m glad we told him,” he said ruefully. “If he got that mad when we told him, I’d hate to be within hearing distance if he found out without us telling him.”

  “Aside from the names he thought up, what did he say?”

  “He’s contacting the insurance company with the theory. He figures they may have some angles on it.”

  Toni Belden nodded. “Good.”

  “Not so good,” Johnny groaned. “I called Steve Baron in the New York office this morning and gave him the whole pitch. He was going to contact the insurance people to see if they wanted us to handle for them. When Devlin tells them what’s happened, they’re going to look him right in the eye and say, ‘We know all about it.’”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE DOUBLE MURDER of Harvey Randolph and his producer Julian Goodman provided the newspapers with their greatest movie-colony sensation since the Desmond Taylor killing. With the Dispatch’s exclusive, opposition papers went after Inspector Devlin. Abusive editorials, heated conversations with the commissioner, demands for action from City Hall, all combined to make him a little less than genial when he stalked into Morrissey’s office the following morning.

  “Hi, Devlin,” the coroner greeted him from behind his desk. He indicated the other occupant of the office with a nod of his head. “You know Johnny Liddell of Acme.”

  Inspector Devlin switched the wad of gum from one side of his mouth to the other. “I know him, to my sorrow.” He turned back to the coroner. “Look, Doc. Holding out on that Randolph stuff is not my idea of co-operation inside the department. I’ve been taking all the raps around here, but I’m not taking them any more if you or anybody else holds out information like you did.”

  The coroner raised mild eyes to the inspector’s face. “Holding out?” He picked up a copy of the early edition of the Dispatch and pointed a stubby finger at the lead story. “According to this, Inspector Devlin was the one who made all those story-book deductions that established the fact that Randolph was murdered. What more co-operation could you ask for?”

  Devlin growled under his breath. “Anyway, I’ve got things to talk over with you. Official matters. I don’t think it would be a good idea to have a private dick in on it.”

  Johnny Liddell grinned. “Sorry you’re mad at me, Devlin. I did my best. Anyway, I’m not unofficial any more. I’m working on the case officially.”

  Devlin missed a beat on the gum. “You’re what?”

  Morrissey interrupted. “The insurance company and the producers’ association have retained Johnny to work on the case. They’ve made a special request to the Hall that he be given a semi-official status. So, he’s an honorary deputy commissioner or something. At least until the case is cracked.”

  Devlin grinned. “Well, I’m not saying that that makes me mad.” He ambled over, sank into a broad-bottomed armchair. “I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  The coroner nodded sympathetically. “I know, Devlin. Me, too. All this on top of the Maurer killing is a tough break for the department.”

  Johnny Liddell looked up. “Any progress on that Doc Maurer job?” he asked.

  “No, and that ain’t my headache,” the inspector grunted. “Fogarty’s handling that.”

  “Mishandling it, you mean,” the coroner complained. “He’s got a one-track mind. All he knows is that somebody had a plastic done. That means gangsters to him. From there it’s only one jump to Maurer being a gang doctor.” He bit irritably at the end of a cigar, spat the end into the wastebasket. “I tell you …”

  Devlin interrupted. “Sure, sure. But that’s Fogarty’s big headache. Ours is Goodman and Randolph.”

  Johnny Liddell slouched comfortably. “I don’t buy that, Inspector. Looks to me like Goodman killed Randolph, figuring the insurance would take him off the nut on that picture of his. He had some trigger man do the job for him, they had a falling out, and the trigger man paid Goodman off with lead. At least that makes it a lot simpler. Like that we’re only looking for one killer.”

  The telephone jangled impatiently. Morrissey lifted it off its cradle, listened for a few seconds, handed it to Johnny Liddell. “It’s for you. That female newshound.”

  “Hello, Toni,” Johnny chuckled into the mouthpiece. “You’re a smart gal to be using the phone these days. I got a feeling neither the doc nor the inspector are in a mood for polite conversation—particularly with you.”

  Toni laughed. “I figured as much. I dropped by your hotel to maybe get invited out to dinner, but they told me you were at the coroner’s. Purely social, I hope?”

  “So far.”

  “Oh, yeah. Another thing. The clerk asked me to tell you that Mona Varden’s been calling you all morning. Wants you to get in touch with her. It’s important.” He heard her snort. “I suppose that means the dinner is out?”

  Johnny grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s still pretty early.”

  “Huh. Maybe you used to be that good, Johnny boy, but that was a long time ago. However, if you’re still in the mood for dinner, I’ll still be hungry.”

  “I’ll call you at the office,” Johnny promised.

  “Anything new on the Goodman killing? Or can’t you speak now?”

  “Tell you all about it at dinner,” Johnny told her. “See you then.” He replaced the receiver on its hook. “I’ve got a call of my own to make, Doc. Mind?”

  “Go ahead,” Morrissey growled. “It’s cheaper than getting yourself an office.”

  Johnny dialed the number of Mona Varden’s apartment and waited while the operator buzzed a second time. Finally the receiver came to life.

  “ ‘Allo. Oo ees thees, please?”

  “Hello, sugar. This is Johnny Liddell.”

