by Frank Kane
Johnny snapped his fingers. “Plumb forgot all about her in the excitement of getting nominated for a murder rap. That’s Miss St. Mary. She lives here.”
Devlin turned to the blonde. “What were you doing in there?” he demanded.
“Getting sick if you must know,” the girl replied. She kept her eyes averted from the armchair and its gruesome contents.
Devlin faced Liddell. “What were you doing here tonight anyway?” he asked. “How come you knew Moreno?”
“I know a lot of people,” Johnny answered. “Besides, Moreno knew something about the Goodman killing. He got in touch with me to meet him here tonight. He was all set to break out with the information when the door opened and somebody started peppering at us. Poor Moreno never even had a chance to draw.” He indicated with a wave of his hand the gun in its holster hanging on the dead man’s chair.
“That right?” Devlin asked the girl.
She nodded. “Yeah. Moreno told me to stay out of the way. He wanted to talk to him.”
One of the headquarters men who had been going through Moreno’s pockets stuck his hand down the side of the chair and brought up another .38.
“Looks like he was expecting trouble, Inspector. Here’s another rod cached right at his elbow.”
“Get your paws off that gun, you numbskull,” Devlin roared. “There might have been prints. Turn it over to O’Reardon anyway and see whose prints are on it.” He turned back to Liddell. “Your story stinks, Johnny,” he told him.
Johnny grinned. “I like it. And I’ve got an idea the commissioner will like it, too. Particularly when I bust this case. Stop acting like a movie dick, Inspector, and we break it together. Buck me and I’ll do it alone.”
The patrolman at the door opened it in response to a light tap. Doc Morrissey, the coroner, breezed in and waved a cheery hello to Devlin. He stopped dead at the sight of Liddell, broke into a loud chuckle.
“I might’ve known things would pick up with you back in town, Johnny. Who’s it this time?”
He whistled shrilly as his eyes took a hasty inventory of the girl, then moved on to Moreno. “I’m glad it wasn’t her,” he said. “He’s not half as pretty.” Then he walked over to the corpse, bent down and studied the wound for a minute. “Hmmm. A .38, eh? Somebody beat you to him, Johnny?”
Inspector Devlin slammed his hat down on the table, ran his fingers through the thick mane of his hair. “Never mind the theatrics, Morrissey. How do you know it’s a .38 until you dig it out?”
The coroner dropped his topcoat on the couch, took off his jacket and started to roll up his sleeves. “I don’t, if you want to get technical about it, Devlin. Not any more than when you find a hole under your sink you know it’s a mouse instead of an elephant.” He took the head between his hands and rolled it from side to side. “Nice and fresh, ain’t he?” he asked maliciously.
The blonde put her hand to her mouth, grew patchy gray. “I want to get out of here, Inspector.” She sank onto the sofa and cushioned her head in her arms.
The fingerprint man stepped up to Devlin, whispered into his ear. Devlin grew red around the collar. “You’re sure of that, Murdock?”
“Positive.”
Johnny grinned. “Don’t tell me that Murdock found only Moreno’s prints on his guns? How sad. Whose did you expect to find?”
“Yours,” Devlin admitted. “Although I probably should have known better.” He started to pace, stopped in front of Liddell, and stuck an accusing finger under his nose. “Johnny, you know more about this case than you’re telling. I’m warning you. If I catch you crossing me, I’ll pay off. In spades.”
Liddell nodded. “Sure, sure. But in the meantime, I seem to be innocent as a new-born babe. Or maybe you’re going to arrest me anyway?”
Devlin’s jaw action on the gum was murderous. He combed his mustache from the center out with his thumb nail. “I ought to lock you up as a material witness anyway,” he growled. “Only trouble is the rest of the prisoners would probably be signing petitions to get you out of their hair before the night was over.”
He handed the .45 back to Johnny and watched sourly as it was returned to the worn holster.
“Look, Liddell. These killers or killer, whichever it is, are playing for keeps. You’ve been close to two people so far that were so dangerous to them they had to be liquidated. It’s not too much to expect that you’ll be next. Why don’t you open up and work together with us, instead of playing bird dog for fresh corpses?”
