
This page formatted 2005 Blackmask Online.
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Johnny Liddel was grimly determined to get to the fat gang leader, who twice now had sent killers wtih tommyguns after the private eye. What really griped Liddell was that he had no idea what Capolla had against him. But in a few minutes now he'd either know or be dead. And he wasn't taking any bets on which it would be.
Dedication: To my brother Vin, who acts as Technical advisor on this series
Johnny Liddell perched on a barstool at Mike's Deadline, added to the gray fog that swirled lazily near the ceiling. He watched the creative geniuses of the advertising agencies that filled the neighboring skyscrapers stock up on extra inspiration to go back to their trade of geniusing. He discovered his own glass was empty, signaled for a refill.
The bartender made a production of selecting a cognac bottle from the back shelf, filled his glass to the brim.
"What do you hear from that cute little blonde you used to run around with, Liddell?" the bartender wanted to know.
"Muggsy? I guess she's gone Hollywood on me, Mike. Haven't heard in a couple of weeks. Her old man tells me she's been working on a new picture out there." He dropped a bill on the bar, watched the bartender pick it up, replace it with a dime and a nickel. "Ain't that a helluva fate for a good newspaperwoman?"
"It's better than working," the bartender grunted.
Somewhere a phone shrilled, and the man behind the bar shuffled off to answer it. Liddell regarded his full glass morosely, considered the advisability of opening a Hollywood office. He decided against it, debated the alternative of making a pass at his redheaded secretary, got a momentary lift out of the prospect, decided he was looking for trouble.
"It's for you, Liddell," the bartender called from the other end of the bar.
Liddell grabbed his glass, shouldered his way to where the bartender stood holding the receiver. "My office?"
The bartender shrugged, shuffled back to his station behind the bar.
"Yeah?" Liddell asked the mouthpiece.
"You better get on back to the office, Johnny. Sounds like some business coming our way. A dame called twice within fifteen minutes. Has to talk to you."
Liddell groaned. "Not another dog-poisoning case?"
"Didn't sound like it," she told him. "This babe sounded like she was in real trouble. Wouldn't tell me who she was or where you could reach her. She said she'd call back in fifteen minutes. That means you'd better finish that glass you've got in your hand pronto."
"What do you mean, glass in my hand?"
She laughed at him. "This is Pinky, boss. What do you think I mean by glass in your hand?" The receiver clicked in his ear.
The redhead was in the outer office stabbing away at a typewriter when he came in. She looked up, shook her head. "Hasn't called back yet, but it should be any second now." She grinned maliciously. "I hope I didn't break up anything?"
Liddell scowled at her, stamped into his private office, dropped into his chair. He grimaced at the pile of correspondence on his desk.
The phone rang exactly six minutes after he'd gotten back. The voice on the other end sounded breathless.
"Mr. Liddell?"
"That's right. Who's this?"
"Jean Merritt. I've been trying to reach you for the past hour."
Liddell nodded. "I've been on a case. What's it all about?"
There was a pause, then a low, tense voice.
"Murder."
"Whose?"
"My father. Matt Merritt. They've been able to make it look like suicide, Mr. Liddell, but I know he's been murdered. I want you to get the proof."
"Have you gone to the police with this?"
"I can't. They're watching me. If they knew I was talking to you they'd kill me."
Liddell scratched the side of his jaw. "Can you come over here and talk it over?"
"I wouldn't dare."
"Where are you now?"
She hesitated. "I'm at the Hotel Westmore. But please don't come here, Mr. Liddell. They'd know and my life wouldn't be worth a dime."
Liddell scowled at the phone. "I've got to see you. If you won't come here and I can't go there where'll it be?"
"Can't we meet on the outside some place? By tonight I may be able to shake them long enough to meet you."
"At a bar?"
The voice was emphatic. "No. It's got to be in the open. Some place where I can be sure I'm not being followed."
"What time do you think you'll be able to make it?"
There was a pause. "Not before ten-thirty. Would that be too late?"
Liddell looked out the window over Bryant Park, groaned inwardly at the threatening cloudbanks over the Public Library. "I guess it'll have to do. Where'll it be?"
"Can you suggest a place? I don't know too much about this part of New York."
Liddell pulled his desk pad to the edge of the desk, scribbled a few notes on it. "There's an all-night drugstore at the corner of Lexington and Twenty-Eighth. How would that be?"
"I'll be there at ten-thirty," the receiver promised. "If I'm a little late, wait for me."
Liddell returned the receiver to its hook, glared at it. "Why is it that all the screwballs come to me?"
The redhead pursed her lips humorously. "Do you want me to answer that, Mr. Liddell?"
\*
Johnny Liddell yanked irritably on his coat collar, drew it closer to his face in a fruitless effort to stave off the pelting rain. He took a deep drag on the soggy cigarette he held cupped in his hand, fervently cursed the fate that had made him a private investigator.
The gleaming wet face of the jeweler's clock across the street put the time at twelve o'clock and the girl had been due at ten-thirty. He was painfully aware that he should have insisted on seeing her immediately when she called.
He took one last, deep drag on the cigarette, flipped it toward the gutter, sloshed into the all-night drugstore whose awning had given him questionable refuge from the driving rain. A tired-looking, middle-aged clerk looked up from the morning tabloid as Liddell walked in, made a halfhearted attempt to wipe the boredom out of his eyes, sighed as the detective passed him on his way to the row of phone booths, dropped his eyes back to the newspaper he had been reading.
Liddell flipped through the pages of the telephone directory, underscored a number with his thumbnail, fished a dime from his pocket. He stepped into the booth, dialed the number of the Hotel Westmore.
"Hotel Westmore, good evening," the metallic voice of the hotel operator responded.
"Not unless you're a duck," Liddell growled. "Let me talk to Miss Merritt's room."
The receiver giggled at him. "Whom did you wish, sir?"
"Miss Merritt. Miss Jean Merritt."
There was a brief pause. "Sorry, sir. I have no Miss Merritt on my register. I'll give you the front desk, sir." There was a click, then: "Stevens. Desk clerk speaking."
"Miss Jean Merritt."
"Sorry, sir. Miss Merritt has checked out."
"Checked out? Where'd she go?"
"We don't have that information, sir.
Liddell tossed the receiver on its hook, rubbed the heel of his hand along the stubble on his chin, scowled at the instrument. He fished another dime from his pocket, dialed the number of his office. After a moment, the answering service came on.
"Mr. Liddell's office," the receiver chanted.
"This is Liddell. Any calls?"
"Just one, Mr. Liddell. Your secretary. She wants you to call her as soon as you check in."
Liddell made the third call, heard Pinky's sleepy voice at the other end of the phone. "What time is it, anyway?" She yawned.
"Wouldn't it be easier for you to get a clock than to have me calling in the middle of the night?"
"Very funny," the girl retorted. "It just so happens that I expected you to be checking in before you kept the date with the Merritt girl. I wanted to tell you we got a check for five hundred dollars as a retainer from her right after you left."
"How'd it come?"
"Western Union messenger. How'd it go? With her, I mean?"
"It didn't. She didn't show up. I thought she might have called to call it off or something."
The receiver laughed at him. "You must be soaked."
"Instead of laughing at me, you ought to invite me to drop by and get out of my wet clothes into a dry Martini."
"It might be arranged. If you promise to be nice and quiet and not annoy the neighbors. After all, what would they think if they saw a strange man dropping by at this hour?"
"Nothing strange about me. I'm the most normal guy you ever saw. See you in a little while."
He hung up the phone, started for the door. He had almost reached it when he noticed the black sedan idling at the curb. He caught a dull glint of motion in the back seat, dived for the counter, and hugged the floor.
The snub nose of a submachine gun poked out of the rear window of the car and started raking the store with buzzing death. Little boxes danced off the shelves, glass crashed, and a neat line of holes appeared on the wall over Liddell's head as if by magic. He tugged the .45 from its shoulder holster, focused all his attention on the front door.
There was a sudden letup in the monotonous rhythm of the tommy gun. A man appeared in the doorway. He was tall, thin, the coat collar of his dark overcoat pulled up around his face. He held two .38 specials in his hands. Before his roving eyes could pick out Liddell, the private detective fired, the .45 sounding like a cap pistol after the shattering blast of the tommy gun.
The man in the doorway staggered back as the heavy slugs hit him. The guns in his hands started belching orange flames, and Liddell could see the slugs chew bits out of the counter near his head.
He raised the .45 deliberately, aimed at the gunman's midsection, squeezed the trigger. The man's body jerked as the heavy slugs rammed into it. He folded his hands across his belly, went to his knees, then slid out, full length, on his face.
Liddell crawled across the debris to where he could command a view of the street. The sedan was beginning to roll away from the curb, its rear window belching a renewed rain of flame and death.
In the rear window of the car Liddell caught a momentary glimpse of a gross, fat face, with thick pouting lips and a flabby neck that bulged over its collar. He had barely time to catalogue for future reference the beady little eyes, buttressed by heavy pouches, that peered down the barrel of the tommy gun.
Somewhere in the distance a police siren moaned.
The gun stopped coughing abruptly, leaving a silent void that was almost deafening. Liddell was on his feet and into the street in time to see the heavy sedan lurching round the nearest corner. He flung two parting shots after it, was reloading when the police car skidded to a stop at the curb.
"Okay, Jesse James," a gruff voice commanded. "Drop the artillery and turn around real slow so's we can take a look at you."
Liddell obediently let the .45 slip to the sidewalk. He turned to face a uniformed policeman who was scrambling from the police car, riot gun in hand.
"Having fun, buster?" the cop asked. His eyes roved beyond Liddell to the wrecked front of the drugstore. "Looks like you've had a busy night."
"Plenty busy. Mostly ducking." Liddell grinned bleakly.
"Just an innocent bystander, eh?" The cop's eyes picked out the body of the thin man lying in the doorway, face down. "He wasn't so good at ducking, no doubt?" He motioned Liddell back against the store front with the snout of the riot gun, walked over, picked up the .45. "I'll keep this guy covered, Ray," he called over his shoulder to his partner who was covering him from the rear. "Better have a look at the guy in the doorway."
"This wasn't my party, bud," Liddell told the cop placidly. "Like you said, I'm just an innocent bystander."
The cop grinned frostily, hefted Liddell's .45 in his hand. "You probably just wear this so's your coat will hang straight, no doubt?"
"It's licensed," Liddell told him. "I'm a private op. Name's Johnny Liddell. I have my papers here if you'd like to see them." He motioned toward his breast pocket, froze when the cop's finger tightened on the trigger of the riot gun.
"If I was you and I wanted to keep breathing, I wouldn't make no sudden moves like that," the cop advised. "When I want to see your papers I'll come get them."
The second cop kneeled beside the body of the thin man, turned him over, grunted. "This is a job for the meat wagon, Ed." He got up, brushed off the knees of his blue pants. "Stopped three big ones." He walked over, joined his partner. "What size iron he packing?"
"A forty-five."
The second cop nodded. "That would do it."
"He says he's a private eye." The cop with the riot gun didn't take his eyes off Liddell. "Has a license and everything, he says. Maybe we ought to have a look at it while we're waiting."
The second cop stepped over to Liddell, careful not to come between him and his partner's gun, reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a wallet. He riffled through the credentials, copied off a few notations into a large leather notebook. "Better take a long, fond look at these, pal." He grinned at Liddell. "I got an idea you won't be having this license very long."
"Since when is it against the law to stop a guy who's out to burn you down?" Liddell was unimpressed. "Besides the guy in the car with the tommy gun, this gunsel was out looking for me with two thirty-eights."
"Save the song for the inspector, pal. He's got a real ear for sad music."
Liddell shrugged. "Suits me. Only don't you think somebody ought to get in there and look after the clerk?"
"Clerk? In there?" The cop flicked a worried look at the wreckage of the store.
"There was one in there when the guitar serenade started. Maybe it might be an idea to dig him out from under all those aspirins and feed him a couple."
Inspector Herlehy sat behind an oversized, varnished desk in his office at headquarters, eyeing Johnny Liddell without enthusiasm. He chomped methodically on a wad of gum. "Suppose you come clean on this one, Johnny. You know I don't like trouble in my division."
Liddell shrugged. "I don't know any more than what I told your men, inspector. I was making a telephone call. When I came out of the booth, I spotted this car out front. They let go with a tommy gun and I hit the floor."
Herlehy scowled, made an impatient gesture. "And the guy in the doorway died of old age waiting for you to come out?"
"No. He wasn't the patient kind. He came to get me. That was a mistake."
"You should have shown him your press clippings. He didn't know how tough you are." The inspector reached over, pulled a typewritten sheet from his correspondence basket, scowled at it. "It's a lucky thing for you the clerk in that store backs you up on most of it. But he also says you were hanging around out front for a couple of hours before the shooting started. What for?"
Liddell fished through his pockets, brought up a pack of cigarettes, held them up for approval. "Okay to smoke?"
The inspector nodded impatiently, tapped stubby fingers on the arm of his chair, watched Liddell deliberately hang a cigarette from the corner of his mouth. "I asked you what you were hanging around that store for, Liddell?"
"I was supposed to meet somebody there. They were late."
"Anyone I know?"
"I don't know if I'm at liberty to discuss my client, inspector. I'm working on a case."
Herlehy leaned across the desk. His voice was dangerously low. "Look, shamus. I'm not interested in your client or any case you're working on. I am interested in the fact that some hoodlums decided to shoot up my district. I want to know who they are and why they did it."
"So do I, inspector."
Herlehy pulled himself from behind his desk, stamped over to the water cooler in the corner, half filled a paper cup, drained it. "Who handled that tommy gun tonight, Liddell?"
Liddell shrugged. "I don't know."
The inspector nodded, crushed the paper cup in his huge hand, threw it at the wastebasket. "Okay, if that's the way you want it. I've played along with you in the past because you leveled with me. You know me well enough to know that I'm not just sounding off when I tell you that if you're holding out on me on this, I'll break you, license and all."
"And I tell you I'm not holding out."
"Okay. Let's go over it again." Herlehy stamped back to his chair behind the desk. "What were you doing there?"
"Waiting for a client."
The man behind the desk snorted, banged the desk with his fist. "What's the matter with your office? Don't you pay your rent?"
"My client didn't want to come to the office. She didn't want anybody to know she had hired me."
"I don't blame her." Herlehy leaned back, studied Liddell. "She, eh? What is this case you're supposed to be on?"
Liddell took a deep drag from the cigarette, let the smoke dribble lazily from his nostrils. "It's confidential, inspector."
Herlehy looked tired. A V-shaped crease was between his brows, his cold eyes were steady, searching, his face serious. "This can be a tough rap for you if I want to stack it up that way, Johnny," he said. "We've got a guy on ice wearing three of your slugs for a belt buckle. That license you carry is an investigator's license, not a hunting-license." He spoke flatly, no malice or emotion evident in his tone. "I don't want to have to throw the book at you, but I'm going to know what's going on in my district no matter who gets stepped on."
Liddell took a drag from the cigarette, held it in his lungs, let it drift from his lips. He returned the inspector's stare impassively.
"Suppose we start again from the beginning." Herlehy didn't miss a stroke on his gum. "Who were you supposed to meet tonight?"
"A client."
"What was her name?"
Liddell sighed. "I don't think you could make a rap stick on me, inspector, and I don't think you think you can, either."
"Don't make me prove it, shamus."
Liddell dropped his cigarette to the floor, ground it out with his heel. "I'm going to make an exception of this one, inspector, and tell you some of my client's business. But not because of anything you think you can do to me."
"Because you like the way I part my hair, no doubt?"
"Because I think I'll need some help before this is over."
Herlehy smiled frostily. "That's damned decent of you, Liddell. Who is this elusive client?"
"Her name's Merritt. Jean Merritt."
The V-crease was back between the inspector's brows. He leaned back in his chair, regarded Liddell through lowered lids. "Any relation to Matt Merritt?"
"His daughter."
Herlehy nodded, indicated for Liddell to continue.
"She called me yesterday afternoon. Wanted the agency to look into her old man's death."
"Give me a better one, Liddell. Her old man committed suicide."
Liddell shrugged. "She doesn't think so. She's convinced he was murdered."
The man behind the desk scratched at his scalp through thick white hair, stared down at his fingernails.
"Why didn't she come to your office?"
"Scared. Thinks the old man's killer is keeping an eye on her. She didn't want to tip that she was having the case reopened."
Herlehy rolled his eyes upward from his nails to Liddell's face. "But she didn't show, after all?"
"I waited from ten-thirty until twelve, then I called her hotel. She'd disappeared. Checked out with no forwarding address."
"So?"
Liddell shrugged. "So maybe she was right. Maybe someone did want to keep her from having the case reopened."
The inspector snorted. "Just because she decided to change hotels? There's a hundred reasons why she should check out---and none of them sound like what you say." Herlehy pulled a pad to the corner of the desk. "Who was the hood in the car, Johnny?"
"I don't know. I told you that, inspector."
Herlehy tossed the pencil down on the desk disgustedly. "You don't know. Some guy takes the trouble to spray enough lead at you to sink a battleship and you don't know who it was or why."
"I think it's tied up with Jean Merritt's check-out. Somebody found out she contacted me and wants to discourage me from taking on the case."
Herlehy snorted.
"All right," Liddell growled. "Then you tell me."
"I will. Just as soon as I have the answer," Herlehy promised grimly. "Only then it will be too late for you to cooperate."
Liddell stood up angrily, leaned over the desk, feet a little apart, broad shoulders slouching, balled fists jammed deep in his jacket pockets. "I'm getting a little tired of all the snide remarks about my holding out, inspector. I'm no newcomer around here. You know the way I operate. And you know me well enough to know that when I say I'm not holding out, I'm not holding out."
"You still insist the only reasons these hoods tossed lead at you was to scare you off the Merritt case?"
"I still insist."
"Happen to know who the guy is you gunned out tonight?"
"I didn't have time to get introduced," Liddell growled.
"Mike Scoda. Know him?"
Liddell nodded. "I've heard of him. You sure it was Scoda?"
"Checked his prints from the slab. It's Scoda, all right. How does he fit in with your Merritt case?"
Liddell pinched at his nose with thumb and forefinger. "I don't know where he fits. And I don't know who his buddy was, the guy who handled the typewriter. All I know is the dame was scared somebody was out to stop her from breaking this case open, and the minute I tackle it they start working me over."
The inspector leaned back, studied Liddell's angry face, nodded. "Okay. Maybe you are leveling---as far as you know. Maybe you really do believe all this ties in with Merritt's suicide. I don't."
"Then how do you figure it?"
"How do I know what you've been up to?" Herlehy grunted. "You might have moved in on some guy's gal, you might even have tried to ring in a pair of trained dice on somebody sensitive enough to discourage you from a repeat performance." He grinned slowly. "It doesn't take some guys as long to get unpopular as it does others, you know."
"Okay, okay. So I'll change my deodorant. But just to make sure I'm not just half safe---how about my gun back?"
Herlehy nodded, drew a pad out of his drawer, signed an authorization, slid it across the desk. "I'll play along with you until I find you've been crossing me, Johnny. If I do, you're going to wish you had stopped some of those slugs!"
\*
The Hotel Westmore was a huge, oppressively modern group of buildings overlooking Riverside Drive and the Hudson River beyond. The cabby swung his hack out of the slow-moving stream with such violence that it banged its front wheels against the curb, skidded to a stop. A heavily braided doorman scowled his disapproval at the driver, yanked open the door, waited while Liddell shoved a bill through the half-opened window.
He crossed the sidewalk, shouldered his way through a chromed revolving door, entered a thickly carpeted lobby. A few upholstered chairs were occupied by baggyeyed men wearing expensive-looking suits, Countess Mara ties, and the morning tabloids.
Liddell walked the block-long length of the lobby to an ornate registration desk, submitted to the scrutiny of a thin, lantern-jawed young man with a carnation in his dark suit, asked for the house detective. The clerk gave him a startled look, stared up at the clock above the desk that said 2:30 a.m., returned reproachful eyes to the detective. "Now?"
"Now."
The clerk signaled for a bellboy, gave him instructions in a low voice. The bellboy turned a pair of wise, old-young eyes on Liddell, nodded.
"This way, mister."
He led him to the end of the registration desk, turned left to a group of executive offices, knocked on a door the second from the end. A heavy voice invited them in.
A grayhaired man in a dark suit smiled at them, nodded for the bellboy to leave. When the door had closed behind him, he turned to Liddell. The smile was still on his face, but his eyes were cold, searching. "Now, what can we do for you, sir?"
Liddell dropped into a chair on the far side of the desk. "I was looking for some information." He brought out his credentials, tossed them across the desk. "I was hoping Lee Cassidy would be on."
The man picked up the credentials, riffled through them. "Cassidy's on the day shift this month. We rotate. Know him well?"
"Worked on a few cases with him while he was still on the force."
The grayhaired man finished with the credentials, shoved them back across the desk. "So you're Johnny Liddell?" The cool eyes studied him impersonally. "Heard about you."
"Good?"
"Good enough to help you if I can. Far's I know you're okay with the house."
Liddell picked up his papers, rearranged them, stowed them in his breast pocket. "I want some information about one of your guests. A check-out."
"Why?"
"She had a date with me at ten-thirty last night and didn't show. I checked here at midnight, but she was gone with no forwarding address."
The house officer blinked. "No bad publicity in it for the house?"
"No publicity," Liddell promised.
"What's the name?"
"Jean Merritt." Liddell watched while the grayhaired man jotted the name on a slip of paper. "I want to know when she left, where she was going if possible, and a line on the car she left in."
"Make yourself comfortable. I'll see what I can do."
In a few minutes he was back. "I'm afraid this isn't going to be much good to you, Liddell." He referred to the slip of paper in his hand. "Miss Merritt left the hotel at about ten last night, came back at ten-twenty with a man."
"A man? Anybody know him?"
The house detective shook his head. "Not that I could find." He referred back to his notes. "They went up to her room and she called down to have her bill made up, checked out about ten-fifty or so. The man paid the bill, left with her."
Liddell pinched irritably at his nostrils. "Left at about ten the first time, eh? She was supposed to meet me at ten-thirty. That would have given her plenty of time to keep the date."
The grayhaired man held out a humidor. When Liddell shook his head, he helped himself to a cigar, lit it. "Must have changed her mind."
"Somebody changed it for her. You sure nobody got a good look at this guy she was with?"
The house man took three quick puffs on the cigar, examined the burning end with elaborate interest. "I hope you haven't forgotten there would be no publicity about this, Liddell."
"I'm not looking for publicity. I'm looking for my client. You wouldn't be holding out?"
"Why should I?" The detective shrugged. "I'm not interested in covering up for your client or her boy friend. I'm just interested in keeping the name of the house out of the papers."
"How about the car she left in?"
"Had a little better luck there. We don't have much of a line playing the house after nine, so the doorman remembered putting her and the guy into a cab." He consulted the paper. "Driver's name was Leo Steinberg. He's a regular on the line."
"Can I see him?"
The grayhaired man nodded. "I passed the word to the starter to keep him there for you soon's he gets back. He's on a haul. Should be back any minute. You can wait in here if you like."
Liddell pulled himself out of his chair, reached over, shook hands with the house detective. "Thanks, but I think I'll have a little talk with the doorman while I'm waiting."
He walked through the elaborate lobby. None of the men in the armchairs had moved, still seemed to be reading the same pages of their tabloids.
The doorman's name was Harvey, and under the stimulus of a carefully folded five, he remembered that Miss Merritt and her boy friend didn't do any talking while they were waiting to load her bags in Steinberg's hack. No, that wasn't usual. She was in the habit of kidding with the doorman and the bellboys. Looked to him like she'd had a fight with the guy. What'd he look like? Skinny guy, dark coat. Not much to look at, didn't seem. No, couldn't rightly say he could identify him. Didn't pay that much attention.
A cab slid out of the line of cars heading across town toward the Drive, took its place at the end of a small line parked along the curb.
"That's Steinberg now, mister," the doorman told Liddell. He led the way down the line to the cab. A thin-faced man with a shock of light-colored hair grinned toothily as they approached. "Hi, Harvey." "This guy wants to ask you a couple questions, Leo." The doorman indicated Liddell. "He's interested in the Merritt dame."
The cabby looked Liddell over. "The who?"
"The Merritt dame," the doorman repeated patiently. "The one with all the bags. The check-out." He scratched his head, pursed his lips. "Musta been around eleven."
The cabby consulted his route card, underscored a notation with a grimy fingernail. "Oh, that one. What about her?"
"Where'd you take her, Leo?" Liddell wanted to know.
"Who'd you say this character is, Harvey?" the cabby demanded.
"Friend of the house dick." Harvey looked at Liddell, winked. "Leo figures his time is valuable, too, mister."
Liddell reached into his pocket, brought up a five. "That valuable?"
The cabby reached over, snared the bill, folded it lovingly. "Why didn't you say he was a friend, Harvey?" He grinned. "What was it you wanted to know, mister?"
"Where'd you take Miss Merritt and the man?"
"Corner of Madison and Forty-Fourth."
Liddell scowled over the information. "Across from the Biltmore, eh? Or the Roosevelt. No idea which one they went to?"
"Neither." The cabby shook his head. "There was a car waiting right alongside Wally Frank's there on Forty-Fourth. No lights. They transferred the bags into that."
Liddell groaned. "You didn't see the license plate?"
The cabby shook his head. "Too dark."
"What kind of a car was it?"
"A big black sedan. Looked like a Buick to me."
Liddell gnawed at his knuckle, nodded. "You say they transferred the bags and stuff to the black car?" The cabby nodded. "How about the girl? She seem to put up any fuss or anything?"
The cabby thought it over, shook his head. "She sat in the cab until they had all the bags in the other car. Then she got out with the skinny guy and got into it. They was still sitting there when I pulled away." He looked anxiously at Liddell. "I hope you got your dough's worth?"
"Oh, sure," Liddell assured him. "You couldn't have confused me more if I'd paid a hundred !"
At ten the following morning, Johnny Liddell irritably pushed open the ground-glass door that bore the caption Johnny Liddell--- Private Investigations, slammed it after him. The redhead sat at a desk in an enclosed space, stabbing listlessly at the keys of a large desk typewriter, taking excessive care not to fracture the finish on her carefully shellacked nails.
"Sorry about last night, Pink," he greeted her. "I got tied up."
She stopped jabbing at the typewriter keys, turned a pair of sea-green eyes on him. "So I read." She reached over, pulled a pile of paper toward her, extracted a clipping from the Dispatch. "I saved it for you."
Liddell grunted. "I don't have to read about it. I was there. Anything new?"
The redhead shook her head. "A couple of checks on old jobs. The check from Miss Merritt I already told you about. That's all."
"She hasn't phoned or anything?"
"Just the check. I put it through this morning." She watched him as he pushed through the railing gate, started for a door marked Private. "You've got company in there. Your little blond playmate. Said it was all right to wait inside." She shrugged. "It's okay with me if it's okay with you, but this is supposed to be a business office, and---"
"It's okay with me," Liddell cut her off.
The redhead sniffed audibly, went back to stabbing at the typewriter keys. Then, as Liddell closed his office door behind him, she tore the half-finished page out of the carriage, crushed it irritably, threw it at the wastebasket.
Inside the private office, Muggsy Kiely sat behind Liddell's desk, polishing her nails. "Hi, Johnny. Surprised to see me?"
Liddell grinned. "I thought you were going to stay on the Coast for a couple of months, Muggs." He walked around the desk, kissed her upturned lips. "When'd you get in?"
"This morning. On the Commodore. Looks like I timed it right. What's going on around here with all the boom-boom?"
"Damned if I know, Muggs," he admitted. "I was supposed to meet a client last night when these guys opened up on me with a tommy gun."
"Some client !" Muggsy grinned. "Who was it?"
"A dame named Merritt. Jean Merritt."
Muggsy Kiely grimaced, wrinkled her pert nose. "That screwball? How'd she get mixed up with a torpedo like Scoda?"
"I don't know that she is. I was supposed to meet her at ten-thirty on Lexington Avenue. She didn't show but the boys with the guitar did. Maybe there's no connection, but---"
The door to the outer office opened, the redhead stalked in, dropped a pile of letters on the desk, stalked out.
"What's with her?" Muggsy demanded.
"Pinky doesn't approve of your using my private office for a boudoir." He nodded toward the nail polish. "Thinks it unbusinesslike."
"I can't say the same for those sweaters she wears and the way she tosses those hips. They really do mean business!" Muggsy picked up the letters the redhead had typed, groaned. "Bad spelling, erasures, poor spacing. Why don't you get a secretary who can type, too?"
"Why don't you lay off Pinky? She's a good kid."
"She must be good, the way you baby her," Muggsy retorted. "Why don't you sit down, or doesn't that Rexall redhead approve of that, either?"
