by Frank Kane
He got up, walked over to the sink in the corner behind the screen and slapped some cold water in his face. Johnny Liddell plumped himself down in the big leather armchair on the far side of the desk.
“Look, Inspector,” he said, “what would you do if I told you where you could pick up Mrs. Goodman and Goodman’s ex-bodyguard?”
Devlin dried his face on a towel, hung it back on the nail over the sink, ran a comb through his tangled hair. “Pick them up and give them the damnedest grilling you ever saw.”
“Suppose I told you that would be a waste of time, that you won’t learn anything from them, might even tip off the murderer that we’re getting hot?”
Devlin denuded a stick of chewing gum from its wrapper, folded it carefully and shoved it into his mouth. “Are we?”
Johnny Liddell nodded. “I think so. I know you think I’ve been crossing you, but I haven’t. I’m still fumbling around in the dark and there’s no sense of two of us getting confused with what little I know.” He stared at the ceiling. “But there is a certain pattern beginning to show through all this, and while I haven’t got it all, I’m beginning to see little pieces that should fit together pretty soon.”
“I’m going to send out for some coffee, Johnny. Want some?” Devlin asked, and Johnny Liddell nodded. “Two coffees, Mike,” the inspector called. “Make mine without sugar.”
Devlin leaned back in his chair, hooked his heels on the corner of his desk. “Look, Johnny. You’re doing one of two things. Either you’re as much in the dark as we are and you’re just dumb lucky enough to be pushing that killer so close that he’s got to go around bumping off possible witnesses, or else you know what’s going on and you’re holding out on us to protect a client.” Johnny started to protest, was cut short by a wave of the inspector’s hand. “I’m going to go along on the assumption that it’s the first, because, commissioner or no commissioner, if I find that you’ve been holding out on me or crossing me up, so help me I’ll have your shield if I lose mine in the process.”
Johnny grinned. “It’s a deal, Devlin. Friends again?” Devlin nodded. “Good. Well then, now that we understand each other, how’s about comparing notes?”
The clerk came in, placed two paper containers of coffee on the desk and went out. Devlin didn’t move until the door had closed.
“All right. Sounds reasonable,” he said finally. “We’ll start with you. What have you got so far?”
Johnny Liddell reached over, took one of the containers, gouged the top out and took a sip. “Here’s the way it shapes up for me. Goodman murdered Randolph or had the job done. Probably used Sal Moreno for that. Mona Varden had been in on it or else encouraged Goodman to do a lot of talking when he had a skinful.” He took another drink of the coffee. “Goodman is also involved in a lot of other deals and has himself enough enemies to staff a regiment. The night Randolph’s body is found, he’s in his office, and one of these guys comes up and pays him off.”
Devlin sipped thoughtfully at his container. “Sounds plausible,” he agreed. “Then what?”
“Mona Varden decides to cash in on what she knows about Randolph’s murder and tries to shake Moreno. He takes care of her. Moreno is in his apartment talking to me. One of his customers thinks he’s blowing a whistle and blasts him.”
Devlin switched his gum from the right to the left side. “Who killed Goodman in the first place then?”
Johnny Liddell emptied his container, tossed it at the wastebasket. “Cookie Russo, Goodman owed him a wad and was horsing him.”
“Could be. In that case, you think the Goodman killing and the other killings are all separate jobs?” Johnny nodded. “The only thing wrong with that is the fact that the bullets in Goodman and in Moreno came out of the same gun.”
Johnny groaned. “I was afraid of that. Then how about Varden’s neighbors or the elevator boys or the doorman? Didn’t they see anybody around the time of the killing?”
Devlin consulted his notebook. “No. Only reports we got were of a dumpy little guy with graying hair and with a walk like an ape. That was you. We also got descriptions of the Goodman dame and her chauffeur or bodyguard or whatever the hell he is. And that was after the body was found. No one else.”
“Either this killer is getting all the breaks or he’s an awfully smart cookie,” Liddell growled. “Not counting Randolph, there have been three murders right in the open. The killer must have gone into and out of Goodman’s office, Moreno’s place and the Varden dame’s apartment and nobody sees him. He’s even so sure of himself that he uses the same rod.”
