by Frank Kane
Before he could recover and lash out in return, Liddell scuttled to the left, threw him off balance. Maxie’s little eyes glared hatred as he tried to recover his earlier advantage. He took an overhand right to the mouth that smashed his lower lip to pulp in an effort to bring Liddell close enough to use his right.
Liddell kept circling, using his left in an attempt to get a clear shot at the big man’s midsection. Moving as fast as he could to keep out of the way of Maxie’s paralyzing right, Liddell stepped on the lamp wire, slipped. The big man grinned, moved in, threw the right. It landed a few inches too high to do the full job, but carried enough steam to knock Liddell flat on his back.
Thinking the detective was helpless, Maxie moved in for the kill. As soon as he was within range, Liddell lashed out with his heels, sank them in the big man’s groin. Maxie’s eyes rolled back, saliva drooling down his chin. Liddell struggled to his feet, put everything he had behind a right smash to the big man’s ear. He hit the floor like a felled ox.
Liddell stood swaying over him and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I have an idea Maxie isn’t going to like you, Liddell,” Duke told him. He walked over to where Maxie lay, stirred him with the tip of a small, pointed toe. The big man groaned, opened bloodshot eyes, stared up blankly. He shook his head, wiped the red smear that was his mouth with the side of his hand, and stared at the blood on his hand dazedly. He tried to pull himself to his feet, gasped at the pain in his groin, and tumbled over on his face with a moan.
The little man stared down at him coldly, stirred him again with his toe, got a groan for his trouble. Without taking his gun off Liddell, he walked over to the chest of drawers, picked up the water carafe, walked back to the man on the floor, emptied its contents over his head.
Liddell waited for the little man’s attention to be diverted, had almost given up hope when a sharp rapping on the corridor door made Duke’s attention wander for a moment.
Liddell had no time to weigh the consequences. He threw his entire 186 pounds at the small man in a desperate flying tackle.
He never even saw the blow that floored him. The barrel of the .45 couldn’t have moved more than six inches when it caught him a vicious chop across the temple that sent white-hot flashes through his skull. He managed to wrap his arms around a pair of legs but had no power to hold them. There was another chop, and a new stream of white-hot pain went through his head.
The pounding on the door was thunderous. He tried to push himself to his knees. The floor tilted sickeningly. Liddell slid forward on his face, relaxed, and was content to slide into a black void that erased the white-hot flashes and searing pain from his skull.
CHAPTER NINE
JOHNNY LIDDELL GROANED AUDIBLY as consciousness seared its way back into his brain. He tried to open his eyes, regretted the impulse. A pain that shot through his head, lighting up the dark corners of his skull with blinding brilliance, discouraged too much movement. After a second unsuccessful try, he managed to get the eyes open, but experienced new difficulty in keeping them from rolling back into his head.
A man was bending over him, gun in hand. Liddell tried to struggle to his feet, but the man pushed him back gently. “Take it easy, Mr. Liddell. You’ll be all right in a minute.”
Liddell shook off the man’s restraining hand. “Who’re you?” he managed to croak. His voice seemed to rise and fall in volume, setting the sensitive nerves jangling again.
“House officer. We had complaints from the room below. Came up to check. I got no answer to my knocks so I sent for the key.” He looked around the room. “What happened here?”
“Nobody here when you came in?”
“Just you on the floor. Who was it?”
Liddell felt the side of his head gingerly and winced. “Sneak thieves, I guess. I walked in on them, and one of them dropped me before I could get a good look.”
The houseman frowned his doubts, stared at the damage. “I guess I put up a bit of a fight,” Liddell added. “I don’t remember much after he hit me the first time.”
“Did they get anything?”
Liddell shook his head, regretted the impulse. He felt for his gun, swore under his breath. “They walked off with my gun,” he growled. “The big guy stuck it in his pocket when they frisked me.”
The house detective yanked a dog-eared notebook from his hip pocket. “Got the number on it?”
