by Ed McBain
The big man's jaw dropped. “You crazy? You said yourself you heard the shot. What are you trying to pull, Liddell?"
Liddell grinned humorlessly. “Shows how dumb I really am. I thought it was a shot.” He looked at Murphy. “That's what I was supposed to think. That way it set the time of the kill and gave some people an alibi."
"Look, Liddell,” Murphy growled. “I can account for every minute of my time. From show break at eleven right through to—"
"Nice big place you've got here,” Liddell cut him off. “Living room, couple of bedrooms. A study, too?"
The big man's eyes narrowed. “Get to the point."
"I'll bet the study's pretty well set up. Ping pong, maybe. Big leather chairs. The works, eh?"
"There a law against being comfortable? What's the furnishing of my study got to do with it?"
"Everything. Once I learned you'd spent years in radio.” Liddell took a swallow from his glass, watched the other man over the rim. “You know how some sound effects men fake the sound of a shot on a live mike, Murph? They smack leather with a ping pong paddle. It makes a better shot than live ammo."
The good looks of the big man had disappeared. His lips straightened out into thin, bloodless lines; hard lumps formed at the sides of his mouth. “Go on."
"You and Claire disappeared into the study for awhile. Some way you got her to make that call, probably told her it was a practical joke. Then you set out to get her drunk. But not drunk enough, because she tumbled to the connection when I popped in here to break the news."
Murphy's hand dipped into his jacket pocket. When it re-appeared, he had a snubnosed .38 in his fist. “But why should I kill Lane? She was my meal ticket. Besides, I was forty minutes away. Forty minutes, Liddell."
"She was already dead when you picked the girls up at the stage door. You didn't have to go out there. All you had to do was try to establish the time it happened. And you almost got away with it."
"That's not what the police think. They've got your boy Tate measured for it, and—"
"No more. They know he was sapped before he was shot in the back. You want to know something else? That gun of Lane's had a faulty breech. It spit back nitrates when it was fired. Lane's hand gave a negative reaction to the paraffin test. Yours won't."
"You haven't given me a reason why I should kill her,” Murphy grated through clenched teeth. “Go on, show me how smart you are."
"If I were smart, I would have tumbled long ago. Those diamonds you were supposed to be buying up for her. They were phonies, weren't they? You knew you had to put up, but it was a cinch either Lane or Arms would spot them. Either way it was curtains. You had to see to it that the diamonds disappeared before the deal went through.” He scowled at the gun in the big man's hand. “I should have known there was something fishy about the deal when you paid the retainer in cash and made such a big deal about nobody knowing Tate was bodyguarding your client."
Murphy nodded. “You're as smart as I thought I was."
"Why'd you kill the redhead, Murph?"
The big man shrugged. “I had to. Anyway, what's the difference after you've killed once?” He wiped his upper lip with the side of his left hand. “She guessed the phone call was intended to set up a phony alibi. She tried to put the shake on me deeper than I was willing to go. I lost my temper and hit her with a bottle.” He licked at his lips with the tip of his tongue. “All I had to do was get her down to my car and dump her some place where it'd look like a hit-and-run. I've carted dames out of here in worse condition. No one paid any attention."
"And now?"
"The last act. You."
Liddell watched the finger whiten on the trigger. “A sucker play. You can't get away with knocking me off. You'll tip the whole story."
The big man shook his head, twisted the bloodless lips into a caricature of a grin. “You wouldn't, I suppose? I'll get away with it. Too bad you won't be here to see it."
"They'll never buy it."
"Why not? You came up here, admitted you followed the redhead home and killed her because she heard you admit to me that you killed Lane. It might sound thin, but you won't be in any condition to contradict it, and—"
The glass filled with liquor left Liddell's hand, streaked for the big man's face. Murphy tried to duck away, started squeezing the trigger. Slugs bit chunks of plaster out of the wall near Liddell's head. Murphy screamed and pawed at his eyes as the raw liquor burned into them. He tried to raise the gun again, but he didn't get it to firing level.