Devlin nodded. “Not only that, my friend, but consider this. You just listed three people who were probably in on the Randolph swindle—Goodman, Varden and Moreno. They’re all dead. That means there was at least one other person in on it. Who? Who gains by the whole mess? Mrs. Goodman.”
“That is if the insurance people decide to pay off. Don’t forget, Goodman killed Randolph. That would invalidate the policy.”
Devlin champed savagely at his gum. “Sure. That is, if you can prove Goodman killed him. Just the fact that he was murdered doesn’t invalidate it. After all, it did stop production on the picture and that’s what Goodman insured against.” Devlin finished his coffee, smashed the paper container with his fist. “And with Goodman and probably the only two witnesses dead, we’re going to have one helluva time proving it.”
Johnny Liddell leaned back and groaned. “I see what you mean.” He stared at the inspector’s face. “You know, we may be forgetting one very important person in this whole mess—”
“Who?”
“That secretary of Goodman’s.”
“What about her?”
“Toni Belden has a theory about her being sort of a master-mind behind Goodman. I know it sounds screwy, but everything in this case does. And besides, there is something pretty funny about that dame.”
“What?”
“I bet she can’t even type,” Johnny Liddell asserted.
Devlin snorted. “So what? With looks like hers she don’t have to. Lots of these movie big-shots got secretaries that can’t even spell their own names. She’s got other compensations.”
“I noticed that,” Johnny admitted glumly. “All right, suppose it isn’t her. There’s someone else in on this Randolph swindle and my hunch is whoever it is was the brains behind the whole thing.”
“That secretary don’t look like no master-mind to me,” Devlin argued.
Johnny nodded. “Okay. With a chassis like that you don’t need a mind. Maybe you’ve got a candidate?”
Devlin nodded. “My guess is the Goodman dame. Not that I’ve got much hope of getting anything out of her. She’s managed to set up some pretty good alibis for at least two of the killings. And since it’s pretty much of a lead pipe cinch that all three were done by the same guy, I’m pretty sure we’re wasting our time with her.”
“Well, she’s at her place now if you want to talk to her. When I saw her she had a skinful of junk and wasn’t in any mood for conversation.”
Devlin raised his eyebrows. “A hophead, eh? I should have guessed it. Well, no use going after her until the jolt wears off. What are you planning?”
Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve got a hankering to have a little talk with this Cookie Russo. Then I think I’ll look into that blonde secretary of Goodman’s. I’ve seen too many of that screwball reporter’s hunches pay off to ignore one like this. Besides, even if nothing comes of it, what can I lose?”
“Yeah,” said Devlin. “What can you lose? And just in case you haven’t got her address, I’ll save you a bit of trouble. She lives at the Denton Towers.”
CHAPTER NINE
AFTER SEVERAL BRIEF DELAYS the inquest on Harvey Randolph got under way the following morning before a packed house. Teen-agers sobbed audibly. Sensation-seekers sat popeyed as witness after witness came under the pointed questioning of Coroner Morrissey. The jury, conscious of its own importance and alert to possible
publicity, reached a quick verdict of “murder at the hands of person or persons unknown.”
Johnny Liddell, reading an account of the proceedings in the Dispatch that evening, chuckled.
“Sounds like Randolph got into a four star production at last, eh, Toni?”
The girl reporter nodded, cleaned up what remained on her plate of an oversized sirloin.
“You really missed a show, Johnny. To hear those kids moan and groan you’d have thought the guy was being seduced right before their eyes, instead of being declared legally dead.”
Johnny folded the paper, put it aside thoughtfully. “Toni,” he said, “remember how you suggested Goodman might have been trying to make some girl? Well, that good-looking babe in his office could have had some trouble, too. That is,” he amended, “unless she had him under her thumb, like you hinted last night.”
“Could be.” Toni Belden looked serious. “You don’t really think she’s behind all these killings, do you, Johnny?”
