Bare Trap

by Frank Kane

  The car rattled noisily to a stop at the third floor, and the gate automatically swung open. He followed Levin along a balcony that looked down on the dining-room and dance floor below. There was a smell of good food, expensive cigars, imported perfumes. The dance floor was deserted, a few couples still huddled around tables, impervious to the rumba beat being pounded out by the fivepiece orchestra.

  Levin stopped outside a door, knocked.

  A muffled voice invited them in.

  The room beyond was half office, half den. It was a big room with knotty pine paneling and Indian rugs. In a huge fieldstone fireplace, a comfortable fire hissed and puffed on the stone hearth.

  There were four men in the room. One, young and pleasant looking, sat on the davenport, looked over the pages of a copy of Esquire he had been reading, nodded amiably to Levin. Two others, who had apparently been engaged in private conversation, drew apart, stared at him curiously. The only man in the room to move was the man behind the desk. He was about fifty, still kept a thick shock of wavy, white hair, a dark, well cared for mustache. His face was pouchy, gave evidence of high living ineffectively hedged by constant massage.

  “Afraid you wouldn’t be able to make it, Liddell.” His teeth were white, even, as he smiled. His eyes remained cold, appraising.

  “We got here as soon as we could, Mr. Mendle,” Levin assured him. He turned to Liddell. “I don’t know if you know Mr. Mendle. He, of course, operates Mendy’s, one of our better restaurants.”

  “I’ve heard of Lou Mendle.” Liddell nodded. He looked at the other men inquiringly. “I don’t think I know the other boys.”

  “Associates of mine,” Mendle told him. “Benny Cardell over there” — he nodded to the pleasant-faced young man on the couch — ”runs the Desert Sun down in Vegas.”

  Cardell acknowledged the introduction with a slight tilt of his eyebrow.

  “These others are also from out of town. Chicago, matter of fact.” Liddell’s eyes flicked over to the two in the huddle. “Marty Ryan and Mike Estes. Just arrived today for a couple of days.”

  Liddell nodded at the shorter of the two, a sandy-haired man with pink-rimmed eyes. “I think I know Estes. Been a long time since I last saw him, but I think I know him.”

  The sandy-haired man growled under his breath, turned away. “I don’t know why you have to bring a smart-guy shamus in on this deal, Mendy. Me and Marty got sent out here to help you out. What do you need him for?”

  The man behind the desk stared at him coldly. “Because in my territory, I do things the way I want them done.”

  Estes dropped his eyes, shuffled his feet uneasily, walked over, dropped down beside Benny Cardell.

  “Will you be needing me any further, Mr. Mendle?” Levin asked.

  Mendle shook his head, waited until the attorney had stepped out, closed the door behind him. Then he dropped back into his chair, indicated a large leather armchair on the far side of the desk. “Sit down, Liddell. Drink?”

  Liddell shook his head, waited.

  “I had a talk with Lulu Barry tonight after she left you,” the white-haired man began. “She told me something about the shake racket Yale was working with her assistant.” He made a face as though he had a bad taste, scowled at his highly polished fingernails. “You’re sure of what you told her?”

  “Positive.”

  Mendle looked over to Cardell, shrugged. “What are you going to do with a rat like that? Right under my own nose he’s setting himself up in business, lousing me up with the press.”

  “I know what I’d do with him,” Estes put in. “I’d put him out of business. For good.”

  “Nobody asked you, Estes. You handle things the way you want. Maybe that kind of muscle goes in Chicago. It don’t go out here.” He rolled his eyes from the gunman to Liddell, stared at him speculatively. “Unless a guy gets killed resisting arrest, it causes too much trouble.”

  Liddell crossed his knees, settled back. “It’s been known to happen,” he agreed. “Only, maybe we better understand each other, Mendy. I don’t hire my gun out. I intend to bring Stanley in alive if I can. If I can’t, I still intend to bring him in.”

  Mendy nodded, looked thoughtful. “Levin told you we don’t want any bad publicity on this. We’ll take care of our end of it. Lulu Barry will take care of her end. How about you, Liddell? Will you keep your lip buttoned?”