Liddell moved in relentlessly. He hit the big man's wrist with the side of his hand. The gun clattered to the floor from nerveless fingers. Liddell slammed his fist against the side of the man's jaw, sent him reeling backwards. He followed up, backhanded Murphy's head into position, then took the fight out of him with an uppercut to the midsection.
Murphy went down, trying to catch Liddell around the knees. The private detective sidestepped, kicked him in the face, knocked him flat on his back. The big man lay there, moaning, pink-tinged bubbles forming between his lips.
Liddell walked to the big desk against the wall, dialled the number of the Carport Police Department. After a moment, he was connected with Lieutenant Murray in homicide. Briefly, he outlined the story as he knew it.
He could hear the sound of a sharp intake of breath from the other end. Then, after a moment, “Will he sign a statement?” Murray wanted to know.
"I haven't asked him yet,” Liddell said. “I have an idea he will, though."
"Not if he's in his right mind,” the homicide man told him. “It's a pretty flimsy story to juice up an electric chair with."
Liddell grinned. “I've got an extra generator up my sleeve. When I hang up, I'm calling Arms and I'm telling him how Murphy tried to frame him for the Lane kill. Arms is a little sensitive about things like that. I've got an idea Murphy would prefer the law to Arms and his boys."
Murray chuckled. “Maybe he would at that. I'll send a couple of my boys in to pick him up.” There was a click as he broke the connection.
Murphy was moaning his way back to consciousness. Liddell walked over, caught him by the front of his shirt and dragged him to a chair. The agent was no longer dapper. His eyes were watery, the carefully combed hair hung lankly down over his face. He was sick, breathing noisily through a smashed nose.
Liddell buried his fingers in the man's hair, pulled his head back. “Listen carefully, you rat. I've notified both the cops and Arms. I told them what I know—that you tried to frame Arms for this kill. They're both sending a couple of boys for you. You understand?"
Murphy's eyes stopped rolling. He made a visible effort to focus them on the private detective's face. “You—you told Arms?"
Liddell grinned grimly. “Yeah. Take your pick, pal. If you haven't written out a full statement by the time the homicide boys get here, I'll see to it that they go home without you. I'll bet Arms’ torpedoes won't be discouraged that easily."
"Don't throw me to Arms, Liddell.” The pink bubbles formed and burst between his lips. “Get me a pen. I'll make a statement. Get me a pen."
"You're damned right you'll make a statement,” Liddell growled. “Get on your feet."
Murphy looked up at him, licked his lips, stumbled to his feet. He stood there swaying.
"This is for the kid, Murph.” He slammed his fist against the big man's mouth. There was the sound of crunching teeth. The big man went staggering backward and fell across a table.
"You won't be needing teeth where you're going."
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DOUBLE by BRUNO FISCHER
The girl woke up gradually. I didn't shake her or say her name. I just stood at the side of the bed looking down at her.
Holly Laird, a smalltime actress, but she could have been Martha seven years ago. That stubborn little chin and that trick of a nose, but mostly the hair.
Hair that lay spread like gold on the pillow.
Actresses slept late. It w
as close to ten in the morning and the sun was high, streaming in through the east window and touching her face. She brought up an arm as if trying to brush the sunlight away; her other hand pushed down the blanket to her waist. Her breasts were beautiful, and the rose-colored nightgown did hardly anything to cover them.
Martha used to go in for nightgowns like that, fragile and transparent. I remembered how I used to watch Martha asleep beside me—how mornings I would prop myself up on one elbow and never take my eyes off her.
'Three years of marriage and being crazy in love with her, and then Martha had run off with another man—a public accountant, of all things, a skinny guy I could have broken in two with one hand but never got a chance to. And now it was as if I'd gone back through all the years and I was looking at her in bed, and the bitterness seized me, welling up in my throat so I almost choked.
