The Fatal Foursome

by Frank Kane

  The girl shook her head. “And I thought I was being smart. You knew all along?”

  “No, not for sure,” Johnny told her. “It wasn’t until last night that I knew for sure.”

  “How did you know then?”

  “You told me,” Johnny Liddell said grimly. “I told you that we had the whole picture on these killings but that I hadn’t told the police yet. I was inviting a murder, and I knew it. You didn’t disappoint me.”

  “No wonder you didn’t drink that cognac. There was enough strychnine in it to kill a monster.” She drained what was left of her glass. “You made it necessary for me to take the terrific risk of trying to shoot you through the window.”

  “It was a risk,” Liddell agreed. “If it hadn’t been for the fact that one of those bullets creased my skull and knocked me out, I would have had you red-handed right then.”

  The girl was puzzled. “What have you been waiting for? If you’ve known, why haven’t you picked me up?”

  Johnny Liddell grinned. “We’ve been waiting for you to produce that gun. If I’m not mistaken, that’s the one that’s been used in three murders already.”

  The blonde nodded. “That’s right. This is it. I was with Harvey when Doc Maurer operated. I had to let him have it before we left. Now you know—but it won’t do you any good, since it’s just about to get its fourth notch, and you’re it.” She kept him covered, leaned down, filled his glass with bourbon. “Maybe you’d like a last drink, Liddell?” She watched him with admiration as he picked up the glass, drank it without a tremor. “I’m sorry it has to work out this way, Johnny. I’ve got an idea you and I could have had a lot of fun.”

  Liddell shrugged. “That’s the way things go.” He indicated the gun with his glass. “I’d put that up if I were you. Three of Inspector Devlin’s best men have you covered. You’ll get cut to pieces with a tommy gun if you move a muscle.”

  The girl started to laugh. “Oh, Johnny. After all this, you continue to underrate me? That one’s too old.”

  Somewhere a floor board creaked. “It’s no gag, miss. You’re covered on all sides,” a voice from the kitchenette informed her.

  The girl jumped involuntarily, swung the gun around. Johnny Liddell moved in the same instant. His hand came down with a sharp snap on her wrist. She cried in pain as the gun fell from nerveless fingers, skittered across the floor.

  Inspector Devlin walked in from the kitchenette, picked up the gun. He smelled it, broke it and examined it. “I think this is it, Johnny!”

  The blonde didn’t even look at him. She turned her back, faced Liddell. “Got a cigarette, Liddell?” she asked. She permitted him to place the cigarette between her lips, accepted a light he held toward her. She drew deeply, exhaled.

  Devlin dropped into an easy chair facing the girl. “I don’t get the whole picture yet, Johnny,” he admitted. “What was her angle?”

  Johnny Liddell sadly took a cigarette for himself, lighted it. “As you know, she and Randolph were working it together. They were using her poor, broken-down sister as a goat. You see, with Goodman dead, Mrs. Goodman would inherit his money.”

  Devlin nodded, his powerful chaws savagely crushing a fresh wad of gum. “Then Randolph marries Mrs. Goodman?”

  Liddell shook his head. “Nothing as crude as that. Sister here persuades Mrs. Goodman that she should go away for a rest. Mexico preferably. Marty Mann, her bodyguard, would drive them. Once they got to Mexico, Mrs. Goodman would take sick and one day soon would die. Then sister here, her only living relative, would inherit. If I’m not mistaken, the next step would be to orange-blossom it with Harvey, who would then regain his pretty face, and they’d live happily ever after.”

  The blonde applauded sardonically. “Very pretty, Johnny. The way you tell it makes it sound even cleverer than it was.” She shook her head. “I tried to talk Goodman out of hiring you, but he insisted that he wanted to make it look good. He was so sure of his setup that he never figured anyone could tip his apple cart. Well, you did.”

  Devlin pulled himself out of his chair, helped the girl to her feet.

  “I suppose this is so long, Liddell.” She took a step closer to him. “I can’t say I’m glad I met you, but I wouldn’t have missed knowing you for the world.” She slid her arms around his neck, pulled his head down fiercely, crushed her lips against his. He felt her little teeth sink into his lower lip, then the grip around his neck relaxed. “So long, Johnny,” she said.