Liddell sighed, dragged the client's chair to the side .of the desk, dropped into it. He hooked his heels on the corner of the desk, leaned back. "I didn't know how good I had it last night when all I had to do was dodge bullets."
"What about last night, now that you mention it? Didn't Merritt show up at all?"
"She's disappeared."
A glimmer of interest flickered in the girl's eyes. "Now you're my boy." She reached for the telephone.
"Wait a minute, baby." Liddell pulled the phone out of her reach. "You can't use that yet. Anyway, I thought you were finished with newspaper work. What happened to that Great American Movie you were going to write?"
"I didn't like Hollywood, Johnny," Muggsy confessed. "I couldn't wait to get back to New York. Besides, Pop is still on the desk and he'd never forgive either of us if somebody beat him to this."
"Nobody's going to beat him to it."
"That's what you say. That dame's name is news. If she's disappeared and if she's tied into last night's shooting it's a corking yarn."
"Don't worry about it. Nobody knows she's disappeared except me and the house dick at the Westmore. And he's not likely to spill that one of the house's guests was snatched right out from under his nose. Every old biddy in the joint would check out in an hour."
Muggsy refused to be mollified. "I ought to cover Pop on this one, Johnny. I can't sit on anything as hot as this."
"You think this is hot? Before I'm finished I'll give you a story that'll make this look like kid stuff."
"What story?"
Liddell shrugged. "I haven't got it yet. You didn't even ask what she hired the agency for."
"With her it could be anything from finding her pet Pekinese to buying back love letters from the Tattooed Man at the circus. Okay, I'll play along. What did she hire the agency to do?"
"Find out who murdered her old man."
"Who murdered her old man? You kidding? Matt Merritt committed suicide."
Liddell shrugged. "Do me something. She thinks he was murdered."
Muggsy chewed on the end of a lacquered nail, considered it, shook her head. "I don't believe it. That may have been the reason she gave you, but there was something else behind it."
"Such as?"
"It could be anything, I tell you. With gunmen like Scoda in the picture it begins to smell like blackmail or unpaid IOU's, doesn't it?"
"I don't know enough about her," Liddell admitted. "Give me a fast rundown."
"She's a typical cafe society screwball. In one mess after another until her old man toned her down. Seems to me she's managed to stay out of the columns for the last year or so, but before that she was always in them. Seems to me she's due to get married this month."
"Who to?"
The blonde pursed her lips, wrinkled her brow in concentration. "The family doctor. Guy named----" She struggled with her memory, shook her head. "Let me check."
She picked up the phone, dialed a number, waited. Then, "Hello. Advance? Give me Ann Shafer on Society." There was a brief pause. "Ann? Ronny Kiely. Fine. No, I'm back in town for a while. Look, honey, my memory isn't what it was. Do you remember the guy Jean Merritt was going to marry"? Who? Yes, that's the one. Thanks a lot."
She dropped the phone back on its cradle. "Doctor Seville. Tony Seville. He took care of the old man."
"How about him?"
"Okay as far as I know. He didn't play the cellar circuit. How he ever came to fall for a screwball like the Merritt kid I don't know."
"That could be the answer."
"What?"
"The fiance. When she checked out of the Westmore last night, there was a man with her. He took care of the bill, took her away. From all I could pick up, she went willingly enough."
"If it was a man, she went willingly."
Liddell scowled, ignored the interruption. "He might have talked her out of keeping the appointment, taken her home."
"Why knock your brains out over it? If she didn't think enough of it to keep the appointment, why should you worry?"
"First, because she paid a five-hundred-dollar retainer and she's got some action coming to her. Second, because the guy she left the hotel with sounded like Scoda and the car they got into sounded like the one they used for the guitar serenade." He punched the button at the base of the phone. "Just the same, it's worth having a talk with Doctor Seville."
The redhead in the outer office answered her ring.
"Pinky, get me the number of a Doctor Tony Seville, will you?"
She snapped an affirmative, clicked the phone in his ear.
"Maybe we can wrap this one up fast and have a couple of days to see the sights, Muggsy. What's your Pop have to say about your packing in the movie job?"
Muggsy grinned. "He played the same old record. Newspaper work is no fit work for a woman. It's a dog's life. Still, even with his ulcers they can't get him to take a couple of weeks off for a rest."
"Going back to the Advance?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"On you. On how good this story is that you're going to hand me all wrapped up in pretty ribbons."
The desk phone buzzed. Liddell lifted it to his ear.
"Doctor Seville has two numbers," Pinky snapped. "One is his office on Sixtieth and Park. The other is his private hospital in Bronxville. Which one do you want?"
"Try him at his office, will you, Pinky? Make an appointment for me to see him right after lunch, if possible." He consulted his watch. "Any time after one-thirty."
\*
Dr. Tony Seville was sitting behind his desk, his chair facing out onto the streaming traffic five stories below along Park Avenue, when the nurse ushered Johnny Liddell into his office.
"Mr. Liddell, doctor," the nurse announced him.
The man in the chair swung around slowly, eyed Liddell disinterestedly, waved him to a chair with a carefully manicured hand. His thick black hair was carefully shellacked into place, high cheekbones accentuated dark liquid eyes, a thin pencil-line mustache separated a full, sensuous mouth from a perfectly chiseled nose.
He picked up the typewritten memo the nurse laid at his elbow, glanced at it. His voice was low, well modulated. "You wanted to see me on a personal matter, Mr. Liddell?" His eyes rolled up to the nurse, who nodded, back to Liddell. "How can I help you?"
"It's about a Miss Jean Merritt, doctor," Liddell told him. "I'm a private investigator." He dropped into a heavily upholstered chair, waited until the doctor had dismissed his nurse.
"Now, Liddell, what about Miss Merritt?" Seville asked as soon as the door had closed behind the nurse.
"I thought she might be here."
The dark man raised his eyebrows delicately. "Here? Why should she be here?"
"She checked out of her hotel rather unexpectedly late last night. She left with a man. I thought it might be you.
The doctor considered it, twisted a heavy gold ring on his fourth finger. "May I ask your interest in my fiancee?"
"Miss Merritt engaged my agency to look into her father's death."
The doctor sighed. "You know, of course, that her father committed suicide?"
"That's what the coroner says. Miss Merritt thought she had something that proved otherwise."
"She may have thought she had," Seville conceded.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that my fiancee has been under a tremendous emotional strain. She is prone to some exaggeration." The doctor leaned over, selected a tubular cigarette from a japanned box on his desk. "Try one of these? I have them specially blended."
Liddell selected one, hung it from the corner of his mouth, touched a match to it, drew deeply. He wrinkled his nose as he exhaled twin streams of smoke through his nostrils. "I prefer tobacco in mine," he grunted, ground it out in an ash tray. "To get back to Miss Merritt. You think she's blown her top. Is that it?"
"Not quite that drastic, of course. Let's say she's very unpredictable as the result of the shock of her father's tragic death." He fitted his cigarette into a holder, tilted it in the corner of his mouth. "She was very close to her father, you know. Very close." He reached into his bottom drawer, deposited a bottle with a foreign label and two glasses on his desk. "Since you don't approve of my tobacco, may I offer you a drink?"
Liddell nodded, watched the physician pour stiff portions into each of the glasses. "I understood you were to be married this month?"
"We were. Naturally, in view of what has happened, it has been postponed."
"Permanently?"
The physician looked up, a frown marring his forehead. "Temporarily, of course. We will be married as soon as Jean feels up to it."
Liddell sipped his drink, approved. "You were Merritt's physician. Are you convinced he committed suicide?"
"Unquestionably."
"He had a reason to kill himself?"
Seville shrugged. "He thought so, obviously."
"And you?"
The doctor warmed his glass between his palms, sniffed the bouquet. "Jean's father was convinced that he was suffering from a malignant condition in his throat. He became despondent, withdrew into himself. We tried to convince him that the condition was not as bad as he imagined but he refused to be consoled."
Liddell found one of his own cigarettes, lit it. "This throat condition. Was it incurable?"
"In my opinion, no. But we could not persuade him that it wasn't. His mother had died of cancer, and nothing we could say would shake his conviction that he had inherited a tendency toward it. He worried himself to the verge of a nervous breakdown." He shrugged, looked sad. "That night he probably cracked altogether. It was tragic."
"Why should Miss Merritt be so convinced that it wasn't suicide? She must have known his mental state."
"She must know it, but she won't permit herself to acknowledge it, Liddell. She's a very strong-minded person and to her suicide is an indication of weakness. She can't allow herself to believe that her father, whom she idolized, was weak in any way."
"Surely you could talk her out of it?"
Seville sipped at his glass, set it back on the corner of his desk. "I haven't discussed the matter with Jean since the funeral. She was so upset she expressed the wish to see nobody. I am confident that when once she has worked the matter out in her own mind, she'll communicate with me. At that time, of course, I shall do what I can to rid her mind of this fixation."
Liddell scowled, swirled the contents of his glass around the side. "Doesn't her behavior of last night indicate she may need some help?"
"The fact that she changed her mind about using your services, you mean?"
"The fact that she's disappeared."
"What would you suggest I do?" The physician's voice was silky. "Call the police? And then have to explain to Jean after I'd stirred up an official inquiry merely because she'd decided to change hotels? Really, Liddell, it occurs to me that perhaps you are overstepping whatever authority you feel Miss Merritt's phone call may have given you."
"Maybe. Maybe not. But until she tells me otherwise, she's a client and as such she gets all the help and protection I feel she needs," Liddell growled. "I'll go along with you on not dragging the police into this until it's absolutely necessary, but I do think her family should be checked."
"She has no family. Her nearest living relative is her mother and she is lying near death in the hospital."
Seville caught his drink from the corner of the desk, finished it, dried his lips with a snowy-white pocket handkerchief. "As you probably know, she was found unconscious at the foot of the stairs leading to her husband's study the night he died."
"I didn't know," Liddell admitted. "Stroke?"
"Some cerebral hemorrhage. However, even more serious are the incidental injuries."
Liddell raised his eyebrows, "How'd they happen?"
The man behind the desk shrugged. "We can't be sure. My guess is that she discovered her husband's body, ran for help, suffered the stroke at the head of the stairs, and fell the full length of the staircase."
"How does she explain it?"
A slight frown ruffled the placidity of Seville's expression. "She hasn't recovered consciousness sufficiently to explain anything." He spun his chair around, consulted the filing-cabinet at his elbow, brought out a large Manila envelope, laid it on the desk. "Perhaps you'd like to see the extent of her injuries. These are the X-rays we took directly after the accident." He spilled four grayblack negatives on the desk, rose, and snapped the switch for a large boxlike cabinet in the corner. He held the negatives up to the light, selected one, snapped it into place.
Liddell could see clearly the outline of a skull with a large, ominous dark area over the ear.
"In this lateral view of the skull you can see the full damage to that portion." Seville's voice had grown professionally impersonal. He indicated the dark area. "Apparently in her fall down the stairs the patient's head came into contact with the sharp edge of either a step or the bannister, causing a severe fracture."
Liddell nodded, crushed out his cigarette. "Never mind dragging out the rest of the family album, doc. I'll take your word for it."
Seville smiled, snapped off the projector. "Sorry, old man. I thought you might be interested." He walked back to his chair, refilled the two glasses. "In addition to the skull fracture, Mrs. Merritt sustained a fractured jaw and a compound fracture of the right arm. In a woman of her advanced age, you can understand, such injuries can be very serious."
Liddell took a drink from his glass, regarded the other man over the rim. "Miss Merritt hasn't been around to see her mother since it happened?"
"She has dropped by, of course, and phoned from time to time to ask about her condition. As you can understand, there is little or nothing she can do." Seville tapped his cigarette holder against his teeth. "So you see, Liddell, it would appear that you're putting too much credence in the hysteria of an emotionally unbalanced girl."
Liddell drained his glass, set it on the desk, stood up. "I'll wait until I hear from Miss Merritt. You can tell her that I'm staying at the Hotel Abbott if you should hear from her. In the meantime, I'll do my best to earn my fee."
Dr. Seville smiled, raised his hands, palms upward.
"That, of course, is up to you. I feel certain that you'll be hearing from her very shortly."
Johnny Liddell was sitting at a back booth in Lottie's, a small coffee shop that served as a secondary headquarters for the staff of the Advance between editions. He was drinking a glass of milk, stabbing disinterestedly at a slab of pie when Muggsy walked in. She stopped at the counter on the way, ordered a cup of black coffee, slid in next to Liddell.
"Didn't take you very long," she said. "You couldn't have found out very much."
"I didn't," Liddell moaned. "All I found out is that the dame is cracked. In a nice sort of way, of course, and I'm goofier for paying any attention to her."
"What'd he say when you told him she hired you to find out how her old man died?"
Liddell shrugged, waited while the waitress deposited a cup of black coffee in front of Muggsy, cleared away the remains of his pie. "The same thing everybody else says."
"Did he know about it?"
"He says he hasn't heard from her since the funeral. Seems she likes to go some place and work things out alone."
"I told you she was a wack," Muggsy reminded him.
"So you can stop feeling bad. If she doesn't take the trouble to even get in touch with the guy she's going to marry, a mere employee shouldn't be hurt because she decides to stand him up."
"That part I might buy," Liddell conceded. "But who was the guy she left with and why the tommygun serenade for me?" He watched moodily while Muggsy lit two cigarettes, accepted one. "What do you know about her mother?"
The girl screwed up her forehead in concentration. "Had a stroke or something, didn't she? Seems to me she was on the critical list at the time of the funeral." She ironed out the creases on her forehead, shrugged. "It's just an impression, but I think she's been pretty sick some place."
"In Doc Seville's private hospital," Liddell grunted. "Fell down a flight of stairs and got herself all busted up. Apparently she was alone in the house the night it happened and she took a stroke going for help."
"I don't know why you don't just pack it in, Johnny. The only thing you're going on is Jean's telephone call and she's a screwball from away back."
Liddell nodded. "I probably should, I guess. But before I do, I just want to satisfy myself that the old boy did go out Dutch."
"The medical examiner was satisfied and so were the police. Seville was his physician. What does he say?"
"Suicide." He scowled at the tip of his cigarette. "But none of them were looking for anything. I am. It might make a difference."
Muggsy shrugged. "It's your time if you want to throw it around. How you going to satisfy yourself?"
"Maybe if I could lay my hands on the official photographs and the on-the-spot testimony it might help."
"Got any contacts out on the Island?"
"Doc Travin still the medical examiner out there in Carport?"
Muggsy nodded. "He was the last I heard."
"Then I got contacts."
"And if Doc Travin convinces you it was suicide?"
Liddell shrugged, dropped his cigarette to the floor. "Then I'll write it off as a dizzy dame's idea of a way to pass a dull, rainy night. I don't know how Scoda feels about it, but I'm willing to make believe it never happened."
"Scoda?"
Liddell grinned bleakly. "Yeah, Scoda. The guy in the morgue."
A half hour later, Johnny Liddell headed his convertible up the East Side Drive to the 125th Street ramp to the Triborough Bridge. He took the Long Island entrance, headed south past La Guardia toward Northern Boulevard. Once on Northern he headed east toward Carport, settled back for a forty-five-minute run. Alongside him Muggsy Kiely leaned her head back on the leather seat, let the breeze play havoc with her thick blond hair, hummed to the accompaniment of the car radio. By mutual consent neither of them referred to the case all the way out.
In Carport, the medical examiner's office adjoined the morgue in the basement of the new four-story stone courthouse. Liddell wheeled the convertible into the courthouse parking-lot, squeezed it between two whitewashed lines that were labeled For Official Use Only, locked the car.
They crossed the courtyard, pushed through a revolving door, followed a stenciled arrow that pointed to Medical Examiner's Office. It led down a flight of stairs, past a row of closed doors marked Morgue to a plain door bearing the legend Medical Examiner with Dr. T. Travin in smaller letters below it.
The dank, damp air of the morgue seemed to permeate through the walls into the medical examiner's office. It was furnished only with a large, varnished desk, a row of filing-cabinets, two hard wooden chairs, and a row of framed diplomas on the wall.
A thin woman with painfully prominent front teeth stood filing sheets of paper at one cabinet near the door. She looked up as they entered.
"Doctor Travin in?" Liddell asked.
"He's in the building," she acknowledged through her buck teeth. "He's kind of busy right now. Was he expecting you?" She pushed a wisp of graying hair out of her face, tucked it untidily behind her ear. She had a yellowish complexion that seemed to go with the dankness of the room.
"I didn't have an appointment but I think he'll see me," Liddell told her. "Tell him it's Liddell."
The woman sighed, dropped her papers on the desk top, wiped her hands along the sides of her thighs, slammed the cabinet drawer. "I'll see if he can come out. Have a seat." She stalked out of the room, muttering to herself.
Liddell sprawled on a chair, watched while Muggsy scrambled up on the corner of the desk, let her heels hit the sides. After a moment, the door swung open. The woman's complaining voice preceded her into the room. "... but I tell you he's not in a hurry. You ought to finish that case now, doctor. Captain Holmes wants that autopsy report today."
"Will you stop living my life, Smitty? That guy in there can wait. He waited for three days for us to fish him out of the bay. He can wait another ten minutes to find out why he ended in the bay." The medical examiner walked in, his face dark with annoyance. When he saw Liddell and Muggsy the annoyance drained out of his face, washed away by a slow grin. "Muggsy Kiely, by all that's holy." He walked over, grabbed her extended hand, wrung it. "You're a sight for sore eyes."
The thin woman behind him sniffed audibly.
Doc Travin didn't even turn around. "I'll call you when I need you, Smitty. This is personal business."
The woman's bloodless lips flattened into a thin line, a dull flush gave her face a few uneven smears of color. She stalked to the door, slammed it behind her.
"Damned old maid," the medical examiner muttered. "Only reason I keep her around is because when she starts to look good to me I'll know I've been spending too much time with floaters."
"Haven't changed a bit, have you, doc?" Muggsy grinned at him.
"Not even his jokes." Liddell nodded. "Don't you get to say hello to me at all, doc?"
"I'm afraid to. Every time I say hello to you it means trouble." He walked over, shook hands with Liddell, pulled the other chair over, dropped into it with a sigh.
"Keeping you busy, doc?" Muggsy wanted to know.
"Not too busy. Only reason I was out front they brought in some guy that's been in the bay for a couple of days and all of a sudden they're in a hurry for a report. What the hell, he's not going any place." Doc Travin was small, chipper, with a thatch of untidy white hair that belied the youthfulness of the grin that split his face from ear to ear. "Never mind that. What brings you two out this way?"
"I just came for the ride. And to see you," Muggsy told him.
"That'll be the day." He looked at Liddell curiously. "Something going on out here?"
"Just routine, doc. I'm on a case and I wanted to pick up some background on it."
"Out here? What's the case?"
"I've been retained to find out what happened to Matt Merritt. His daughter isn't satisfied with the verdict."
The medical examiner scowled, dug a battered briar from one pocket, a pouch from the other. "He committed suicide. What's there to find out?" He ran the bowl of the pipe into the pouch, packed with his index finger. "What are you really out here on, Johnny?"
"The Matt Merritt case," Liddell told him. He fumbled through his pockets fruitlessly, caught the cigarette Muggsy tossed him, stuck it in his mouth, lit it. "What makes you so sure it was suicide, doc?"
"It couldn't be anything else," Travin told him flatly. He scraped a long wooden match on the sole of his shoe, held it to the pipe, sucked in a lungful of blue smoke. "Even you can't make it out as anything but suicide."
"You've been wrong before, doc," Liddell chided him.
"Not this time, my boy." He tamped the tobacco down in the bowl, burned his finger, swore under his breath.
Liddell grinned. "That's what you said the last time, doc."
"Is this guy pulling my leg, Muggs?"
Muggsy shook her head. "He's really working for the Merritt kid, doc. She doesn't believe the old man killed himself."
Travin scowled. "That's the craziest damn thing I ever heard." He pulled himself out of the chair, brought a bunch of keys from his pants pocket, selected one, crossed the room to a metal cabinet. He used the key to open it, pawed through a file of large envelopes, selected one tied with a red ribbon, pulled it out of the file. He peered nearsightedly at the typed notation on the left corner, nodded, brought it back with him.
"I shouldn't be breaking this stuff open for you without a court order, Johnny. But this is one argument I'm going to win from you." He tossed the envelope into Liddell's lap.
Johnny took a last drag on his cigarette, dropped it to the floor, ground it out. He untied the envelope, pulled out a batch of official photographs, riffled through them. Twice he stopped to examine a picture at great length. Muggsy hopped off the desk, stood behind his chair, looked over his shoulder.
"Did quite a job on the top of his head, eh?"
The medical examiner grinned around the pipe. "They always do when they stick the gun in their mouth and pull the trigger." He pulled the pipe from between his teeth, pointed with the stem. "No sign of a struggle of any kind, you'll notice."
Liddell nodded glumly.
"All right, then," Travin crowed triumphantly. "Now you tell me that he let somebody walk up to him, stick a gun in his mouth, and not even struggle."
"You've got a point," Liddell conceded. He riffled through the pictures again, frowned, selected a long view of the room showing the ceiling. "The Homicide boys must be getting pretty neat, doc. Can't even see where they dug the slug out." He handed the picture to the medical examiner.
Travin peered at it, looked up. "I don't get it."
"Neither do I, Johnny," Muggsy put in.
"The ceiling. Didn't they have to dig the slug out of the ceiling?"
"Oh. No, the slug didn't go into the ceiling." Travin put his pipe in his mouth, ground his teeth on the stem. "So what?"
"So nothing. Where did the bullet go?"
"I don't think they found it. It was probably spent by the time it went through the top of his head, fell to the rug, and got kicked around in the confusion."
Liddell flipped the rest of the pictures onto the desk, stared at them morosely. "Sounds like you've got a good case for suicide, all right."
"Airtight." Doc Travin gathered up the photographs, returned them to their envelope. "Hope I haven't spoiled a case for you."
"We get paid to dig, so I'm digging. That's the motto of the Johnny Liddell Agency. Service with a smile."
"Smile, hell. You laugh right in their face."
Travin returned the envelope to the file, locked the cabinet.
"Now what, Johnny?" Muggs wanted to know.
"Damned if I know. This one's really got me spinning. Say, what do they use around here to revive a guy that's on the verge of collapse, doc?"
"Spirits of ammonia."
"I might have known." Liddell groaned. "I'll take my collapse to more hospitable surroundings. The nearest bar, for example."
"Wait'll I get my hat." The medical examiner grinned. "You should have your physician along to make sure they give you the right dosage."
That evening, Johnny Liddell dropped Muggsy Kiely at her apartment on Central Park South, headed the convertible downtown to the room he maintained at the Hotel Abbott. He turned the car over to the uniformed doorman, flipped him a quarter, walked to the lobby entrance.
The Hotel Abbott was an old weather-beaten, grimedarkened stone building that nestled almost anonymously in a row of similar stone buildings on East 31st Street. A small metal plaque to the right of the entrance was the only clue to its identity.
The lobby was large, noisy, seemed bathed in a perpetual pink light, the reflection of a huge neon sign to the right of the entrance that identified The Cowl Room---Cocktails. The easy chairs spaced throughout the lobby were filled with men whose perusal of their newspapers seemed undisturbed by the hum of conversation and bustle of activity.
A short, fat man stood at the cigar counter, trying with no apparent success to interest the blonde that presided over it with his plans for the evening. She looked over his shoulder, waved to Liddell as he came in.
Liddell winked back, headed for the bank of elevators in the rear, was deterred by a gesture from the immaculate creature behind the registration desk.
"A message for you, Mr. Liddell." He made a production of removing an envelope from the pigeonhole prominently numbered 625. He handed the envelope across the desk, worked hard at a semblance of an urbane smile that missed by miles. "Your friends were very disappointed that they missed you."
Liddell nodded, examined the envelope. It bore the return address of the Hotel Abbott. He looked up into the eyes of the clerk.
"They wanted to leave you a message, so I suggested that they use our facilities." He dry-washed his hands, bobbed his head like a cork in a stormy inlet.
Liddell studied the scrawled Johnny Liddell on the face of the envelope, failed to recognize the handwriting. He ripped open the envelope, extracted a piece of paper. It was blank.
He growled under his breath, ran his eyes down the list of new arrivals, failed to find any familiar names. He flipped back through the pages of the register, seemed satisfied to find that the adjoining rooms and the room across the hall from his were occupied by semipermanent guests.
"Is anything wrong, Mr. Liddell?" the clerk wanted to know.
"What'd these friends of mine look like?"
The clerk looked startled by the sharpness of Liddell's tone. "I---I really don't know. Young men, I'd say. Neatly dressed. I---I didn't pay much attention. I hope nothing's wrong?"
"I hope you get your hope."
The dry handwash was going full speed now. "I made certain not to give your room number out of course, and---"
"You kidding?" Liddell grinned bleakly. He tossed the blank note paper down on the counter. "It's the oldest trick in the world. When you stuck that envelope in my slot, they got the number unless they were blind." He scowled at the shaken clerk, strode down to the elevator.
At the sixth floor he looked both ways, satisfied himself that there was no stakeout in the corridor. He walked down to the corridor set at right angles to the main one, found it empty, walked down to his room.
The keyhole showed no signs of having been tampered with, but it didn't take a locksmith to know that the lock couldn't put up a good struggle with a bent bobby pin. He slid his key softly into the lock, turned it. Then, easing the .45 from its holster, he turned the knob, pushed the door open, flattened himself against the wall.
For fully a minute, he stood in the corridor waiting for some sound to betray the presence of one of his "friends" in the darkened room. Then, he slid into the room, snapped the light, and fanned the room with his .45. The room was empty.
He repeated the procedure with the bathroom and the microscopic kitchen. None of the rooms showed any sign of having been entered.
He walked back across the bedroom to kick the door shut, saw a bellboy at the far end of the corridor, watching him with open mouth. He had a sudden inspiration that a brandy wouldn't be amiss, stepped into the hall to talk to the boy.
He had hardly stepped into the corridor, out of range of the bedroom window, when chips of wood and bits of plaster started flying. A sharp splinter of wood snapped against his forehead, drawing blood. Glass shattered, and a picture danced off the wall, smashed to the floor.
A woman screamed hysterically and from some place close a typewriter was spelling out death in a stuttering cadence.
Liddell dropped to his knees, crawled back into his room, kicked the corridor door shut behind him. Conscious that the lighted room set him up like a sitting duck, he blasted the light fixture half off the wall with the .45.
The tommy gun continued its lethal chatter. Liddell could hear the pellets whizzing by like angry bees, chewing pieces out of the woodwork and plaster. He crept to the window, applied a cautious eye to the corner. There was a lull in the shooting, probably to allow the gunman to slide another pan into his gun.
Liddell took advantage of the pause to try to localize the source of the shooting. Directly across the narrow street was a movie house, the old Hotel Clendan, a supermodern office building, and, on the corner, a department store. He settled for the Hotel Clendan.
The flicker of the movie's neon marquee alternately drenched the face of the Clendan in light, then dipped it into darkness. A new sound, the wailing of police sirens converging on the area, split the sudden quiet.
Liddell's eyes flicked across the windows facing his. The lighted ones he eliminated immediately, concentrated on the darkened ones. Suddenly, as the movie light blinked on, he caught the bright glint of light on metal. He leaned the barrel of the .45 on the window sill, ignored the mounting crescendo of running feet and hoarse shouts in the hallway.
Across the street, a man's leg was thrown across the window sill, was feeling cautiously for the fire-escape landing. After a second, the rest of the body came into view. The man peered down over the railing at the street below, seemed satisfied, started down the stairs.
Liddell waited until the upper portion of the man's body sat on top of his front sight, squeezed the trigger. There was a loud boom in the closeness of the room and for a moment the pounding at the door stopped.
Across the street, the man on the fire escape staggered. He tried to pull the tommy gun he was carrying into firing position. Liddell squeezed the trigger again. The tommy gun was apparently too heavy to lift, slipped from the man's hands. He went to his knees, pulled himself to his feet, tried to get back to the window. The .45 barked again.
The man on the fire escape stiffened, clawed at the rail. His knees folded under him, he toppled over the low guard rail, crashed headlong toward the street below. His body hit the sidewalk, lay motionless.
Six stories below a woman put her hands over her face, flattened back against the building, other pedestrians scattered in all directions.
As Liddell watched, the more hardy witnesses started dribbling back out of doorways, congregated morbidly around the body. From the hotel a uniformed bellboy came out to lead the woman into the hotel lobby.
Then, pulling his head in, Liddell walked to the door, threw it open. The house detective, a normally ruddyfaced Irishman named Collins, stood uncertainly at the sill, gun in hand, staring wide-eyed at the damage the gun had done. Behind him, half a dozen white-faced guests stared over his shoulder.
