by Frank Kane
Ten minutes later he waved down a late cruising hack, drove out to where he had left the rented car, headed back to his hotel.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE NOISE REVERBERATED like thunder. Then it leveled out to the sharp chatter of a machine gun. Johnny Liddell opened one bleary eye, deciding it was somebody trying to knock the door to his room off its hinges.
He groaned, squinted at the luminous face of the clock on his night stand, made the time out to be ten to five. The pounding on the door took on an impatient note. He slid his feet from under the covers and pulled on his trousers.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered.
He slithered barefooted across the floor, unlocked the door. Sergeant Jerry Macy of Homicide stood framed in the doorway.
“You took your time about it,” Macy grunted. He walked in, reached for the light switch, and stood regarding Liddell, hands on hips, feet akimbo. “Sleeping the sleep of the just, eh?”
Liddell scowled at him and raked his hair back from his forehead with his fingers. “What’s the idea, Macy?” He turned, stared back at the clock on the bedstand. “Don’t you ever go to bed?”
“Look, Liddell.” The Homicide man’s voice was dangerously soft. “This is no game of marbles and we’ve got a couple of guys on ice to prove it. You play potsy with me and Inspector Devlin or no Inspector Devlin, I’m going to make you sorry you ever stuck foot in my territory.”
“If you woke me up in the middle of the night to prove to me what a tough cop you are — ”
“I’m going to do better than that. I’m going to prove to you what a jerk you are to think you can get away with what you’ve been trying to pull in this town for the last thirty-six hours.”
Liddell groaned. “Now I’ve been pulling something. What am I supposed to have done?”
The Homicide man pushed his fedora on the back of his head, jutted his chin out at Liddell. “I’ll be glad to tell you.” He started to tabulate on spatulated fingers. “You’re not in town more than thirty-six hours when we get a killing, a gun ambush of a cab on Water Street, a gun battle in the apartment of one of the principals in the first killing, a body in a hallway, an attempted robbery of the premises of another principal in the first killing — and you want to know what you’re supposed to be up to. You think this is a Keystone Kop comedy with you showing up the dumb flatfeet on the force?”
Liddell walked over to the bureau, took a pack of cigarettes off the top, selected one, lit it. “Why me?” He let the smoke dribble down his nostrils.
“Not even a good try, shamus,” Macy growled. “We got you on this one, and it’s going to mean your license.”
“What is?”
“Let’s see your rod. It’s a .45, isn’t it?”
Liddell nodded. “I usually carry a .45. But I haven’t got it.”
“I’m in a hurry, Liddell. Let’s see your rod.”
Liddell walked over to the closet, opened the door. “There’s my harness. Look for yourself. It’s empty.”
The Homicide man pushed him aside, examined the holster, shook down his jacket. He brushed past Liddell, walked into the bedroom, and searched under the pillows, in the bedstand drawer, in the half-unpacked suitcase. When he came out of the bedroom, his face was an ugly red. “Look, pal, you might as well stop twisting. We got a tip on the killing in the Devine dame’s apartment. You did the killing. Now where’s the rod?”
“My gun was stolen from me yesterday afternoon.” When the Homicide man started to wave the statement aside, Liddell shrugged. “Don’t believe me. Call the houseman who was on duty. He had to break in. They clobbered me, took my rod, and were going through my things when the tenants downstairs yelled for the houseman.” He indicated the phone. “Go ahead and check.”
Macy stamped across the room, tore the receiver from its hook. “You’re damn right I will.” He growled into the phone, got insistent when the voice on the other end of the phone seemed hesitant. After a moment he slammed the phone back on its hook. “He’ll be right up. In the meantime, you’d better be getting ready. The inspector wants to see you.”
Liddell took a last deep drag of his cigarette, snubbed it out. He walked through the bedroom into the bathroom, was in the shower when he heard the house detective’s knock on the door. He took his time about selecting a shirt, was tying his tie when he walked into the outer room.
Macy’s face was a dull red of frustration. The house detective, a dark stubble of beard glinting on his chin, was sitting in the chair looking unhappy.