Holly Laird's eyelids fluttered. I'd made no sound; in sleep she must have sensed me standing there. I took a step back from the bed, and suddenly she was staring at me. Her eyes went wider and wider.
I didn't tell her there was no reason to be scared. I wanted her to be scared, to start her off with a taste of shock that would make her plenty jittery.
Then she came all the way awake and her breasts stirred as she let out her breath. “You're the detective,” she said. “The one who asked me most of the questions at the police station yesterday."
"That's right, miss. Gus Taylor. I'm in charge of the case."
I sat down. It was a small apartment—one cramped room and bath and kitchenette. She rented it furnished. I had found out a lot about her.
"But how did you get in?” she said. “I'm sure I locked the door."
"I got in."
She sat up. “Picked the lock or used a passkey, I suppose. You ... ! Even though you're a policeman, you have no right ... “
In the dresser mirror I could see myself sitting with my hands curved over my knees. They were big hands, strong hands. I was proud of their strength. I was a big, hard guy who didn't take anything from anybody, and I was proud of that, too.
"I don't stand on ceremony with murderers,” I said.
"But I told you and told you I didn't kill him."
"Yeah, you told me."
I smiled at her. She glanced down at herself sitting up in bed and she saw how little of her the bodice covered and how the rest of her from the waist up shimmered rosy through the rose-colored nylon. She snatched up the blanket to her throat.
"What do you want?” she demanded.
"You know damn well, miss. The truth. Night before last you pushed a knife into John Ambler's heart."
"No!"
I took out a cigarette and slowly turned it in my fingers. She watched me with blue eyes—the same shade as Martha's. Or Martha's had been a bit lighter. It was hard to remember exactly after so long.
After a silence Holly Laird said tartly, “I'd like to get dressed."
I put a light to my cigarette and didn't move from the chair facing the bed and didn't say anything.
"So it's a form of third degree?” she said. “You're going to sit there and sit there."
"Only till you tell me you killed him."
"You're so sure, aren't you?"
I said, “It figures, miss. Let me tell you how close it figures so you'll know you can't hold out. You're a smalltown girl who got the acting bug. Like thousands of others. You went to New York to set Broadway on its ear. The nearest you got to a stage was when you bought a ticket to a show. But in New York you met John Ambler, who spent a lot of time there because he was backing a play. What they call an angel. You got chummy with him."
"Acquainted, that was all."
"I know how girls who want to get on the stage get acquainted with rich angels. And I know a thing or two about the late John Ambler. He has a good-looking wife, but I hear he likes to play outside the homestead, especially with young actresses. That was why he went in for backing plays on Broadway, and here in his home town he's the big money behind the repertory theater. So he brought you here to Coast City and told the director to give you big parts in the different plays they put on every few weeks."
"I earned every role. I can act."
"Maybe. But there are lots of others can act and don't get leading parts right off, not even in a small-city theater like ours. George Hoge, the director, says Ambler ordered him to use you no matter what. Ambler's the angel, so Hoge had to do it. And if I knew Ambler he kept wanting payment from you. He was that kind of a guy."
"But I'm not that kind of girl."
I laughed harshly in my throat. Nobody could tell me anything about women. I'd been through it; I knew. They were every last one of them like Martha.
"Besides,” Holly said, “everybody in the theater can tell you I'm in love with Bill Burnett. Doesn't that prove I wasn't carrying on an affair with Mr. Ambler?"
"All it proves is you're like the rest of ‘em."
"The rest of who?"
"Two-timing bitches,” I said, and took a drag at the cigarette. “All right, let's see about Burnett. Mostly he took you home after the show. But not the night before last. He's on the stage till the final curtain, but you're through before the last scene. You left with Ambler. Witnesses saw you go."
"I never denied I went with him. I told you yesterday I had a headache. It was killing me; I could hardly remember my lines. I asked George Hoge if I could leave before the curtain call. Mr. Ambler happened to be backstage and heard me and offered to drive me home."
"Neat. Ambler happened to be backstage. Happened to drive you home. Happened to get himself murdered while you were in the car with him. How dumb do you think cops are?"