"What's going on in here?" the house dick demanded. He looked as though he sincerely wished he were some place else. The .38 in his hand was ridiculously toylike by comparison to the .45 Liddell still carried in his.
"Why didn't somebody tell me my room fronted on the municipal rifle range?" Liddell growled. "The manager's going to hear about this."
"You can say that again," the house detective breathed.
There was a muffled murmur of voices at the end of the corridor, the pounding of many feet. Suddenly the night clerk burst into view, followed by two uniformed policemen, guns in hand.
"Down here, officer," the house dick called, making no attempt to hide his relief at the coming of reinforcements. "Here's the guy."
The first cop's face dropped. Liddell recognized him as the same cop who had taken him in the night before after the shooting outside the drugstore.
"Not again?" the cop growled incredulously. "What the hell are you trying to do, Liddell? Stage a one-man crime wave?"
The night clerk stood outside the room, surveyed the damage sadly. He wiped the thin film of perspiration off his forehead with the side of his hand, groaned.
The cop walked over, took a look, whistled. "They sure chewed you up, didn't they?"
Liddell grinned bleakly. "You ought to see the other guy."
The cop scowled, held his hand out for the .45. "I did. And he's deader than a mackerel. This wins you another ride down to headquarters. I got a hunch the inspector's going to want to have a talk with you."
"Funny thing. I have the same feeling." Liddell handed the gun to the cop, butt first. "We better not keep him waiting."
The night clerk stood wringing his hands. "But the room? What am I going to do about the room?"
Liddell looked around the scarred and pitted walls, the smashed mirror, the light fixture hanging by a wire. "It does look as though it could stand some decorating. Maybe you'd better move my stuff into another room until it's finished. Something with not quite so much exposure.
\*
At headquarters, Johnny Liddell was led through a door that read Wilson Deats---District Attorney. Inside, a male stenographer sat at a desk typing a deposition. He looked up as the cop entered leading Liddell.
"This is Liddell. I got instructions to deliver him here," the cop told him.
The man at the desk nodded, flipped the button on an interoffice phone, muttered into it, hung it up. "They're expecting you, Liddell. Right through there." He pointed to a door that said Private in gleaming gold leaf.
Liddell walked over, entered the room, closed the door behind him. It was a large room with beamed ceilings, had a peculiar absence of sound, almost like a vacuum. The floor was covered with a thick gray-green carpeting, the leather of the big armchairs had been polished to a soft gleam. One side of the room was covered with a huge bookcase and in the center facing the door a large, highly polished walnut desk dominated the room. A man was sitting behind the desk, his hands folded across his chest, finger tips touching. Inspector Herlehy stood at a far window, staring down on the street lights below.
"Come in, Liddell. I think it's about time we met. I'm Deats, the district attorney." He made no attempt to get up or extend his hand. His voice was silky, smooth, with an elusive trace of the Boston Back Bay where he'd gotten his start. He was long, loose-jointed. His sandy hair had receded from his brow to the crown of his head, exposing a freckled pate. "You know Inspector Herlehy, of course?"
The inspector turned, scowling, from his scrutiny of the street, glared at Liddell. "Not as well as he's going to know me."
The district attorney smiled, but it consisted merely of a twisting upward of the corners of his mouth. The expression in his eyes was unchanged. "There is no need for animosity, inspector. I feel certain that we can count on Liddell's cooperation in this matter." He motioned Liddell to a chair. "Let's all sit down and talk this out."
Herlehy stamped across the room, dropped into a chair at the D.A.'s right. Liddell got comfortable in a leather overstuffed across the desk.
"All right if I smoke?" he asked.
The ready smile was back on the district attorney's face. "Of course. This isn't a third degree, you know, Liddell. We are merely interested in clearing up a few points that puzzle us. After all, the shootings were in self-defense." There was a note of regret in the silky voice.
"Both times," Liddell agreed.
Herlehy squirmed angrily in his chair. "There didn't have to be any shooting. If you'd come clean with me last night I could have picked Ricci up. But no, you had to go grandstanding. Well, self-defense or no self-defense, nobody's going to use my district as a private shootinggallery. Why didn't you tell me it was Ricci?"
"The guy I killed last night isn't the same guy who tried to shoot me up the night before," Liddell grunted.
"I thought you told me you didn't know who it was in that car?"
"I don't. But I did get a look at him as the car pulled away. He was fat, slobbery-fat. Thick lips, beady eyes. The pigeon I picked off the fire escape was too thin to be him."
Herlehy didn't miss a beat on his gum. "You told me you didn't see the guy in the car. Now all of a sudden you can describe him. If you're playing games with my department, shamus, so help me---"
The district attorney cut in with a raised hand. "Liddell wouldn't be that foolish, inspector. After all, his license does come up for renewal and we might have some influence in that direction." He refolded his hands across his chest. "Would you mind telling us again what this first man looked like?"
"Fat. Thick lips, beady-eyed. I didn't get too much of a look at him. The car was moving by the time I hit the street."
The D.A. nodded, leaned over, conferred with Herlehy in a low tone that Liddell failed to catch. After a moment he settled back, jotted a few notes on a pad. "Suppose we start at the very beginning, Liddell. Suppose you tell us what you're really working on."
Liddell lit his cigarette, sighed. "I've been all over that with the inspector, Mr. Deats."
"Suppose you go over it again. With me." "Okay. I'm working on the Matt Merritt suicide."
A quick flash of annoyance wiped the last traces of simulated good nature from the district attorney's face. "Believe me, Liddell. We are bending over backward in this matter. The inspector is convinced that you are deliberately obstructing justice and wants me to have you thrown into a cell. Please don't make that necessary." He reached over to the desk, selected a fat Havana from the humidor, bit off the end, spat it at a square leather wastebasket. "If necessary, I think I could make the charge stick."
Liddell shrugged. "That's up to you. You asked me a question and I answered it."
Deats rolled the cigar in the center of his mouth, fixed the private detective with the cold glare of his eyes. "Possibly you consider this whole episode as very amusing. I don't. Two men have already been killed. No loss to the community, I'll admit, but killed, nonetheless. This matter has ceased to be a boyish prank."
"If you think being a walking shootinggallery is my idea of a good clean night's fun, you're mistaken," Liddell retorted hotly. "I don't like cluttering up the sidewalks with corpses any better than you do. Especially when one of them is liable to be mine."
"Don't make it sound so alluring," Herlehy growled. "Suppose we stop playing footsy with this character, Mr. Deats, and get down to cases." He turned to glare at Liddell. "For the last time, shamus, what's the rumble you're working on?"
Liddell sighed, examined the glowing end of his cigarette morosely. "Even I'm beginning to get sick of saying it, but it happens to be true. I was hired by Jean Merritt to look into her father's death. Hell, I've even got a five-hundred-dollar retainer to prove it."
Herlehy snorted angrily. "You may have a check. But what you got it for could be another story."
"It should be a simple fact to establish, inspector. Why don't we have Miss Merritt in to verify Liddell's statement?" Deats asked.
"He's already thought of that, too," Herlehy growled. "Ask him."
Deats rolled his eyes from the purple face of the inspector to Liddell. "Well?"
Liddell shrugged. "I don't know how to get in touch with her." He took a deep drag on the cigarette, held the smoke, let it dribble' from his lips. "I told Herlehy last night she's disappeared. He did nothing about it."
"Nothing about it?" Herlehy shouted. "What the hell am I supposed to do about it? A woman leaves her hotel room. So what? She's a big girl and if she wants to go play house for a couple of days with some guy, that's her business."
"So you did check the Westmore?"
"Yeah. Just to see if you were lying about that, too."
"And this girl, inspector," Deats cut in. "You don't know where she is at this time?"
"No. And I don't care. I'm not running a lost-andfound department for a broken-down shamus who can't even find his own client. She'll show up when she's good and ready."
The district attorney dammed the angry flood with a gesture from a well-manicured hand. "Let's not let Liddell lead us from the track." He removed the unlit cigar from between his teeth, frowned at the soggy end, pasted back a loose leaf with the tip of his tongue. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "You see, Liddell, we know perfectly well that you're mixed up in something far more explosive than a mere investigation into an acknowledged suicide." He rolled his eyes upward, favored the private detective with a frosty smile. "The object of this little unofficial get-together is to discuss the real nature of your investigation."
"If you know I'm on something else, I wish you'd let me in on it. There's not another case in the shop but the Merritt job, and---"
"Cut it out, Liddell. That injured-innocence act is strictly for the birds," Herlehy growled. "What's with you and Velie?"
Liddell's hand stopped with his cigarette inches from his mouth. His eyes hopscotched from the inspector to Deats and back. "Velie?"
"Yeah, Velie. Pete Velie."
Liddell searched the inspector's face for some indication that he was needling. "Pete Velie's sitting out a ten to twenty in the pen. How would he come into this?"
"You tell us, Liddell."
"I don't get it." The private detective shook his head. "If Velie is in the pen how the hell could I be in anything with him?"
"You're not in anything with him. You're bucking him some way. We want to know how," the inspector told him.
"You must dust that chewing-gum of yours with opium, inspector. I don't even know what you're talking about."
"No? Then maybe you do know why two of Velie's best hatchet men went on the make for your hide in two days running. Scoda and Ricci. Both Velie torpedoes."
"I can't help who they were. I'm not mixed up with Pete Velie or his mob."
The district attorney jabbed a button on the base of his phone, lifted the receiver to his ear, muttered a few words into it, replaced it on its hook. "If you're letting the fact that Velie himself is in a cell give you a false sense of security, you're not very smart, Liddell," he said. "The organization is still intact and we're convinced that Pete Velie is running it as much as if he were here in person." He twirled his cigar between thumb and forefinger, stared coldly at Liddell. "I'm out to smash Velie's influence in this town. So far we haven't even gotten our foot in the door. You apparently have something that he is anxious to hush up. I intend to know what it is." He broke off as a uniformed policeman brought in a stack of photographs, laid them on the corner of his desk, turned, and walked out. "Well?"
"I don't know what it's all about. If it's true that Scoda and Ricci are Velie's hatchet men, then someone is making a mistake."
Herlehy nodded grimly. "Someone's making a mistake, all right. And that someone is you, Liddell."
The district attorney flicked through the pile of pictures on his desk, picked one out, passed it over. "Ever see this man?"
The face in the photograph had pouting, thick lips, heavy jowls that threatened to overflow the man's collar, heady eyes recessed by bulging dark pouches.
Liddell studied the face, remembered it as he had last seen it, framed in the window of the big sedan, tossed it back on Deats's desk. He nodded. "I've seen him before." He wiped a thin film of perspiration from his upper lip with the side of his hand. "That's the fat boy who tried to gun me out night before last."
The district attorney exchanged glances with the inspector, returned the photograph to the pile. "I thought so. Care to change your story, now, Liddell?"
"Change it how?"
The smile was back, the district attorney's eyes were colder than ever. "Don't you think it's a bit ridiculous to stick to your story that you are not mixed up with Pete Velie's operation in some way, that you're merely trying to investigate an admitted and established suicide?"
Liddell thought it over, shrugged. "Why should the fat boy's picture make you think I want to change my story?"
Herlehy stared at him for a moment, his square jaw methodically crushing the ever-present wad of gum. "Because Frankie Capolla," he indicated the picture on the desk with a sweep of his hand, "the fat boy, as you call him, happens to be Pete Velie's right-hand man!"
Johnny Liddell flagged down a cab outside of headquarters, gave the cabby an address just off Houston Street, sank back against the cushions, amused himself by keeping score of the number of lights the cabby jumped. He swung the big hack east across town, played tag with the elevated pillars along Bowery, slid to a stop in front of a dilapidated two-story building.
He handed the cabby a bill, waved away the change, looked around. The neighborhood was almost deserted, no lights showed in the buildings in front of which he stood. He crossed the sidewalk into a dark and smelly hallway, guided himself along the wall to the end of the musty corridor, knocked on the door.
There was a faint scraping sound, a faint stirring of air, the sudden heavy smell of beer. Close at hand a gravelly voice: "Yeah?"
"I want to see Dummy."
"Dummy ain't here," the gravelly voice informed him.
"I got to see him. I'm Johnny Liddell."
There was a beery chuckle from the other side of the door. "I can't help it who you are. If he ain't here you can't see him."
"When'll he be back"
"Tonight sometime. But you can't wait upstairs. Dummy wouldn't like it if I let anybody in his office when he ain't here."
"Okay, I'll leave him a message. Let me in."
The scraping sound was repeated. Liddell had it placed as a sliding panel on the door. After a moment a creaking announced the opening of the door. He stepped through, heard the door close behind him. Then an old fixture on the wall spilled yellow light into all but the far corners of the room.
The gravelly voice belonged, incongruously enough, to a wizened old man with an unruly thatch of yellowwhite hair. His left eye twitched uncontrollably as he studied Liddell. "What's so hurry-up about it, Liddell? Dummy'll be back tomorrow. Ain't that time enough?"
Liddell shook his head. "I want a guy located fast. He's gone into a hole. But I got to see him before the cops do."
The little man's bad eye twitched maddeningly. He bared the toothless gums in a grin. "That ain't easy. It'll cost."
"Dummy knows I'm good for it. This ain't the first favor I've asked and he never lost by handling the contract."
"Who's the guy?"
"Frankie Capolla. One of Pete Velie's hoods."
The little man scratched his side, whistled soundlessly. "You sure you want to find him?"
"Yeah. And fast."
"It's your skin.if you like to wear it with holes in it." The old man walked over to a rickety table in the rear of the room, opened the drawer in it, brought out an old brown bag and the stub of a pencil. He licked the point of the pencil, scribbled laboriously. "Where'll he be able to reach you?"
"At Muggsy Kiely's place."
The old man looked up, leered obscenely. "It might be awful late."
"Don't let it worry you. I'll be there."
"We could play you an awful dirty trick by finding him right off." The old man grinned. "But it won't be for a couple hours at least. We'll get word to all our boys working midtown. Capolla must be a regular on one of their beats. They'll turn him up for you."
Liddell passed a folded bill. "How's the school going?"
"Pretty busy right now breaking in a fresh load of fish. There's a big call for amputees right now. Always is after a war. The deaf-and-dumb panhandlers and the blind ones, they don't do too good. Collections in midtown are off so the Dummy is replacing some of the deaf-anddumb ones. Anyway, they're harder to train. You got to keep working on them so they don't jump when a horn goes off in back of them or somebody talks to them. The amputees only got to remember to keep their eyes and ears open and not give the business a bad name."
"What an operation! A school for beggars!" Liddell grinned.
The old man shook his head. "It's just like anything else, Liddell. It's got to be organized. Without some guy like Dummy the grifters would be muscling in on each other's territory, the phonies would be giving the racket a bad name." The bad eye twitched endlessly. "Like this, everything is under control. And besides, with our boys covering the city like a blanket, there's nothing going on no place that we don't know about." He winked. "That can come in handy, eh, Liddell?"
"Plenty handy. Remember, I want action on Capolla. Tell Dummy it's worth a hundred to me to get to him tonight. Tomorrow may be too late. For me."
The cool air of the street was a welcome relief after the dank smell of Dummy's "school." Liddell walked up to Bowery, caught a cruising cab, signaled it to the curb. He gave Muggsy Kiely's address on Central Park South, settled back against the cushions.
The cabby played tag with the el pillars to 14th Street, bore west through heavy traffic to Fifth Avenue, swung north again. Liddell held his breath as the big cab wove in and out of the late-hour traffic along Fifth, watched with wordless admiration the way the cabby nonchalantly fitted the big car into spaces that looked too small for a baby carriage. At 57th, the cabby broke the monotony by engaging in a heated exchange with another cabby who had had to stand on his brakes as Liddell's cab cut in front of him at 54th. Aside from that, he was delivered at Muggsy Kiely's doorstep safe but shaken.
"Pretty rough ride, buster." He grinned at the cabby, handed him two singles.
The cabby nodded, didn't bother to remove a frayed toothpick from between his teeth. "I don't know how most of those jerks ever get a license. It's getting so's a guy's life ain't safe driving with all them refugees from Newark and New Haven. A guy ain't safe."
Liddell nodded his sympathy, watched the cab roar away from the curb, force its way into a stream of northbound traffic, carom around the nearest corner toward Broadway.
He used his key to Muggsy's apartment, found her huddled on the couch with a pink edition of the News. She jumped up, ran out to him, kissed him soundly.
"You all right, Johnny?" she asked. "Pop called me about the shooting. I've been trying to reach you all over town. I even called Herlehy's office downtown, but---"
Liddell grinned crookedly. "I'm traveling in bigger and better circles now. They took me down to Deats's office."
Muggsy led him to the couch, dropped down beside him. "What's the D.A. horning in for?"
"He thinks I'm holding out. He thinks I'm playing tag with Pete Velie's mob and he wants to be it."
"Don't underestimate Deats, Johnny. He's got a bad case of Albany fever and he won't think twice about feeding you to the wolves if it'll get him and that horsefaced wife of his into the Executive Mansion up there."
Liddell nodded. "I know. But I'm not standing still for it." He scowled at his shoes. "But he's right about one thing. There is something fishy going on. The two guys that tried to dot my eyes with the typewriters were both Velie hoods."
"Maybe they just hired out for this job."
"I doubt it. What's Jim think about it?"
Muggsy shrugged. "You know Pop. He's tickled that as long as you had to get yourself blasted you waited until it was too late for the tabloids." She kicked the News with the tip of her shoe. "Not a line on it. And Pop has a layout, pix and all, riding with an extra."
"Hurray for him. How about the Velie tie-up? What's he think?"
Muggsy shrugged. "I think he buys the inspector's idea. He doesn't believe it's tied in with the Merritt job." She pulled her feet up under her. "How does Velie fit, Johnny?"
"How the hell does anything fit in this mess? First I've got a client, then I can't find her. She wants me to find out who killed a guy who killed himself. Then a couple of high-caliber hoods decide to carve their initials on my hide with a tommy gun. For what?"
"Would Velie be after you for something else?"
"Why? I never had anything to do with Pete. I had nothing to do with his going to jail. That was a Federal rap. Besides, why would he wait until now? He's been in the can a couple of years." He pinched at his nostrils with thumb and forefinger. "As for Scoda and Ricci, I don't even know them. Now all of a sudden they can't be happy until they pin my hide to the wall."
"What are you going to do about it?"
Liddell grinned bleakly. "Discourage them. First I'm going to find out what it's all about."
"How?"
"I'm going to ask them what the hell's going on. Herlehy tipped me who the guy was that used the tommy gun in the car the other night. Another Velie torpedo, Frankie Capolla."
"Capolla? You're not going to fool with him, Johnny. He's sudden death."
"He knows the answers to the questions I want to ask. And I'm not going to fool with him."
"Suppose he does know the answers. What makes you think he'll tell you?"
Liddell grinned. "You'd be surprised how persuasive I can be."
"Suppose he does tell you? What good will it do you if you develop a hole in the head? You're not going to do it, Johnny. I won't let you go up against a killer like Capolla."
"Stop worrying. If he was that good I'd be downtown in the morgue, keeping Scoda and Ricci company." He got up from the couch, wandered out into the kitchen, examined the labels on a couple of new bottles. "What's this?"
"Chartreuse and creme de menthe. I've been dying to try a new cocktail I heard about. There's some Irish whisky and dry vermouth in the cabinet."
"You're going to spoil good Irish whisky with this mess?" Liddell looked shocked.
"Don't be so conservative. It's supposed to be wonderful. You mix the Irish and the vermouth about one to one, then just a couple of dashes of the chartreuse and creme de menthe. They call it a Shamrock. Make me one, Johnny, will you?"
She stretched out on the couch, watched the broad shoulders of Liddell going through the motions of making the cocktail. She tried to wipe the concern from her eyes, failed.
Liddell brought the shaker and a glass out to the couch, swept two books and a magazine off the end table, set them down.
"Aren't you going to try one?" She indicated the lone glass.
"That stuff? It's not fit for human consumption. If I'm going to get cirrhosis of the liver, I'm going to get it from drinking whisky, not perfume."
"How do you know you don't like it if you don't try it? Just take a sip," Muggsy coaxed.
Liddell shrugged, poured a little of the green concoction into the glass, sipped it, made a wry face. "I'll take my Irish straight." He filled the glass from the shaker, handed it to the girl. "The way my father and his father got their d.t.'s is good enough for me."
He walked out into the kitchen, poured some liquor from the bottle over three ice cubes, brought the glass back with him. Muggsy folded her feet up under her to make room.
"Johnny, you're not really going up against Capolla, are you?"
Liddell nodded, clinked the ice against the side of his glass. "As soon as I can find out where he's holed in."
"How lucky can you be, Johnny? They missed twice. The third time your number may be up."
"There's not going to be a third time, Muggs," he told her. "I'm going to beat them to the punch. This time, instead of them coming to look for me, I'm going looking for them."
"Want to tell me how you plan to persuade Capolla to pour his innermost secrets into your shell-like ear?"
Liddell shrugged. "I figured to go up to him and ask him."
"Oh, fine. And when is this touching confessional scheduled to take place?"
Liddell took a taste of the whisky, approved. "I don't know yet. I haven't been able to get a line on him. He's apparently holing up somewhere until the heat dies down."
"But you expect to find him? Eighteen thousand cops in the City of New York can't smoke him out, but you will."
"I've got the Dummy and his beggars scouring the town. They'll contact me here when they get a line on him."
Muggsy sipped at the green drink, wrinkled her nose. "I think maybe you're right. This calls for a real drink." She walked out to the kitchen, emptied the glass in the sink. She found another glass, dropped three ice cubes into it, spilled a stiff slug of whisky over them. "I can't talk you out of it, Johnny?" she asked when she rejoined him on the couch.
"It's my only chance, Muggs."
"But it's crazy, I tell you. You can't go up against a gang like that and walk away from it. You'll end up with a bunch of eels making a patchwork quilt out of your face in the bottom of the bay. Let Herlehy and his boys take care of Capolla."
"On what charge?"
"What charge? Didn't he try to kill you? Didn't he shoot up that drugstore? Isn't that enough?"
"You want Herlehy to pick him up because I say I saw him in a moving car in a bad light at night. Any smart mouthpiece would laugh Deats out of court with that. And you know it. What's more, so does Deats."
The girl leaned over, snagged a cigarette from a box on the end table. "Why not drop the whole thing, Johnny? You said if Doc Travin convinced you it was suicide, you'd---"
"But he didn't."
The blonde stared at him mouth agape. "Didn't what? Didn't convince you or didn't commit suicide?"
"Both. Doc Travin didn't convince me because Matt Merritt didn't commit suicide. He was murdered."
"You're bluffing," Muggsy accused. "I was right there with you. You even told doc he made a good case for suicide."
"He did. But not good enough. I'm sure Merritt was murdered, Muggs. But I can't prove it."
The girl studied his face. "Was it something you found out at Doc Travin's office?"
Liddell nodded. "The fact that they never found the bullet."
"So?"
Liddell shrugged. "So nothing, maybe. So murder most likely." He took a deep drag on his cigarette. "The bullet should have been in the ceiling."
"But doc explained that. He said the bullet was spent by the time it was through Merritt's skull, fell to the floor, was lost. That's reasonable."
Liddell snorted. "Not unless Merritt's skull had a steel lining. The gun was a thirty-eight. Since when does a thirty-eight get spent traveling through at most four inches of tissue and a quarter of an inch of bone?"
"Then where is it?"
"That's the sixty-four-dollar question," he admitted. He finished his drink, set the glass down on the floor at his feet. "He might have been killed some place else and brought there, or the bullet was deflected, or---"
Muggsy squirmed impatiently on the couch. "That's goofy and you know it. Just as goofy as it is to sit there and try to convince me or anybody else that the old guy sat there, let a killer shove a gun in his mouth, and didn't put up a struggle."
Liddell sighed. "I know it. The whole damn case is goofy."
"But you still think it's murder?"
Liddell crushed his cigarette in an ash tray, scowled at the last thin irregular line of smoke that curled ceilingward. "I told you I couldn't prove a thing. But until I find out what's behind all this shooting, why Jean Merritt disappeared, and what happened to that bullet, I think it's murder."
The telephone jangled noisily in the foyer. Muggsy jumped up from the couch, walked out to answer it. "It's for you," she called in.
Liddell walked out, took the receiver from her hand.
"This Liddell?" a metallic voice wanted to know.
"Yeah."
"I got some information you wanted. About a certain party."
"Good. Where is he?"
The receiver hesitated for a moment. "It ain't that easy. You better meet me. You couldn't swing it alone."
"I don't get lonesome easy, bud. Just give me the dope and let me worry."
He laughed in his ear, a high-pitched crackling laugh. "Don't get me wrong, Liddell. I ain't figuring on backing your play. You're the tough dick. I don't get paid to get holes in my head."
"Then what do I have to meet you for?"
"I got to get it set to get you in. Make it about twothirty."
Liddell consulted his watch, scowled. "It's only eleventhirty now. Can't you make it earlier?"
"Twothirty," he repeated. "In front of the Bright Lights Tavern on FortySeventh. Know the place?"
Liddell nodded. "I know the place. How'll I know you?"
"You won't have to. I'll know you," the receiver cackled. There was a click, and the line went dead.
Liddell tossed the receiver back on the hook, scraped his palm over the faint stubble on his chin. It could be the tip he was expecting, but by the same token, he realized, it could be another stakeout.
He walked into the living-room for Muggsy, found that she had gone into the bedroom, closed the door behind her. He wandered out on the little terrace that was pasted onto the side of the building, overlooking Central Park. He had almost finished a cigarette when Muggsy slipped up behind him, slid her arms around him, laid her cheek against his.
"Miss me?" she whispered.
He flipped the butt into a glowing arc toward the street below, turned around. Muggsy had changed into a flowing royal-blue dressing-gown, her blond hair was fluffed out softly, her make-up fresh.
"I guess I'm beginning to sound like an old woman." She grinned. "I ought to know by now that you can take care of yourself." She stood on her tiptoes, placed her lips against his. After a moment, she pushed him away. "Well, that's a relief. I was beginning to think that reihead in your office had something I haven't got."
Liddell grinned. "We ought to be able to settle that easily enough." He tried to pull her to him again, she eluded his grasp.
"Was that the call you were expecting?"
"Yeah. But he can't meet me until twothirty. That's almost three hours from now."
"That soon?" Muggsy pouted. She led him into the living-room, pushed him down onto the couch. She made a face at him, walked to the kitchen, returned with a bottle, some glasses, and a bowl of ice.
He patted the cushion at his side, waited while she poured a drink into each of the glasses, sat down beside him. As she reached across him to place the bottle on the end table, he could feel her body against his, the scent of her hair in his nostrils. He slid his arm around her, turned her face up to his.
Her lips were moist, soft-looking, slightly parted. Her eyes were heavy-lidded. When he covered her mouth with his, he could feel her teeth sink into her lower lip.
After a moment, she put her hand against his shoulder, pushed him away. She snuggled comfortably on his lap, reached up, loosened his tie, opened his collar. "You can kiss me again now," she said. "It won't kill you."
It didn't.
The room was half dark when Johnny Liddell awoke. The alarm clock was ringing. There was a dark-brown, fuzzy taste in his mouth that refused to be washed away by the tap water. He ran another glass of water, held it to his head. The clock on the kitchen wall said two o'clock.
Muggsy Kiely stirred uneasily on the couch, moaned softly in her sleep. Liddell splashed water in his face, swabbed it dry with a towel, ran a comb through his hair. He turned out all the lights, found his hat on the end table, kissed Muggsy softly, and left.
The Bright Lights Tavern was a garishly lighted honky-tonk on 47th Street, east of Broadway. The normal flow of traffic along the street had dribbled to an occasional vague-eyed pedestrian, the type that had given the block the nickname of Dream Alley, a group of heavily painted hustlers with three fresh-faced, eager, but drunken sailors in tow. A mounted cop rode by, his horse's hoofs striking hollow clanks in the emptiness of the street.
Liddell took up his position outside the tavern, waited.
It was almost twenty-five minutes before he heard the trade-mark of the blind beggar---a discordant guitar and a strident, nasally off-key voice doing unmentionable things to a mountain chant. After a moment, he came into Liddell's line of vision, a little man, a silver glint of bristles on his chin, a tin cup wired to the neck of his guitar, his eyes covered with a pair of opaque black glasses. He finished the song a few paces before he reached Liddell, continued to shuffle along, coaxing a terrifying assortment of discords from the guitar as he went.
When he was abreast of Liddell, he lowered his face, as though to get protection from the wind. "Give me a few minutes inside, then come in after me, shamus," he muttered with no apparent movement of his lips.