  The accent disappeared. “Hello, yourself. Say, you’re a hard guy to reach. Or maybe you didn’t like that cognac we had the other day?”

  “Best thing I’ve run into here.” He grinned. “But it was so potent I figured to take a couple of days to rest up. Besides, things are beginning to pop around this town.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Johnny. If you were real curious and that expense account hasn’t dried up too badly, I’d like to see you. It’s about Goodman and Randolph.”

  “Can’t you tell me over the phone?” Johnny asked.

  Mona Varden laughed softly. “That’s what I call a lazy guy. Look, Johnny. What I’ve got I’ll keep on ice for you—but when you want it, you’ll have to come and get it.” Her voice dropped slightly. “And it’s so hot I don’t know how long the ice can hold it.”

  “The information, you mean?”

  “Come on over and find out. And, Johnny—there are other people in town who are curious, too. Real curious.”

  The phone clicked as the girl on the oth
er end hung up. Johnny Liddell tossed the receiver back on the hook. He ground out the cigar in the ash tray. “By the way, Devlin. Those suspects Mrs. Goodman named-seen ‘em yet?”

  “Sure, we’ve seen ‘em,” the inspector growled. “Not a decent suspect in the bunch. All had airtight alibis.” He eyed Johnny Liddell curiously. “Why?”

  “Just wondering,” Johnny answered. “No use of my going up any dead ends as long as you’ve already covered them.”

  Johnny Liddell rapped softly at the door of Apartment 123 at the Alvarado Arms. He caught the faint rustle of movement within.

  He rapped again, then tried the knob. It turned in his hand, and he pushed the door slowly open. From the hall he could command a view of the entire living room and much of the little porch beyond, where he had spent his last visit. Both were empty.

  Johnny Liddell eased his .45 from its shoulder holster into his fist. He stepped cautiously through the open door, swung it shut with his heel. His eyes covered the room quickly. There were plenty of evidences of a hasty search—desk drawers stood open, papers littered the floor. The door leading into the bedroom was half ajar. Johnny crossed the living room slowly, pushed the bedroom door open, the .45 ready.

  It was a large, ornately decorated room. A yellow light burned feebly in the center socket. Heavy drapes kept what remained of the daylight out.

  Mona Varden lay on her back on the pink coverlet on the bed: One arm dangled to the floor, the other was thrown across her face as though to ward off a blow. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear.

  Johnny Liddell’s eyes flashed to the windows. They were all closed. Whoever had made the rustling noise was still in the apartment. The bathroom door was open, offered no hiding place. He settled for the closet near the window.

  “Okay, you in the closet. You got a count of three before I start blasting. Come out with your hands way up.”

  In the brief silence, Liddell thought he could hear his heart pounding. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  Suddenly the door swung open, and to his surprise, a woman stepped out of the closet. Her face was drained of all color, leaving the artifices with which she fought off advancing age painfully apparent. She kept her eyes averted from the bed.

  “Well, well, Mrs. Goodman.” Johnny Liddell waved the .45 to indicate a chair. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  The woman walked shakily toward the chair. “Please, put away that gun. I’m not going to run.”

  Johnny Liddell grinned. She didn’t look as though she would be able to walk, let alone run. He crossed the room, carefully avoiding the slowly congealing puddle near the bed, picked up the telephone, and dialed the coroner’s number.

  “Hello, Doc. Devlin still there? Good.” He waited until the deeper voice of Devlin came through. “Got news for you, Inspector,” he said. “Another stiff. Mona Varden.”

  He waited for the groan from the other end, then quickly gave the facts. “Okay,” he said in answer to a question. “I’ll keep her here for you. Hop to it, will you, Inspector?”

  He slipped the .45 back in its holster and ushered Mrs. Goodman into the living room. “If I were you, I’d start talking and talk fast,” he advised, lighting a cigarette.

  “Could I have one of those?” the widow asked. He held the pack out and she pulled one out with shaking fingers. Johnny Liddell lit it for her and she filled her lungs gratefully.

  “How about it, Mrs. Goodman?” he persisted. “What were you doing here?”

  The woman shrugged. “You won’t believe me, but I came here in answer to a telephone call from Mona Varden. She said she had something very important to tell me about my husband’s murder. She intimated that it wasn’t the sort of thing the newspapers should get their hands on.”

  Johnny Liddell nodded. He could imagine that Mona Varden would consider Mrs. Goodman sufficiently “curious.”

  “I—I came. The door was open and I found her like that.” She was beginning to shake again. “I don’t think I passed out. I—I just stood there not feeling anything and not seeing anything. Then, I heard you at the door. I wanted to hide. I …”

  “Don’t say any more, Mrs. Goodman,” a harsh voice cut in from behind Johnny Liddell.

  Cursing himself for leaving the door unlocked, Liddell pivoted around, hand streaking toward his right lapel. It froze with the tips of its fingers brushing the butt of the .45. He was looking down the wrong end of a businesslike .38 special.

  “That’s smart,” the harsh voice told him.