Liddell went through his papers, handed over his license for the gun, and watched while the houseman copied the information into his notebook. “I guess we’ll have to make a report to the police,” the house detective told him unhappily. “That is, unless you’d prefer we don’t?”
Liddell took back his gun permit, stowed it in his pocket. “No need to drag the police into it. It wouldn’t do the hotel any good for word to get around that sneak thieves are working the place, and it wouldn’t do me any good for word to get around that I’m open for dates as a punching bag. Better let it go. I’ll handle it myself.”
The houseman nodded, returned his notebook to his pocket. “Maybe you’re right.” He considered carefully Lid-dell’s invitation to have a shot of cognac, but, recalling regretfully the new manager’s ability to spot alcohol on an employee’s breath at ninety paces, he refused.
Liddell waited until the door had closed behind the houseman, dug a cognac bottle out of his bag, and took it to the phone. He instructed the operator to get Lulu Barry, broke the seal on the bottle, and tilted it over his lips. He was on the second slug when the operator finally rang back.
“I’ve got your party,” she told him pertly.
“Liddell?” Lulu Barry’s distinctive voice flowed through the receiver. “Don’t tell me you’ve got something for me already, I hope?”
“A nice headache and a couple of lumps on my skull. On you they might look good. You could put feathers on them and somebody’d think they were a new hat.”
“Been getting into trouble? I thought the case was pretty much on ice.”
Liddell snorted. “It’s only beginning.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I need a fast identification. Two hoods working as a team. Big guy with a mashed nose named Maxie. The other guy small, looks like an ex-jockey, and packs a forty-five. Make them?”
“What do you want them for?” Lulu countered.
“A return match. They thought I ought to leave town. I got stubborn. Next time I’d like to be the one that walks away.”
She hesitated. “I think I know who they are. The big fellow’s name is Maxie Seymour. He’s an ex-prize fighter. Does a lot of dirty work for the Syndicate. Strong-arm stuff.”
“That’s the guy.” Liddell nodded. “Where does he hang out?”
“I don’t know.” The columnist paused for a moment. “He does have a girl. She may know.”
“What’s her name?”
“I’ll find out.” Liddell could hear the booming voice shout for Glennon, then a short conversation. “She’s a bit player over at one of the studios.”
“Her name wouldn’t be Terry Devine?”
The voice on the other end took on a sharp note. “I thought you said you didn’t know him.”
“I don’t.”
“Then how do you know about Devine?”
Liddell scowled at the receiver. “Putting two and two together. It would explain why Maxie and his playmate found Shad Reilly so easily the night they gave him the hosing.”
“I don’t follow you,” she told him testily.
“It’s not important. Shad was out with Devine that night. They parked in an isolated spot and the two hoods drove up later and gave it to the kid. The Devine babe probably set it up, took him to a prearranged spot. What about the little guy?”
“I don’t know much about him. Probably working for Yale.”
Liddell nodded. “That’s what I figured.”
“Anything else you need?”
“Yeah. A gun.”
There was a
brief pause. “A what?”
“A gun. They got mine. Can you get me one?”
“That’s a tough contract,” the receiver hedged. “What kind?”
“A forty-five.”
“It may take some time.”
“I haven’t got any time, Lulu. I need one as fast as possible.”
“Give me an hour or so. You know the Hotel Lamont? Near Grauman’s?”
“I’ll find it.”
“There’ll be an envelope with your name on it at the Western Union counter. In it there’ll be a coat check for a hat and a package.”
Liddell nodded. “Thanks, Lulu. Maybe I can do as much for you sometime. I’ll let you know as soon as I make contact. I’ve got an idea those two will sing like the Andrews sisters when the heat really goes on.”
• • •
The Kangaroo Room of the Hotel Lamont was a dim, noisy, and smoky bar. Small tables, jammed with parties of four, were packed side by side in a small space bordering an open square reserved for dancing. A thick pall of smoke hung over the place, swirling slowly and lazily in the draft from the opened door. The bar itself was packed two deep, Air Force blues and Army pinks spicing the drabness of the civilian garb that lined it.