  He watched wordlessly while Devlin threw a coat around the girl’s shoulders, led her out. Then he dropped into a chair, swore viciously. He picked up the bottle of bourbon, drank a healthy slug from it. There was a timid knock on the door.

  “Can I come in?” Toni Belden asked.

  Johnny turned swiftly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Toni shrugged. “I told you I was going to look after your interests.” She walked over, sat beside him. She picked up the bourbon bottle, smelled it. “Not poisoned, is it?”

  “Then you know?” Johnny asked.

  The girl poured half a water glass of bourbon for Liddell, a like amount for herself. She leaned back on the couch. “Know what? That the blonde was in this mess up to her ears?” She took a swallow. “I told you she was, didn’t I?”

  Liddell grinned broadly. “Damned if you didn’t. Well, aren’t you going to phone in your scoop? This is a real big one.”

  “It’ll wait. It’ll wait.”

  Johnny laughed. He put his glass down, leaned over the girl, kissed her. She kissed him back hard, caught him fiercely around the neck. Her lips were soft, smooth.

  The phone rang with a suddenness that made them both jump. Johnny fought himself free from the girl’s embrace. She punched the pillow, groaned, “Damn!”

  “Yes, this is Johnny Liddell,” Johnny told the operator. “Who? Baron in New York? Put him on.”

  After innumerable clicks Steve Baron’s voice came through. “That you, Johnny? I’ve been trying to get you everywhere. I just got a call from the insurance company praising hell out of you and promising a juicy reward. What’s happened out there?”

  Johnny explained. “Say, how the hell did you locate me here?” he concluded.

  Steve Baron chuckled. “The coroner gave me the lighted it. “As you know, she and Randolph were working it together. They were using her poor, broken-down sister as a goat. You see, with Goodman dead, Mrs. Goodman would inherit his money.”

  Devlin nodded, his powerful chaws savagely crushing a fresh wad of gum. “Then Randolph marries Mrs. Goodman?”

  Liddell shook his head. “Nothing as crude as that. Sister here persuades Mrs. Goodman that she should go away for a rest. Mexico preferably. Marty Mann, her bodyguard, would drive them. Once they got to Mexico, Mrs. Goodman would take sick and one day soon would die. Then sister here, her only living relative, would inherit. If I’m not mistaken, the next step would be to orange-blossom it with Harvey, who would then regain his pretty face, and they’d live happily ever after.”

  The blonde applauded sardonically. “Very pretty, Johnny. The way you tell it makes it sound even cleverer than it was.” She shook her head. “I tried to talk Goodman out of hiring you, but he insisted that he wanted to make it look good. He was so sure of his setup that he never figured anyone could tip his apple cart. Well, you did.”

  Devlin pulled himself out of his chair, helped the girl to her feet.

  “I suppose this is so long, Liddell.” She took a step closer to him. “I can’t say I’m glad I met you, but I wouldn’t have missed knowing you for the world.” She slid her arms around his neck, pulled his head down fiercely, crushed her lips against his. He felt her little teeth sink into his lower lip, then the grip around his neck relaxed. “So long, Johnny,” she said.

  He watched wordlessly while Devlin threw a coat around the girl’s shoulders, led her out. Then he dropped into a chair, swore viciously. He picked up the bottle of bourbon, drank a healthy slug from it. There was a timid
knock on the door.

  “Can I come in?” Toni Belden asked.

  Johnny turned swiftly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Toni shrugged. “I told you I was going to look after your interests.” She walked over, sat beside him. She picked up the bourbon bottle, smelled it. “Not poisoned, is it?”

  “Then you know?” Johnny asked.

  The girl poured half a water glass of bourbon for Liddell, a like amount for herself. She leaned back on the couch. “Know what? That the blonde was in this mess up to her ears?” She took a swallow. “I told you she was, didn’t I?”

  Liddell grinned broadly. “Damned if you didn’t. Well, aren’t you going to phone in your scoop? This is a real big one.”

  “It’ll wait. It’ll wait.”