“Hi, Mac,” Liddell greeted him. “Sorry we had to drag you out of bed, but the sergeant didn’t believe I got a mugging here yesterday afternoon.”
“Why wasn’t it reported, Liddell?” Macy roared.
Liddell shrugged. “Wouldn’t do either of us any good. It might scare the other guests to know there were sneak thieves around. And it certainly wouldn’t help my rep to have it known that somebody took my gun away from me.”
Macy’s eyes hopscotched from the private detective to the houseman. “You ought to know better. A felony should be reported immediately.”
The house’ detective managed to look even unhappier. He rubbed the bristle on his cheek with the side of his hand, shrugged. “He wasn’t going to make a complaint, Sergeant, and like he says the hotel wouldn’t like me to start something like that.”
Macy swore impotently. “I might have known you’d have some alibi cooked up,” he growled at Liddell. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. What’d these guys look like?”
Liddell stared at him innocently, debated whether or not to play it straight, decided it was the smarter course. “One big guy, broken nose, face like a pug. The other guy was small, looked like an ex-jockey, and — ”
“That’s what I thought. Well, let’s get going. We have one of your playmates on a slab in the morgue.”
Liddell took his jacket from the closet, shrugged into it. “No kidding? Small world, isn’t it?”
• • •
The morgue at Las Caminas was at the end of a long, silent corridor in the basement of the City Hospital. There were two doors at the far end, one lettered Medical Examiner on frosted glass, the other opening into a brightly lighted room, painted a sterile white. A tall, thin, bald man sat at a white enameled desk, biting on the almost invisible nail of his thumb as they walked in. The unshaded bulb in the ceiling caused his bald pate to gleam oilily. He showed no sign of interest in Sergeant Macy and Johnny Liddell as they headed across the office to the door to the inner room.
“Got a pass?” He took his thumb from his mouth, stared at it.
Macy pulled a leather folder from his jacket pocket, flipped it open to show a gold sergeant’s badge. “Homicide. The inspector still here?”
The attendant nodded, went back to work on the macerated cuticle of his thumb. “He’s in with the D.B. they brought in tonight. You on that one?”
Macy nodded, pulled open the heavy door leading to the inner room.
“Sure was a small one,” the bald-headed man opined.
As Liddell stepped through the open door, a blast of hot, carbolic-laden air hit him. A man in a gray fedora, chin sunk in the upturned collar of his gray tweed topcoat, barred his way with a casually outstretched arm. “Looking for someone or just sightseeing, mister?” he asked.
“It’s okay, Al. This guy’s the private dick the inspector sent out for.”
The man at the door dropped his arm. “Sorry, Sarge. Didn’t see you out there.”
Macy led the way through a room that was lined with double tiers of metal lockers, each with a glass window and a stenciled number. In the rear of the windowless room, a small group was huddled around one of the white metal examining tables. The table was covered with a canvas sheet that bulged suggestively, was high at the head, sloped down to the foot. Inspector Devlin and a group of plain-clothes men, huddled at the head of the table, broke up as Liddell walked up.
“Hello, Inspector,” Li
ddell greeted him.
“Nice of you to come.” The inspector chomped on his wad of gum, stared at Liddell hostilely.
“It sounded like such a gay party, I wouldn’t think of staying away.” He nodded to Macy. “Besides, your boy was so persuasive.”
“Never mind the funny sayings, Liddell. This one may be a tough one to pull out of the fire.” He shook a blunt forefinger at the private detective. “And if you’ve been playing fast and loose with me, don’t expect any help when the heat goes on.” He turned abruptly to Macy. “Got his gun?”
Macy scowled, spat on the floor. “His gun was stolen yesterday. He says.”
The inspector looked back to Liddell. “Well?”
Liddell shrugged. “It was. Ask Macy. He checked the house dick at the riding academy they laughingly call a hotel I’m living in. Two sneak thieves mugged me yesterday afternoon, took my gun and some change. House dick scared them off, found me out cold with a lump on my head.” He pulled off his hat, probed tenderly with his finger tips. “You can still feel it.”
Devlin scowled at him. “How about it, Macy?”