Liddell and Muggsy elbowed themselves a place at the bar, ordered drinks. While the bartender was pouring them, Liddell excused himself and headed for the neon-lighted door that led to the hotel lobby.
A bellboy directed him to the Western Union counter where a querulous looking old maid looked up as he approached.
“My name is Liddell. Johnny Liddell. I was expecting a message. Has it arrived?”
The woman looked him over, pushed a stray lock of lifeless iron-gray hair into place, stabbed it there with a yellow pencil, and riffled through a pile of envelopes on the corner of her desk. She stopped at one, nodded. “Here it is. Just left here about fifteen minutes ago.”
Liddell took the envelope, slid a quarter across the desk. He walked back into the lobby, tore open the envelope, extracting a small cardboard square that bore the imprint Hotel Lamont and a huge block number 27. He dropped it into his jacket pocket, headed for the checkroom.
A middle-aged woman was reading the pink edition of a morning tabloid in the checkroom. She blinked nearsightedly at the check as Liddell laid it on her counter, but picked it up and walked to the end of a rack of topcoats, selecting a hat.
“Don’t forget my package.” Liddell called down to her.
“Was there a package?” A poorly fitting denture that showed signs of slipping slurred her enunciation. She turned the check over, studied the penciled marking on the back, smiled self-consciously. “I guess I’m slipping,” she lisped.
She walked back to the counter, reached down under it, brought up an oblong box about six inches long by five wide by two deep. “That’s a heavy one,” she commented, scooping up the quarter from the counter and fitting it into the slot on her cash box. “Must be a pint.”
“You’ve been peeking,” Liddell grinned.
“Good thing I didn’t know it.” She bared the denture at him, went back to her tabloid.
Liddell headed for the men’s room, found it empty. He ripped open the box. Inside, nestled in cotton batting, he found a gleaming, well-oiled .45. He took it out, examined it. It was fully loaded, the serial numbers filed off. He hefted it in the palm of his hand, approved, slipped it into his empty shoulder holster.
Stepping back into the dimness of the Kangaroo Room, he had to wait for a moment until his eyes became adjusted. He squinted down the bar to where Muggs was sitting, morosely contemplating her half-filled glass. He was about to make his way down to join her when his eye stopped on another familiar figure.
Terry Devine was sitting at a small table for two. As Liddell looked, her eyes suddenly stopped on him, widened, looked away fast. He started through the maze of closely packed tables toward her. She looked in his direction again, shook her head. Her eyes pleaded with him through the smoke. He stopped, puzzled.
As he watched, she signaled the waiter, paid for her half-finished drink, got to her feet, and shoved her way through the crowd to the far entrance to the lobby. For a second Liddell debated the advisability of trying to cut her off, decided he could find her whenever he needed her.
After she had disappeared through the neon-decorated exit to the lobby, Liddell shouldered his way down to where Muggsy sat waiting.
“Everything okay?” she asked in a low voice.
He nodded. “Perfect. Now I don’t feel quite so naked.” He picked up the drink that had been waiting for him on the bar, sampled it. “I think I just saw Terry Devine at one of the tables. She powdered before I could reach her. I wanted to talk to her.”
Muggsy nodded cynically. “Don’t kid me, Liddell. From past experience I’d say it was a lot more satisfying to talk with the divine Terry in a less public place.”
Liddell scowled, applied himself to his glass. “Wonder what she was doing here?”
“Nothing unusual about her being here. This spot is laughingly called the Happy Hunting Ground. All the lone wolves hang out here and bay at each other. As for her ducking you, it may tome as a terrific blow to your pride, but maybe you’re not her type.”
Liddell sighed. “There is that possibility,” he conceded. “Possibility, not probability. After all, I am prettier than Maxie.” He drained his glass, motioned for Muggsy to do the same, ordered a refill for both.
