Bare Trap

by Frank Kane

  Lulu Barry stared at him through narrowed eyes, shrugged. “Shut it off. But don’t try anything, Liddell. This thing looks like a toy but it’s got a kick like a mule.”

  Liddell snapped the radio off, studied the gun. “A twenty-five, eh?”

  “Serves the purpose at close range.”

  “It did in the case of Shad Reilly.”

  Lulu Barry laughed. “You’re being corny, Liddell. You know I didn’t kill Shad.”

  Liddell nodded. “I know you didn’t kill Shad. Okay, so what are we waiting for? Why don’t you call the police?”

  “Because you interest me. You interest me very much.”

  “Or is it because you don’t want the police in on it?” Liddell asked softly.

  The woman considered it, raised her eyebrows. “I confess that the idea of bringing the police into my private affairs doesn’t particularly intrigue me,” she conceded. “But then, it wouldn’t be civic-minded to let a burglar get away with breaking into houses, would it?”

  Liddell shrugged. “You could always shoot me while I was trying to take the gun away from you. That’s always a good one.”

  “But so final.” The columnist motioned him out of the chair with the gun. “Maybe we can talk this over.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Suppose you walk over to that wall. Keep your hands where I can see them.” She followed him to the blank wall. “Stand about an arm’s length from it, then lean forward tiptoe and support yourself against the wall with your finger tips.”

  Liddell leaned forward, supported himself with the tips of his fingers. While he was off balance, the woman walked up behind him, slid her arm around him, pulled out his .45.

  “You’ll think I’m an Indian giver, getting this gun for you, then taking it away,” she chided.

  Liddell grunted, found the position becoming a strain. He could feel the perspiration forming on his upper lip, and the muscles in the backs of his legs beginning to ache.

  “How long do I stand like this?”

  Lulu shrugged. “Until you feel real confidential.”

  His fingers began to ache from the weight of his body. “No doubt you learned this little gimmick in Madame Clara’s Finishing School for Wayward Girls?”

  The columnist laughed softly. “Don’t be silly. I’m a sucker for crime pictures. They come up with such intriguing ideas. This is the first time I’ve had an opportunity to test it. It does work, doesn’t it?”

  Perspiration rolled down into Liddell’s eyes. He blinked it out, swore softly.

  “I understand that about two minutes in that position is considered par for the course. I imagine a big, strong man like you could break par without trying.”

  She walked around the desk, pulled the chair out, and sat down, her gun still pointed at Liddell’s back. When he didn’t answer, she opened her bag, brought out a cigarette case and holder. She fitted a cigarette to the holder, tilted it in the corner of her mouth, lit it.

  Perspiration ran in rivulets down the inside of Liddell’s shirt. The ache in his fingers had translated itself to his arms and shoulders. He took it as long as he could, and then his knees threatened to give way under him.

  “What do you want to know?” he gasped.

  Lulu took the cigarette holder from between her teeth, consulted her watch. “Three minutes. Not bad.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What were you doing in my files?”

  Liddell tried to blink the blinding stream of perspiration from his eyes. “As if you didn’t know.”

  Lulu pursed her lips, nodded. “I think I do. But I’d like to hear you explain it. I’ve always been interested in the motives of a blackmailer.”

  Liddell snorted angrily. “Who should know better?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you’re going to have to shoot me after all.” He tried to push himself erect, felt as though his arms had been transfused with hot lead, stumbled to his knees. “I should have let you do it right off. You can’t let me walk out of here.” He breathed heavily, managed to turn around, glare at her, his face gleaming with perspiration. “You know that I’ve tumbled to your racket and you’ve got me in a spot to get rid of me with no questions asked, so what are you waiting for?”

  “I think you’re getting delirious,” Lulu told him judiciously. ‘Or is the tactic of a good offense being the best defense the idea?”

  “Stop playing games, Lulu. I’ve got the dope on your tie-in with Yale Stanley and you know it.”

  Lulu frowned at him. “Tell me about it.”

  Liddell managed to get one lead-heavy arm to his mouth, wipe it with the back of his hand. “You made one slip-up. You marked the code number on the folders.”