  Johnny laughed. He put his glass down, leaned over the girl, kissed her. She kissed him back hard, caught him fiercely around the neck. Her lips were soft, smooth.

  The phone rang with a suddenness that made them both jump. Johnny fought himself free from the girl’s embrace. She punched the pillow, groaned, “Damn!”

  “Yes, this is Johnny Liddell,” Johnny told the operator. “Who? Baron in New York? Put him on.”

  After innumerable clicks Steve Baron’s voice came through. “That you, Johnny? I’ve been trying to get you everywhere. I just got a call from the insurance company praising hell out of you and promising a juicy reward. What’s happened out there?”

  Johnny explained. “Say, how the hell did you locate me here?” he concluded.

  Steve Baron chuckled. “The coroner gave me the number. Said you’d probably be making a damn fool out of yourself with some woman and it wouldn’t make any difference if I interfered.”

  Liddell muttered, “Okay, okay. Right now I’m busy, though.” He stole a quick glance at Toni.

  “Well, get unbusy,” Baron roared. “We just got a retainer on another case out there. I’ll send you the details air mail.”

  “But what about that vacation with pay?” Liddell protested.

  “You got till tomorrow, ain’t you?” the agency chief roared. “What the hell more do you want?”

  If you liked The Fatal Foursome check out:

  Time to Prey

  1

  From the air, Havana is beautiful.

  By day the lush shrubbery is green, highlighted by the exotic coloring of tropical flowers. The shores are swept by the white-capped Gulf, the lawns of the luxury hotels are like putting greens.

  By night, the Gulf is black, white-crested as it is swept by the spotlights from the Morro Castle standing guard in the Bay. The twin domes of the Hotel Nacional are purple against the sky, the headlights of the cars along the Malecon Freeway are like fireflies. Beyond the Nacional, the fabulous casinos—the Sans Souci and Tropicana—spill their bright lights and mambo rhythms into the shrubbery that is part of their décor.

  From the air, day or night, it’s a fairyland of beautiful lights, lush shrubbery, wave-swept drives.

  It isn’t until the plane lands that the rot and decay become apparent. What was once a glamorous playground has turned into a city of intrigue, a port of entry for the unwanted.

  Once passengers arriving on airliners made for La Rampa, the modern section overlooked by the Nacional. Today they are more likely to head for the Prado, Old Havana, a collection of decaying Spanish-type houses with ironwork balconies that hover over narrow, smelly streets and rob them of any acquaintance with the sun.

  The Prado starts across from the Morro Castle, whose underground exits to the shark-filled Bay are again serving as more than tourist attractions. It runs a mile through winding, dark streets to end at the President’s Palace. Along the route are signs of revolutions, past and present—some buildings no more than shells, others bearing pockmarks of bullets or grenade fragments.

  The Palace itself is within walking distance of La Rampa, and only a two-dollar cab ride from the Nacional. But very few denizens of the Prado feel impelled to take that journey.

  Sloppy Joe’s, with its paneled dining room and famous food, is on the corner of Agremonte and Animas, just three blocks from Virtudes Street, the heartline of the Prado. It’s an area of crumbling, pocked concrete houses, bird-fouled buildings and walks. Here in the narrow street cars are lined up in hopeless traffic jams, drivers leaning somnolently on horns, creating an ear-shattering cacophony, their attention diverted by the girls congregating to start their nightly trade. The buildings are old and rotted, their iron balconies serving by night as a perch from which to view the activity in the neon-bathed streets below, and by day as a place from which to air dingy, gray linens.

  Chinatown, in Havana, is right around the corner from Virtudes Street. Here, ancient buildings lean against each other for support, blocking out the sun from the streets. Decaying piles of rubbish dot the sidewalks; there is a constant stench.

  At dusk, on the evening of March 12, a heavy-set Chinese slid off his stool at the bar at Jickey’s Club on Virtudes. He checked his wristwatch, dropped some change on the bar, headed for the street. He melted into the thin stream of traffic on the narrow sidewalk, going toward Chinatown.

  His destination was a small Chinese pharmacy on the ground floor of the building fourth from the corner. He stopped for a moment outside of its window, appeared to be studying the displays of Chinese potions made of powdered reptiles and rodents. When he was satisfied that no one was following him, he walked to the door, pushed it open and walked into the dim interior.