“She might,” Johnny told her. “All except Mona Varden. I don’t think that baby would handle a knife. Too messy. She’d use a gun. As for Goodman, why not? Whoever the killer was, Goodman must have known him, otherwise he never would have let him get so close. Almost anybody could have done the Moreno job.” He held out a pack of cigarettes, waited until the girl had taken one, then shook one loose for himself. “Anyway, she should know enough about Goodman’s business to be worth a visit.”
Toni Belden leaned forward for a light, her eyes fixed on Johnny. “From what I’ve seen of her, she should be worth a visit whether she knows anything about Goodman’s business or not. You just be sure it isn’t social.”
He tapped the cigarette on the rim of an empty cup. “It’ll be business all right, Toni. I’ve got a hunch we’d better wind this case up, and fast. This killer has tasted blood and so far he’s gotten away with it. He’ll strike again and again. Murder is like an epidemic. It’s catching.”
He signaled the waiter, called for his check.
“Going to her place now?” Toni asked.
Liddell dropped a few bills and some change on the waiter’s tray. “Might as well get it over with. If she knows something it’ll be that much faster we get this killer. If not, at least I won’t be wasting any more time figuring she can help us.”
He ground the cigarette out after one long last drag. The girl pushed her chair back, got up, walked with him to the door of the restaurant.
“Do I get to go along, Johnny?”
The detective shook his head. “You get to go on back to your office. You probably have a lot of nice confidential information you’d like to tell your little typewriter that will make your editor ver-ry happy and will drive Inspector Devlin nuts.”
The girl protested. “But I haven’t, Johnny. Not a thing.”
“In that case,” Liddell told her, “you go on back to your place where I can reach you and I’ll give you all the news.”
“All the news?”
“Well,” Johnny temporized, “all the news that’s fit to print.”
The blonde looked just as bored without a typewriter as she did with one. She opened the door in response to Johnny’s rap, peered at him for a minute before she placed him.
“Oh, Johnny Liddell, the detective,” she smiled. “How did you find out where I lived?”
“I’m a detective,” he grinned. “Do I get asked in?”
She looked down at the revealing housecoat that clung to her figure, swung the door open. “You caught me unprepared. I don’t even get to use the old gag about slipping into something more comfortable.”
Johnny Liddell followed her into the living room, accepted the invitation to sit down. She selected a bourbon and a scotch from the liquor cabinet, carried them to the dinette. “Name your poison,” she invited.
“Bourbon is okay by me.” He watched as she poured two stiff hookers, then filled two highball glasses with ice cubes and ran a little water into them. She brought the two bottles back into the living room with her, placed them on the floor at the foot of her chair.
She dropped into the chair opposite Johnny. “Well,” she said, “what is this, social or business?”
“Business. I thought you might be able to give me a couple of steers on Goodman that would help.”
“Goodman!” The voice was bitter. “Here’s to Goodman.” She raised her jigger and drank the liquid without turning a hair.
“You didn’t like him very well, did you?” Johnny asked.
“Did anybody?” the girl countered. “Even his own wife couldn’t stand the sight of him.” She sank back into the chair, the housecoat parting at the knee to reveal an expanse of thigh. “In a town where lice are a dime a dozen, Goodman was a standout.”
Johnny nodded. “So I hear. How about Randolph?”
The girl’s eyes became wary. “Randolph? What about him?”
“Like him?”
“Not too much. I’m a big girl now. Randolph was pash stuff to the high school kids.” She pursed her lips. “Although there were some gals who were old enough to vote for Lincoln who did go for him.”
Johnny Liddell emptied his jigger, washed it down with a swig from the water glass, deposited both on the floor. “Mrs. Goodman, for instance?”
“Well, yes. She had a very maternal feeling for Randolph. But there were lots of others. He used them, then discarded them. He was good-looking and he made it pay off.”
“Never married, was he?”
The girl looked surprised. “Certainly he was. He married some wide-eyed society kid. It didn’t last long, though.”
“Why not?”
“The old eternal Hollywood triangle. They were both in love with him. What’s it all leading up to, Liddell?”