  Without taking the gun off him, the columnist got up from the chair, walked to the desk, picked up a folder, examined it. “What code numbers?”

  “The ones that match Terry Devine’s bookkeeping system. And Yale Stanley’s, too, if I could lay my hands on them.”

  Lulu Barry studied the penciled notation on the folder, frowned. “This means something to you?”

  Liddell looked up at her, scowled. “It means that you put the boots to the suckers Terry Devine and Yale Stanley were squeezing. Now, you know how much I know, get it over with.”

  Lulu Barry nodded. “You do seem to know a lot.” She walked over to where Liddell sat, stood over him. “A lot more than I do.” She put her gun in her bag, brought out a cigarette, stuck it between his lips. “Maybe if we talk this over, we’ll start making sense.” She held a lighter to the cigarette, waited while he took gasping drags on it, blew the smoke out through his nose. “It’s just possible, you know, that I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about a bunch of poor suckers getting framed into a bad position, then being pressured by blind items in your column into paying off.”

  Lulu Barry tapped the cigarette holder against her teeth, frowned. “What blind items?” She started back to the desk.

  “They’re not in the folders.” Liddell grunted as returning life in his arms and back filled them with hot needles. “But they’re all in your column. I checked them through this afternoon. Every one on the date Terry Devine had them listed. And the code numbers check, so don’t give me that innocent routine.”

  “Blind items, eh?” Lulu Barry reached up, shoved a blue tendril of hair into place under the ridiculous little hat. “Seems to me you’re overlooking an important point, Liddell.”

  “I’m not very bright. I’ve overlooked a lot of important points.”

  “Maybe you’re not very bright. Or maybe it’s just because you don’t know very much about putting together a column like mine.” She walked over to him. “For instance, you probably don’t know that few, if any, of the top columnists write a complete column by themselves.”

  “So?”

  Lulu shrugged. “It’s always possible, isn’t it, that I didn’t write those items? Maybe they came in as payoffs for good tips. After all, the people we co-operate with, the publicity people, sometimes ask for a free item in return.”

  “Doesn’t wash, Lulu. You’d soon tumble to the fact that these blind items had a sinister tone. I can see you paying off with plugs for their clients, but not with blind items.”

  “You’re forgetting I’m not a newspaperwoman, Johnny. I’m just a broken-down actress with connections. I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t even read the column after it appears.” She stuck the cigarette holder in her mouth, chewed on the mouthpiece. “After all, I’m not the only person who could plant an item in my column. Ever think of that?”

  “Who then?”

  “Glennon. The last one to see the column before it goes to the paper. The only one to check on the advance proofs and okay them.” She touched her lighter to the cigarette, inhaled deeply. “She was also the one who made the arrangements for you to pick up the gun at the Lamont.”

  “And for the welcoming committee to
be on hand?”

  Lulu Barry shrugged. “You’re the detective. You tell me.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  JOHNNY LIDDELL pushed back the bound volume of Lulu Barry columns, straightened his cramped back, and stared grimly at the columnist.

  “You see? Every one of those blind items came from a Lulu Barry column.” He tapped a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, lighted it. “By adding one and one I got eleven, thought you were working with Stanley.”

  “Thanks,” the woman told him dryly.

  Liddell grinned. “Sorry, but that’s how it looked. And I’m afraid that Carter Sales, Walter Arnold, and the other boys think the same thing.”

  “Did they say so?” Lulu Barry snapped.

  “Not right out. But they think it.”

  Lulu Barry nodded glumly, opened and slammed drawers on the desk. “You don’t suppose the actual evidence would be around here?”

  “No. Stanley wouldn’t let that out of his hot little hands.”

  “Then we’ve got to get him. But how are we going to do that if eighteen thousand trained cops can’t do it?” The columnist adjusted the perky little hat on the top of her head with a shove. “There’s been a pickup order out on him for the past thirty-six hours and no sign of him.”