“Maxie? You mean your late visitor? What’s he got to do with Terry Devine?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. That’s what I wanted to ask her.”
Muggsy Kiely chewed on the tip of her nail, frowned at Liddell. “You’re holding out on Watson, Sherlock. This is the first I hear of this.”
Liddell shrugged. “There’s nothing to hear. Lulu told me that Maxie played house with a little brunette that plays bit parts. That fits Terry to a T, doesn’t it?”
“Her and a million others in this town.”
Liddell nodded. “Yeah. But it also explained how come Shad Reilly was taken to just the right kind of a spot to get his ears pinned back.”
“Couldn’t it be that the sluggers followed them?”
“Could be. But if I was a kid that owed dough to a character like Yale, who was unhappy with me because I wouldn’t pay it, I’d be watching for anybody following me. I certainly wouldn’t drive up to a deserted spot and set there like a sitting duck like he’s supposed to have done.”
Muggsy nodded. “Sounds reasonable.”
“Okay. So if Terry is Maxie’s playmate, she probably knows where to find him. That’s why I want a word with the divine Terry.”
Muggsy snorted. “Knowing you, I’d say — ”
The Kangaroo Room’s only waiter sidled up to them, looked around dramatically, dropped his voice. “Your name Liddell?”
Liddell nodded.
The waiter passed over a folded note. “The dark-haired number in the angora sweater that was sitting over there” — he rolled his eyes toward the center of the room — ”asks me to get this to you.” He looked at Muggsy, raised his shoulders apologetically. “It ain’t my idea, lady. She says it’s very important I should wait until she’s gone before I give it to him. Says she don’t want nobody to see her making contact with him.”
Muggsy nodded, made a fair job of a grin. “Can’t say I blame her. Open it up, Liddell. Maybe she’s got a brother for me.”
Liddell separated three quarters from the change on the bar, pushed them toward the waiter, waited until he was gone. He unfolded the paper. It was a note hastily scrawled in pencil on Hotel Lamont stationery.
I want to see you but I mustn’t be seen talking to you. Will you meet me at Pier Twenty-Six on Water Street at ten-thirty? It’s very important. It was signed Terry Devine.
Liddell scowled. “Yet when I started over to speak to her she ran like a scared jack rabbit.” He reread the note. “I wonder what’s on her mind?”
“I hate to think.” Mu
ggsy grinned, consulted her watch. “It’ll take about twenty minutes to get to Water Street from here in the landlocked helicopters they call taxis in this town. That gives us forty minutes.”
Liddell folded the note, slipped it into his pocket. “Not we. Me,” he corrected. “If she was throwing a party she would have written R.S.V.P. in the corner. This is private.”
“That’s what you think, darling. I’m not leaving you alone on a deserted pier with a she-wolf like Terry Devine. My father would never forgive me if anything happened to his favorite private detective. Besides, don’t forget that little Muggsy fixed you up with your only decent contact in this town, and I’m watching Lulu Barry’s interests.”
Liddell scowled at her fiercely, melted it down to a grin. “Okay. You come along. But don’t forget, I do the talking.”
“As long as you keep talking, I have no objections.” She selected a cigarette from the pack he held out to her, took a light, drew in a lungful of smoke. “Wonder why she picked such an isolated place to meet?”
“If she is being followed, it’s an easy place to spot a tail. Or maybe she’s just playing Treasure Hunt and has to bring back a water-front derelict.” Liddell shrugged. “At any rate, we should know before very long.”
CHAPTER TEN
WATER STREET was shrouded in an inky blackness that blocked out any recognizable landmarks. A driving rain lashed furiously at the closed windows of the cab, sending a stream of water cascading down the windshield. The few street lights that dotted the block were little more than a yellow aura that spilled on the oily blackness of the pavement. The cabby guided the big car to a stop, rolled down his window, peered at a big frame building across the road.
“This is Pier Twenty-Six, mister,” he called over his shoulder. “You sure this is the place? Far’s I know nothing starts around here until about four in the morning.”