Johnny dumped a cigarette from a pack, tossed it to the girl who caught it deftly. He took one himself. “You know the pitch. Randolph was bumped so Goodman could collect on that insurance. I’m after the one who bumped Goodman.”
The girl lighted her cigarette. “I’m not saying that’s what happened,” she replied. “But supposing it was, there’s one thing sure. If Randolph was murdered, Goodman never did it. He. didn’t have that kind of guts.”
“Who did?”
The girl shrugged. “You’re the detective. Remember?”
“Okay, okay. So I’m the detective.” Johnny Liddell smiled wryly. “But I’m not enough of a detective to figure out where the hell all these pieces fit. There have been three people killed besides Randolph. Moreno, Mona Varden and Goodman. How does that figure?”
“Maybe they knew who the killer was. Goodman certainly did. He hired him. Varden probably got it from Goodman and they probably cut Moreno in on the deal some place.” She took a deep drag on the cigarette. “I’m glad I don’t know from nothing.”
“Don’t you?”
At this she froze up. “Look, Liddell. I’ve told the cops all I know. I came into the office that morning and Goodman was cold. I called Homicide and reported. That’s all I know.”
Liddell nodded. “That’s right. But how about the afternoon before? Goodman got a call that upset him, didn’t he?”
Some of the color drained out of the girl’s face. “You’re crazy. There wasn’t any telephone call.”
“Yes, there was. Goodman must have had word from his boy that Randolph was taken care of, that the job was going to be done that night. Who was it that called?”
The girl crushed out the cigarette, pulled herself to her feet. “You’re nuts, I tell you. There was no telephone call. None.”
Johnny Liddell didn’t move. “Who was it?”
“It had nothing to do with Randolph.” The girl bent down, picked up the scotch bottle, filled her glass. “Goodman did get a call that upset him but it had nothing to do with Randolph.”
She sat down, tried desperately to regain her composure.
“Was it Moreno?” Johnny asked.
“No. It—it was Cookie Russo. He wanted to talk to Goodman. I
knew Goodman was ducking him. He owed him a lot of money. So I told Russo that Goodman was out—”
“What happened?”
The girl drank her scotch, as though to wash away the memory. “He got kind of tough. Said that if Goodman didn’t pick up his phone, he’d send a couple of his boys over and deliver the message personally.”
Johnny nodded. “So?”
“I rang Goodman’s phone. He seemed mad because I had told Russo he was out. He—he said he was expecting the call, and to put it through. So I did. The last thing I heard before I cut out was Goodman telling Russo that he wasn’t ducking him, that I was just a dizzy blonde.”
“Cookie Russo, eh?” Liddell mused. “He told Inspector Devlin that the last time he talked to Goodman was about two weeks ago.” He played with the cigarette for a second. “And Goodman expected the call?”
“Yes. Anyway, that’s what he said.” The girl’s voice shook slightly. “There was another call that afternoon, Liddell. I know it sounds crazy but I—I thought it was Randolph. I said, ‘Hello, Harvey. Goodman’s been looking all over for you.’ “
Johnny forgot the cigarette. “And?”
“The guy got sore. He said his name wasn’t Harvey. His name was Melody and that he wanted to talk to Goodman.” The deep red of her lips stood out against the pallor of her face. “I—I told him that Goodman wasn’t in and asked him where Goodman could reach him. He said just to say he called.”
“Could you have been mistaken in the voice?”
The girl nodded. “I guess so. It was over the phone, and I guess I was thinking of Harvey anyway. You know, what with all the excitement around the studio about the picture being called off.”
“What time was that?”
“About four-thirty, I guess.” She leaned back, seemed more composed. “I told Goodman when he came in and he said okay. A few minutes later he asked for a direct wire and dialed a number himself.”
Johnny Liddell rubbed his chin with the heel of his hand. “Four-thirty, eh? Was that before or after the Cookie Russo call?”
“Before,” the girl said. “Goodman called back that number the minute he came in. The Russo call didn’t come in until about fifteen minutes later.”