  “I may have a lead. They took Carter Sales to a beach house out near Laguna. Maybe that’s where — ”

  “Forget it.” Lulu Barry shook her head. “That’s Glennon’s place. Stanley wouldn’t be there.”

  Liddell shrugged. “Then we’ve had it. I haven’t a dream of an idea of where to start looking.” He smoked moodily. “Think Glennon knows where they’re holed out?”

  “I doubt it. I don’t imagine they went around leaving a forwarding address with anybody. But anyway, that reminds me.” She picked up the phone, dialed a number. After a moment: “Let me talk to Lieutenant Dana on the midtown squad,” she snapped. Holding her hand over the mouthpiece: “I’m going to have them pick Glennon up and put her on ice where she can’t get into any mischief.” She took her hand off the mouthpiece, spoke into it. “Lew? This is Lulu Barry. Lew, I want a favor.” She nodded at the mumbled answer. “I want you to pick up my secretary and lose her in some precinct station. Make it grand larceny. I’ll swear out the warrant.” She nodded again. “You can probably pick her up at her apartment. It’s twelve-seven teen Campbell Drive. And, look, Lew — I don’t want word of the arrest to leak out for at least twenty-four hours. Okay?”

  There was some hesitation.

  “I’ll take the responsibility for it, Lew. If you want me to call downtown and — oh, good. I’d rather have it that way. Thanks a lot.”

  She dropped the receiver on its hook. “Step number one. Now the next step is Stanley.”

  “That’s not a step. That’s an elevator shaft.”

  Lulu Barry nodded absently. “It’s tough, but it’s not impossible. Somebody’s hiding him out and somebody’s getting his food and news through to him. When more than one person in this town knows something it’s no longer a secret — and when it’s no longer a secret, I get to hear about it.”

  “Yeah. But Stanley’s a Syndicate man. They take care of their own. Nobody would dare to talk.”

  “Organized crime is like any other big business today, Johnny. There’s no sentiment in it. When a cog in the machine stops being useful, it gets removed. Buggsy Siegel was pretty important to the Syndicate, but when he made a couple of mistakes” — she shrugged — ”they got themselves a new boy. I think Yale Stanley has just made one mistake too many.”

  “I don’t want him bumped off. I want him all in one piece.”

  Lulu Barry nodded. “That can be arranged. The big boys don’t like violence if it can be avoided. Killings generate too much heat.”

  ‘Okay. How do we go about it?”

  “Let me handle that end of it. You keep my date with Muggsy. I’ll get back to you at your apartment — or should I make it Muggsy’s?” She grinned.

  “Make it mine. Tonight I’m planning on getting some sleep.”

  It was almost two-thirty when Johnny Liddell paid off the cab in front of his hotel, dragged himself wearily through the revolving door, and picked up his key at the desk.

  The clerk leaned across the desk confidentially. “There’s a man waiting to see you, Mr. Liddell.” He looked past Liddell into the lobby where a man in a dark business suit sat reading a morning tabloid. “He doesn’t seem to know you by sight, if you’d rather not see him?”

  “Thanks. I know who he is.” Liddell nodded. He walked across the lobby, stopped at the side of the stranger in the dark suit. “My name’s Liddell. Want to see me?”

  The man in the chair folded his paper unhurriedly and looked up at Liddell with a nod. “If you have a few minutes.” He was soft-spoken, smooth shaven. His hair had receded from his broad forehead, exposing an area of sun-peeled pate.

  “What’s it about?”

  The man in the chair smiled pleasantly. “I hardly think this would be the place to discuss it. I can tell you that it’s information regarding a — ” he smacked his lips, selected his words, “a, shall we say, missing client of yours?”

  “How about my room?” Liddell asked.

  “Fine.” The man nodded. He picked up an immaculate gray fedora, rose from his chair. “I know it’s rather late, but I was given to understand you were in a hurry for this information.”

  Liddell nodded, led the way to the elevator. No further word was spoken until they were in Liddell’s suite. He tossed his hat on the bureau, indicating a chair for the other man.

  “I don’t think I caught your name,” Liddell said.