  The detective looked into the expressionless slate-colored eyes of the bodyguard Mona Varden had described as “staying closer to Goodman than a two-way stretch.” The gray fedora was tilted down over one eye, the thin mouth clenched a cold cigar. “Having trouble, Mrs. Goodman?”

  The woman was shivering. “There’s a dead girl in there. He thinks I did it. He’s already called the police.”

  Slate eyes glared balefully at Johnny Liddell. “Called the coppers, eh? We’d better get you out of here, Mrs. Goodman.”

  Johnny Liddell puzzled over why the bodyguard seemed, somehow, so familiar. His mind tumbled over the years, vainly sorting out the hoods and gunmen he’d met on the job. Mrs. Goodman hesitated, cast one fearful glance at the bedroom door, decided to go.

  For a split second, the bodyguard’s attention wandered as he, too, stared past Johnny Liddell toward the open bedroom door. Liddell had no time to weigh the consequences. He had told Devlin he’d hold the woman, and he intended to keep his word. He threw his entire one hundred and seventy-five pounds at the gunman in a flying tackle.

  Liddell never even saw the blow that floored him. It couldn’t have traveled more than ten inches. He was conscious only of the streams of white-hot pain that seemed to split his skull, of the multitudinous lights that flashed as the barrel of a gun chopped down viciously on his skull.

  Consciousness seared its way slowly and painfully back into Johnny’s brain. Dimly he made out voices. He tried to raise his head, groaned and let it fall back to the floor.

  “Well, well. Sleeping Beauty has decided to come back to life,” a familiar voice boomed in his ear. Johnny winced, tried to open his eyes.

  The familiar voice jangled his supersensitive nerves again. “Take a good look at him, Inspector. There’s one dick that really used his head.”

  Inspector Devlin laughed. “Looks like too much wear and tear on the skull, Doc.”

  Johnny Liddell’s eyes stopped rolling long enough to focus on Doc Morrissey. Beyond him he could see Inspector Devlin, his hands on his hips, his jaws champing away on his gum. Johnny tried to grin, but the result was more like a horrible grimace. “Imagine meeting you here, Doc,” he cracked.

  Devlin’s voice jangled his nerves again. “Nice work, Doc. Think he’s going to live?”

  Johnny Liddell made the mistake of trying to raise his head. He groaned. “I’m afraid I will. The dame’s gone, I suppose?”

  Devlin nodded toward the bedroom. “That one isn’t, but the Goodman dame is.” He pushed the western type fedora to the back of his head. “You’re sure slipping, Johnny, when a dame can conk you and take a powder.”

  Johnny Liddell tenderly massaged the sore spot on the top of his skull and mentally debated the advisability of holding out on Slate Eyes’ part in the evening’s festivities. He decided against it.

  “Right after I spoke to you, Inspector, I was questioning Mrs. Goodman. Suddenly some guy slips in behind and beans me.”

  Devlin brushed his mustache from the middle outward with the nail of his thumb. “I suppose you didn’t see the guy?”

  Johnny Liddell grinned. “Wrong again, Inspector. The guy was Goodman’s bodyguard, the hard-looking baby with the busted beak.”

  Devlin’s eyes narrowed. “Marty Mann, eh? I knew we should’ve looked that guy over better.” He shrugged. “But we had nothing on him. He’s got no record. Think him and the Goodman dame are working this together?”

  Liddell shrugged. “Could be.�
�� He tried his hat gently over the sensitive spot. “Of course, on the other hand, it’s more likely that since Goodman is dead, he’s playing nursemaid to Mrs. Goodman, and when she didn’t come down, he came up after her. Besides, that puddle of blood was here quite a while longer than Mrs. Goodman, unless I miss my guess.”

  A white-coated representative from the medical examiner’s office handed Doc Morrissey a receipt. He initialed it and handed it back.

  “That was a pretty nifty dish until somebody decided to make hash out of it,” the man in the white coat said. He signaled to the two other men. They rolled the body from the bed onto a stretcher and covered it with a sheet.

  “Nice guys,” Johnny Liddell growled. He stepped back to let the stretcher bearers pass. “So long, kid,” he told the covered figure softly. “We’ll pay off for you even if you were playing all sides of the street at once.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE HOTEL ABBOTT wasn’t exactly a family hotel, but Johnny Liddell wasn’t exactly a family man. So it suited his purposes perfectly. A ramshackle old building out of the center of things in Hollywood, its main bid for patronage lay in the fact that no questions were asked and a wallet constituted satisfactory baggage. A tired-looking clerk, glancing hopelessly through the racing results of a morning paper, looked up as Johnny entered.

  “Anything for me?” he asked.

  The clerk ran perfunctorily through the mail cage, then nodded. “Two messages, Mr. Liddell. Miss Belden phoned and said she was still hungry.” He held out a tinted envelope. “And a messenger dropped this one off.”

  Johnny Liddell took the envelope, jammed it into his side pocket. He rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Once in his room, he removed his jacket and tie, doused his face in cold water. The sore spot on the top of his head had settled into a hard, egg-shaped lump. He pressed a cold towel against it, wandered into the living room, dug a bottle of cognac out of his bag and took a deep swig. Feeling refreshed, he dug the tinted envelope out of his side pocket.