The sergeant nodded. “House dick backs him up. The report’s on file in the hotel office, all right. Didn’t send it through because this character has pride. Didn’t want anybody to know a couple of goons had taken his rod away from him.” He glanced at Liddell distastefully. “His description of one of the hoods fits the Duke.” He nodded at the bulge under the canvas.
“Coincidence, eh, Liddell?” the inspector growled. He signaled for the attendant to pull back the canvas.
Duke’s face was placid, his thin lips pulled back from his yellowed teeth in a final leer. His eyes were half opened, stared incuriously at the ceiling. There were two round, black, gaping holes just above the breastbone. One would have been enough.
“That’s one of them,” Liddell nodded. “He held the gun on me while the other guy worked me over.”
Devlin nodded at the assistant, waited until the canvas had been pulled back over the body. “Never saw him be-for that?”
Liddell shook his head.
“Nor since?” Devlin persisted.
“Not until now,” Liddell told him blandly. He pulled out his cigarettes, held them up for permission, drew a curt nod. “Who is he, Inspector?”
“Name’s Duke Ligon. No great loss to the community. He was a free-lance gun for years, rented it out by the day, week, month, or just by the job.” He scowled at the bulge under the canvas. “We never were able to pin anything on him even though we knew he ran the muscle for the Syndicate boob traps here and in Vegas.” He snapped a fresh field of gum into his mouth, rolled the paper into a ball. “Worked in harness with a slugger named Maxie. But then, you already know Maxie, don’t you?”
“Not formally.” He looked around the group. “I don’t get it. A guy like that’s bound to have plenty of enemies. Why settle on me?”
“A tip. Ever been in the apartment of a babe named Terry Devine?”
Liddell nodded. “She was a friend of Shad Reilly’s. I did a routine check when I first came on the case. She was with Shad the night he got the shellacking from Yale Stanley’s boys.” He glanced down at the body. “This one of them?”
“Probably. Yale fronts for the Syndicate here and he’s been known to use Maxie and the Duke on occasion.”
Liddell drew on his cigarette, exhaled through his nostrils.
“Aren’t you going to ask where we collected this jewel?” Devlin growled. “Or do you already know.”
Liddell grinned. “I figured you’d get around to telling me when you were ready to.”
Devlin scowled at him. “He was gunned out in the service entrance to the Devine dame’s apartment.”
Liddell considered it, nodded. “Interesting. Where’s the connection?”
The inspector looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t know — yet. But I intend to find out. No matter who gets hurt!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JOHNNY LIDDELL SQUIRMED uncomfortably on a hard wooden bench at Police Headquarters. The big clock on the wall over Macy’s desk said ten. He lit his fifth cigarette in an hour, glared at the broad shoulders of the Homicide sergeant who gave no notice that he was aware of the private detective’s presence. Finally, Liddell got up from the bench, walked over to the railing-enclosed space, tapped the Homicide man on the shoulder.
“How much longer do I have to sit around this rattrap?”
Macy squirmed around on his chair, looked up at Liddell as though he’d never seen him before. “We’ll tell you when we want you.” He swung around, picked up some papers on his desk.
“That damn chair’s getting hard,” Liddell growled.
“Make the most of it, shamus,” Macy told him over his shoulder. “That’s our de luxe model. They’re not that comfortable in the cell block.”
Liddell expressed some highly controversial opinions in a low tone, got no rise out of the man at the desk, then walked back to the bench and sat down.
At ten-thirty, the phone on Macy’s desk buzzed, he grunted into it, nodded, got up, and took his coat from the back of his chair. “Okay, Liddell, let’s go.”
He led the way down the hall to Inspector Devlin’s office. The inspector sat behind his battered old desk, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. He glared at Liddell as he walked in, waved him to a chair.
“All this kind of highhanded, Inspector? I didn’t know I was under arrest,” Liddell told him.
“Maybe you are,” Devlin growled: He jabbed at a button on the edge of his desk, waited. The door opened and two people walked in, a man and a woman. The woman, obviously terrified, clung to the man’s arm.
“Stand up, Liddell,” Devlin told him.