  “I didn’t mention it. However, it’s Levin. Ralph Levin.” He produced an engraved card from his pocket, handed it over. “I’m an attorney.”

  “You sure keep office hours,” Liddell grunted. “A drink?”

  Levin shook his head. “But don’t let that stop you.” He waited while the private detective poured himself a cognac and sank into a chair. “A client of mine, whose name isn’t particularly material to this discussion, asked me to have a little talk with you. He had a call from a mutual friend. Miss Lulu Barry, the columnist, to be exact.”

  Liddell nodded, watched the attorney pull a battered brier from one pocket, an alligator tobacco pouch from another.

  “We understand that you are interested in finding Yale Stanley before the police do.” He dipped the bowl of the pipe into the pouch, packing in tobacco with the tip of his index finger. “Is that right, Mr. Liddell?”

  Liddell sipped at his glass, nodded. “Do you know where he’s holed out?”

  Levin stuck the brier between his teeth, applied a match to it, drew in a mouthful of smoke. “We might be able to make some suggestions,” he said cautiously. “You see, Yale has, in a manner of speaking, been associated with my client for a number of years. Recent events and Yale’s unfortunate handling of himself might make it advisable to sever that connection.”

  “Sounds like it could be fatal.”

  “Only as a last resort. That sort of thing went out with the thirties. Today our enterprises represent big investments. My client and his associates are responsible businessmen, important in civic affairs, important in union affairs, with large real-estate holdings, and — ”

  “Suppose we get to the point.”

  The attorney frowned his annoyance. “Very well. If you were to find Yale Stanley, what were you planning to do?”

  “Clean up the murder of a client of mine.”

  Levin leaned back, touched the tips of his fingers in front of him. “That might entail considerable bad publicity for the Casino. Very bad publicity, indeed,” he complained mildly.

  “Can’t be helped.” Liddell shrugged. “Whether I find Yale first or the police do, the story of the kid’s IOU’s is bound to come out.”

  The attorney nodded. “We are prepared to take care of that angle. What I am particularly interested in determining is how many of the details now
in your possession you intend to make public.”

  Liddell stirred uneasily, growled. “Look, Levin. I’m interested in only one thing. I want to wrap up the Shad Reilly kill. I want to find out what happened to Eddie Richards. Outside of that I’m not interested in a damn thing.”

  Levin nodded, tapped his teeth with the stem of his brier. “And that’s all you intend to bring out?”

  “If you’re trying to find out whether I’m going to spill about the racket Yale’s been working behind Lulu Barry’s back, I’m not.”

  The attorney looked pained. “I need hardly tell you that was a private enterprise of Yale’s. My client was very much distressed to learn about it.” He tamped the ash down in the bowl of his pipe. “I don’t imagine Miss Barry wants too much publicity on that aspect) of the case, either.”

  “That’s up to her.”

  “I agree. Then we understand each other, Mr. Liddell. My client is willing to co-operate with you to the extent of providing information as to Yale’s present whereabouts. You, in turn, are not interested in trying to do a one-man Kefauver Committee routine, but are interested solely in settling the murder of a client?”

  Liddell nodded.

  The attorney smiled. “In that case, I am authorized to invite you to meet my client, who will in turn give you the information you need.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  LEVIN HANDLED THE LONG, SLEEK CADILLAC CONVERTIBLE as though it were a toy. He wove his way in and out of the late, home-going traffic, headed for the Strip. Liddell leaned back against the cushions, let the cool wind wipe the fatigue from his eyes.

  About twenty minutes from the hotel, Levin swung off the street into the sloping ramp of an underground garage. He turned the car over to a broadly grinning attendant who materialized from a small, brightly lighted office.

  “Boss still around, boy?”

  The Negro attendant nodded, flashed the startling whiteness of his huge teeth. “Been calling down to see what’s keeping you, Mr. Levin. He sounds kind of impatient-like.”

  Levin nodded. “Let’s go, Liddell.” He led the way through the dank air of the garage to a little elevator set against the far wall. He waited until Liddell had stepped in, pushed a button marked 3, stared blankly at the closed door of the cell.