  “That’s a chance you’ve got to take, Mendy. What difference does it make if I say yes? How do you know my word’s any good?”

  The man behind the desk snorted. “Who the hell do you think you’re playing with? A pack of kids? I got an okay on you from New York before I ever sent the mouthpiece to see you. Les Dean in New York gave you a clean bill.” His lips went through the motion of a smile again, failed to affect the cold, appraising look in his eyes. “Les’s word carries a lot of weight.”

  Liddell nodded. “So I gather.” He looked around, scowled at the man behind the desk. “This still doesn’t tell me where Yale Stanley is holed out.”

  Mendle looked over to the pleasant-faced young man on the davenport. Cardell nodded.

  “Okay, Liddell, we’ll play along,” Mendle told him. He got up from the desk chair, walked over to a small built-in bar, helped himself to a short drink. “Yale Stanley has outgrown his usefulness to us. We’re thinking of replacing him.”

  Cardell shifted uneasily on the davenport. “Tonight’s the first we knew he was playing games with Lulu Barry,” he put in. “We’ve got too much invested in this town to tee her off. Then all this stuff getting out about the Reilly kid kill — ” he shook his head, “ — it’s bad stuff. We want him taken for the kill, if necessary, but we don’t want the story to spill over on us. That’s the reason you’re here.”

  Liddell nodded. “I gather that’s the reason Estes and Ryan are here, too?’’

  Mendle drained his glass, set it back on the bar, shrugged. “As a last resort.” He walked back to the desk, hoisted himself up on the corner of it. “You see, our organization is nation wide. But each territory is under the control of one man. Here it’s me. In Vegas it’s Benny.” The smile was back, frostier than ever. “Each of us is responsible for things going right in our district. Right now, some of the boys in other districts are getting itchy about the headlines we’ve been getting out here.” He nodded toward Estes. “They thought Estes might be able to help us out.”

  “Make it worse,” Cardell growled from the davenport. “I tell you we can’t risk it. I’m in favor of letting Liddell take care of Stanley.”

  “What if he spills his guts for the grand jury?” Estes jumped to his feet. “You think he’s going to take a gas-chamber rap without spilling? I tell you, Mendy, the big boys are going to be awful sore if you screw this up.” He walked over to where Liddell sat, stood over him, legs apart, hands on hips. “And take it from me, this two-bit shamus can screw it up for you.”

  Liddell looked up at him, grinned. “Don’t tell me you want to go up against him, Estes?” His eyes hopscotched from the sandy-haired man to his partner and back. “There’s only two of you. I always heard you needed at least three other guys to take a man.”

  The sandy-haired man’s face went dull red. “You’re a liar,” he growled. He reached down, caught Liddell by the lapels, dragged him to his feet. Liddell broke the hold with a quick upward and outward fling of his hands, smashed the tip of his toe into the guard’s instep.

  Estes roared with pain, streaked for his jacket pocket. Liddell’s left hand closed over the gun in the sandy-haired man’s pocket, sank his right into his midsection to the cuff. Estes’s eyes bulged, his mouth opened as he gasped for air. Liddell brought his right down again in a chop against Estes’s jaw and the sandy man hit the floor with a thud, lay there.

  Mendle sat behind his desk, watching the melee with a lazy smile pasted on his lips. When Estes hit the floor, he raised his eyebrows in appreciation.

  “Very nice. Estes is no pushover,” he applauded.
<
br />   Liddell turned the unconscious man over with his toe, reached down, took the gun out of his side jacket pocket.

  “Bring it up real slow, shamus,” Estes’s partner growled.

  Liddell looked up to see the sawed-off snout of Ryan’s gun aimed at him. He held Estes’s gun by the barrel, skidded it across the floor to the desk.

  “Put away the gun, Ryan,” Mendle’s voice snapped.

  The man with the gun looked worried, rolled his eyes to where Cardell sat on the davenport, got no encouragement. He licked at his lips uncertainly. “You gonna let a lousy shamus get away with that, Mendy?”

  “Estes was begging for it,” Mendy growled. “Get him out of here. So that’s what they send me to take care of Stanley? Why, Yale would eat him for breakfast. Get him out of here.”