Johnny shook his head. “I’m as much in the dark as you are, Inspector. But if and when I get to know what time it is, I’ll be around to help you set your watch. In the meantime, if you want to lock somebody up, it might be a good idea to file Belle away. Just in case some of Moreno’s playmates get ideas.”
Devlin studied him suspiciously. “What’s the matter? Don’t she know something you might want to pump out of her?”
“She says she doesn’t. Maybe she doesn’t. But I think the killer thinks she does. It’s not worth it to me to set her up as another sitting duck for that rat.”
Toni Belden stretched lazily on the couch in her apartment and yawned as she watched the broad shoulders of Johnny Liddell going through the motions of shaking a cocktail.
“So this masked marvel sneaks right up behind your back and pops poor Moreno right over your shoulder and you don’t even know what he looks like?” she asked.
Johnny found two clean glasses on the sink behind the chintz curtains, caught the shaker under his arm and walked over to the couch. He swept two books and a magazine off the low table near the head of the couch and put the shaker and glasses down.
“Don’t believe me, eh?”
Toni smiled. “That’s not important. Did the inspector?”
He filled the two glasses, silently. “Moreno was shot with a .38,” he said at last. “His own guns were right next to his hand. I always use a .45 …” He tasted one of the drinks, made a wry face. “I prefer it straight.”
The girl reporter’s eyes were sober as they followed him across the floor to the sink where he emptied his glass, then refilled it from a bottle. He dropped into the big chair near the window and stretched his legs.
“Getting you down, Johnny?” she asked softly.
Johnny Liddell tossed off the drink, then scraped the side of his jaw with the heel of his hand.
“I’m beginning to get superstitious about the damned case,” he admitted. “Things have happened to me since I hit this burg that shouldn’t happen to a dog. I’ve got a good mind to pack it in.”
He got up, walked over to the sink and refilled the glass.
Toni swung her legs off the couch onto the floor. “You mean quit? How about the case?”
Johnny Liddell tossed off the drink, wiped his mouth with an irritated gesture.
“What case?” he growled. “I get shifted out here to find a movie star who’s either lost, strayed or on a Lost Weekend. He turns up dead in an accident, only it’s not an accident. We put our heads together, decide my client did the bump-off and go up to rub it in his nose. Then what happens? The client is dead. Next thing I know, I’m about to get some hair-raising information from one of the suspects, only she can’t give it to me because she’s dead, too. But she does give me sort of a steer to Moreno who seems to know what’s going on, and he gets blasted right under my nose. I tell you, I’m beginning to feel jinxed.”
The girl frowned. “If we could only locate the connecting link in this mess! What could there possibly be to link up a movie star, a producer, an undertaker and a refined blackmailer?”
“Money,” Johnny Liddell grunted. “Only, now with everybody eliminated, where would the money go?”
Toni held out her glass, watched Liddell refill it from the shaker, then pour himself a straight one. “Let’s start from the beginning and add this thing up. Goodman has a lot of money sunk in the Randolph picture—more money than he can afford to lose. Randolph gets himself loused up and the
picture has to be shelved. The only out Goodman has is if something happens to his star and the picture is called off on that account.”
The detective nodded. “So, something happens to the star. That makes Goodman the gainer. Then who bumps Goodman off?”
“Mrs. Goodman. She gets the money, gets rid of Goodman all in one sweep. It’s simple.”
Johnny drank his drink morosely. “Not so simple. She might have blasted Goodman, although I doubt it. But she never did the job on Mona Varden. There are very few women who can cut a throat, and she’s not one of them. She couldn’t even bear to look at the body. No. She might be a killer, but a gun’s more in her line.”
“Then why did she run away?”
“What would you do if you were found in the apartment of your husband’s ex-sweetie and her throat is cut from ear to ear?”
“The same thing she did, I guess. Only faster.” She settled back comfortably into the cushions. “How about the guy who conked you?”