Liddell gave no sign of having heard, sucked deeply on the butt he held cupped in his hand, consulted his watch as though impatient over a stand-up. The beggar shuffled by, entered the tavern. A mixture of conversation and juke-box music spilled out into the street as he opened the door. Liddell continued to smoke, finished his cigarette, flipped it toward the gutter. The mounted cop rode by again, stared at him incuriously, continued east toward Fifth. Liddell consulted his watch again, then turned and entered the tavern.
The Bright Lights Tavern got a good late-hour play by service men. Bar girls of all sizes and vintage were working the sailors and marines that lined the bar twodeep. On the way in, Liddell was almost bumped by a buxom redhead, leading a sailor. She was back in ten minutes---without the sailor.
As Liddell walked in, a heavily bleached woman sitting in a booth near the door studied him speculatively, passed an unseen signal. Almost immediately, the girls drifted away from their prospects and headed for the ladies' room or found seats together in a booth.
Liddell walked through the blue-white haze of cigarette smoke, found a place at the bar, ordered bourbon. The bartender grabbed a bottle from the backbar, slid a shot glass in front of him, filled it to the brim, all in one motion.
"Want to see anybody particular, mister?" He studied Liddell with piglike eyes that were almost obscured by the scar tissue of hundreds of ring battles.
"Such as?" Liddell asked.
The bartender shrugged bulky shoulders. "Lil, maybe. Big Lil. She handles the local boys on this spot." He indicated the bleached blonde with a toss of his head.
Lidcell swung around, saw the woman studying him, walked over to where she sat. "The bartender thought I wanted to see you. Should I?"
From close, the woman was old, her make-up a stiff mask covering with indifferent success the sag and wrinkle of age. Her eyes were bright and hard, her hair thinned by constant exposure to chemicals. Her lipstick was glaring, smeared, her teeth nicotine-stained. "What's the beef? We're paid up to date."
"You got me wrong. I have no beef. I just got cold waiting out there for a babe that never showed." He held up his drink. "I came in to get thawed out."
The bright eyes rolled in the dead white of the old woman's face. "You're not the Law?"
Liddell grinned. "I was wondering why you called time out." He shook his head. "I'm no copper."
The woman studied his face, looked past him to the bartender, nodded. The bartender reached up on the backbar, turned a beer ad face to the wall. Almost immediately the girls resumed their stations at the bar, pushing drinks and mixing with the servicemen.
"Sorry, mister," the old woman croaked. "You can't be too careful around now with all these bluenoses yelling for action. You never know when they're going to by-pass the local station house and send in a fly-cop." She folded blue-veined, faded hands in front of her on the table. "Can't be too careful."
Liddell nodded, started back toward the bar, spotted the blind man sitting in a booth at the rear of the room. He ambled down, slid in beside him. "Mind if I join you, pop?"
The blind man bared his gums in a cackle. "Threw a scare into the girls, eh, Liddell?" He peered nearsightedly at the glass in Liddell's hand, signaled for the bartender. "You're buying, ain't you?"
Liddell grinned, nodded. "I thought you were blind."
"Just during business hours." He grinned up into the bartender's battered face as he came toward the table. "Man wants to buy, kid. Let's get it on the table before he changes his mind. A couple of brew."
"I'm drinking bourbon," Liddell told him.
"Okay, so you talked me into it. I'll drink both the brews."
The bartender twisted his thickened lips in a grin. "You coulda fooled me, buster. I thought you was a new flattie on the beat, too." He was back in a few seconds with two beers, picked up the dollar bill Liddell laid on the table, dropped two quarters, a dime, and two nickels, shuffled back to the bar.
The blind man tilted his glass to his lips, approved the brew audibly, drained the glass, set it down. "Thirsty work, pounding that beat all night." He looked inquiringly at the other glass, drew a nod from Liddell, pulled it over with a toothless grin. "Work up quite a thirst, that you do."
"Dummy's a tough boss, eh?"
The beggar took a swallow from the second glass, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Take a beat away from you soon's he look at you. And the way he's got this town organized, if you lose a beat you might's well go to work. You couldn't make a dime panhandling. He's got it sewed up that tight."
Liddell nodded, tossed off his bourbon, set the glass down. "How about my merchandise?"
"Got it lined up for you." The blind man nodded. "Only it ain't going to be easy to get at it."
"Where is he?"
"Across the street. The Hotel Sert. He's got an office there."
Liddell made concentric circles on the table top with the wet bottom of the glass, nodded. "That shouldn't be too tough."
"Think again. It ain't an ordinary hotel." The old man looked around, dropped his voice. "Most of these girls are syndicate girls. The Sert is where the syndicate has its headquarters. That's where Capolla is."
"What room?"
"You still want to go up against him? On his own home grounds?" There was a note of respect in the beggar's voice.
"What room?"
"Third floor front." He put a hand on Liddell's arm, kept him from getting up. "He's got a lookout staked in the lobby and another on the third floor. You'd never make it."
"I can make a damn good try at it."
The old man shook his head. "You wouldn't get past the lobby. You got to use your head on this one. There's ways of doing it and shooting your way in ain't one of them."
Liddell grunted, settled back. "You've got an idea?"
"I'll get you past the gun in the lobby. Getting past the one on the third floor's your problem. Okay?"
Liddell nodded. "How you going to do it?"
The old man grinned obscenely, looked past Liddell, signaled one of the girls. She pasted a wide-mouthed grin on her face, sauntered down to the booth, slid in across from Liddell.
She couldn't have been over twenty-five, but already there was a fine network of lines under her eyes. Her make-up was losing the first skirmishes of what would soon develop into a battle with the crow's feet around her eyes and at the sides of her mouth. Her hair was raven-black, parted in the center, allowed to cascade down over her shoulders onto the white satin blouse that made a halfhearted attempt to disguise the shapeliness of her breasts.
She looked Liddell over approvingly, fluffed her hair over her shoulder with flame-shellacked fingers. "Who's your friend, pop?" Her voice was throaty, husky, not unpleasant. "I'm Lorraine," she told Liddell.
"He's in from the Coast, Lorry. Doesn't know anybody here. Come over to buy an old man a drink." The old man lowered his voice. "He couldn't keep his eyes off you so I'm returning the favor by introducing him."
The girl regarded Liddell from under lowered lids. "He doesn't look like a guy who'd have to wait to be introduced." Her eyes approved the gray-tinged hair, the bulky shoulders.
"Maybe it's too public here, eh Lorry?" The old man winked obscenely. "Maybe he don't like an audience."
"Why don't we go across to my place?" the girl's voice fell automatically into a commercial singsong. She smiled mechanically at Liddell. "We can be alone over there. I could pick up a bottle here and we could have a drink or two if you like."
"Sounds good to me." Liddell pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, separated a ten, passed it to the girl. "You handle the bottle part, will you?"
The hard, ready smile was back. She slid out of the booth, started for the rear. Liddell noticed that the weary lines in her face had no counterpart in her body. She stood about 5'6", weighed about 128 and not an ounce of it was misplaced or unaccounted for.
After she'd disappeared through the door in the rear, Liddell growled, "What's the idea? You know what I'm after."
"Why not mix business with pleasure?" the old man cackled. "You have to get past the gun in the lobby, don't you? Well, what's the better way than to have one of the syndicate gals pass you through as a John? Then all you got to do is get past the guard on the third floor."
Liddell considered it, nodded. "Not bad, pop. Got any ideas about how I get past the one on the third floor?"
"Well, one of the reasons I picked Lorry for you is because she's got fourth floor front. The guy you want is third floor front. From here on in, the rest is up to you."
\*
There was no mistaking the guard in the lobby of the Hotel Sert. He was thin-shouldered, sunken-cheeked. An immaculate pearl-gray fedora sat on top of his head, its rolled brim parallel to the cold button eyes, the bloodless slit of his lips. The collar of his camel's-hair coat was up, there was no tie on the gray silk sport shirt he wore with his blue flannel suit. The black eyes flicked contemptuously over Liddell as the girl led him to the registration desk.
A pudgy little man with wet, pouting lips stood behind the desk. His bulging eyes had a disconcerting habit of appearing to roll from side to side as he talked. His skin was blotchy, his hair obviously marcelled. He favored Liddell with what he obviously intended to be a provocative glance. The girl laughed right in his face, bringing patches of color.
"If I knew you cared I would have gotten another and we could have a double date," she taunted.
The pudgy man's eyes rolled, his pouting lips trembled, a bubble formed between them as he spoke. "I don't have to stand for any of that from you," he spat out indignantly.
The girl winked at Liddell, placed the bottle on the desk. "We'll want some ice and soda. And don't bother bringing it yourself."
The pudgy man wrote a slip with a hand that shook, threw it across the bar. "The room is ten dollars. In advance," he told Liddell between murderous glances at the girl.
Liddell peeled a ten from his roll, dropped it on the desk. The girl winked again at the pudgy man, caught Liddell by the arm, led him toward an old open-grillwork elevator.
A pimply-faced operator grinned vacuously at her as they got in, started the ancient contraption wheezing upward. As they passed the third floor, Liddell had a momentary glimpse of the twin to the guard in the lobby---the same camel's-hair coat, the same gray fedora at the same angle, the same blue flannel suit and gray sport shirt. He sat in a wooden armchair that commanded a view of the staircase and elevator well. He paid no attention to the elevator as it wheezed past him.
On the fourth floor the elevator creaked to a shuddering stop. The operator slid the grillwork door back with a shrill creak, watched hungrily as the girl led Liddell down a long, bare, semidark corridor of closed doors. There was the occasional mutter of low conversation, a shrill drunken laugh. Liddell wrinkled his nose at the strong odor compounded half of cheap perfume and half of perspiration. The girl stopped in front of the end door on the left side of the long hallway, opened it, led the way in.
She indicated the rickety old iron bed, the stand, and two chairs with a sweep of her hand. "It ain't much, but it's home." She pulled the door closed behind her, came close to him, looked up into his face. "Going to be in town long, honey?"
"Long enough," Liddell grunted.
The girl looked piqued by his failure to draw her any closer. "The ice will be right up, honey." The profes sional term of endearment failed to wipe away the pique. "Make yourself at home."
Liddell wandered around the room, stopped at the window. He raised the shade, looked down into the darkness of an alley. Four stories below he caught a red pin point of light that glowed brightly for a moment, faded only to glow again. Liddell scowled. A guard in the alley made that means of exit impossible. To the left the gaunt skeleton of an iron fire escape loomed.
Liddell swung suddenly at the sound of a knock on the door. The girl stood in front of a mirror, completely naked, admiring the full blown lines of her figure. "Come in," she called.
The door opened, and the pimply-faced elevator operator sidled in, pitcher of ice and two glasses on a tray. His watery eyes fastened on the girl as he walked across the room, his tongue licked wetly at his slack lips.
"Give him a tip, will you, honey?" the girl called over to Liddell. "He's saving his pennies to come see me, aren't you, buster?"
The elevator boy nodded, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, deftly caught the coin Liddell flipped. "It'll be sooner than you think, Lorry." He shuffled to the door, turned for a last look, went through it to the hall beyond.
"Why don't you give the kid a break?" Liddell grinned.
"That drip?" the girl wrinkled her nose. "He gives me the willies." She caught a robe from the closet, slipped into it. "How about a drink?"
Liddell nodded, walked over, started to open the bottle they had brought.
"Not that stuff. That's for the suckers. I've got some real stuff stashed away." She reached into the closet, came out with a half-filled bottle.
Liddell sniffed at the bottle he had in his hand, wrinkled his nose. "What's this stuff?"
"Slops. We get half of everything we sell and what's left over is used to refill bottles from the bar." She dropped some ice into each of the glasses, poured liquor over it, handed Liddell a glass. "I save this for special people."
"What makes you think I'm special?"
The girl grinned, tasted her drink. "In my business you meet a lot of people. You get so's you can pick out the regulars and the grifters. You're not an ordinary John out after a girl."
"What am I?"
"You tell me." The young-old eyes looked him over. "In the first place, a guy like you would never have to pay for a girl. What are you? A cop?"
Liddell shook his head. "What makes you think that?"
"Big Lil ain't wrong very often. She tagged you as a cop. You talked her out of it, but I'm not so sure." She swirled the liquor over her ice. "There going to be a raid?"
Liddell dropped into a chair, caught her by the arm, pulled her down into his lap. "I'm no cop and there's not going to be any raid." His eyes dropped to the open housecoat. "I am here on business but you're making it awfully tough to keep my mind on it."
The girl grinned impishly, made no effort to pull the housecoat closed. "You mean you just came here to talk."
"That's right."
Lorry reached up, ran her fingers through his hair. "What'll we talk about?"
"Frankie Capolla."
The girl's eyes widened, she got up from his lap, finished her drink. "Uh uh. Not me. When I go swimming I like to know about it."
Liddell pulled himself out of his chair, walked over, freshened his drink, poured a stiff slug into the girl's glass. "This isn't charity, Lorry. I pay my way." He pulled the roll of bills from his pocket.
"Who are you?" Her eyes refused to leave the roll of bills.
"A private eye. Johnny Liddell's the name."
"I'll tell you something about Frankie. And for free. Stay away from him. He plays for keeps." She took a drink from her glass, put it down on the dresser, walked over to Liddell, slid her arms around his neck. "Be smart, Johnny." She laid her cheek against his shoulder. "Why not stay here with me instead of going out looking for trouble?"
Liddell sighed, debated the urgency of seeing Capolla, lost the decision. "Don't make it any tougher on me than it is, baby." He groaned. "I've got to see Capolla tonight."
The girl looked up at him, grinned ruefully. "I must be slipping. I thought I could at least hold my own against that fat slob." She brushed the thick black hair back over her shoulder with a sweeping motion of her hand. "You might get in to him, baby, but you wouldn't be in any condition to see." She picked up her drink, stared at him morosely. "That gorilla on the third floor isn't some interior decorator's idea. He's there to discourage curious people like you."
Liddell nodded. "How about the one in the lobby?"
"A lookout, mostly. Let's Frankie know if anyone comes in Frankie might not like to see. Like the cops, for instance."
"And what does Frankie do?"
"Blows. You don't think the only way out of this trap is through the lobby, do you?"
"Go on. You're getting interesting."
The girl grinned. "Don't get your hopes up, buster. The escape hatch is at the far end of the hall. You'd still have to pass the gunsel to reach it." She looked meaningly at the bills in Liddell's hand. He peeled off three tens, folded them, watched glumly while she stuck them in the housecoat pocket. "There's another one staked out in the alley. This place is about as easy to get out of as Alcatraz---if they don't want you to leave."
Liddell nodded, scowled. "Where is the escape hatch on the third floor, Lorry?"
"It's a back staircase that runs through the third door from the back. We use it to empty the joint in case of a raid. It comes out in an alley opening on Forty-Sixth Street."
Liddell peeled five tens off his roll, laid them on the table. "I need ten minutes, Lorry."
The girl looked hungrily at the money, up at Liddell. "For what?"
"To get to Capolla." He nodded his head to the window. "Down the fire escape."
"What happens to me when they find out? I wouldn't live long enough to spend it."
Liddell added more bills to the pile. "How could you stop me? I tied you up and gagged you."
Lorry considered it, bit her lip. "They wouldn't buy that. But if you knocked me cold, I couldn't do anything about it." She looked up. "That'd cost extra."
Liddell counted out twenty dollars, added it to the money on the dresser. "It's your idea." He watched while the girl scooped up the bills, added the money from her pocket, pulled out a drawer on the stand, stuck the money in the recess, closed the drawer.
She held up her glass, drained it. "As long as I'm going to wake up with a headache, I might as well have a reason for it." She replaced the glass on the stand, slipped out of the housecoat, stood before him naked, her eyes bright, her color high. "I'm ready any time you are.
You call the turn, buster." She straightened up, closed her eyes.
"There must be an easier way," Liddell growled.
"If you insist on going through with it, get it over with," the girl urged. "I'd rather get slugged by you than stop a couple of their slugs." She opened her eyes, looked from her nakedness to him. "Unless you've changed your mind."
The punch traveled less than twelve inches, exploded on the side of her jaw. The girl's eyes glazed, rolled backward in her head, her knees buckled, her body fell toward him. Liddell caught her under the arms, dragged her to the bed. He arranged a pillow under her head, threw the sheet over her body. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth, a large welt was already discoloring on the side of her jaw.
"Sorry, baby," he whispered. "It had to look good for your sake."
Liddell Doused the light in the room, walked over to the window, slid it up. The fire-escape landing was about four feet from the window, opening into the adjoining room. He slid one leg over the sill, found a tiny cornice, leaned his weight on it experimentally. Then, carefully hooking the toe of his left foot inside the window jamb, he leaned slowly toward the fire escape. After what seemed an eternity, he felt the cold metal touch his finger tips, wiggled farther forward until he could grab the landing with both hands. Then, releasing his foot from the window, his body swung dizzily toward the fire escape.
A minute later he sat panting on the landing. He dried the palms of his hands along the side of his thighs, looked down into the alley below. As he watched he saw the guard's cigarette redden to a bright dot, then fade. He strained his eyes against the darkness, failed to make out the shape of the man below, hoped he was equally invisible.
Keeping as close to the wall as possible, Liddell felt his way down the stairs to the third-floor landing. The window was dark. Carefully he tried it, breathed a sigh of relief as it slid quietly up. He threw a leg over the sill, followed it into the room, closed the window behind him.
The room was apparently used as an office of sorts. A large desk took up most of the room, the walls were lined with what appeared to be filing-cabinets. Liddell felt his way carefully around the desk toward the door, opened it a crack, applied his eye to it. The hallway was empty, but at the far end, commanding a view of it, he could see the guard sitting, his chair tilted back against the wall.
Liddell swore under his breath, closed the door noiselessly. He felt through his pockets, came up with a paper package of matches, scratched one, looked around. On the far side of the desk was a door. He held the match, walked to the door, burned his finger, dropped the match. At the door, he placed his ear against it, listened. There was no sound from the room beyond. He caught the doorknob, turned it carefully, pulled the door open a crack.
A man was sitting in a large overstuffed chair, facing away from him. He held a phone against his ear; a cigar clenched between his teeth waggled when he talked. Liddell had a clear view of the pouting lips, the fat neck that bulged over the tight collar. He pulled the .45 from its holster, waited until the fat man had nodded into the phone, dropped it back on its hook with a grunt.
Capolla was holding a match to the cigar when Liddell stepped into the room, his .45 pointed at the fat man's stomach.
"Hello, Frankie," Liddell greeted him.
The fat man turned his head laboriously. The cigar that had been standing at right angles to his pouting lips suddenly drooped, the rolls of fat around his neck billowed as his jaw dropped, his piglike little eyes receded behind their discolored pouches, flashed a combination of hate and fear.
"What is this?" he growled. His voice was heavy, blubbery, as though choked by the fat around his neck.
"Is that a nice way to talk to a guy who went through all the trouble I've gone through to see you, Frankie?"
The fat man started a sneer. "You don't even know what trouble is---yet."
Liddell kept the muzzle of the .45 pointed at the fat man's belt, circled in front of him, took up a position with his back to the wall near the hall door. "You're scaring me to death."
The fat man squinted at him, scowled. "Who are you and what's the idea?"
"My name's Liddell. Mean anything to you?"
"Not a thing."
Liddell grinned tightly. "It must have the other night. You tried to part my hair with a tommy gun. I kept Scoda as a souvenir. Remember?"
The fat man's face drooped. His lower lip sagged, showing the discolored stumps of his bottom teeth. The pinkness left his face, leaving the sagging jaws a muddy white. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You will," Liddell promised. "We'll take a little ride to clear your head."
Capolla said nothing, rolled his cigar between thumb and forefinger, stared fixedly at Liddell.
"First, we call in your boy from the hall."
The fat man continued to regard Liddell with sinister eyes, his eyelids drooping until the eyes themselves were mere slits. He made no move.
Liddell grinned frostily. "Of course I don't have to talk to you. I could just blast you where you're sitting. I'd get out the same way I got in. But you wouldn't be going any place."
Capolla's face sprouted a crop of globules of sweat that gleamed wetly in the light. He looked down at his pudgy white hands, played with a diamond ring on his fourth finger. "Okay. Suppose I do go along. Then what?"
"Depends. I've got a lot of questions I want answered. You tell me the answers and that's all I want with you."
"How do I know you're not going to blast me as soon as I tell you what you want to know?"
Liddell shrugged. "You don't. But you're sure of getting it if you make me do it the hard way."
"Ask them here."
"Too many distractions." Liddell shook his head, motioned with the .45. "Get the gunsel in here." As the fat man's pudgy hand moved toward a button on the wall, Liddell stopped him. "Don't forget, Frankie, if you tip him in any way or if he comes in shooting, you won't be around to get the score."
Capolla wiped the red smear of his mouth, nodded, jabbed at the button. He returned his hands to his lap, crossed them across his stomach, settled back to wait.
Liddell flattened back against the wall, his .45 trained on the man in the chair, a strained smile pasted on his face. They both started when the rap came on the door.
The fat man's eyes rolled to Liddell, who nodded.
"Come in," Capolla ordered.
The door opened, the man in the camel's-hair coat and gray fedora walked in, closed the door behind him. When he saw Liddell, his hand streaked for his right lapel, froze with his finger tips inches from the butt of his gun.
"How'd you get in here?" he growled.
"I borrowed a pair of wings from that fairy in the lobby and flew in," Liddell grunted. "Turn around and keep those hands up where I can watch them."
The guard turned around, faced the wall, gave no resistance when Liddell fanned him, relieved him of a snub-nosed .38.
"Now what?" Frankie Capolla demanded.
"You and I go for a ride, Frankie."
The fat man sneered. "That's what you think. There's a guard down in the lobby and there's no way I can call him up here. And there's another one down in the alley. So how do we get out?"
"Hang around, Frankie, and I'll show you," Liddell told him. With one motion, he knocked the fedora from the guard's head, chopped the barrel of the .45 above his right ear, stood back as the man slid to the floor.
"Now. On your feet, fat boy."
The fat man looked at the unconscious guard with disbelieving eyes, pulled himself out of the chair. He permitted Liddell to get behind him, relieve him of a Luger, which Liddell transferred to his own pocket.
"Too bad I was in that chair and couldn't get at it," Capolla growled.
Liddell was unimpressed. "If you couldn't do any better with this than you can do with a tommy gun, it wouldn't have done you much good." He jammed the snout of the .45 into the fat man's side, propelled him to the door. "Stand there facing the wall, Frankie. It might help your memory."
He leaned down, stripped the camel's-hair coat from the guard, picked up the gray fedora, set it on the top of his head, the brim parallel to his eyes. "Let's get going, Frankie."
"Where?"
"Down the hall to the third door from the end. We'll use the escape hatch." He could feel the fat man stiffen. "Yeah, the one you use for raids."
The fat man's shoulders drooped as the fight seeped out of him. "Okay, shamus. You're holding the aces."
The concealed stairway leading from the third floor of the Hotel Sert came out in a courtyard that opened onto 46th Street. In the yard a large black sedan was parked.
"Whose car?" Liddell wanted to know.
"Mine."
"Get into it." The fat man hesitated, the .45 boring into his side prodded him forward. He slid in behind the wheel, Liddell slid in beside him. The .45 jabbed into the fat man's side.
"Where are we going?" he breathed noisily.
"Your place."
The fat man's face gleamed wetly in the dim light as he turned to face Liddell. "My place?"
"It'll be the last place they'll think of looking for you when your boy comes to life and tells them you've been snatched. That way we won't be interrupted."
"I don't live alone. I got a shack-up deal."
Liddell grunted. "Lucky girl." He jabbed the snout of the gun deeper into the fat man's side, brought a gasp from the pouting lips. "You'll be able to persuade her to leave us alone. I'll bet you're a hard man with the ladies. Get this heap moving."
Capolla kicked the motor to life, eased the big car up the alley, out to 46th. He swung left on 46th to Sixth, turned north to Central Park South, pulled the car up in front of a modern apartment house facing on the Park.
"This is it," he gurgled.
Liddell nodded. "Pull the car up a block or two. We don't want to advertise where you are. Besides the exercise will do you good. Put you in the right mood to do some talking."
"Don't count on it, Liddell."
They fitted the big sedan between two other black cars in a row of parked cars a block east of Capolla's apartment house, walked back. Liddell stayed a pace behind the fat man, the .45 pointed unwaveringly at the small of his back.
They took the automatic elevator to the fourth floor, walked down a carpeted corridor to a door marked 4C. The name on the bell was Clair Rodes. Liddell looked at the fat man inquiringly.
"It's in the broad's name," Capolla growled. He started to go for the keys in his pocket, groaned when Liddell jabbed the snout of the gun into his already tender back.
"Stay away from the pockets."
The fat man glared. "I'm getting my key."
"Knock."
The fat man's jowls quivered their indignation, but he did as he was told.
Inside they could hear the sound of a woman's high heels tapping across the floor. Then: "Who's there?"
"Who were you expecting? Open it up!" Capolla growled.
The door swung open. A tall brunette with a vacuously pretty face stood in the doorway. "Why didn't you use your key, Frankie. I---" Her hazel eyes flowed past Capolla, fastened on Liddell. "That's not Mickey. What's wrong, Frankie?"
The fat man put his hand against the woman's shoulder, shoved, sent her reeling into the room. "You talk too much," he growled.
Liddell followed them into the living-room, closed the door behind them. He pulled the .45 from his pocket, held it in full view. "Anybody else in the place?"
The girl made an ineffectual attempt to pull her negligee around her, shook her head. The blood had drained from her face, leaving it a transparent ivory, her make-up standing out like blotches on her skin. Her hand was at her throat as though to stifle the scream that was rising there.
"No noise, baby," Liddell told her. "Nobody's going to get hurt. The fat boy here and I have some business to talk over. Private business. He's going to tie you in the bedroom until we're finished."
"I'm damned if I do." Capolla's jowls quivered.
Liddell grinned tightly. "And double damned if you don't. Make it easy on yourself, Fatso, and don't keep reminding me that you tried to use me for a shootinggallery."
Capolla tried to stare him down, then his eyes wavered and fell. "Come here, you," he snarled at the girl.
The girl stood her ground, a faint flush of color returning to her cheeks. "Don't let him push us around like this, Frankie. You're always telling me how tough you are "
The fat man lashed out, caught her across the cheek with a sharp crack. The girl fell back, hand to face.
"Lay off the rough stuff, Capolla," Liddell growled. For a fraction of a second he took his eyes off the fat man, was unprepared for the speed with which Capolla caught the girl by the arm, spun her into position between him and Liddell and threw her forward. The girl's body caught Liddell a glancing blow, throwing him momentarily off balance.
Capolla was on top of him before he could regain his balance, lashed out with a foot at Liddell's groin, missed by inches. Liddell chopped at the leg with the barrel of the gun, drew a yelp of pain from the fat man.
He regained his balance, braced himself, was ready for the fat man's next lunge, slammed him across the mouth with the flat of the barrel, smashing the pouting lips like an overripe tomato. Capolla, howling with pain, lowered his head, charged again. Liddell side-stepped, chopped at the back of the fat neck. Capolla hit the floor face first, lay there moaning.
Liddell stood over the quivering hulk on the floor, breathing hard. He looked over to where the brunette stood, rubbing the side of her face. "You all right, Clair?" Liddell asked.
The girl nodded. "No thanks to him. He didn't care if you shot me when he pushed me at you." She glared at Capolla, looked up at Liddell. "You won't have to tie me, mister. I won't make any trouble. I've waited too long to see someone work him over." She indicated the prostrate gunman with a contemptuous toss of her head. "I've had to wait a long time, but it was worth waiting to see it done right." She limped toward the bedroom door. "I'll put the key on the outside. You can lock me in if you want to."
Liddell satisfied himself that there was no extension to the telephone in the bedroom, no exit via a fire escape. He put the girl in, locked the door behind him, returned to the living-room. Frankie Capolla was still sprawled out on the floor, face down.
"Okay, tough guy. Now for the conversation." Liddell stirred him with the tip of his shoe. When the fat man made no move to get up, he caught him by the collar, dragged him to his feet, pushed him to a chair.
The fat man was still having trouble in focusing his eyes, there was a welt on the side of his face, and a stream of blood had cascaded from the smashed lips.
"Who put me on that spot the other night, Frankie?"
Capolla managed to arrange his battered lips in a sneer. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Liddell sighed. "Don't make me do it the hard way, Frankie. Not that I wouldn't enjoy it, but I haven't got the time right now. I'll ask you just once more. Who told you to burn me down on that corner?"
The fat man ignored him, looked down at his white hands, played with the diamond ring on his finger.