  Ryan shrugged, holstered his gun, sidled around the desk to where Estes lay. He caught him under the arms, started to drag him to the door. “Where’ll I take him?”

  “There’s a plane out of here at four. See that you’re both on it,” the white-haired man growled. “I don’t want to see either of you around here after four. Got it?”

  Ryan nodded, dragged his partner through the door, closed it after him.

  “How about that drink now, Liddell?” Mendle invited.

  Liddell nodded, walked over to the bar, poured his own, downed it. “Do we get to keep playing games or do I get to know what I’m after?”

  Mendle opened his drawer, pulled out an envelope. “You get what you’re after.” He tossed the envelope on the desk. “This is a road map to a piece of property the Syndicate owns out in the valley. Yale’s used it before for hiding out. My guess is that’s where he is now.”

  Liddell picked up the envelope, took out the map, studied it.

  Benny Cardell pulled himself out of the clutches of the davenport, brushed out the imaginary wrinkles in his pants. “You wouldn’t be in the market for a job with me, would you, Liddell?”

  Liddell grinned glumly, shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so.” Cardell nodded. “But I figured I’d ask.”

  “This session is strictly between us, Liddell?” Mendle asked.

  Liddell tapped the map in his hand. “If this is what you say it is.”

  Mendle looked hurt. “You don’t think I got you here at three o’clock in the morning to play jokes, do you?”

  “Well, if it’s what you say it is, the joke’s on Yale. I’ll bet he’ll die laughing!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  WILSHIRE BOULEVARD WAS DESERTED as Johnny Liddell tooled the hired convertible down past the blank faces of the closed shops. He headed out through Beverly Hills, bore east after he had passed the last cluster of shops. After a few miles the road started climbing, and the wind that came down from the hills was dry with the taste of the desert. He felt his shirt beginning to stick to him, wished he had stayed under the shower a little longer. He pulled the car to a stop at the side of the road, slipped out of his jacket and shoulder harness. He laid the gun on the seat, covered it with his coat.

  About an hour out he passed the big gas station with the twisting metal foil indicated on the map Mendle had given him. He slowed the car down, watched for the sharp turnoff from the state road. When he came to it, it was so poorly marked and so overgrown that he almost rode past.

  He braked the car to a stop, threw it into reverse, then swung onto the narrow, poorly paved road. It wound through a double row of trees that blocked out the fields beyond. He kept careful check on the speedometer, watched until it showed exactly four and two-tenths miles since he had left the state road.

  He stopped the car again, consulted the map under the dash light. Yale Stanley’s place was halfway up the next slope, set back about a quarter of a mile from the road. He decided to leave the car, go the rest of the way on foot. He doused the lights, put up the top on the car. Then, shrugging into his shoulder harness, he covered it with his jacket. He tugged the .45 from its holster, checked it. Then, hugging the side of the road, he melted into the darker shadows and headed for the branch-off that led to Stanley’s place.

  The perspiration was running down his back in rivulets when he finally came in sight of the lodge. It was a sprawling rural lodge with a wide porch, fieldstone cemented foundation, done in wavy hemlock clapboard with a huge towering fieldstone fireplace. Liddell crouched in the shadow of the underbrush, cased the building. There were no lights, no sign of life. He crouched there in the shadows for what seemed like hours, could only have been seconds. There was no sound other than the rustle of leaves and the peculiar song of some night-singing insect. Still he saw no evidence of life in the lodge.

  He crouched low, and taking as much advantage of the underbrush and shrubbery as possible, he started toward the house. Every few feet he stopped, straining his ears and eyes against the wall of darkness that separated him from the lodge.

  Suddenly, he stopped, all senses alert. Subconsciously he was aware of an alien sound, the sound of a twig snapped, a stone dislodged. He slid his hand under his jacket, felt the reassuring cold steel of the .45, pulled it out. He crouched in the shadow of the shrubbery, listened intently.

  Then he heard it again. It was the sound of quick footsteps behind him. He was far too late in swinging around. There was a hissing roar of sound. He tried to spin, to fall away from what was coming. It hummed like an angry bumblebee, exploded on the side of his head with the blinding brilliance of a flare. The .45 slipped from his limp fingers, clattered to the ground. There was another swish, another display of pyrotechnics in the back of his skull, and he went to his knees.