  A thin-shouldered Chinese looked up, peered at the newcomer through thick-lensed glasses. “You wish something, sir?” he squeaked in a high-pitched voice.

  “I am Lee Sung,” the heavy-set man grunted. “I am expected.”

  The stoop-shouldered clerk folded his hands in front of him, bobbed his head. “Ah, yes. I have been awaiting your coming.” He signaled for an elderly Chinese to take over the books on which he had been working. “I have had my instructions. You will come with me, please.”

  He led the way to the street, passed a group of stores, stopped in front of one whose windows were piled with a miscellany of junk. Inside, a man was sitting at a white-enameled kitchen table that served as a desk, painting Chinese symbols on an orange sheet of paper. He used a camel’s hair brush held perpendicularly between thumb and forefinger. He glanced up as the two men entered, listened with no change of expression as the spectacled man rattled Cantonese at him, dropped his eyes and resumed his lettering.

  The thin man motioned for Lee Sung to follow him, headed for a curtained recess in the rear. Once inside, he closed the curtain behind them, felt for a cleverly hidden button in the molding. When he pushed it, a portion of the wall slid back noiselessly.

  They stepped into a narrow, dim passageway beyond, slid the panel closed behind them. A flight of rough-hewn steps took them down to another passage that smelled of dampness and age. A few feet farther another flight of steps took them still lower, and they crossed under what was apparently a street above. On the far side, they mounted again to the surface, came to an old wooden door badly in need of repainting. Whole chunks of paint had peeled off, giving it a mottled appearance.

  The spectacled Chinese pushed a button; the area around the door was suddenly bathed in light. After a moment, there was the buzz of a circuit breaker and the door swung open. Lee Sung stepped in as the door swung shut behind him. From the inside of the room he could see that the door was transparent, laced with a fine mesh of steel. As he watched, the light outside faded and the light inside the room came up.

  The room had obviously once been the lower floor of two or more buildings. The walls had been knocked out to make it a single huge room. Thick carpeting covered the floor from wall to wall, the walls themselves were paneled in cypress. In the center of the room was a long, black conference table with rows of intricately carved chairs lining either side. At the head of the table a tall, incredibly thin man sat in a throne chair. To his right a Chinese girl in a Dutch bob sat, ha
nds laced in her lap. The other chairs were empty.

  The man in the throne chair peeled thin lips back from yellowish teeth that matched the ivory tinge of his skin. His eyes were slanted, red-rimmed. “Lee Sung?”

  “I am Lee Sung.” The heavy-set man nodded.

  “Good. We have been waiting.” The thin man indicated a chair on his left with a sweep of his long-fingered hand. “All arrangements have been made. You will leave tonight.” He indicated the girl with no show of enthusiasm. “The woman, Blossom Lee, will go with you.” He placed the flat of his hand on the table top. “You will be met at the boat in New York. You will receive your final instructions then. It is understood?”

  Lee Sung nodded. “I’d better get back to my hotel, pack my things.”

  The thin man permitted himself a thin-lipped grin. “That will not be necessary. Your belongings are even now being packed. They will be delivered to the boat.” He looked from Lee Sung to the woman and back. “You and the woman will remain here until it is time to board the boat. Someone will then call for you, take you there.” He stood up. “There is liquor, food. You have only to ring for it.” With a peculiar gliding motion, he headed for a heavy, studded door. At the door, as an afterthought, he turned back. “I need not remind you how important is the success of your mission or how costly the price of failure.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left the room.

  After the door had closed behind the thin man, Lee Sung pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, held it out to the girl. She selected one with long, carefully shellacked nails.

  “So your name is Blossom Lee?”

  The girl waited while he scratched a match, held it to her cigarette, filled her lungs with smoke. “It will do as well as any.” She half veiled her eyes, let the smoke escape from between half-parted lips, studied the heavy-set man.

  He put a cigarette between his lips, lit it with the same match. “You have been in New York before?”

  The girl considered, shrugged. “Until now I have worked in Honolulu. It was felt I could be of greater use in New York.”