Liddell growled, reached over, caught a handful of the fat man's hair, yanked his head up until he was looking Liddell in the eye. "Don't go hard to reach on me, Frankie," Liddell told him in a low voice. "I'm going to get the answers I want. How I get them depends on you. Make it easy on yourself."
Capolla's breath whistled between his smashed lips. "I don't know a thing."
"Not very smart, are you, Frankie?"
"You think you are? Being here? You're not getting a thing outa me."
Liddell grinned bleakly. "That's what makes horse racing, Fatso. Difference of opinion. Me, I think you're going to sing like a stage-struck canary." He reversed the gun, held it by the barrel. "For one thing, if you don't talk, I'm going to feed you this rod butt first. So help me, I'll leave you as toothless as the day you were born."
Capolla squeezed back against the cushions. "I don't know why you were on the spot. I took orders from Scoda on that one."
"Go on."
The fat man wiped the perspiration off his upper lip with the back of his hand. "I just went along to give him cover. He had the contract to blast you."
"Who from?"
The fat man shook his head, agitating the rows of fat that ringed his neck. "I don't know."
"What about Ricci?"
The fat man shrugged so violently, his chins seemed about to overflow his collar. "I wasn't in on that one. That was Ricci's job, not mine."
"What's it all about, Frankie? Why am I on the spot?"
"Maybe you make too many people hate your guts. Like me, for instance."
Liddell snorted. "Or maybe because the word is out to keep me from reopening the Matt Merritt killing."
A stubborn look of fear washed all other expression from the fat face. "I don't know anything about it. Scoda was in charge of that job. I just went along to give him cover.
"Where's Jean Merritt, Frankie?"
"How do I know?"
Liddell put his face close to Capolla's until he could smell the foulness of the fat man's breath. "Because Scoda took her out of the Hotel Westmore just before you opened up on me. Where did he take her?"
The fat man managed a smile, but the apprehension in his eyes persisted. "Ask him. I don't know how to work Ouija boards."
Perspiration beaded on Johnny Liddell's face as he stood looking down at the man in the chair. The past hour had not improved Capolla's appearance.
"You're being awful hard to get along with, Frankie," he told him. "All I want to know is where Jean Merritt is and who gave you the office to spray lead at me the other night."
The beady little eyes glared from behind their pouches. "You're having all the fun tonight, Liddell," Capolla muttered through smashed lips. "I never forget a face and I'm double sure to remember yours."
Liddell's hand described a short arc, caught the man in the chair smartly across the cheek. "Never mind what's going to happen to me, Frankie. Just give some thought to what's going to happen to you."
"You scare me to death," the fat man snarled.
"Okay, Fatso, if that's the way you want it. I mightn't have scared Ricci and Scoda to death, but it's a cinch the .45 slugs I pumped into them didn't lengthen their lives." He pointed the .45 at Capolla's bulging waistline. "One more won't hurt."
The fat man studied Liddell's face for signs of a bluff. Liddell returned the scrutiny unblinkingly. His finger tightened against the trigger. Capolla squeezed back against the cushions of the chair, his fat face slack with fear.
"Wait a minute. I'll talk."
Liddell released his pressure on the trigger. He became suddenly aware that Capolla's eyes were staring past him at the door. There was a faint, almost imperceptible creak behind him as though the door was being opened.
Without attempting to turn, Liddell blasted away at the only lighted lamp in the room. The .45 slug tore the fixture half off the wall, leaving the room in darkness. As he fired, he threw himself to one side, flattened out against the floor.
The door scraped all the way open.
Simultaneous with the crashing of the light bulb, there was a faint plop and a short flash near the door followed by a soft sigh and the sound of someone sitting down hard. The light in the hallway had been turned off and the gunman in the doorway provided no target.
Liddell slid cautiously to the left in an attempt to get a shot at him, caught the leg of a small table with his foot, knocking it to the floor with a crash. There was another muffled plop from the doorway and Liddell heard the buzz of an angry bee whiz past his ear.
He squeezed the trigger of the .45, threw two shots at the doorway. The .45 made a deafening roar in the cramped space. He heard the patter of running feet in the hallway. By the time he reached the door the hall was empty.
He sprinted down the corridor, arrived at the elevator in time to see that it was on its way down. He debated the advisability of trying to race it to the lobby by way of the stairs, decided against it, returned to Capolla's apartment.
He walked in, lit a match, closed the door behind him. He found an undamaged lamp, turned it on.
Frankie Capolla was still sitting in the chair, grinning at him. A small blue-black hole in his forehead had spilled a bright-red stream that ran down the side of his nose and was dripping from his chin down onto his white collar. The beady little eyes, secure behind their purple buttresses, regarded Liddell soberly, were glaring no longer.
There was a muffled pounding on the bedroom door. Liddell walked over, turned the key. The bedroom spilled yellow light across the carpet to the chair where Frankie Capolla sat grinning.
"What happened?" The brunette tried to look into the room over Liddell's shoulder.
"Capolla's dead. Someone stuck his head in the door, started pitching lead. Frankie fielded one with his head."
The girl's hands shook as she pulled her robe close around her. "What'll we do?"
"Call the police, I guess," Liddell grunted. "Someone else is bound to, probably has already. We better get it on record that we reported it as soon as it happened."
"They'll kill me," the girl moaned. "They'll blame me for it. They'll think I put him on the spot."
"Who will?"
"His friends." The pallor had returned to the girl's face. Her voice was high, squeaky with fright. "They'll think it was me."
Liddell patted her arm. "Don't worry about it. I'll see to it that you're booked as a material witness and put away some safe place until I can take care of those friends of his."
The girl licked her lips, made a visible effort to get herself under control. "What do you want me to do?"
"Forget what happened tonight. You and Frankie expected me over. You went inside while Frankie and I were talking. The first thing you knew there was shooting. Leave the rest to me."
"But his friends. They'll know."
Liddell nodded. "Leave them to me, too."
The brunette took a deep, shuddering breath, nodded. "Okay." She looked down at her gown, pulled it together. "I'd better get some clothes on."
After she had returned to the bedroom, Liddell took Capolla's Luger from his pocket, wiped it carefully with his handkerchief. Then, lifting the dead man's hand from where it hung limply over the side of the chair, he pressed the gun into the lifeless hand in several positions. He blew on the gun, seemed satisfied with the number of prints that showed up. Holding it with his handkerchief, he slipped it into the fat man's holster, walked over to the telephone, dialed Inspector Herlehy at headquarters.
\*
A few minutes later one of the radio patrolmen who had been the first to answer the call opened the door for Inspector Herlehy and his men.
The inspector pushed his broad-brimmed hat back on his head, scowled at Liddell. He crossed the room and bent over the corpse. After a careful scrutiny of the wound, he nodded for the headquarters men to take over. Then, perching himself on the arm of the sofa, he regarded Liddell soberly.
"Looks like your luck's run out, Liddell. No one could call this one self-defense."
Liddell managed to look surprised. "You don't think I did it?"
Inspector Herlehy shifted his gum from his left cheek to his right, grinned humorlessly. "You kidding? This morning you find out this guy tried to machine-gun you the other night. He turns up dead and you're on the scene. With that hole in his head it's a cinch he didn't die of old age. How would you figure it?"
Liddell shrugged. "I didn't kill him, inspector."
Herlehy grunted. "Got a gun on you?"
"Here it is, sir." One of the uniformed men produced the .45 wrapped in a handkerchief.
Herlehy held the barrel to his nose, sniffed.
"No use smelling it, inspector," Liddell told him. "You won't have any trouble proving it was fired tonight. Your trouble is going to be to prove how I shot Frankie with a forty-five and he turns up dead with a thirtytwo hole in his head."
Herlehy stared at him thoughtfully, a troubled frown on his face. He spun on his heel, walked over to the uniformed patrolman.
"Anyone else in the place when it happened?" he barked.
The patrolman referred to his black leather notebook. "A woman. Name's Clair Rodes. She's an entertainer at the Show Place out in Brooklyn."
"What was she doing here?"
The patrolman scratched his head. "She lives here. The place is listed in her name."
Herlehy turned back to glare at Liddell. "A witness, eh? Let's have a look at her, Dimock."
The uniformed man disappeared into the bedroom, reappeared a moment later leading the brunette by the arm. She made a determined effort to keep her eyes off the body, lost the match when they roved there uncontrollably.
"You were here when the shooting took place, Miss Rodes?" Herlehy barked at her.
The girl nodded.
"Then you knew this man?" He stepped aside so she could get a good look at Capolla.
The brunette's pallor turned a patchy gray. She swallowed audibly, averted her eyes. "He was my fiance."
Herlehy nodded. "How about him?" He indicated Liddell.
The girl's eyes sought out Liddell, then dropped. "I never met him until tonight. Frankie was expecting him. They had something to talk over. Frankie told me to go to bed as soon as he came."
A trouble V creased the inspector's brow. "They were friendly?"
The girl nodded. "They were while I was here."
"But they had an argument and Liddell shot him?"
"I didn't say that. It was somebody else that shot Frankie. Somebody opened the door, stuck a gun in, and killed him."
Herlehy growled deep in his chest. "You said you were in the bedroom. How do you know all this?" he snapped.
"I told her," Liddell broke in.
Herlehy fixed Liddell with a baleful glare. "Now wasn't that considerate of you? Suppose you tell me what happened."
Liddell shrugged. "It's just like Clair says. The door opened, someone stuck a gun in, and plugged Frankie."
"You didn't even get a look at the killer, no doubt?"
Liddell grinned bleakly. "I didn't have a chance to do anything but duck. It happened so fast Frankie didn't even have time to go for his gun." He indicated the butt of the Luger peeping from under the fat man's jacket. "Either that or he knew the guy in the doorway and didn't expect any trouble."
"Very pretty theory. What were you doing when the shooting started?"
"Talking to Frankie. He was in the chair and I was standing with my back to the door. I heard it open and someone threw a shot. I dived for the floor and took the light with me. Then I threw a couple at the doorway and tried to get a crack at the killer." He raised his shoulders in an eloquent shrug. "He got away."
"Do tell?" Herlehy spun on his heel, swung back to the patrolman standing with the girl. "Take her down and book her as a material witness. Arrange for a paraffin test while you're at it. Maybe she'll be ready to do some talking after a couple of nights in the tank."
There was a light tap on the door, another patrolman opened it. The medical examiner breezed in, greeted the inspector with a cheery grin. He whistled soundlessly as he took inventory of the girl being hustled through the door.
"I'm glad it wasn't her. He's not half as pretty." He dropped his hat on the table, leaned over the body, examined the wound with a practiced air. "Hmm. A thirtytwo, eh?"
Inspector Herlehy slammed his hat down on the table, ran his fingers through the thick mane of his hair. "How the hell can you tell it's a thirtytwo until you get the damn bullet out?" he roared.
The medical examiner dropped his topcoat on the couch, took off his jacket, started to roll up his sleeves.
"I can't, if you're going to get technical about it, inspector. Not any more than you can tell when you find a hole under your sink whether it was made by a mouse or an elephant." He busied himself at the body, made a series of notations on a printed form. "If it'll make you feel any better, I'll have him tagged for an autopsy to make sure he wasn't poisoned," he added maliciously.
Herlehy started to retort, let the fingerprint man catch him by the arm, draw him aside to whisper in his ear. The red flush crept all the way up from the inspector's collar. "You're absolutely sure of that, Vince?"
The fingerprint man looked unhappy. "Positive, inspector. Capolla's are the only prints on the Luger."
"Just like I tried to tell you, inspector." Liddell grinned. "I'm as innocent as a newborn babe. Still determined to toss me into the pokey?"
Herlehy gave his wad of gum a murderous pounding, swore under his breath. "I could lock you up as a material witness but chances are the legitimate prisoners would be circulating a petition to get rid of you."
"Can I have my gun back?" Liddell asked.
Herlehy handed it back wordlessly, watched while the private detective fitted it into his holster. "Still insist you don't know what's going on, Liddell?"
"I'm as much in the dark as you are." Liddell nodded.
The inspector sniffed. "That's not what the district attorney thinks. God help you if you make one slip."
"Your department hasn't got a thing on me and you know it."
"It's not my department you better be worrying about. It's the Health Department. You're a public menace and more fatal than an epidemic."
The Phone jangled so hard it almost danced off the night table. Johnny Liddell groaned, turned over, tried to keep out the strident sound by pulling the covers over his head. Trying to make believe the phone wasn't there didn't work. It stood on the end of the table, shrilled at him.
He consulted his watch, couldn't see the time in the dimness of the room, reached up, pulled on the bed lamp, was almost blinded by the flood of yellow light. It was eleven o'clock.
He reached over, scooped the phone from its cradle. "Yeah?"
The receiver laughed in his face. "The Liddell Detective Agency. Never sleeps! What a laugh." It was Muggsy Kiely, her voice so cheerful that it made his stomach do back flips. "I've been ringing this phone for half an hour."
"No accounting for tastes," Liddell grunted.
"Wake up, Johnny. I'm on my way up."
Liddell scowled at the phone, tried to think of some argument to stave off the threatened invasion, gave it up as hopeless. "Don't hurry on my account."
"That's what I love about you, Liddell. You're so impetuous."
Liddell tossed his receiver on the hook, walked over, ran up the shade, blinked at the sunlight. On the way to the bathroom he unlocked the apartment door, was already under the shower when he heard it open and close.
"Be right out," he yelled above the roar of the water.
"Take your time," Muggsy called in.
He finished showering, rubbed himself down briskly, tried with no noticeable success to wash the dark-brown taste out of his mouth. He stuffed his legs into a pair of gray flannel pants, ran an electric razor over his face, and was feeling reasonably human by the time he walked out to face Muggsy.
She was sitting on her feet in the only decent chair in the room, skimming through a two-column story on the front page of the Advance. She looked up as he walked into the room, grinned. Her face was free of make-up, her thick blond hair fluffed out beneath a dark-blue jaunty tam. She looked more like a college senior in her well-filled sweater than most college seniors ever manage to look.
She tossed the paper onto the floor, got up, walked over to Liddell, slid her arms around his neck. "It sounds like you had an exciting evening after you left me."
"Just routine. Met a couple of interesting women." He planted his lips on hers.
"A couple of women? I only read about one. Who was the other?"
"A hustler who works FortySeventh Street. Her name's Lorry. Interesting."
Muggsy nodded in mock gravity. "I'll bet. No doubt she told you the story of how she was lured unwillingly into a life of sin."
"Lorry? Hell, no. She loves it." He stepped around the girl, found a fresh shirt in his bureau drawer. "What've they done with the Rodes gal?"
"Put her in deep freeze. Herlehy thinks she may start remembering things if he keeps her there long enough."
Liddell shrugged into the shirt, grinned. "Good. That's just what she wants him to do." He selected a tie from the rack, put it back docilely when Muggsy selected another one. "She's afraid Capolla's men will be after her."
Muggsy watched the tie-tying process critically, approved, sat on the side of the bed, and fumbled through her oversized purse for a cigarette. "The story is that this masked marvel crept up behind you and popped poor Frankie right over your shoulder and you don't have any idea what he looks like." She lit the cigarette.
"That's the story."
Muggsy blew a stream of smoke at him, shook her head. "You could do better than that, Johnny."
"Don't believe me, huh?"
The girl grinned. "That's not important. Did Herlehy?"
Liddell shrugged. "He hated to stand still for it but he had no choice. Frankie was popped with a thirtytwo. My gun's a forty-five and Frankie's is a Luger."
Smoke tickled Muggsy's nostrils. "You could have gotten rid of it or the stripper could have done the shooting."
"Don't think they missed that one, either. They gave the Rodes gal the paraffin test the minute they got her to the station." He dragged a comb through his tangled hair, slipped into his shoulder harness. "Take my word for it that the kid didn't do it, Muggs. She was locked in the bedroom when the shooting started."
"And you?"
Liddell fished his .45 out of the bureau drawer, checked it, slid it into the shoulder holster. "Act your age, baby. If I'm going to try to beat an experienced hood to his gun, I'm going to use a forty-five that'll stop him cold, not a thirtytwo that might just sting him."
"Find out the answer to those questions you wanted answered?"
"Nope." Liddell shook his head. "But I would have if I had just a little more time. Frankie was beginning to soften up real nice."
"What did happen, Johnny?"
He took the cigarette from between her lips, took a deep drag, replaced it. "After I left your place, I went over to meet one of Dummy's men in a joint on FortySeventh Street. He had run Capolla down in a ridingacademy called the Sert. He fixed it so's I could get into the place---"
"That's where Lorry came in."
Liddell nodded. "I went up to her room with her. She was right above Capolla's room. I managed to get to him, snatch him. I didn't think they'd find him at his own place." He scowled, rubbed the heel of his hand along his jaw. "They must have spotted us. I made the mistake of using Capolla's car."
"And?"
Liddell shrugged. "And that's all. The rest happened just like it says in the paper. While I was sweating him the door opened. I dived for the floor, took the light out with me. Frankie didn't move fast enough."
Muggsy smoked silently for a moment. "It gets screwier and screwier. Where does this leave you?"
"Up a dead end without a parachute. I'm trying to figure out what I'm knocking my brains out for."
"You're not letting it get you, Johnny?"
"I'm getting superstitious, that's for sure," he admitted. "Things have happened to me since I took this case on that shouldn't happen to a dog. If I had any sense I'd throw it away."
Muggsy looked shocked. "You can't walk out in the middle of a case."
"Case? What kind of case? Some old guy blows the top of his head off, his daughter blows her top and takes off, then a bunch of trigger-happy hoods nominate me as target for today. You call that a case?"
"You said yourself that Matt Merritt was murdered."
"I talk too much," Liddell growled.
"But if he was murdered, you can't drop the case, Johnny. Nobody else believes he was. You can't let the killer get away with it."
"What more can I do, Muggs? With all the prowling and ducking I've been doing I haven't come up with a single thing that I can sink my teeth into."
Muggsy found another cigarette in her purse, chain-lit it from the one she held. "There's got to be a connection. Once we find that, it should all fall into place." She leaned back, blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. "If we could only find it."
"Unless you know how to operate Ouija boards we haven't got a chance. Capolla was my last hope and they fixed it so he won't be doing any talking."
Muggsy shook her head. "There must be others. Capolla wouldn't be the only one to know about a connection between Merritt and Velie. There's bound to be others. You couldn't keep a thing like that quiet."
"Merritt's dead and Velie is the original sphinx. Whom would you suggest?"
Muggsy blew more smoke at the ceiling, considered. "How does that saying go, Johnny? 'The moving finger writes and having writ moves on.' Something like that, isn't it?"
"This is a helluva time to impress me with your culture."
The girl sat up. "No kidding. That quotation applied to the hand of Fate, I think. But the hand of Fate isn't the only thing that writes. Newspapers do, too. Only what they write doesn't move on. It stays right in their files."
"Go on."
"Most of the people mixed up in this mess so farVelie, Capolla, Merritt, Jean-they're all well known. They've all been good copy so the chances are that everything they've ever done has hit the papers. Why don't we hotfoot it down to the shop and see if they ever crossed paths in any way? It may give us a lead."
"That's my girl." Liddell leaned over, kissed her hard. "That's what I love about you, Muggs. Your brain."
Muggsy pouted prettily. "That's what I was afraid of."
\*
The Advance morgue was on the ground floor of the pile of stones on South Street that housed the newspaper office. It was a huge, metal-drawered mausoleum where all the dead news of yesterday's editions are laid to rest. Tier upon tier of metal-faced drawers and steel filing cabinets stretched from the floor to the ceiling for as far as the eye could reach. It was presided over by Pop Michaels, veteran of the city room for forty years, now put out to pasture among many of the stories he had originated and followed through. His only connection with the city side now was limited to the occasional pounding out of an editorial.
He took a charred briar from between his teeth and grinned a welcome at Johnny Liddell and Muggsy Kiely.
"Well, well, if it ain't Johnny Liddell! Don't tell me they've got you farmed out on the obit beat, too?" he wheezed, winking broadly at Muggsy.
"Fine way to greet an old pal who got up at this unearthly hour of the morning just to drop by and pay his respects." Johnny grinned.
"That'll be the day, eh, Muggsy?" The old man nodded. "How's Jim feeling these days?"
"The old ulcers are kicking up again, Pop, but he's back at the desk. He can't figure how the sheet could get out without him out there in the slot."
The old man sighed, shook his head. "He was one of the greatest, Muggsy. They don't grow newspapermen like Jim Kiely any more. It was in his blood." He drew on the juicy old pipe, let his mind tumble back over the years, sighed again. "I'll never forget how disappointed he was when you were a girl. Never thought in those days the women would take over the city room. He's sure proud of you now."
Muggsy grinned. "Not that he admits it. He keeps preaching that newspaper work is no job for a woman. The old fake. He gets as much of a bang out of my by-line as I do."
Pop Michaels nodded. "You can be sure of that. Comes down here often, he does, to get copies of your stuff for a scrapbook he's been making on the sly. Says he's going to give it to your kids." He tossed a sly look at Liddell.
"Says he hopes it ain't in twenty volumes before you get around to having any."
"See how it is, Johnny? Even Pop is out trying to get me a man. Discouraging, ain't it, Pop?"
The old man grinned. "These young bucks don't know how good they got it, Muggs. If I was forty years younger, myself---" He caught himself, grinned. "You didn't come down here to hear an old man's life history, though. What are you really after, Johnny?"
Liddell scratched his head. "Damned if I know exactly, Pop. Anything that will show a connection between Matt Merritt and Pete Velie, I guess."
Pop Michaels sucked on his pipe, pursed his lips. "That's kind of a broad order, Johnny. Break it down for me."
"Put it this way, Pop. Matt Merritt and Pete Velie have cropped up in a case I'm working on. The way things stack up it looks like they knew each other sometime in the past. I've got to find out when and how. Ever hear of their paths crossing?"
The old man clamped the pipestem between his teeth, ran the heel of his hand across the silver bristles on his chin. His bright-blue eyes seemed to be consulting the card index of his mind. "Matt Merritt and Pete Velie, eh?" He sucked contemplatively on his pipe, shook his head. "Can't recall that they ever did, Johnny. I've known Pete ever since he used to raid pushcarts as a fresh kid on the East Side and I was a district man in the courts." He shook his head again. "He never played in Merritt's league. Not that I can recall."
Muggsy nodded. "It sounds goofy to us, too, Pop, but it's worth a try. Get us the files on Merritt and Velie, would you?"
The old man pushed over a pad of forms to be filled out, waited until she had written the information, then shuffled down the line of filing-cabinets toward the rear.
"Let's see anything you have on Frankie Capolla, too, will you, Pop?" Muggsy called after him.
After a minute the old man was back, carrying three bulging Manila envelopes.
"Been reading the story on the Capolla kill, Johnny," he said. "What's the inside?"
Liddell shrugged. "Just like it says, Pop. He and I were having a little talk when somebody started tossing lead. Frankie forgot to duck."
The old man grinned slyly, pushed the envelopes across the desk. "Frankie was a bad boy. Funny thing about him not going for that Luger of his, wasn't it? If it was in his holster when the shooting started, that is."
"Yeah, isn't it?" Liddell agreed.
"I hear the D.A. is wondering about that, too, Johnny. If I were you I'd watch my step. Deats's file back there is a pretty skinny one. He don't care how he fattens it or who he has to stamp flat to do it."
"Thanks for the tip, Pop." Liddell winked. "They don't have a thing on me. Not a thing."
"Yet," added Muggsy. She picked up the folders, led the way to a library table at the side of the room, spilled the contents of the Merritt file out. "Let's see what we can find in this one."
They divided the clips into two files, each pored through half. The clippings ran back through the years, traced the growth of a poor Irish immigrant who rose to an important national figure before his death. Roto prints, news stories of trips abroad, news photos, predictions of prosperity at the height of the depression, warnings of recession at the height of prosperity, business and social triumphs, his daughter's debut, his son's death in a shooting-accident, and finally his own death and the homage paid him by friends and associates at the funeral.
After half an hour of examining the file, Liddell straightened up, eased the cramp in his back, suppressed a yawn. "Looks like Merritt never knew Pete Velie existed," he grumbled.
Muggsy Kiely chewed on the end of a fingernail. "Merritt was a big contractor. Maybe he used Velie in some strikebreaking or keeping his workers in line. Think that could be, Pop?"
The old man sucked on his pipe, considered it, shook his head. "Merritt never had any labor trouble far's I know." He pointed with the stem of the pipe. "If he had you would have come across it in there. That kind of stuff always hit the papers, especially if there was violence. And if Pete was mixed up, there was violence."
"No hits, no strikes---plenty of misses," Liddell said with a grunt.
Muggsy nodded, riffled the pile of clips with her fingers. "How about the daughter? Maybe she got mixed up with Pete in some way?"
"Wasn't Pete kind of old for her?"
"That wouldn't make any difference to a screwball glamour puss like Jean Merritt. You know the way the movies and teevee have glamorized two-bit hoodlums like Velie. In her circles knowing Pete Velie would be a real accomplishment." She shoveled the clippings back into the folder marked Matthew Merritt---Deceased, handed it back to Pop. "It's not like in her old man's day when the racket boys and society traveled in different circles. Now they both hang out in the upholstered sewers we laughingly call night clubs."
"It's worth a try as long as we're here, I guess."
"How about it, Pop? You knew Velie from away back. Was he the kind of guy that might take a shine to a society kid like Jean Merritt?"
The old man scratched his head, surrounded himself with a blue fog of pipe smoke, shook his head. "I wouldn't know, Muggs. That society stuff was off my beat. I can let you have her file, though." He shuffled back to the files, reappeared with another Manila envelope.
Another half hour of poring through gossip items in columns, reams of copy on Jean Merritt's debut, an announcement of her engagement to Dr. Tony Seville got them no farther.
"What a screwball! Looks like I had the doc wrong. She seems to have leveled off a little since she met him," Liddell growled.
"Hurray for him. Maybe we've both been wrong." Muggsy sighed. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all."
Liddell rubbed his eyes wearily, yawned. "One more to go, then we'll pack it in." He poured the voluminous contents of the Pete Velie file out on the table in front of them, selected a handful at random, started glancing through them. They went through the pile methodically, reading, discarding, reading, discarding. Suddenly Liddell stiffened. He held a clipping up to the light, studied it carefully for a minute.
"I think I've got something, baby." His voice was heavy with suppressed excitement. "So help me, Hannah, I think I've struck pay dirt." He was holding a two-column picture that had apparently been used in a centerspread picture layout. "Take a look at this one, Pop."
The old man took the picture, adjusted his glasses, peered at the date. "August 12, 1938, eh? That was in my time, all right." He held the picture out at arm's length, studied it.
It was the picture of a man, sprawled out on his back in the gutter, a folded overcoat under his head. A whiteclad intern was kneeling at his side, two uniformed patrolmen were watching with halfhearted interest.
"That's Pete Velie there." The old man stabbed the man in the gutter with a gnarled finger. "I remember that time. That was the garage ambush back in '38 down on the East Side. Damn near got Pete that time, too."
"Okay, okay. I know that's Pete Velie. But who is this?" Liddell pointed to the intern.
Pop Michaels studied the picture, shook his head. "Just an ambulance doc, far's I can see. Them young fellers came and went, Johnny. Never around long enough to get to know them well."
"How about letting me in on this?" Muggsy complained. She took the picture from Pop Michaels's hands, studied it, frowned. "What's all the excitement, Johnny? I thought you had something."
"Take another look at that doc. Doesn't he look familiar?"
Muggsy studied the picture obediently, shook her head. "Not a bit. Just another intern." She read the caption under the picture. "He rode the Gouverneur Hospital ambulance. Name of Anthony Annsevillaro. So?"
"So? What do you mean so?" Liddell roared. "You mean you don't recognize him as Doc Seville, the guy Jean Merritt's going to marry?"
"Doc Seville? You sure, Johnny?"
"Of course I'm sure. I'd know that smooth-haired pill pusher any place. Even if he has changed his name."
"It could be," Muggsy conceded. "I don't know Seville well enough to say for sure, but it could be. Even the name. Annsevillaro to Seville. It could be."
"It's got to be. It's the link we're looking for. Now at least we can tie two people up in this screwy mess, Seville and Velie. Now we're beginning to get some place." He turned to the old man. "Got a file on Doc Seville, Pop?"
The file On Tony Seville proved disappointing. The batch of clippings dated no farther back than five years, the earliest being an account of Dr. Seville escorting one of that season's more publicized debs. He had apparently made no effort to get publicity of either nature.
After the files had been returned to the metal drawers, Liddell leaned back, stared morosely at the ceiling. "I'm beginning to get a couple of ideas of what's been playing around here for the past couple of days, but it sounds so screwy, even to me, that I'm afraid to mention it."
Muggsy Kiely made an effort to erase her disappointment, but failed. Her full lips drooped, though she showed no signs of giving up.