“He could be the killer,” Johnny Liddell assented. “Only why?” He shook his head. “No. He doesn’t stand to gain in any way. I’m pretty sure he’s not a gun for hire because when Devlin took him over the hurdles at headquarters, he couldn’t turn up a record. I think that tap on the head he gave me was his idea of protecting his mistress.”
Toni lighted a cigarette and smoked silently for a few minutes. “Could it be that these killings are not connected?” she said at last. “Suppose, for instance, that Goodman got some girl into his office and tried to make her. The secretary would know about that.”
Johnny Liddell looked up sharply. “The secretary, eh? Why didn’t I think of her? She knows all the people mixed up in this thing.” He leaned back, stared at the ceiling. “She’s smart enough. Suppose Goodman was only fronting in this deal? Mona Varden knew it and tried to shake her and got killed. Moreno helped in some way and had to be eliminated along with Goodman. Sounds farfetched, but could be.”
The girl reporter wrinkled her nose to show that she didn’t like the solution too well. “I still think it would be better to …”
She was interrupted by the ringing of the phone on the table at her elbow. She reached over, lifted it from the hook.
“It’s for you, Johnny,” she said.
He took the instrument. “Who’s speaking?” he wanted to know.
“Johnny Liddell?” The voice was gruff.
“Yeah.”
“This is a friend of Mrs. Goodman’s. She wants to see you.”
Johnny winked at Toni. “Mrs. Goodman did see me today. I got a bump on the top of my head to prove it.”
The voice on the other end didn’t change in inflection. “I know. I gave it to you. I’m sorry but I thought you were tryin’ to pin something on her.”
Liddell nodded. “I thought it was you. Where are you?”
“We want to talk to you, but if the police come in on the deal, it’s all off. We had nothing to do with that killing today. We want to get straightened out.”
“Where are you?”
“If we meet you, is it a deal that the cops aren’t in on it?”
“I’m not working for the cops,” Johnny Liddell told him. “If you want to play ball with me, I’ll play with you. But if you try anything, I’ll pin that killing on you if it’s the last thing I do.”
“We’re at the Mermaid Tavern down at Water and Memphis Streets. We’ll wait here an hour, back room. Come alone.”
Johnny Liddell tossed his receiver back on the hook, sighed. “Looks like this case is beginning to level out. I’ve got a date to talk to Mrs. Goodman and Marty Mann, her husband’s bodyguard.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE MERMAID TAVERN didn’t get much of a night play. A bored bartender stood gossiping with a racetrack sport at the end of the bar while an overdressed redhead worked what appeared to be a very tired businessman at the other end.
Johnny glanced at the old-fashioned clock on the wall as he came in. It was exactly on the hour, what hour the clock failed to say. The short hand had long since gone to its reward and so great was the reverence in which it was held that it had never been replaced.
The detective headed directly for the little door next to the telephone booth in the rear. None of the occupants of the Mermaid Tavern paid him a second glance. As he placed his hand on the doorknob, he let his other hand dip into his jacket pocket. The handle of the automatic felt cold yet reassuring to his touch.
As the door swung open, he saw the slate-eyed man sitting at a rickety table inside. Next to him sat Julian Goodman’s widow. She had aged in the few hours since Johnny had last seen her. The bodyguard sat with his hands out of sight under the table, his hat pulled low over his eyes.
“Come in and sit down,” he invited. He watched without apparent interest while Johnny Liddell turned one of the unpainted chairs around and straddled it.
“You can bring that rod of yours up from under the table, Marty,” Liddell told him. “There ain’t going to be any shooting. There’s been enough killing in this deal so far.”
The bodyguard’s eyes didn’t change expression. “Maybe. But that’s not a yo-yo you’ve got in your fist, either.” He watched while Liddell withdrew his hand from his pocket. Then, with something that vaguely approached a smile, he brought a .32 from under the table, stowed it in its holster.
“What can I do for you?” Johnny Liddell asked.
The man with the slate eyes nodded to the widow. “Mrs. Goodman wanted to see you. She wants to hire you to find out who killed her husband.”
Johnny Liddell grinned. This case was turning out to be one damned client after another as well as one damned murder after another. He started to reach for the button on the wall to summon a waiter. “Drink?”