Liddell shrugged, got to his feet. “Intimate sort of lineup, isn’t it? I thought it was mandatory to have a couple of others in on it?”
“You can have it that way if you insist. I’m just trying to keep this on an informal basis.” He nodded at the couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Jorgensen, here, are neighbors of the Devine girl. They heard the shooting and saw the killer running down the service stairs. You say it wasn’t you, so you shouldn’t have any objection to letting them have a look at you.”
Liddell thought back to the dark hall, knew the degree of excitement that the shots had caused at that hour, counted on the fact that the Jorgensens had been in bed at the time of the shooting, and decided to gamble. “I have no objection at all, Inspector.”
Devlin scowled at him uncertainly, rolled the cigar in the center of his mouth, nodded. “Fine.” He turned to the man and woman. “Is this the man you saw in the service-way this morning, Mr. Jorgensen?”
Jorgensen, a thin, washed-out Swede with lank blond hair, focused a pair of watery blue eyes on Liddell, walked around him. He walked back to the stout, stylishly furred woman in the chair, whispered to her. They both looked Liddell over again. “I would not say yes, Inspector,” he said finally. “The light was bad, you understand. The man had a gun in his hand, and we did not wish to get mixed up in something that was not our business.” He looked back to the woman, who nodded her approval. “We do not think this was the man.”
The inspector sighed, nodded. “Thanks for coming down, Mr. Jorgensen. And you, Mrs. Jorgensen.” He stood up, offered his hand to the man. After the door had closed behind the couple, Devlin walked over to the water cooler, took a drink. “Sorry, Liddell, but we had to be sure.”
“Are you sure now?”
Devlin crushed the paper cup in his huge paw. “Maybe.” He ambled back to the chair behind the desk, dropped into it. “Maybe it wasn’t you, and maybe the Jorgensens figured it couldn’t be you if you were willing to let them put the finger on you. Funny thing, identification.” He leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head. “Suggestion works both ways. They had a case in Germany years back where a man had a fight with his wife. She ran out of the house shouting she was going to kill herself. That night the police dragged a body out of the c
anal. The husband, his brother and sister all identified the body. When they got it home, the husband went to his room to dress and his wife was there in bed. Later on, it was apparent there was no resemblance between the dead woman and his wife. Autosuggestion.”
Liddell seemed duly impressed. “Amazing,” he admitted. “Are you trying to tell me that despite the fact that I have no gun, despite the testimony of what amounts to eyewitnesses that I’m not the man, that you still believe I killed the little guy?”
“I could be convinced either way. I’d be a lot happier if you had reported the gun missing. It always worries me when a man is killed by a certain caliber bullet, the suspect is known to have a gun of that caliber — and after the shooting it seems the gun disappeared before the shooting. Stubborn, ain’t I?” He got out of his chair, walked to the window, stared down to the street below. “Any ballistic records available on your gun, Liddell?”
“I think so. New York probably has some.”
Devlin swung around, faced him. “I figured there would be. I sent for them, Liddell. It could be very bad if they check.”
Liddell shrugged. “Why don’t you check them?”
“That’s what we’re doing. We’ll know pretty soon now.”
“You trying to tell me you’ve already gotten them? Why, if you sent a man in a plane both ways he couldn’t be back here this soon with samples of bullets fired from my gun.”
“Don’t count on it. Never heard of rolled photographs of bullets? They take the whole circumference of a bullet on one plate, transmit it by wire. We had sample photographs of bullets fired from your shell an hour ago. Ballistics has been working on them.”
“What chance has a poor crook in this atomic age?” Liddell groaned lugubriously. “I might as well give myself up. I killed Cock Robin.”
“Very funny.” Devlin picked up the phone, jabbed at a button on its base. “Any report from Ballistics on that check on the gun that killed Duke, Macy?” The receiver chattered metallically; Devlin nodded. “Okay, let me have it as soon as it comes.” He depressed the crossbar on the receiver with his finger, jabbed at the base button twice. “Get us a couple of containers of coffee, will you, Murph?” He looked up at Liddell. “Sugar and cream, Liddell?”