"Think hard, Pop. Can't you tie this young doc in with Pete in any way? It can't just be coincidence. There's got to be a connection between them."
The old man sucked noisily on his pipe, rattled the juice in the stem. "Can't say I do, Muggs. Matter of fact, I don't believe there was any. Pete was the last guy in the world to have any truck with medics anyway."
"Why, Pop?"
"Scared to death of them. Always was."
"How come?"
Pop Michaels chuckled deep in his throat. "Had good reasons to be, I guess. Doctors always meant trouble for Pete. Back in the old days he was always getting shot up and every time he'd go to a doc for treatment they'd turn him in."
"You'd think he'd have stayed away and taken his chances."
The old man shook his head. "Not Pete, Muggs. He was scared to. His kid brother Mickey died from an infected wound he refused to have treated. Pete saw the kid die and he had an unholy fear of infection after that."
"Yet he knew Seville. That's the only thread we've got and we're hanging onto it. Let's take it from there, see where it goes. Try filling us in on this garage ambush, Pop," Liddell prompted.
The old man chewed his pipestem, ran his mind back over the stories he'd covered. "It was a good yarn," he nodded. "They backed my piece up with a centerfold of pix. That one you saw was one of them." He tapped the ashes out of the pipe, started repacking it. "They surprised Pete and five of his boys in a garage down on Monroe Street. Pete was the only one to walk away."
"Who did it?"
"Word around was that it was the Mulligan boys. Always was bad blood between Artie Mulligan and Pete. Ever since they were kids. Anyway, Pete clammed up, and the case was never solved. Not by the cops, anyway."
Liddell nodded, watched the old man light his pipe with a long wooden match. "Pete shot up bad?"
"Pretty bad. But Pete always was a tough one to kill. We got the flash down at the Elizabeth station, got there before they loaded him into the ambulance. Real scared, Pete was that time. Real scared."
"But you didn't know the intern?" Liddell persisted.
"Like I said, those kids came and went. Never paid them much mind." Pop shook his head. "Never saw him before, can't recollect ever seeing him after that."
"How about Pete?"
The old man screwed up his forehead in concentration. "Don't recall that I saw much of him after that, either, until they sent him up on the Federal rap. No, wait a minute, I did. About a year later he was up for questioning about the epidemic of lead poisoning Artie Mulligan and his boys suddenly contracted. Eight of 'em in two weeks."
"Nothing come of it?"
Pop Michaels shook his head. "Not in the courts. But the other Mulligans didn't take it lying down. Every so often you'd hear of one or another of Pete's boys being found with a Mulligan trade-mark in his back."
"But not Pete?" Liddell made some rapid computations. "That was almost fifteen years ago. Pete's been inside for about three on the Federal rap. You mean that in twelve years he never turned up?"
"You saw his file. He's been up for questioning on a couple of killings and things, I guess."
Liddell nodded. "But he never showed up with any bullet holes?"
"Can't say that I ever remember Pete getting into a shooting-scrape from that day to this. None of his boys, either, now that you mention it. Dead, yes. But not wounded."
Liddell beat a noiseless tattoo on the table with his finger tips. He stared at a framed picture on the wall above Pop Michael's head. After a moment, as though arriving at a decision, he stood up, caught Muggsy under the arm, lifted her to her feet.
"Thanks, Pop. That's about all we can learn around here, I guess." He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, separated two fives, shoved them into the old man's hand. "Have a beer on us." He caught Muggsy by the arm, led the way out of the morgue, down the corridor toward the Advance editorial offices.
"Ten bucks. You really must have an idea vegetating under that spreading scalp of yours. What is it, Johnny?"
"Nothing very definite. Just an idea, baby."
"Don't kid me, Johnny. This is Muggsy," the girl chided. "You just aren't the type to go scattering fivedollar bills in your path just because somebody gave you an idea. Something Pop said back there rang a bell. What was it?"
"You heard what he said."
"I heard. But to me it didn't mean anything. It did to you. Don't hold out on me, Johnny," she pleaded.
"I'll give you the whole thing when I'm surer that I'm on the right track. There's no use in both of us being confused."
"Scout's honor?"
Liddell grinned, chucked her under the chin. "You know I never hold out on you, baby."
"Then what hit you so hard back there?" she persisted.
Liddell pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, held it out to the girl, who shook her head, hung one from the corner of his mouth.
"Quit stalling, Johnny. What hit you?"
"A lot of things, I guess. For instance, what's a kid who was interning in a city hospital a few years ago doing with a fancy Park Avenue office and private sanitarium in Westchester?"
"And?"
Liddell shrugged. "And how come Pete Velie gets involved in a gang war with the Mulligans and yet neither he nor any of his boys ever show up for treatment of gunshot wounds?"
"You think there's a connection?"
"Could be. But first we've got to be sure that Annsevillaro and Seville are both the same guy."
Muggsy considered it, conceded that it was reasonable. "How are you planning to go about that?"
"I thought you might dig me up a press card for a couple of hours."
"What for?"
Liddell shrugged. "Just checking a hunch. I can do it without the card, but having one'll make it a lot easier. Can you get one?"
"I suppose so. Jim Van Arsdale always keeps a couple of extras stashed away in the city side for when the space rate boys need one." She led the way to a frosted-glass door labeled Advance- Editorial Employees Only and parked him on the doorsill.
She was back in a few minutes with a shield-shaped card in her hand. "You're now Tom Terry of the Advance. Every guy on assignment who needs a card becomes Tom Terry on account of that's the name the card is made out to."
Liddell stuck the card in his hatband, shoved the hat on the back of his head. "Now if I only had on my baggy pants and hadn't shaved the disguise would be complete. How do I look?"
"Like Darryl Zanuck's conception of a reporter."
"You think that's bad?" Liddell countered. "Hearst never saw the day he could pay his reporters what Zanuck pays his."
"Where do we go from here?"
Liddell took the press card from his hatband, slid it under the cellophane flap in his wallet. "You go home and wait to hear from me. This is strictly a one-man operation."
Muggsy started to protest, permitted herself to be dragged to the street. Liddell flagged down a cab, pushed her into it, gave the cabby her address.
"I'll check you as soon as I get this off my chest," he promised.
"How nice. I'll have some beer and cheese ready."
Liddell was pleasantly surprised. "Now you're making sense. I thought you were going to cut up, and---"
"How do you want your cheese? On bread or in a trap?" the girl snapped. "Let's go, driver."
The cab charged away from the curb, leaving Liddell standing, his mouth open. As it pulled away, he had a final view of Muggsy in the rear window. He waved, and she put her thumb to her nose and waved back.
\*
A half hour later, Liddell loped up the steps of the drab stone building that housed the administrative offices of Gouverneur Hospital. He walked down a poorly lighted hallway to a door marked Information. Inside, a white-haired woman sat behind a grilled counter, making entries in a large ledger. She raised her eyes as Liddell walked in, smiled.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
Liddell flashed the shield-shaped press card. "I'm Tom Terry of the Advance. I'm down here to do some feature pieces on famous doctors who've interned here. Who would I have to talk to?"
The woman was suitably impressed. "I think you'd want to talk to Mr. Morrisey, our director. Will you come this way, sir?" She opened a gate, led him to a wooden door in the rear of the office. "Would you wait here a moment, Mr. Terry?"
She disappeared into the office beyond, was gone only a minute.
"Mr. Morrisey will see you now, Mr. Terry."
Mr. Morrisey had a thin, long, sad face running up into a thatch of iron-gray hair that matched the bushy eyebrows perching precariously over a pair of cold, gray, appraising eyes. His mouth was a thin, colorless split that formed the base of a triangle connecting with the long pinched nose. He delicately removed a pince-nez as Liddell walked in.
"Good morning, Mr. Terry." His voice was deep, funereal. "Always glad to meet with members of the press." His eyes rolled sideways to the white-haired woman, "That will be all, Miss Denis," he said coldly.
Johnny Liddell pulled a wooden armchair close to the desk, dropped into it, found an old envelope in an inside pocket. "We're thinking of doing a series on famous doctors who got their start here at Gouverneur, Mr.' Morrisey. I hope you have no objection?"
"Of course not. We'll be glad to cooperate. Did you have any particular person in mind to start with or did you wish suggestions?"
Liddell shook his head. "We thought we'd do it alphabetically. Just to avoid ruffling any feelings, you understand." He consulted the scribbled notes on the back of his envelope. "I thought we'd tee off with a sketch on Doctor Annsevillaro."
The long, sour face of the director seemed to lengthen as he sucked on his lower lip. "Annsevillaro, you say?"
Liddell looked up. "He interned here, didn't he?"
"Yes. Annsevillaro was with us for a few years. But, don't you think there are others, possibly more distinguished men among our alumni?" He started to tabulate on long, bony fingers. "There was Rybeck, the chest man, the Steckler brothers, Kove who did all the research on vitamins, and---"
Liddell interrupted with a wave of his pencil. "Good men, but they have no oomph."
The heavy eyebrows of the director arched upward, corrugating his brow with ridges. "Oomph?"
"Reader interest," Liddell explained, "circulation appeal. Annsevillaro's a glamour boy. A society doctor. The stenos would eat up a story about him. Of course, if you say no---"
Morrisey shrugged his shoulders, attempted a smile that only succeeded in making him look as though he tasted something sour, then laced his fingers on top of the desk. "Certainly not. We're only too glad to cooperate in any way you say. Exactly what can we do?"
"You can sketch out the background for me and then, if possible, I'd like to talk to someone who has worked closely with him for the details and color." He held his breath, mentally crossed his fingers. "There is somebody around that he worked with or who knew him as an intern?"
Morrisey jabbed at a button. "I can tell you better when I've refreshed my memory of what services he was on." The white head of the clerk appeared in the doorway. "Let me have the personnel file for 1938, Miss Denis."
The woman nodded, closed the door behind her, was back in a moment with a large looseleaf folder. She laid it on the desk, walked back to the outer office.
The thin man flipped through the pages of the binder until he came to one headed Annsevillaro, Anthony J. His long, bony fingers ran through the short paragraph that followed the name. "I'm sorry I won't be able to be of much help with his background. Doctor Annsevillaro gave us very few facts concerning himself."
Liddell nodded. "I can get that material direct, if I need it. Just give me some of his educational background. His college?"
"City College. Then Bellevue on a scholarship."
Liddell scribbled the information on the back of the envelope. "When did he finish his internship?"
"In 1940." The director closed the looseleaf book, leaned back. "Directly upon completion of his internship he left Gouverneur and we have no record of him since." He replaced the pince-nez on the high bridge of his nose. "That accounts for my surprise at your selection of Doctor Annsevillaro as one of our outstanding alumni." There was a faint gleam of suspicion in his cold, gray eyes.
Johnny Liddell pulled his wallet from his breast pocket, extracted a clipping, passed it over to Morrisey. "Then you probably don't know that he's changed his name to Seville?"
The director's eyebrows arched in surprise. He took the clip, studied it. "That's Doctor Annsevillaro, all right. You say he's doing well as Doctor Seville?"
"Very well. For the past five years he's been society's number-one medicine man. You must have seen his name in the papers at some time or other?"
Morrisey continued to stare at the picture. "Yes, of course. I guess I never associated the two, though I did hear something about him. It's nice to know he's doing so well."
Liddell took back the clipping, replaced it in his wallet. "Now, about someone who knew him while he was here?"
The thin man took off his pince-nez, tapped them thoughtfully against the palm of his hand. "Almost twelve years ago, eh?" he mused. "Of course there would be many changes in that time. Not among the charge nurses, perhaps." He considered the possibility for a moment, shook his head. "I doubt if they'd remember him. A retiring young man, I think I mentioned?"
Liddell nodded. "Anybody else?"
The thin man sucked on his lower lip. "The lab man or the X-ray technician might possibly remember him. Most of the interns spend a lot of time in the lab doing their own work-ups." Suddenly his face cleared. "Of course! Why didn't I think of him before? Vinny. He'd be sure to remember Annsevillaro if anyone did."
"Vinny?"
"He drives the bus. Ambulance, you know. He's been here for about twenty years and is the unofficial fatherconfessor to most of the interns." He jabbed at the desk button again. The white head of the clerk popped in the open doorway. "Miss Denis, will you call the garage and tell Vinny that I'm sending over Mr.---" He fumbled for the name, turned to Liddell for help.
"Terry. Tom Terry," Liddell filled in.
"I'm sending Mr. Terry of the Advance over to talk to him. Ask him to give Mr. Terry any assistance he can." The white head in the doorway nodded, was withdrawn. "I'm certain Vinny would have the kind of information you want, Mr. Terry."
Liddell nodded, pulled himself out of his chair. "Thanks for the lift, Mr. Morrisey. I'll keep in touch."
The ambulance garage for the hospital was in the back of the building, facing on East Side Drive and the river, reached by a long, inclined ramp. A short, fat man, his bay window resting comfortably on his belt, a blue uniform hat on the back of a bald head, stood leaning against a shiny, sleek new ambulance. He watched Liddell approach with no visible change of expression, continued to execute a delicate operation on a molar with the ragged end of a toothpick.
"I'm looking for a driver named Vinny," Liddell told him.
The short man nodded. "That's me." His bright-blue eyes flicked over Liddell, seemed to hesitate a moment at the left lapel where an almost imperceptible bulge was there to be seen by an experienced eye. "You the one the office called about?"
"Yeah," Liddell told him.
"What's on your mind?" The short man was fat, but it wasn't a soft, doughy fat. It was muscle that had been allowed to run to fat, but it was still muscle. He could have been fifty, looked forty.
Liddell dug his wallet from his pocket, held the press card out. "I'm digging some stuff for a feature article," Liddell told him. "Morrisey thought you could help."
The blue eyes flicked over the press card, seemed unimpressed. "Like, for instance?"
"Little incidents, touches of color. Anything that will dress up an article and bring Annsevillaro to life for our readers."
"Tony Annsevillaro, eh?" The short man pulled the toothpick from between his teeth, took a last look at the frayed end, flipped it to the concrete floor. "What's the beef against the kid?"
"No beef. I just want to do a story on him."
The driver nodded toward Liddell's left lapel. "Since when do reporters go around carrying iron?"
Liddell grinned. "You're pretty sharp, Vinny. I didn't know it showed." He sized the little man up, decided to play it straight. "I always carry one. Sometimes in my racket you have to. You step on toes and you've got to carry some authority or you get pushed around."
"It figures," the fat man conceded. "What about Tony?"
Liddell shrugged. "He's been doing all right for himself. Office on Park, private hospital up in Westchester."
"How's that set him up for a write-up? There's hundreds of docs got the same setup."
"Maybe. But he's the only one who's scheduled to marry the only child of one of the richest men in the country. That makes him news."
Vinny pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, fitted it to the corner of his mouth. "So he played his cards right, eh? Just like he said he would."
Liddell held a lighter to the other man's cigarette, watched him suck it into life. "Ambitious, eh?"
"He knew what he wanted."
"What was that?"
"Money. Plenty of money."
Liddell nodded. "Most poor kids do. He came from a poor family, didn't he?"
"Family never had a dime. Lived down here on the East Side. Mulberry Street. Tony hated everything connected with poverty and the East Side." The short man took a deep drag on his cigarette, blew the smoke in twin streams through his nostrils. "He even hated the poor slobs that came here to the clinic. Hated them because they were poor. He used to say you could smell their poverty and the smell made him sick."
"Was he popular with the staff?"
Vinny shook his head. "Kept to himself pretty much. Only one he spent any time with was a little redhead on male surgery." The bright-blue eyes squinted. "Laura Mellison, I think her name was. She left just before Tony did. Always had it figured she went with him."
"Did he spend much time on the ambulance?"
"Same's the others. No more, no less. All interns rotate. One month they ride bus, the next maybe in admissions, then the whole swing-male medicine, accident, male surgery. All of them. He stood his trick on them all."
"You got to know him pretty well while he was riding bus with you?"
The fat man shrugged. "He used to like to ride with me. We got two busses and two interns on call. Like I said, if I was in, Tony would always jump mine."
Liddell nodded. "Pretty exciting riding the bus down this part of town, I guess. Plenty of stabbings and shootings." He looked up from the envelope where he had been jotting notes.
"Plenty of everything. People getting born and dying all the time."
"How about some famous people that you picked up with Annsevillaro? Anyone interesting?"
"Depends on what you call famous. Down here the biggest excitement we get is gang stuff. Used to get a lot more of it years ago. It's sort of tapering off now. They got it too well organized."
"Wasn't that garage massacre pulled in this district?"
"Pete Velie, you mean?" Vinny took a last drag of his cigarette, dropped it to the floor, crushed it out. "Yeah, we picked him up. Tony did a good job on him. Saved his life. Kid really knew his stuff, you know."
"So I understand." Liddell put his envelope and pencil into his pocket. "Guess Pete was pretty grateful to the doc, eh?"
Vinny shrugged. "I don't know if he ever saw him again."
"I thought you said Annsevillaro saved his life?"
"He did. Stopped him from bleeding to death in the street. But the man on the bus doesn't take care of the cases he brings in. They go right into the services."
Liddell frowned over it. "Seen Annsevillaro since he left or heard from him, Vinny?"
"Once." The short man nodded. "About three, four months after he left. Wanted me to drive for him." He pushed the uniform cap back on his head, scratched the bald pate. "I had to turn him down. I couldn't see giving up a civil service job to work for a kid fresh out of internship. Maybe I didn't play it as smart as I thought."
"You can never tell," Liddell agreed. He pulled the envelope out of his pocket, consulted his notes. "You say the nurse's name was Mellison? Laura Mellison?"
The fat man nodded. "I got a funny idea that if you want to find her, all you got to do is ask Tony. I still think she left to go with him."
\*
The redhead in his outer office was still pecking haphazardly at the keys of her typewriter when Liddell walked in. She had substituted a loose-fitting white silk peasant blouse for her customary sweater, but it did nothing to disguise her assets. She looked up, followed him with her eyes as he slammed through to his private office.
He tossed his hat at the coat tree, dropped into the swivel chair behind the desk, gave the mail a fast shuffle.
"We haven't heard from Jean Merritt, by any chance, Pinky?" he called out to the girl.
"Not a peep. Her check cleared though. I checked the bank this morning." She appeared in the doorway, her notebook in hand, walked over to the desk with a disconcerting motion of her hips. "There've been some other calls. Want to hear about them?"
Liddell nodded, leaned back.
"The Mastersons out in Great Neck want a man for five days to keep an eye on wedding presents for their daughter. Next Wednesday through Sunday. I told them we'd have a man there."
Liddell groaned. "As long as it isn't me."
Pinky nodded. "I already arranged to borrow an op from Lou Blake. He'll cost us ten a day. We're getting thirty-five. Okay?"
Liddell nodded. "After what I've been through on this Merritt job, I'm beginning to think that playing nursemaid to a raft of tin coffeepots is a nice, clean way to make a living."
Pinky nodded. "Miss Kiely called twice. Wants you to call her as soon as you get in. That's about all. Anything new on your end?"
Liddell shook his head. "There'll probably be a call from Albany. If I'm not here, take the message. It's about a registered nurse named Laura Mellison. I want to know where she is now."
"Check. Anything else?"
"Not right now. If Muggsy calls again, tell her---" The ringing of the phone cut him off. He scooped the receiver off the hook, held it to his ear. The operator informed him that she had a call for him.
After a moment: "Mr. Liddell? This is the state board of registration at Albany. You placed a call here this afternoon to request some information?"
"That's right." Liddell nodded. "About a registered nurse named Laura Mellison. Have you got it for me?"
"I'm very sorry," the receiver told him. "The last year of registration of Miss Mellison's nurse's license was 1942. We have no record of her since that time."
Liddell cursed under his breath. "Could she be nursing in another state?"
The receiver hesitated. "It's possible. But in cases of reciprocal granting of licenses by other states; there is usually some notice given to the state of original license. We have no such notation on Miss Mellison, nor do we have any indication that she served with the Armed Forces during the last war."
Liddell nodded. "Thanks very much."
"I'm sorry we couldn't be of more help." The line went dead. Liddell dropped his receiver back on its hook, glared at the instrument.
"Bad news?"
"I'm getting used to it. Wasn't too important anyhow. I was just trying to check something I'm pretty sure of anyway." He laced his fingers behind his head, stared up at the ceiling. "This damn case---it's almost like somebody is looking over my shoulder, figuring my next move and beating me to it."
Pinky clucked sympathetically, smoothed her skirt over her thighs with a practiced motion.
Liddell continued to stare at the ceiling. "I wonder why she'd let her registration lapse? Most nurses don't, even if they don't figure on going back to nursing." He dropped his eyes to the redhead, scowled. "I've got an idea, but he wouldn't be that careless." He chewed on his lower lip, nodded. "Just the same I'm about ripe for a break in this case."
He reached over, lifted the receiver off its hook, dialed a number. After a moment, a pert voice informed him, "The Advance. Good afternoon."
"Jim Kiely on the desk," he told her.
"One moment please," she chirped, then a heavy voice growled, "Desk."
"Let me talk to Jim Kiely, will you? This is Johnny Liddell."
"This is Jim, Johnny. What's up?"
"I need a fast check on vital statistics, Jim. Would your City Hall man give me a lift?"
The receiver hesitated. "I guess so, Johnny. Nothing much breaking down there right now. What's the check?"
"A marriage license in the name of Anthony Seville and Laura Mellison. Or maybe the groom's name is listed as Annsevillaro. Should be in 1939 or 1940. Preferably '40."
"Where are you now, Johnny?"
"My office. I'll wait here for your call. Likely to be long?"
"Depends. I'll get back to you as soon as we get anything. By the way, what's in it for us?"
"A good yarn, I think. Muggs knows the score to date and if it breaks she'll have the works all wrapped up for you."
"Sounds good. Drop by and let's see you one of these days, Johnny. It's been a long time."
Liddell nodded, dropped the receiver back on the hook, sighed. He reached down to the bottom drawer, brought up a bottle and two glasses. "Well, while we're waiting there's no reason we can't be comfortable. Sit down, Pinky, and relax."
The redhead looked doubtful, shrugged, walked over, dropped into the client's chair. "This is no way to run a business office, you know."
"It can be a lot of fun, though." He poured a stiff drink into each glass, handed one to the redhead.
Pinky took the glass, grinned, made a halfhearted effort at pulling her skirt down over her knees, gave it up as a bad job. "In business school they told me there'd be days like this."
"What's wrong with a little relaxation?"
"Nothing, I guess. It's just that I'm still an employee and you're my employer."
Liddell nodded, held his glass up in a toast. "Here's to more and better employer-employee relations."
The redhead lifted her glass, sipped at the contents, studied him over the rim. "You're kind of crazy, you know."
"You don't have to be crazy to get into this racket, but it does give you a head start." He scowled at the phone as it jangled, nodded for the redhead to answer it.
She walked over to his side, lifted the receiver from its hook. "Johnny Liddell Agency," she said. "Inspector Herlehy?" She glanced at Liddell inquiringly, received a nod. "Just a minute, inspector, I'll get Mr. Liddell for you."
Liddell slid his arm around her waist, tried to pull her down onto his lap. She wriggled out of his grasp, leaving him with only a phone in his hand. He grinned ruefully, put it to his ear. "Hello, inspector."
Herlehy's voice was gruff, impatient. "You're in trouble again, Liddell. Serious trouble."
Liddell sighed. "What'd I do now?"
"Unwarranted invasion of privacy. Anyway, that's what the D.A. is going to try to tag you with. Doctor Seville spent the last hour with him in his office. Says you're apparently trying to put a shake on him."
"That's a cockeyed lie."
"Maybe. That's why I'm tipping you off. You may still be able to call off the dogs. I don't like to see any guy hounded out of a job unless he's got it coming to him."
"Thanks, inspector."
"Don't thank me, you never even heard from me. Just get yourself straightened away with Deats and the doc. Otherwise, you're out."
Liddell nodded. "I'll do what I can. Thanks for the tip." He returned the phone to its cradle, glared at it, swore under his breath.
"More trouble?"
"They're really turning the heat on now, Pinky. They've got the D.A. steamed up to lift my license. I must be worrying them." He chewed on the side of his thumbnail, considered.
"What are you going to do?"
Liddell shrugged. "I've got to get something to fight back with. I know the old man was murdered, but that doesn't do any good until I can prove it. With Doc Seville tossing his weight around I'm a dead duck unless I come up with something awful soon. And awful good." He finished the drink, put the glass back in the bottom drawer. "Call Muggsy, tell her to meet me at Luigi's in about an hour, Pinky. From here on in I've got to keep moving so they can't tag me with a writ. I'll keep in touch with you by phone, but---"
The telephone jangled again. Liddell picked it up, answered in a guarded tone.
"Is Liddell there? This is Johnny Harris of the Advance.
"Hello, Harris. What's up?"
"Got the dope you wanted from the old man, Johnny." There was a pause, then: "Anthony Joseph Annsevillaro and Laura Jane Mellison were married at City Hall on September 2, 1940. That what you want?"
Liddell nodded, jotted the information down. "That's my boy. Remind me to buy you a drink next time I see you. Drink, hell. I'll buy you a whole bottle."
"This I have got to see." Harris chuckled. "See you around."
Pinky leaned across the desk excitedly, the folds in the peasant blouse filling out with breath-taking effect. "Got something?"
Liddell nodded, depressed the button on the phone, pulled an envelope from his pocket, found the telephone number he was looking for, started dialing. "I've got that club I wanted, baby. Maybe I can still hold them off." He told the voice that answered that he wanted to talk to Dr. Seville.
After a few moments, a silky voice came on. "Doctor Seville."
"This is Liddell, doc. I understand you've been making some complaints about me down at the D.A.'s office."
The receiver nodded. "That's right. Your unwarranted invasion of my privacy has become annoying. I intend to stop it."
"Just how am I invading your privacy, doc?"
The receiver snorted. "That clumsy masquerade as a reporter, delving into my background for one thing."
Liddell considered it, agreed. "It was pretty clumsy, but it was never intended to win an Academy Award. It served its purpose."
"And the purpose?"
"To prove that Doctor Anthony Annsevillaro and Doctor Tony Seville are one and the same person."
"Of course. You could have gotten the same information from the Hall of Records. The change in name is quite plainly recorded."
"So is your marriage to Laura Mellison, doc."
There was a short pause, then: "I don't see that has anything to do with you, Liddell."
"It might, since you're planning to marry Jean Merritt. This state is very narrow-minded about bigamy."
"Since when is it bigamy for a widower to remarry? My first wife, Laura, has been dead since 1945."
Liddell made a fast recovery from the body blow.
"Died just about the time you met Jean Merritt. Interesting, isn't it?"
"Yes, very. But I'm afraid you won't be finding out how the story ends since according to the district attorney you may not only lose your license, but could conceivably end up in jail as well if you persist in this malicious invasion of my privacy."
Luigi's was located in the heart of Brooklyn, a brownstone house in a row of brownstone houses, with no indication of its identity as a restaurant other than the oversized garbage can in the areaway. The walls of the basement apartment had been knocked out to make one huge room, at the far end of which a huge wood-burning stove chuckled and snapped. Liddell selected a table near the wall, tossed his hat on the hat rack, settled down to wait for Muggsy.
A huge woman waddled slowly over to his table, her face wreathed in a toothy smile that was given added brilliance by a slight mustache.
"Is nice see you, Mr. Liddell," she puffed. "Long time since you pay Luigi and Seraphine a visit. Miss Ronny, she coming, too?"
"She's supposed to meet me here, Seraphine." He glanced at his watch. "She shouldn't be long now."
"You like maybe some Chianti while you wait?" She pursed her lips, rolled her eyes, touched the tips of her thumb and index finger. "Is good Chianti. Just like you like, Mr. Liddell."
Liddell nodded, watched her waddle to a near-by cabinet, come back with a fiber-covered bottle. She gave him another smile, waddled back to preside over her pots.
Liddell was on his second cigarette when Muggsy walked in. She waved to Seraphine, came directly to the table. "Something happened, Johnny?"
Liddell poured some wine into her glass, refilled his. "Plenty. Seville's putting the heat on the D.A. to lift my card. And there's nothing that clothing-store dummy would like better." He sipped at his wine morosely.
"Can't you do anything about it? Isn't there any way to stop it?"
"Not unless I get something to use as a lever. I thought I had it," he growled. "But the doc keeps one step ahead of me."
"What'd you have?"
Liddell shrugged. "I established the fact that Seville is Annsevillaro. He admits that. I also stumbled over the fact that he married a nurse named Mellison in 1940. I thought I had him on that one. He just laughed at me. Mellison died in 1945, leaving him conveniently free to marry Jean Merritt. And leaving me holding a nice ripe bag."