  Liddell tried to still the roaring in his ears, fought his way to his feet. He tried to lash out, but his arms were leaden, useless. He stumbled forward, his knees folded under him, and the ground rushed up, hit him in the face.

  • • •

  The sound of voices penetrating the fog that swirled through his brain persuaded Liddell that he was still alive. His head spun and his senses reeled sickeningly. The voices were no more than a rasping cacophony of sound that grated on his nerves. He tried to separate the words, but they were like heavy liquid, all run together, making no sense, having no meaning, merely rasping on his nerves.

  He struggled to get his eyes open, but the black pit that had enveloped him yawned again. A sharp ache started behind his ear, seared its way through his brain, came to rest in the back of his eyes, blinding him. He moved his head and nausea enveloped him. The blackness flowed closer and the voices receded to a distant whisper. He tried to cry out, but it came out of his throat as no more than a hollow groan.

  His next snatch of consciousness came with the sickening sensation of motion. He had the feeling of being suspended in air, bouncing jerkily through space in nerve-shattering bounds. Above him he could see a patch of sky, an occasional limb of a tree. He tried weakly to squirm, but his feet and arms seemed gripped in a vise.

  Struggling only brought back the nausea, and the sky and tree branches above dissolved into a bright smear of lights and vivid colors. Once again, the blackness flowed over Liddell, erasing all consciousness.

  It seemed as though endless time must have passed when consciousness again came knocking at his skull. He awakened to a rough hand shaking his shoulder. He groaned hollowly, opened his eyes, stared stupidly into a face distinguished by a badly scrambled nose.

  “It’s the fairy prince, Sleeping Beauty,” Maxie growled at him. “It’s time to wake up. Or am I suppose to kiss you — with this?” He waved a leather-thonged sap under Liddell’s nose.

  The private detective tried to focus his eyes, but had difficulty in keeping them from rolling back into his head. When he finally got them under control, he could make out Yale Stanley standing behind Maxie.

  They were in what appeared to be the living-room of a rustic lodge. The walls were paneled with random-width pine, a huge fieldstone fireplace took up most of one wall. Above the exposed beams red and blue Mexican serapes added color to th
e room. He rolled his eyes back to the man leaning over him.

  “What’s the matter, peeper?” Maxie sneered. “Can’t you take it?”

  Liddell made a stab at a grin but succeeded only in twisting his face into an ugly grimace. “I must be getting old,” he gasped.

  Yale Stanley caught Maxie by the shoulder, pulled him aside, stepped in front of Liddell. He wasn’t as dapper as the last time the private detective had seen him — in his office at the Dude Ranch. His carefully shellacked hair now showed signs of being mussed, and there were blue-black bristles glinting from his chin and upper lip.

  “Keep on being as nosy as you are and you won’t get much older, Liddell,” the gambler growled. “How’d you find us here?”

  “I read tea leaves.”

  The gambler’s thin lips spread back from his teeth. “A tough guy, eh?” He slashed out with the flat of his hand, slammed Liddell’s head backward. “The way I hear it you’ll be doing all your communicating by Ouija board, tough guy. How’d you get here?”

  Liddell lay on his back on the floor, breathing heavily through his mouth. His eyes were closed.

  Stanley stepped closer, bent down over him. He kicked him in the ribs lightly, kept kicking until Liddell opened his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question, Liddell.”

  Liddell shook his head weakly.

  “Let me have a crack at it, Yale. I got ways of making bashful guys open up. I open them up real wide,” Maxie promised.

  “Not yet. I want him to be able to talk.” The gambler stood over Liddell, looked down at him.

  “I owe him plenty, Yale,” the broken-nosed man snarled.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll give him to you for Christmas. Just don’t break him into pieces before I’m done with him.” He nodded down at Liddell. “Get him up in a chair.”

  Maxie glowered at the gambler, tried to outstare him, dropped his eyes. He growled deep in his chest, reached over, caught Liddell by the lapels, dragged him to his feet, and dumped him into a chair.