She cowered against the headboard of the bed, but she wasn't anywhere near breaking. Those blue eyes of hers were defiant. She said, “He dropped me off at the house and drove away."
"Drove away?” I caught her up on that. “Then how come in the morning his car was still down there in the street in front of the building and he was slumped over the wheel with a knife wound in his heart? Answer me: how come?"
"I don't know."
"You said he drove away."
"Well, I didn't actually see his car move off. I assumed he left after I got out."
"You assumed!” I pointed the cigarette at her. “He never drove away because he couldn't. The medical examiner says he was stabbed by somebody sitting on his right, beside him in the front seat of his car. No sign of a struggle. It had to be somebody he knew, somebody he was talking to or necking with. Maybe somebody he was kissing when the knife was slipped into his heart. In other words, you."
Her head jerked as if I'd hit her. “But what reason would I have had? You can't find any."
"That's another thing you'll tell me before I'm through with you. Let's try it like this. You really love this pretty-boy actor, Bill Burnett, and you tried to call it quits with Ambler. But Ambler wouldn't play. You're something special in looks; I can say that much for you. He said he'd tell Burnett you'd been sleeping with him. You had to stop him. You stopped him with a knife.” I flicked ashes on the floor. “Yeah, the more I think of that motive, the better I like it."
She stared at me. “You sound as if you're anxious for me to be guilty."
I stopped looking at her. I muttered, “I'm doing my job, that's all,” and rubbed my sweaty hands on my thighs.
2.
This was one of these cases where you had nothing to go on but what you figured out in your head. No clues you could take to the laboratory. Fingerprints in the car were mostly smudges or belonged to people who'd had an excuse for having been in the car—Ambler's, of course, and Mrs. Ambler's and Holly Laird's. As for the knife, the killer had pulled it out and disposed of it where probably we'd never find it. There had been no blood spattered because heart wounds that kill instantly don't bleed to amount to anything.
Nothing but circumstantial evidence, and how did you make it stick without a confession?
"At least,” she said, �
��let me put on my robe."
Damn her, sitting there so calmly with her golden hair like Martha's rippling down to her shoulders! Calmer than I was.
I stood up. My hands were sweating more and more and I felt them shake.
"You killed him!” I yelled at her. “Admit it, you killed him!"
Holly looked me in the eye. She said quietly, “You've been wrong about everything."
I could make her talk. I'd done it with others. I'd taken tough guys down to the basement room in headquarters and after a while they talked their hearts out. I couldn't do it with her because she was a dame. The Skipper didn't approve much of rough stuff anyway—and she was a dame.
This was my case. I was the detective of record. I'd be goddamned if I'd let a dame get away with murder just because she was a dame.
"You killed him!"
"No.".
My hands went to her. I didn't reach out for her; my hands just went to her. She tried to jerk away and the blanket slipped down a little way and my hand was on a bare shoulder. I felt the smooth, warm skin, and my fingers contracted.
"Say it, bitch! You killed him!"
Sounds trickled past her lips, but she wasn't trying to utter the words I wanted to hear, or any words at all. A scream of pain was building up in her throat. I clamped my other hand over her mouth and kept grinding her shoulder. I have very strong hands; it must have hurt like hell. She clawed at my arms and writhed on the bed and her eyes rolled in their sockets.
"You sat in the car with him and put the knife in him. By God, you'll say it!"
Her heaving torso and her wildly kicking legs pushed the blanket down about her knees. A blur of white skin and rose-colored nightgown thrashed on the bed and I could feel her screaming soundlessly against my hand.
Suddenly I let go of her. I stepped back from the side of the bed, and I was very tired. It didn't make sense. Me, strong as an ox, and this little effort had pooped me.
She was crying. The blanket was over her again and I could see the outlines of her body curled up in a ball and her hand massaging her shoulder.
Tears never bothered me. “Talk,” I said, “if you don't want more of the same."