"But you said Matt Merritt was murdered. If you can prove that---"
Liddell snorted. "If I could prove a lot of things. Sure I know Merritt was murdered, but nobody'll believe me. I know his daughter didn't disappear; she was snatched by Scoda, but I can't prove it. I even know why Velie's boys have been trying to blow my brains out. So what? There's not a damn thing I can do about it."
"Well you can't sit here and swill Chianti and let them lift your license without fighting back. If you can just prove any one of those things Pop and the paper could start a big enough fire under the D.A. that he'd be too busy keeping his own rear end from getting singed to be trying to burn yours." Her eyes mirrored her concern. "Don't you have any ideas?"
"Just one. And it's so damned farfetched I'm afraid to count on it." He finished his glass of wine. "I'm going out to Carport. If Merritt was murdered there must be some trace of it. If I can't find it," he shrugged, "I just let myself in for something I should have stayed out of."
Muggsy drained her glass. "I'm going with you."
Liddell shook his head. "You'd better not, baby. Why should you get dragged into this mess?"
"Because I'm a special correspondent from the Advance assigned to it. We're going to string along with you on it, Johnny. Pop doesn't know it, but I'm back on the staff."
Liddell started to argue, decided it was a lost cause, "It's your time, if you want to waste it."
Seraphine waddled over as they stood up. "You not going, Miss Ronny. I fix something special for you. You not going without trying it?"
Muggsy patted the fat woman on the shoulder. "We'll be back, Seraphine. We can't take the time to eat now. We've got a train to catch."
\*
The Long Island Railroad wheezed its way to a jerky stop in front of a one-story weather-beaten frame building that had a shingle hanging from its roof that identified the stop as Carport. Two dust-begrimed sedans stood under another sign captioned Taxi, their operators lounging indolently against their front fenders. They watched Muggsy and Liddell alight from the train with no sign of interest.
"Know where the Merritt place is?" Liddell asked.
The cabby he addressed, a tall, lanky man with a red ski cap, a brightly colored plaid shirt, a lined, leathery face, shifted the wad of tobacco from his right cheek to his left, spat in the dust at his feet.
"No sense going out there, mister. Ain't no one there," he opined.
"Isn't there a caretaker of some kind?"
The cabby considered the question, conceded there was. "Fellow named Lessy, nice fellow. None of the family there, though. The old man's dead, the rest are gone."
Liddell fished the Tom Terry press card from his wallet, showed it to the cabby. "We don't have to see the family. We're just interested in doing a feature piece on the grounds itself."
The cabby sighed, realized motion was inevitable, straightened up. "Suppose you want to go out there?"
"If it's not too much trouble. How far out of town is it?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes." The cabby directed a stream of tobacco juice in the general direction of the trash can. "Depends on how much of a hurry you're in." He opened the rear door of the sedan, helped Muggsy in. "The young one, that Miss Jean, she was always in a hurry. Made it one time in six minutes flat for her. Wouldn't want to make a habit of it."
He slid in behind the wheel, kicked at the starter, headed the car out of the parking-lot onto the town's main street. The route took them through the heart of town, making it necessary for the driver to weave in and out of double-parked cars, around trucks parked almost in the middle of the road. Throughout it, the driver kept up an endless stream of chatter. Finally, "Know old Matt Merritt?" Liddell asked.
"Knew him to see, not to speak to. Kept pretty much to himself, he did. The girl wasn't like that. Little bit wild, I guess, but not snooty."
The taxi passed the last cluster of stores that made up the main street, headed into a twisting road that skirted the bay.
"She used to spend a lot of time in New York. Ever run into her down there?"
"Never did."
"Guess lately she didn't get in as often as she used to. Hear she was running with a fast crowd and the old man put his foot down."
"How about Mrs. Merritt?"
The cabby concentrated on skidding the big sedan around a curve in the road, shook his head. "Never saw much of her. Kept pretty much to herself, I guess. Real broken up by the old man's death, from what I hear."
"Guess she would be," Liddell agreed. "What did they think about the way he died around here?"
The cabby spit an expert curve in the wind. "Didn't think much one way or the other, I guess. Man's got a right to do what he wants with his own life. He was a pretty sick man there toward the end. Don't know but what I'd do the same thing myself." He half turned, looked back. "Ain't one of those people feel it ain't right to kill yourself if you got a mind to."
"That's all very fine, as long as you don't take other people with you. Us, for instance," Muggsy muttered. "If you made this drive in six minutes, you must have used a helicopter."
The driver turned back to the road. "Needn't be nervous, miss. I can drive this road with my eyes closed."
"That's what I thought you were doing," Muggsy told him.
The car slowed down, swung off the county road onto a blacktop that wound up a hill through a twin lane of old trees. After a short climb it reached a hidden driveway, turned in.
The house was a huge old frame building, set back from the road in a sheltering grove of elms. It had a broad porch that ran around three sides of the house, set on a promontory that commanded an unimpeded view of the bay beyond. The taxi skidded to a stop in the driveway.
"Want me to wait?" the cabby asked.
Liddell considered it, nodded. "Might as well. I don't know how long we're going to be here, but I don't like the idea of walking back to the station."
The cabby grinned, patted his meter. "Whatever you say, partner. It's your money if you want to go crazy with it."
Liddell led the way up the short flight of wooden steps to the entrance, pulled the old-fashioned door pull. A dark man with gray hair brushed up into a pompadour opened the door. He looked from Liddell to Muggsy and back.
"Good evening, sir."
"You're Lessy, I suppose?" Liddell greeted him.
The man nodded. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
Liddell produced the press card, let the man read it. "We came out from New York to have a look around. We're working on a feature series about famous old homes out here on the Island. We'd like to take a look around."
The grayhaired man looked undecided. "I don't know, sir. As you may know, there was a tragedy in the family, and---"
"I know. That makes the interest in this place all the greater."
Lessy took another look at the press card, consulted his watch. "It's too late to reach Mr. Boghossian today. That's the Merritt family lawyer, you understand. I would like some authority before I---"
"This is only a preliminary visit, Lessy. We wouldn't be taking any photographs or anything like that until you'd had time to check with Boghossian."
The grayhaired man made up his mind, swung the door open. "I'm sure that would be all right, sir. I know you'll understand my hesitation. I wouldn't like to exceed my authority."
Liddell nodded, followed him into a large hall. At the far end a broad curving staircase led to the upper floors. On either side huge doors led into other rooms. The entire hallway was covered with thick, yielding carpeting, the walls were hung with patently expensive tapestries.
"Is there any place in particular you would like to start, sir?"
Liddell dropped his hat on a carved oak chest of drawers, looked around. "I suppose it's been closed up since Mr. Merritt's death?"
"Nothing has been touched. As you may know, Mrs. Merritt has been ill, and Miss Jean has been living in town." He indicated a door to the right. "This is the parlor. You may be interested in some of the period pieces---"
"I think I would rather see that in daylight," Liddell cut him off. "Would it be possible to start with his study?
It's morbid, of course, but I would like to see where he met his death."
The grayhaired man looked at him, frowned, nodded. "As you wish, sir. Mr. Merritt's study is at the head of the stairs. Would you come this way?" He led the way up a thickly carpeted staircase to a door at the head of the corridor. He opened the door, felt for a light switch, bathed the room in a subdued light. "Mr. Merritt spent most of his time here."
One whole wall was of glass, looking over the bay. Two of the remaining walls were filled with bookcases, the fourth covered with a beautiful tapestry depicting a savage tiger-hunting scene. In the center of the room a huge, carved mahogany desk contained a radio, some correspondence trays, a pipe rack with four pipes, a silver hammered humidor. The entire room was covered with soft gray-green carpeting that seemed to merge and blend with the green of the trees and lawn that stretched out below toward the bay.
"I don't blame him for spending most of his time here. If I had a study like this, I'd never leave it," Liddell murmured. He stared up at the ceiling, found no trace of a scar, walked over to the window wall, seemed intent on studying the glass. Finally, he walked back to his desk, leaned against it. "Where was he found?"
Lessy walked around the desk, faced them. "He was standing here when he did it."
"Standing? How do you know?"
Lessy frowned. "He had to be. You see, the chair was pushed back. When he shot himself he fell to the floor here." He indicated a place on the carpet where a faint chalk outline was still barely visible.
"Could be he toppled off the chair, knocked it back out of the way," Muggsy suggested.
"Hardly, miss," Lessy responded, pointing to the heavy, carved armchair. "There are no rollers on the chair."
Liddell reached over, snapped on the desk light. It threw a yellow gleam of brilliance toward the ceiling. "This the only lamp in the room besides the indirect lighting?"
"That's right. Why?"
"I'm not sure," Liddell told him. "Just an idea." He walked around the desk, stood over the chalked spot on the rug, faced the lamp. Then, he swung around, looked at the tapestry directly behind him.
The grayhaired man and Muggsy watched him curiously as he walked over to the tapestry, examined it carefully. Suddenly his head jerked. "Lessy, come here, please," he called over his shoulder.
Lessy joined him at the tapestry. "What's wrong, sir?"
"What's that look like to you?" Liddell pointed to an almost invisible hole.
The man caught his breath, examined, it more closely. "A moth hole! I don't understand. This tapestry was supposed to be completely protected from---"
"No moth made that hole, Lessy. Help me lift this tapestry away from the wall."
"I don't know if I should, sir. Mr. Merritt was very particular about anyone touching that tapestry."
"He won't mind. It won't hurt it a bit. Grab that end and lift." There was a sharp note in Liddell's voice. "Muggs, you'd better come over here. I think we should have several witnesses."
The girl walked over, watched while the two men lifted the huge tapestry. Liddell gave a triumphant grunt.
"Take a look at that hole in the wall under the tapestry, Lessy. Your moth bored right through it. Only your moth was steel-jacketed." There was a neat bullet hole in the wall.
"What could have done that, sir?" Lessy gasped.
"The bullet that killed Mr. Merritt. The bullet the police couldn't find. The bullet that is the best proof in the world that Matt Merritt did not commit suicide, but was murdered!"
The cab dropped Johnny Liddell and Muggsy Kiely at the entrance to the courthouse. Liddell led the way to the basement office of the medical examiner, walked in.
Doc Travin sat behind his huge desk, looked up as they walked in, grinned them welcome. "I wasn't expecting you two back so soon. What've you dug up now?"
"A murder," Liddell told him wearily.
Doc Travin chuckled. "Not another one like the last one? Business sure must be bad when you go out trying to make suicides look like murder."
Liddell scowled irritably at the little man's humor, dropped into a chair. "What would you do if I brought you a murder, a murderer, a motive, and an opportunity, doc?"
Doc Travin brought up a chair for Muggsy, helped her into it. "I'd see to it that the killer got the chair. What else?"
"Suppose you were positive that you had all these things but you couldn't prove it to the satisfaction of a jury?"
The medical examiner perched on the corner of his desk. "Either there's a murder or there isn't a murder.
Either there's a corpus delicti or there isn't a corpus delicti. What's all the double talk for, Johnny?"
Liddell grinned crookedly. "I've got the corpus delicti and I've got the murder. I'm going to hand them over to you and it's up to you to prove them. Only I'm damned if I think you can."
Doc Travin snorted impatiently. "If there's a murder we'll prove it." He leaned back, pushed his desk buzzer. "First let's have a cup of coffee and talk it over."
Muggsy nodded. "We can both use some."
Smitty, the angular lab assistant, stuck her head into the room. "Three coffees, Smitty. Rush them."
"One black," Muggsy put in.
Smitty nodded, withdrew her head.
"Now, suppose you tell me what this is all about, Johnny. Give it in order. First, let's have the murder." He sniffed. "A murder that's not a murder. A corpus delicti that's not a corpus delicti." He turned to Muggsy. "You know this story?"
Muggsy shook her head. "Liddell's been doing a solo Sherlock Holmes all day. Only instead of using a needle, he's been using cognac."
Liddell stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit it. "Your murder is the killing of Matt Merritt," he said flatly.
"Oh, not again." Doc Travin groaned. "We've been all through that, Johnny. Matt Merritt committed suicide. You admitted it yourself when I showed you the records."
"I admitted you made a good case for suicide. But it wasn't good enough. I know he was murdered and I can prove it---but not for a jury."
The clerk came in, deposited three cardboard containers of coffee on the desk, went out. Nobody made a move.
"How could it be murder, Johnny? He was shot through the mouth and there was no sign of a struggle."
Liddell nodded. "How about the bullet?"
Doc Travin scowled his impatience. "So it wasn't found. So what?"
"So I found it."
"Where?"
Liddell took a deep drag on his cigarette, blew it downward. "Right where it had to be if it was murder!"
Doc Travin looked from Liddell to Muggsy, who nodded, and back. "What the hell are you talking about? We gave that place a good going over and there was no bullet. If you're trying to pull anything, Liddell---"
Liddell sighed. "Pull anything, your grandmother. I've got two witnesses who saw me find that bullet and when you dig it out of the wall you're going to find it matches the gun Merritt was killed with."
"I don't care where you found the bullet. It was suicide and nobody can make me believe anything else," Travin stormed. Then: "Well, you might as well tell me. Where did you find it?"
"In the tapestry on the far wall."
The medical examiner stared at him openmouthed. "How the hell did you come to look in the tapestry?"
"It figured. It didn't go in the ceiling. Your story about it falling to the floor spent was too silly to even consider. It had to go some place. Why not into a wall?" Liddell enjoyed the speechlessness of the little man. "One wall was glass, the other two full of books. I settled for the tapestry."
"Why?"
Liddell shrugged. "The desk lamp. My guess was he would be facing the desk lamp. The bullet had to go into the tapestry that way."
Travin was making a visible effort to keep up with the developments, having indifferent success. "I don't care. Nobody can convince me that any man will let a killer stick a gun in his mouth without a struggle."
"Unless it was his doctor." Liddell tossed the bombshell with startling success. Doc Travin's eyes bulged, his jaw dropped.
"Come again?"
"The thing that threw you off is the fact that there was no struggle. You figure nobody would let a killer stick a gun in his mouth without a struggle. Right?" Travin nodded wordlessly. "But suppose the killer is his doctor and he's been feeding him a lot of malarky about an imaginary throat infection, and the victim doesn't know it's a gun the doc is sticking in his throat?"
"Break it down further, Johnny," Muggsy urged.
"Okay. You've got a doc who tells you you have a throat infection. You let the doc look into your throat, even stick an instrument into your mouth so he can get a good look. One day, instead of an instrument, he shoves in the nose of a gun and boom!" He took the cigarette from'between his lips, stared at it with distaste, crushed it out. "That way the throat-ailment gag serves two purposes---gives a plausible reason for the suicide, and provides the opportunity for committing the murder."
Doc Travin was leaning forward, his mouth agape. He made an effort to pull himself together. "You're wrong, Muggs. He has been using a needle." But there was a look of indecision on his face.
"So, there's your murder and your opportunity."
"Wait a minute. You didn't explain how you knew where to look for that bullet," Travin protested.
"I knew if he had shot himself through the mouth, the bullet would be in the ceiling. Now, if the doc was pretending to examine the throat, Merritt would throw his head back. Right?"
The medical examiner nodded gloomily.
"He was standing when he got it. The only direct light in the room was on the desk, so he was facing the desk. With his head thrown back, there was only one place the bullet could go."
The medical examiner rubbed his hand across his mouth, tried to punch a hole in the theory, failed.
"The killer, Johnny?"
"Doc Seville."
"What was his motive?" Travin wanted to know.
"Merritt's money, of course." Liddell reached over, took one of the paper containers, handed one to Muggsy. "He was slated to marry Jean, the old man's only heir." He gouged the top out of his container. "Seville killed him. But I can't prove it, and I don't think you can, either, doc."
"Why should he kill him? The old man thought a lot of him. He could still have married the girl and eventually inherited the money," the medical examiner argued.
"Maybe Merritt found out that Tony Seville of Park Avenue and Anthony Annsevillaro of Mulberry Street were one and the same guy. Maybe he also found out that Annsevillaro had been married to a nurse named Mellison. Maybe he was figuring on breaking up the marriage."
"What's this Annsevillaro business?"
"That's Seville's right name, the one he went through medical school and internship with. The one he was married under." He took an experimental sip of his coffee. "He was a little East Side kid with no future and plenty of plans. He ended up as a fifteen-dollar-a-month intern in a city hospital without a dream of raising enough money to open his own office."
Doc Travin pulled a desk pad over, scribbled a few notes on it. "Go ahead." He nodded.
Liddell settled back in his chair, took another sip of coffee. "One day he gets what looks like a big break. Pete Velie, top racket boy on the East Side, gets himself shot up in the Gouverneur district. Annsevillaro is riding bus that day, does an extra-special job of patching Pete up before he takes him into the hospital."
Doc Travin looked disappointed. "So what's that got to do with Matt Merritt and his daughter?"
"Let me tell it my way." Liddell held up his hand. "After he finishes his stretch on the bus, he goes into male surgery, starts to drop by Pete's room more and more often. Maybe Laura Mellison who's in charge of male surgery at that time sets it up for him, I don't know. Anyway, pretty soon he and Pete are telling each other their troubles."
"Such as?"
Liddell shrugged. "Pete had plenty of troubles in those days. He was just building up his organization and he's got competition. Competition means a little rough stuff and sometimes Pete and his boys need medical care. Discreet medical care, which they can't get. The doctors report it every time he or his boys show up for treatment."
The medical examiner nodded, doodled on his desk pad.
"Pete's scared to death to ignore a wound because his kid brother Mickey died from an infected wound. So, when Annsevillaro makes his proposition, Pete is plenty ready for it."
"Stop making like you read crystal balls." Muggsy grinned. "Pop Michaels told you that."
Liddell nodded. "I don't know who made whom the proposition, actually, but the upshot of it is that Annsevillaro gets a fancy uptown office and a private hospital in Westchester and Velie and his boys get constant and discreet medical care."
Doc Travin stirred unhappily in his chair. "These are serious charges you're making, Johnny. Can you make them stick?"
"I can't prove a bit of it, doc. That's your job," Liddell admitted cheerfully. "All I can prove is that Annsevillaro became Seville in 1940 and that as Annsevillaro he married Laura Mellison who conveniently died in 1945 in time for him to make an all-out pitch for Jean Merritt."
Doc Travin made a few more notes. "It won't be hard to establish when he opened that Park Avenue office and his Westchester setup."
"It will be to find out where he got the money to do it."
"You think Velie underwrote it?"
Liddell shrugged. "It may be coincidence, but from that day to this neither Velie nor any of his men have ever shown up for gunshot-wound treatment."
"Okay. So Velie sets him up. Then what?"
"Seville's a good-looking boy and with the front Velie's money pays for, pretty soon he's doing all right with the debs. All this time, of course, he's married to Laura. Maybe she objects, maybe she doesn't. Anyway, there's no crisis until Seville meets Jean Merritt and falls hook, line, and sinker for the old man's bank account." Liddell drained his paper cup, crushed it with his fist, tossed it at the wastebasket. "Laura is now a handicap so she's got to go. In 1945 she conveniently dies, clearing the way for Seville to marry Jean Merritt."
"If he has Velie's money in back of him, why take the risk of getting rid of Laura just to marry more money?"
"By 1945 Pete Velie is well organized and he's getting less and less action out of the doc for his money. He sees a chance of getting back some of his investment in Seville, so he backs the doc's play for Jean." He ran a hand across his eyes. "There you are, doc, it's all yours---the murder, the murderer, the means, and the motive. I'm not boring you, am I, doc?"
The medical examiner forced a grin that his eyes didn't join into. "Not a bit, Johnny. It's more soothing than Mother Goose, if a little less probable. Even if we can't move in on a reputable physician on the alcoholic daydreams of a punch-drunk private eye, go ahead anyway. I can't wait to hear how it turns out."
"I can tell you that, too. Seville gets away with it and manages to muscle the district attorney into lifting my license for persecuting him. When things quiet down a little, he'll marry Jean, inherit the old man's dough, and kick the kid around until she wears out."
"Where'd you come into this picture?" Travin wanted to know.
"Just in time to get my ears half shot off. The girl must have gotten suspicious of the way her father died, contacted the agency to dig into it. In some way Seville tumbled to what she did, sent a couple of Velie's boys to discourage me."
Muggsy Kiely was biting on her fingernails with concentrated energy. "There's one thing about the whole picture I think you've got wrong, Johnny. The way you set it up, the doc waited for a night when nobody was home. There was somebody home that night---Mrs. Merritt."
"That was her tough luck." Liddell nodded. "She heard the shot, came running, found the doc leaning over her husband's body. She started to yell and he must have slammed her over the head with his rod. His story that she got those injuries falling down the stairs wouldn't hold up. The carpeting on the stairs was too thick."
"Why didn't he kill her right there?" Travin argued.
"That would ruin the suicide theory. Of course, he might have staged a suicide and murder but that might have stirred up an inquiry. So he did it the easy way, set the old guy up as a suicide, lugged the old lady to the head of the stairs, and pitched her down."
Doc Travin pinched at his lower lip. "She could have been killed by the fall."
"That would have been all right. It would have looked as though she had started for help, fainted, and was accidentally killed by a fall down the stairs. If she didn't die, as the family physician, he could lug her off to his private hospital where he could see to it that she didn't do any talking."
Doc Travin nodded. "It all fits," he conceded. "But where's the girl now?"
"Seville has her some place. She was afraid to be seen talking to me, wouldn't come to the office, wouldn't let me come to the hotel. When Seville's boys grabbed her, they found out she was supposed to meet me at the drugstore, sent a delegation to scare me off."
"Maybe they did get her, but she went peacefully enough, it seems to me," Muggsy put in. "She could have kicked up a fuss at the hotel if they were taking her away against her will."
"Don't forget they had her mother in their hands. They might have told her the old lady would suffer if she gave them any trouble."
Doc Travin chewed on his pencil, considered the picture Liddell had drawn. "You figure the reason they tried to get you is because the girl might have told you too much?"
Liddell nodded. "Maybe they were only figuring on throwing a scare into me that first night, but Scoda didn't look as if he was fooling with that thirty-eight in his fist."
"From what I heard, they weren't fooling that second time, Johnny," Muggsy put in. "Ricci was a killer."
"That was Doc Seville's work, for sure, Muggs. After I talked to him the morning after Jean Merritt disappeared, he realized I wasn't going to be scared off. He figured I knew more than I was admitting, so he sent Ricci to blast me right out of my hotel room."
Doc Travin slammed his pencil down, hopped off the desk. "Let's go get them."
Liddell didn't move. "Get whom? For what?" he asked. "If you went into court with a story like this you'd be laughed right onto the retirement list. Haven't you ever heard what happens to police officials who make false arrests and to private detectives who aid and abet them?"
"You don't think they can get away with this, Johnny?" Muggsy looked worried.
"They're doing it, Muggs. We may know a lot of things, but proving them is another story."
"How about the old lady, Johnny?" Travin demanded. "She's the weak link in Seville's armor if you're right. She may be able to put the doc in the house the night Merritt died."
"How are you going to get her testimony?"
"Get a warrant and raid the sanitarium."
"On what grounds? You can't move her without her physician's okay, and that's Seville. You can't even bring in another doc to examine her because that's unethical or something," Liddell growled. "Get used to it, doc. Seville's holding all the aces."
The little man took a deep breath, let it whistle between his teeth. "What do we do? Sit here and let him get away with it?"
"Looks like he's doing it anyway, so we might just as well relax and enjoy it."
"Wouldn't it be worth while taking a chance on getting a search warrant like doc suggests, Johnny?" Muggsy wanted to know.
"He'd hear about it and the chances are that by the time the writ was issued the old lady would be dead from natural causes. As it is, the chances are that my license is just a memory, but the doc would be back wiping running noses and giving penicillin shots so far in the sticks that even a rumor could only reach him by carrier pigeon."
Muggsy Kiely dug a cigarette from the voluminous depths of her handbag. "If we could only find Jean. She must know something."
Doc Travin grinned humorlessly. "If Johnny's right, Velie's boys have her on ice and if we push too hard it may be curtains for her, too. Right, Johnny?"
"I doubt it, doc. They've taken too many risks to get their hands on that money. Their best bet is to rush the schedule and push the marriage through. After all, a wife can't testify against her husband." Liddell shook his head slowly. "They may knock the old lady off, but not the girl."
Doc Travin tore the top off his container of coffee, tested it with his finger, "Damn near ice-cold," he growled. "You make your fairy stories too interesting."
"What's with you two characters?" Muggsy asked in a shocked tone. "You sound like you're going to sit there and let them get away with this."
"I didn't say that exactly, Muggs," Liddell told her. "I said doc has all the aces."
"But?"
Liddell shrugged. "Sometimes a trump can take an ace. I think I have a couple of trumps."
"Then what are we waiting for?"
Liddell pursed his lips. "It may be slightly illegal." He looked at Doc Travin speculatively. "Illegal and dangerous."
Doc Travin stirred his coffee around the soggy container with his finger. "How illegal?"
"Illegal entry, housebreaking, robbery."
"What for?"
Liddell shrugged. "Evidence that may give us a foot in the door."
Doc Travin drank his cold coffee, crushed the cup, dropped it in the wastebasket. He leaned back, avoided Liddell's eyes. "What a blessing to be deaf. That way you can't hear an illegal proposal."
Liddell stared at him for a second, nodded. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it's a good thing you didn't hear me because I'm going through with it. But you'd better stay out of it, doc. You've got a job to worry about."
"That's right. I've got a job, and you've got a license. If you get caught at this caper, your license is gone, you'll be blackballed in every state of the Union, and serve time on top of it."
Muggsy got up. "Come on, Johnny, what are we waiting for?"
Doc Travin shook his head. "You're not going, Muggs. It's bad enough he's out of his mind and is going to bull himself into a cell for the next five years, but you're too pretty to be cooped up. Besides, you wouldn't care for the styles they're wearing in there now."
"I'm going with him, doc." Muggsy stuck her chin out her blue eyes flashing defiance. "I'm not letting him go into this alone."
Doc Travin grinned. "Who said he's going to do it alone?"
Muggsy blinked. "You mean you're in?"
"Of course I'm in."
Liddell grinned. "Don't be crazy, doc. A guy in your position can't afford to get fouled up in a mess like this."
"Ain't it a fact?" Doc Travin sighed. "I've got a feeling I'm going to hate myself in the morning, but I'll bet tonight's going to be fun."
Doc Travin drove on the ride back to the city. Muggsy Kiely sat between him and Johnny Liddell in the front seat. Nobody did much talking until the car approached the Queensborough Bridge.
"How are we going to work this, Johnny?" Doc Travin wanted to know. He swung the sedan into a line of trucks and cars converging on the bridge entrance.
"I don't know, doc," Liddell grunted. "I've got to keep away from the D.A.'s men until we've got something to fight with. If they serve me with any kind of papers before then I'm done."
"Why don't you hole up at my apartment until you're ready to go up against Deats, Johnny?" Muggsy suggested. "I don't think he'd be crazy enough to try to crash there."
"Okay with you, Liddell?" Travin asked.
Liddell nodded. "Okay. Know how to go?"
"Crosstown at Fifty-Ninth?"
"Make it Sixtieth. Then you can hit Central Park South at Fifth."
Conversation lagged again as the car separated from the stream of cars on the Second Avenue side of the bridge. Fifteen minutes later, Doc Travin pulled his car to the curb in front of Muggsy's apartment. He leaned past Muggsy, opened the door.
"Suppose you two go up and have a sandwich. I'll be back in an hour or so." He consulted his watch. "No selfrespecting burglar would break and enter much before midnight, anyway."
"Where are you going?" Liddell wanted to know.
"I think I'm going to have a talk with Inspector Herlehy at headquarters and tell him what you told me. He's a good guy to have on your side at a time like this."
Liddell nodded. "I'll go with you."
"Better not, Johnny." The medical examiner shook his head. "Right now you're in no spot to win any popularity contests down there. What's more, the D.A. may get a brainstorm, pick you up, and jug you just long enough for Doc Seville to sweep up all the loose ends. I'll be back around eleven."
Liddell permitted himself to be shoved out the door, stood on the curb, and watched Doc Travin's sedan melt into the stream of traffic.
"Come on, Johnny. I'll fix you a drink," Muggsy invited.
"You go on up, Muggs," he told her. "I'll be back in about an hour."
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going on that expedition I mentioned. You don't think I'd let doc take the risk of going along. I'm already a dead duck as soon as Deats can tag me. The worst that can happen to me now is that they throw the book at me. But it's worth the try."
"You're crazy, Johnny," Muggsy argued. "Why'd you let doc come all the way in from Carport unless you're going to let him go along?"
"I need doc. If my hunch is right, his being medical examiner of the old lady's home town might speed things up."
"What about Herlehy?"