Goodman’s bodyguard shook his head. “Mrs. Goodman isn’t drinking.”
Johnny Liddell saw the pin-point pupils for the first time. “On the junk, eh?” He withdrew his hand. “I read some place that that kind of coke and rum don’t mix.”
Marty Mann shrugged. “That’s one of the reasons I’m still hanging around. I figure with Goodman dead she can use some help. So I decided to see her through the investigation and then take off.”
Johnny Liddell nodded. “How about this afternoon?” he asked her.
“Mona Varden called me. She said she knew something about Goodman and Randolph that I’d want to know. She said it was worth money.” The woman’s pin-point eyes showed no interest, seemed to be looking at something far in back of the detective’s head. “When I got there I found her. She was dead. She deserved to be dead. But I didn’t kill her.” She spoke slowly, as though in a dream.
Her companion nodded. “She wasn’t up there long enough to do the job. I saw you go in, spotted you as the detective Goodman had hired and I got curious. I went up and found you putting the arm on her. I thought maybe you were trying to ring up a frame, so I put the gun on you. You got gay, went for me and I had to conk you.” His voice was flat, showed no sign of regret. “When I got her out of there and she told me what happened, I knew we were wrong. She was all busted up and I lost sight of her for five minutes while I went calling you to come down here. Guess she took herself a jolt. She’s coked to the eyeballs. Be hours before I can do anything with her.” He leaned across the table. “She didn’t kill Varden or Goodman. I’d know if she did.”
Johnny Liddell nodded. “Okay. I’ll buy that. I owe you one for the clout on the head, but we’ll just leave that on the books. If she didn’t kill Mona, who did?”
“Russo.” The slate eyes were steady. “Cookie Russo. As we pulled up to the Varden dame’s place, he came out the front door. Get a picture of him and show it to the doorman. See if they don’t make him.”
“Why should Russo want to knock Mona off?”
Mrs. Goodman stirred. Again the words came slowly. “Mona knew too much. She always knew too much. That was her business. She knew that Russo had killed Julian. He didn’t mean a thing to me any more. But I
want to see his killer get his.”
Her eyes were fixed on Johnny’s face in the same unblinking stare. The detective reached over, picked up a silver cigarette case from the table. He selected a cigarette, smelled it, put it back.
“I prefer tobacco in mine,” he grunted. “I’m fresh out.”
Marty Mann tossed a pack of cigarettes on the table. Liddell took one, lighted it. “Why should Russo want to kill Goodman?”
“He owed him a package of dough for one thing. For another thing, Goodman had a way of making people want to do things to him.”
Johnny dropped his eyes, appeared to be studying the tip of the cigarette. “But Russo had nothing to do with the Randolph murder. That’s the core of this whole thing.”
The bodyguard snorted. “Randolph murdered! That’s a laugh! He got himself drunk, made a turn where there was no corner—and that was that!”
Mrs. Goodman yawned. “I want to go home.”
Johnny Liddell nodded. “Take her on home, Marty. I’ll notify Devlin. I’ll tell him you spoke to me and it was all a mistake. It’ll be easy enough to prove that she couldn’t have killed Mona. From the looks of the blood, she was dead at least an hour when I got there, and if you can back up the time when Mrs. Goodman got there, there’ll be nothing to it.”
Johnny Liddell dropped his cab outside headquarters, ran up the steps and asked for Inspector Devlin. The clerk in the outer office was doubtful.
“The inspector’s grabbing a little shut-eye, Liddell,” he explained. “Besides, he’s plenty sore at you. He thinks you’ve been holding out. The commissioner’s been giving him hell.”
“He’ll see me,” Liddell assured him. “I’ve got a couple of people that he wants all sewed up for him. Of course, I could probably call the commissioner, and …”
Inspector Devlin told the clerk to send Liddell in.
He was sitting on the side of the leather couch in his office running his stubby fingers through his hair. He was yawning when Johnny Liddell entered.
“What’d you want to see me about, Liddell?” he asked. He was still antagonistic.