Liddell shrugged. "I'll worry about Herlehy when we get to him." He signaled a cruising cab, winced as it screeched to a stop at the curb. "Have that drink ready. I'll probably need it by the time I get back."
The cab dropped him at the corner of 61st and Park, a block from the building housing Doc Seville's office. There was nobody in the lobby as he walked in. He avoided the elevator, climbed the five flights of stairs to the office he had visited several days before. It was completely dark. He took out a ring of keys, tried several, found one that turned easily, walked into the doctor's office.
He went through the door beside the receptionist's desk, walked straight to the cabinet where he had seen Doc Seville place the X-rays on Mrs. Merritt. With the questionable assistance of a cigarette lighter he selected the proper envelope, stuck it in the waistband of his trousers, buttoned his coat over it. He closed the drawer, made sure there was no sign of his presence, walked through the two offices into the corridor.
A half hour later he was fitting his key into the lock on Muggsy Kiely's door.
Muggsy came out of the kitchen to meet him. She had changed to the royal-blue housecoat; her thick blond hair was caught behind the ears with a matching ribbon, allowed to cascade over her shoulders.
"Everything all right, Johnny?"
Liddell nodded, tossed the Manila envelope on the table. "So far." He consulted his watch. "Travin call here?"
"It's only nine-thirty. He said he wouldn't be here until midnight."
Liddell grinned crookedly. "I have an idea that when he tells that story to Herlehy he'll get faster action than he expects." He walked into the living-room, sank onto the couch with a sigh. "How about that drink you started out to make an hour ago?"
"Coming right up," Muggsy promised. She disappeared into the kitchen, returned with a tray loaded down with ice and glasses and a bottle of bourbon. She set it on the end table, dumped some ice into each of the glasses, spilled a generous slug of bourbon over them. "Get what you were after?"
Liddell nodded. "I got what I was after. Whether it's what I need or not is a different story." He reached out, caught the girl by the hand, pulled her down onto his lap. "This may not go the way we hope it will, Muggs," he told her. "So far the dice have all been loaded against us. If our luck doesn't change---" He shrugged, grinned at her, kissed the side of her neck.
She reached over, placed one of the glasses in his hand, took one for herself. "In that case maybe I'll get some attention. Ever since you've been on this one, I've gotten about as much attention as last week's newspaper."
Liddell looked at his watch. "It's only nine-thirty and doc isn't due back until twelve."
"That soon?" she pouted. She reached up, opened his collar, loosened his tie. "He certainly doesn't expect us to sit here and twiddle our thumbs until he gets here."
They didn't.
\*
It was actually a quarter to twelve when the buzzer sounded. Liddell got up off the couch, walked to the phone, lifted the receiver off its hook.
"Yeah?" he grunted. "Okay, let him come up."
He walked into the kitchen, ran the tap water, held a glass to his head.
"Who was it, Johnny?" Muggsy called in from the couch.
"Doc. He's on his way up. Water?"
"Please." Muggsy reached over, snapped on the light, spilled a yellow gleam into the room.
Liddell brought the glass to her, picked up the bottle from the end table, spilled a little into his glass. "A hair off the dog," he explained, downed it, shuddered. "Tastes like it, too."
Muggsy stifled a yawn, pulled her robe together. "I'd better clean this mess up." She picked up the glasses, the melted bowl of ice, the almost empty bottle, took them to the kitchen.
Liddell had time to run his fingers through his hair, adjust his tie, and get back into his jacket by the time the doorbell sounded. He walked over, threw open the door.
Inspector Herlehy stood towering over Doc Travin in the corridor. He pushed past Liddell, stalked into the living-room. The little medical examiner followed him in.
"Well, this is a surprise," Liddell grunted. "I suppose you're all loaded down with warrants and everything."
"Stop talking stupid, Liddell," Herlehy growled. "Deats is after your hide. Not me. I would have been over here hours ago if I wanted to find you."
"Herlehy's on our side, Johnny. I told him the whole story," Doc Travin said.
Liddell's eyes shifted back to Herlehy. "Believe it?"
Herlehy growled, threw his hat on the couch, dropped down with a grunt. "It sounds screwy. Screwy enough to make sense. Why didn't you tell me all this?"
"You didn't give me a chance. Any time I tried to give you the score you accused me of snowing you. You even tossed me to the D.A."
"Okay, okay. So maybe I was wrong. Maybe you were leveling." The inspector found a fresh piece of gum in his pocket, denuded it of its wrapper. He nodded to Muggsy as she returned, tray, fresh ice and fresh bottle in hand. "According to doc, you've got Seville pegged as Matt Merritt's killer. Right?"
Liddell nodded.
"But there's not a thing in what you gave doc that lets us move in on him. Not a shred of evidence," Herlehy growled.
"That's what we're going after, Herlehy," Doc Travin put in.
Herlehy growled, let Muggsy pour him a drink, accepted it. "It won't do you any good, doc. This guy's too smart. The way he's covered up, he's left us nothing."
Liddell walked out to the foyer, came back with four X-ray negatives, handed them to Travin. "What do you make of these, doc?"
Doc Travin muttered under his breath, stood up, flattened the negatives against the lamp shade. He studied each one carefully, put them down. "What the hell's this got to do with it?"
"What about them?"
Travin picked them up, held them to the light again. "Must have been a bad accident. The old woman's got a bad concussion over the right ear. The oldest kid's jaw has a bad fracture, the other kid a compound---"
Liddell caught the medical examiner by the shoulder. "What do you mean, the old woman, the young kid, and the other kid, doc? They're all X-rays of the same person!"
The medical examiner's eyes didn't leave Liddell. He picked the plates up, subjected them to another scrutiny. "You're nuts, Liddell. This one is the skull of an elderly person, probably a woman. This is the jaw of an entirely different person---less than half the age of the first. And this is obviously the forearm of a youngster." He tossed the X-rays on the table. "What is all this?"
"Those are the X-rays Doc Seville claims he took of Mrs. Merritt right after he took her into the hospital."
Inspector Herlehy looked from Liddell to Travin and back. "Then he's faking her injuries. Why?"
Liddell snapped his fingers. "Take a look at them. A broken jaw, so she can't talk. A skull fracture, so he can claim she's unconscious. Even a compound fracture of the right arm, so she can't write the answers to any questions. It's as clear as the nose on my face, inspector. Mrs. Merritt knows something that Doc Seville doesn't want her to spill."
Doc Travin groaned. "What are we doing sitting here? She's probably dead right now."
Inspector Herlehy looked worried. "Why should they kill her? They think they're in the clear. They'd be better off waiting a couple of months and then letting her die of natural causes."
Doc Travin stamped on the floor, swore. "Why should they? She has no close relatives to ask embarrassing questions. Doc Seville will just sign the death certificate and the daughter will sign the burial form. Then some undertaker pal of Seville's will cremate her and who's the wiser? Later on, if any questions are asked, they can always say it was the old girl's wish that the services be quiet and private."
Herlehy walked out to the foyer, picked up the phone, dialed headquarters. "Never thought of that. She might be dead already." He dropped his lips to the mouthpiece, gave an extension number. Then: "This is Inspector Herlehy. Put a man to check vital statistics. See if a death certificate has been filed in the past week or ten days on Emma Merritt. Snap to it and call me at this number." He read the number off the instrument.
He hung up the phone, sat twirling his thumbs. Nobody in the room spoke for the next ten minutes. Herlehy left the phone, started to pace the room, stopping only long enough to walk out onto the terrace, stare down on the network of lights that identified Central Park.
Muggsy went into the bedroom to apply a fresh coat of make-up, Doc Travin sat staring moodily at the ceiling, and Liddell applied himself to a morose inspection of the tips of his shoes.
The phone rang with a sudden piercing sharpness.
Herlehy grabbed it from its hook, held it to his ear. "You're sure of that?" he demanded. "How far back did you go? Good. Stand by a moment." He held his hand over the mouthpiece. "It hasn't been filed yet. That means the old gal is still alive."
"We'd better get up to that sanitarium of his and make sure Seville doesn't rectify that oversight right away," Liddell growled.
Herlehy nodded, removed his hand from the phone. I'll want a car and four men right away. We'll pick them up at the Fifty-Seventh Street entrance to the West Side Drive, lieutenant. Hop to it."
\*
The Seville Sanitarium was a trim, two-story stucco building, set behind a well-manicured lawn on the outskirts of Bronxville. The big police sedan skidded to a stop in the crushed-bluestone driveway. Inspector Herlehy jumped out, followed by Johnny Liddell and the medical examiner. Muggsy Kiely followed them up the stairs more leisurely.
Herlehy strode purposefully across the small lobby to where a colored boy sat behind a small switchboard.
"Sorry, mister," he said. "Visiting-hours over long ago. You can't come in here this hour."
"What room's Mrs. Merritt in?" Herlehy demanded. He flashed his shield under the boy's saucer-sized eyes. "This is police business."
"I don't know nothing about any police business, mister," he protested. "I can't let you in without Doctor Seville-"
Herlehy reached over, caught the boy by the lapels of his white jacket, lifted him clear off his seat.
"I don't want to see Doctor Seville; sonny. I asked what room Mrs. Merritt is in. What is it?"
The whites of the boy's eyes stood out against the blackness of his skin. His eyes rolled from face to face, ended on Herlehy's. "I don't know. I'm only the relief man, mister."
Herlehy pushed him back in his chair. "Find out. You've got a register of some kind around."
The boy nodded, opened a card file with shaking fingers, went through it. "Miz Merritt, she's in Sixty-Two, mister. Yes, suh, in Sixty-Two."
Herlehy nodded, spun on his heel, started down the corridor. The boy behind the switchboard watched the four cross the lobby. As soon as they had turned down the far corridor, he spun on his chair, started plugging wires in the board.
Room 62 was almost in complete darkness. On the bed a heavily bandaged figure lay, its features completely covered by white gauze, with only thin slits for the eyes. The sheet rose and fell slightly with her breathing, but there was no other sign of life.
Dr. Travin turned on the light over the bed.
"She's alive, isn't she, doc?" Liddell demanded fiercely in a low voice.
Travin nodded, caught the limp arm that hung over the side of the bed, counted the pulse. He scowled, walked to the foot of the bed, read the chart, replaced it.
"Fracture of the right arm, fractured jaw, and lateral fracture of the skull." He looked to Herlehy. "If any one of those injuries is a phony, as the faked X-rays would indicate, we've got enough on Seville to warrant our taking any necessary steps."
"Well, let's stop talking and do something."
Travin looked down to the right arm. "It's in a cast. Ethically I have no right to remove it without the consent of her physician."
"Ethics be damned. You have every moral and legal right. Take it off, doc. I'll assume all responsibility," Herlehy said.
The medical examiner looked at him, frowned, shrugged his shoulders. From an inside pocket he pulled out a scalpel in a leather case. "I'm not too sure about what's cooking, but from the smell I'd say somebody's goose is being cooked. I hope it's not ours."
The only sound in the room was the tearing sound of the scalpel ripping through the cast. Liddell scuffed his shoe nervously as the cast fell to the ground. They all leaned forward.
Doc Travin took the woman's arm between his fingers, probed gently, then looked up at Herlehy. "There's no more fracture here than I've got." He massaged the arm gently, held it under the light. "But take a look here."
The whiteness of the flesh was scarred by a score or more tiny dots.
"Dope?" Herlehy asked.
Doc Travin nodded. "I thought her pulse was funny. She's probably got a skinful of it."
"This do it, inspector?" Liddell demanded.
Herlehy nodded. "More than enough, Johnny. Even Deats will be satisfied with this one." He turned to Travin. "Take the bandages off her head, doc, and see how bad her skull and jaw really are."
"If the jaw isn't broken, she'll be able to tell us what did happen that night," Liddell exulted.
"I wouldn't count on it," a new voice interrupted. "No, doctor. I wouldn't move if I were you."
Liddell went for his .45, thought better of it at the sight of the .38 in Seville's hand. The hand was steady, the muzzle of the gun loomed as big as a cannon, pointed right at his belly. His hand froze in midair.
Dr. Seville's thick black hair was slightly disarranged and a thin film of perspiration beaded his forehead. He showed no other signs of apprehension.
"I suppose you realize that as trespassers I'm perfectly within my rights to shoot you. You, inspector, have no right to invade my privacy without a search warrant.
You, doctor, have no right either medical or legal to interfere with my patient."
Inspector Herlehy motioned to the figure on the bed. "Right or no right, we're removing your patient to another hospital, doctor. And we're taking you in on suspicion of murder."
"I wouldn't bank on that, inspector." The dark man raised his gun until the blank eye of its barrel looked Herlehy in the eye. "I'm afraid that neither you nor---"
The bark of the gun in the small room was a sharp, malicious spat. The slug caught Seville in the side of the head, spun him half around. He tried to regain his balance, there was a second spat and he was slammed back against the wall, to slide to a sitting position. He was dead by the time Doc Travin reached him.
"Who did it?" Travin demanded.
Liddell pointed to the figure on the bed, a .32 in hand, holding herself half erect on her elbow.
Herlehy picked the telephone off the night table, barked a few instructions in it. "Better get the bandages off her face, doc," he ordered.
Doc Travin nodded, helped the woman on the bed to a sitting position. He took the .32 from her nerveless fingers, laid it on the night table. From a pocket he brought out a pair of surgical scissors, inserted the blunt end under the bandages, and cut them away. They opened like the shell of an egg, fell away to reveal a youthful face.
"That's not Mrs. Merritt. Who is it?" Liddell demanded.
The girl on the bed shook her head. "I'm Jean Merritt. They kept me here so I couldn't go through with the investigation."
Liddell cursed under his breath. "What a perfect place to hide her. Why didn't I think of that?"
"Thank God you came. Thank God you came," the girl on the bed murmured. Her shoulders shook as she wept.
"Your mother, Miss Merritt. Where is she?"
"Dead. They killed her." She pointed to the dead man on the floor. "He did it. He killed her just like he killed my father."
"You're sure of what you're saying, Miss Merritt?" Herlehy asked gently.
The girl nodded. "My mother caught him. He had to fix it so she couldn't talk. He threw her down the stairs, then brought her here so she couldn't tell what she knew." She lifted a tear-stained face to Herlehy. "They told me if I didn't come, they'd kill her. But when I got here she was already dead. They put the bandages on me and kept me here." She dropped her face, covered it with her hands. "It was a nightmare."
Liddell sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm Liddell, Miss Merritt. You hired my agency to look into this for you."
The girl nodded. "I thought they killed you. I heard Seville tell those others to do it." She shook her head helplessly. "I thought I was all alone. I---I had no one else to turn to. No one."
"Where'd you get the gun you used on Seville, Miss Merritt?" Herlehy asked. He picked it up with a handkerchief, wrapped it, dropped it into his jacket pocket.
"It was his. I---I saw him put it in the desk one night. I've had it here trying to get up enough nerve to kill myself. But---but I didn't have the courage." She stole a terrified look at the bulge in Herlehy's pocket. "I---I never handled a gun before. I'm terrified of them. But when I saw that he was going to get away with it again, I---I just pulled the trigger."
Doc Travin stepped in, motioned them back. "I think Miss Merritt needs a little rest, gentlemen. You can talk to her in a day or two. But she's in no condition to answer your questions now." He herded them to the door. "I'll stay on here until everything is cleared away."
Two days later Johnny Liddell walked through the doors that said Wilson Deats---District Attorney and Private. This time he did not have a uniformed escort.
Muggsy Kiely sat in a chair near the window, a stenographer's notebook balanced on her knee. She was staring out onto the tree-lined street below when Johnny Liddell walked in.
Inspector Herlehy sat at Deats's right, pounding on the ever-present wad of gum. On the other side of the desk was a breath-takingly beautiful blonde, her coloring complemented by the black of her suit. As Liddell came in, she walked over to him, held out her hand.
"I understand I owe my life to you, Mr. Liddell." Her voice was warm, caressing---even promising. "You won't find me ungrateful." Her eyes smiled up at him, she turned, returned to her chair.
The district attorney unwound his long, loose-jointed frame from his chair, approached Liddell with outstretched hand. "Nor will you find the district attorney's office ungrateful, Liddell. Inspector Herlehy has told me of the role you played in wrapping this case up." He wrapped a clammy hand around Liddell's. "I must say that to some extent I disapprove of the extralegal methods you employed, but in view of the successful termination of the case I am prepared to overlook them at this time." He waved Liddell to a chair, faced the others.
"I've asked you all here merely as a formality," he began, the Back Bay Boston most pronounced in his voice. "I think this office is about ready to close the case of the death of Miss Merritt's father and the several other cases"---he smiled bleakly in Liddell's direction---"of justifiable homicide that were part and parcel of it." He walked around his desk, brought the .32 out of his top drawer. "You can identify this gun as Seville's, Miss Merritt?"
The girl nodded. "Yes, sir. In a lucid moment I took it from the desk where I saw him hide it."
The district attorney nodded, smiled benevolently. "Thank you."
"Lucky thing for the state that Miss Merritt is such a good shot," Liddell grunted.
"It---it was almost a miracle, Mr. Liddell. I know nothing about shooting. I---I don't think I've ever fired a gun before in my life." The girl raised a handkerchief to her lips, made an effort to control herself. "I'm sorry. I---I guess I'm still not over it."
Wilson Deats fitted a cigarette to his holder, tilted it in the corner of his mouth. "What exactly did you mean by that remark, Liddell?"
Liddell shrugged. "It tied everything up so neatly. It might have been hard to pin Seville for murder. Particularly for the murder of Merritt."
"What are you talking about?" Herlehy roared. "You were the one who built up the case against him. You were the one who proved that it could be murder because a man would let his doctor shove a gun in his mouth if he thought he was examining his throat."
Liddell nodded morosely. "I didn't say his doctor was the only one."
There was a pregnant silence.
"Who else?" Herlehy demanded.
Liddell pinched unhappily at his nostrils. "Suppose it was his wife, or daughter, who was in the habit of spraying his throat. Suppose that instead of a spray she put the muzzle of a gun between his teeth instead."
Jean Merritt was on her feet, her face white, her handkerchief pressed against her mouth. "I won't stand for this. You can't believe that my mother would have---"
"Not your mother, Miss Merritt. You! You killed your father. On the pretext of spraying his throat, you shoved a gun in his mouth and shot him."
"You must be crazy, Liddell," the district attorney roared. "Miss Merritt was a prisoner of Seville's. You saw yourself that she had been kept under narcotics."
Liddell shook his head. "Not a prisoner, Mr. Deats.
Check Doc Travin. He'll tell you that they're mostly old punctures. Little Jeannie here has been an addict for years, haven't you, Blondie? Isn't that what all the trouble with your father was about?"
"I'm warning you all," the girl muttered between clenched teeth. "You're all party to this persecution and I'm holding you all responsible."
Liddell nodded. "We'll take our chances. The way I figure it is your father found out you were on the junk. Maybe your brother told him---the one who was accidentally shot to death. He gave you an ultimatum, placed you under Seville's care, fixed it so you'd have to marry Seville or you wouldn't get a dime of his money."
"But, Johnny," Muggsy Kiely put in. "Jean Merritt hired you to prove her father was murdered. If she killed him, why wasn't she satisfied to let it be marked off as suicide?"
The blonde walked over to Liddell, glared at him. "That's right, Mr. Smart Guy. If I killed my father, wouldn't I be glad to have it called a suicide?"
"Not necessarily. A couple of things went wrong. In the first place, your mother walked in on you. You had to shut her up, so you hit her over the head with the gun."
"That's a lie," the blonde roared.
"Is it? Then how could you have known what did happen. You described it perfectly back at the hospital. But you didn't see your mother. She was dead when you got there---and she couldn't have told you at the house that night because she was unconscious."
"I'm not staying here to be insulted," the blonde screamed. "You have no right to do this to me."
Deats wiped the perspiration from his brow, raised a hand to stem the outburst. "Let him hang himself, Miss Merritt."
"Not me, Mr. Deats, but Miss Merritt." He turned back to the girl. "You needed help, so you called Doc Seville. He took care of things for you by setting the scene for the tragic accident."
"You still haven't told us why she should call you in," barked the district attorney.
"She no longer wanted it called suicide. She wanted us to discover it was murder. But she wanted us to saddle the murder on Seville."
"I won't stand here and listen to these ridiculous insinuations," the girl screamed. "I'm leaving and nobody can stop me."
"They're not insinuations, Miss Merritt. They're facts.
You killed your father, were responsible for the death of your mother. Then you tried to cover up by killing Tony Seville and saddling him with the guilt."
The girl's face was white, haggard. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth. Her cheek was twitching uncontrollably. "You can't prove a thing."
Inspector Herlehy dropped his hand on the girl's arm. "We can try, Miss Merritt. I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder."
"Murder? Whose murder?" There was a new, shrill note of hysteria in the girl's voice. "My father's death is listed as a suicide and no amount of talk by this shamus will change that. My mother has disappeared. Tony Seville kidnaped me and was holding me in restraint. Killing him was self-defense." She started to laugh very hysterically. "You can't hold somebody for murder unless somebody was murdered."
"Frankie Capolla was murdered, Blondie," Liddell told her.
The laughter broke off on a high note. "What's that got to do with me?"
Liddell turned to Herlehy. "Got a ballistics report on the thirtytwo?"
Herlehy nodded, pulled a typewritten sheet from his inside pocket. "Frankie Capolla was killed with the same gun that killed Seville."
"It was his gun. Tony's. I told you that," the girl screamed. "He killed Frankie. Not me. You can't prove I did."
"Yes, we can," Liddell told her. "The killer had a key to Capolla's apartment. He never would have given it to a lady-killer like Seville. He would give it to a girl, though. And besides, I wouldn't be surprised if we could persuade Clair Rodes to do some talking about the times you visited Frankie there."
"Why should she kill Capolla?" Deats asked.
Liddell wiped the thin film of perspiration off his upper lip with the side of his hand. "Because she saw he was the weak link. He could have told Seville that she had hired him to shoot at me---something she knew would make me determined to see the case all the way through. She was also afraid he might break and tell me what he knew---and she would have ended up in the Death House instead of Seville."
All eyes were on Liddell. No one could move fast enough to stop Jean Merritt from getting the .32 on Deats's desk. She leveled it at Liddell. "All right, maybe you can prove it. Maybe you can't. But it won't do you any good."
"But you did kill Matt Merritt?" Liddell asked.
"Why not? I hated him. He always blamed me for my brother's death. And I wanted his money, but he tried to fix it so I had to marry Tony to get it. I wanted that money---and I wanted it without Tony."
"What about your mother?"
"The fool. She blundered in after I shot him. She was going to yell. I had to hit her to keep her quiet. Then I lost my head and I called Tony for help. He threw her down the stairs so it would look like an accident. But from then on he knew---and I couldn't let him go on living knowing that I killed my father." The gun pointed unwaveringly at Liddell's midsection. "Everything was going fine. I had Tony all set up as a fall guy. But you had to spoil everything."
Her finger was tight on the trigger, her knuckles white from the pressure. "You were too smart, Liddell. Much too smart."
She squeezed the trigger twice. There were two metallic clicks as the hammer fell on the empty cylinder. Herlehy jumped forward, pinned the girl's arms to her sides.
Liddell wiped the perspiration from his face. "None too smart, I'll admit, Blondie, but just a little bit smarter than you. Smart enough to know that they always take the shells out of a gun when they do a ballistics check on it."
\*
The city room of the Advance was in the grip of the anticlimactic stupor that afflicts newspaper offices after the last edition has gone to bed. Johnny Liddell picked his way through the organized confusion of the desks, passed a group of men in their shirt sleeves pecking away at typewriters of varying ages and vintages. At other desks men were sitting back, drinking coffee out of paper containers, running through smeared galleys of stories they'd filed for the edition. Scraps of copy paper, crumpled newspaper, telephones that had lost their luster were scattered all over the room.
Liddell headed for the city desk where a lean, grayhaired man with sharp, inquisitive features presided. His gray eyes widened as Liddell stopped in front of his desk. "Hi, Jim." He nodded.
"Johnny Liddell!" He got up from his chair, shoved out a gnarled claw. "Didn't expect to be seeing you tonight. I thought the D.A. would have you on ice until he got the story of how he broke the Merritt suicide."
Liddell grinned, shook his head. "He can get enough of me awful easy. Besides, the Merritt kid cracked wide open. You knew that, didn't you?"
Kiely nodded.
"Where's Muggs?"
Kiely looked up at the fly-specked face of the clock on the far wall. "Blew out of here about half an hour ago. Didn't even wait to see how the story looked." He picked up a blackened briar from his desk, clenched his teeth on it. "She got a call from the Coast tonight, Johnny."
"Want her back?"
Kiely pressed the tobacco down in the bowl of the pipe, applied a match. It made a sucking noise when he inhaled. "She didn't say." He stared at Liddell with sharp gray eyes. "Going to try to stop her?"
Liddell shrugged. "With what?"
Kiely nodded, watched while a copy boy deposited a damp proof of the front page of the Advance on his desk. The Merritt story was splashed blackly across the entire page, Muggsy's by-line over three columns in fourteenpoint type. Kiely pointed to her name with the stem of his pipe. "Imagine her blowing out of here without waiting to see that spread?"
Liddell grinned.
"She must be sick."
"Got Hollywood fever again, I guess," the older man grunted. He pulled the page proof over, checked through it, initialed it with the stub of a copy pencil, pushed it at the copy boy. "Tell them to run it, kid."
"I thought she said she didn't want to stay there?"
Kiely grunted. "Who the hell knows what a woman wants? Especially the woman herself?" He jammed the pipestem between his teeth. "She probably had some blowup with somebody out there, now that she's getting her way she's on her way back."
"Guess she's headed back to the apartment, eh, Jim?"
The older man nodded. "That's as good a place as any to start trying."
\*
Muggsy opened the door in response to his knock. Her face was wiped clean of all make-up, the bridge of freckles across her nose was prominent. "I've been trying to reach you every place, Johnny." She took him by the hand, pulled him in, closed the door after him. "The most wonderful break has happened---"
Liddell nodded. "You're going back to Hollywood."
"How'd you know?" she demanded. "Did Pop tell you?"
"I dropped by the shop as soon as the D.A.'s strongarm boys were done with me. They really gave you a spread on the story, you know."
Muggsy's eyes were dancing. "Tomorrow that'll be forgotten. But the assignment they dished out to me in Hollywood---Johnny, it's the biggest break of the year." She led the way through the French doors out to the sun deck.
Muggsy pushed him into a wicker armchair. "Relax, Johnny, while I get us the makings of a celebration." She disappeared into the living-room.
Liddell sprawled comfortably in the armchair, squinted at the tiny black dots that crept along the winding ribbon of the roads below. He looked up as Muggsy reappeared at the door, two glasses in hand.
"How's Jim taking it, Johnny?" She handed him a glass, sat on the arm of his chair.
Liddell shrugged. "He didn't say much. I guess all right. He was always preaching that newspaper work was no job for a woman anyway."
"He never meant a word of it and you know it." She sipped at her glass. "I get a bang out of the excitement and the pressure and all that, Johnny, but on the Coast it's more than that. I don't know how to explain it, but it's a terrific bang."
"Jim'll get over it, baby." He slid his arm around her waist, pulled her down onto his lap.
"I was wondering how long I was going to have to ridge my fanny on that arm before you'd get the idea." She grinned up at him shamelessly. "What do you think about my going, Johnny?"
"It won't be the same old town, Muggs. I'm kind of used to having you around."
Muggsy nodded. "That's what I thought. So I fixed it so's you could come with me."
"Doing what?" Liddell scowled. "Changing the ribbons in your typewriter?"
"Give me credit for some ingenuity. I cooked up a job that you'll fit like a glove. Technical adviser."
"On what?"
"Don't be so thick, Johnny. They're going heavy on crime and gangster stuff out there. That's why they've signed up reporters like Syd Boehm of the Journal and Martin Mooney of the old American and me and lots of others. They want the pictures to have some guts. You know more about that kind of stuff than any of us."
"There's no future in it," Liddell growled.
"You mean there is a future in being a walking shootinggallery for twelve hours a day and a punching-bag for the D.A. the other twelve?"
Liddell grinned crookedly. "It's better than working."
Muggsy reached up, kissed him. "You always were a screwball. You always will be. I guess you're right---it wouldn't be the same Johnny Liddell if you were to wear pin-striped suits and punch a clock." She got up from his lap, walked over to the railing. "It won't be much fun out there without you. I guess it's like you said. I'm used to having you around."
"I'll be around, baby, when you need me." He got up, walked over to her, spun her around, kissed her hard. After a moment she pushed him away.
"I've got a funny feeling you'll be out there." She grinned.
Liddell kissed her again. "You know?" he said finally. "I'm beginning to get a funny feeling, too."

