The Fatal Foursome

by Frank Kane

  “Fifty grand,” Russo growled. “Count it yourself.”

  Johnny Liddell tossed the bundle back on the table. “I believe you,” he said.

  The gambler dropped back in his chair. “Then why the hell should I kill Goodman?”

  Johnny looked him squarely in the eyes. “I didn’t say you killed Goodman,” he said. “In fact I’m sure you didn’t.”

  The gambler blinked. “What?”

  “The guy who killed Goodman knew him well enough and was trusted enough by Goodman to get close to him. What’s more, the killer stood behind him. He never would have let you or any of your men get in back of him. Besides, as you say, now you’ll never get your dough.”

  Cookie nodded. “Okay. Then what do you have on your mind?”

  “What about that phone call?”

  “I called to tell Goodman my patience was running out, that I was going to send a couple of my boys over. He told me that a deal was cooking and that he’d have the money pronto. I promised him a week’s grace. That was all.”

  Johnny Liddell was disappointed. “That leaves us right where we were. Goodman was getting set to kill Randolph, that’s where he was planning to get the money to pay you.” He settled back. “What do you know about Mona Varden?”

  “A cheap blackmailer and tart. She was Goodman’s twist, but she was on the make for anything that would stand still long enough.”

  “Sal Moreno?”

  “Cute operator. What do you want to know?”

  “He’s tied into this thing some place. What’s the connection between him and Goodman?”

  The gambler got up, paced up and down for a minute in indecision. “You’re not copper, otherwise I’d clam up on this. But I’m fed up with getting hauled down to headquarters to answer questions. Maybe this’ll help you break the case. If it does, you’re welcome to it.”

  “Yeah?”

  Russo stopped in front of Liddell, towered over him. “You know anything of Moreno’s racket?”

  “He had some free burial service for bums. Accommodated some of the hot shots by burying stiffs that might make the cops curious.”

  “You’ve been around, pal,” Russo chided. “Why go to the trouble of burying them when you got the Pacific Ocean right at your door? Moreno would get these stiffs from the charity wards, from the morgues, any place they got unidentified bodies. That gave him a good supply. See?”

  “For what?”

  Russo walked back to his desk chair in disgust. “What do I have to do, draw you a picture? Suppose you got reasons you want to fade out. You got a wife who drives you nuts. You’re in a jam. Anything like that. Moreno arranges for your body to get found—it’s banged up pretty bad but there’s enough stuff to make sure it’s you. Hell, they’ve been cleaning up robbing the insurance companies for years.”

  A bright light dawned in Liddell’s skull. He sat bolt upright, his legs slipped off the arm of the chair. “You mean you think that body in the car wasn’t Randolph, that it was one of Moreno’s ringers?”

  Russo shrugged. “Who am I to guess anything like that? I ain’t a detective.” He opened the drawer, took out Liddell’s .45 and the blonde’s .38. He slid them across the table. “There’s your artillery.”

  Johnny Liddell stared. “Holy cow, what a gag! The insurance company pays out a quarter of a million, and the guy ain’t dead. It’s a lead pipe cinch.”

  “I’m not saying that’s how it was done,” the gambler reminded him. “You asked me where Moreno fitted in. I’m telling you where he might have fitted in.” He got up, pressed a button on his desk. The door opened, and the thin man came in, hand in pocket. “I think Mr. Liddell’s leaving, Jake.”

  The thin man nodded, waited patiently. Johnny Liddell returned the .45 to its holster, dropped the .38 back into his pocket. “Thanks, Russo,” he said. “I’ll do as much for you some day.”

  Toni Belden was curled up asleep on her couch when Liddell finally arrived. She grudgingly agreed to make coffee on Johnny’s solemn promise that he had an exclusive for her that would make the others sound childish by comparison, but she muttered darkly about being put off until certain long-distance calls went through.

  They were finishing their coffee when the long-distance operator announced that the connection had been made.

  “Is that you, Johnny?” Steve Baron’s voice had a sharp rasp. “What is this? I told you I didn’t want any more collect calls.”

  “Hiya, Steve. Keep your shirt on,” Liddell told the agency head. “If this information isn’t worth the price of the call, I’ll pay for it myself. Now listen, Steve. I’ve stumbled on a helluva insurance swindle stunt out here. An outfit called the Port of Peace gives free burials to unidentified corpses. Like that they have access to plenty of nice fresh bodies. They insure some guy heavily, dress one of the stiffs up in his clothes, stick him in a fire or float him in the bay for a week, then collect.”

  Steve Baron sounded mollified. “Say. That ain’t bad. That’ll satisfy the insurance people. They’ve been screaming their heads off because they got no action on the Randolph thing.”

  “Where the hell do they get their nerve screaming? It’s only three days. What do they expect?”

  Baron’s voice was cold, clipped. “They paid a thousand dollar retainer. For a grand they can scream all they want to. See? Besides, what the hell have you been doing on the Randolph thing? I haven’t even had a report, and …”

  “I’m almost positive the body that was identified as Randolph’s was one of those prepared stiffs rented out by Moreno and company.” Johnny dropped the bombshell without warning. He paid no attention to the crash in the kitchen as two of Toni Belden’s pet dishes hit the floor.

  There was a new note of interest in the agency head’s voice. “Let’s have that again. Slow.”

  “I said Randolph isn’t dead. Goodman and Randolph cooked up this deal to take the insurance boys for a quarter of a million. The body in the car was one of the stiffs collected by the Port of Peace for planting. They dressed him in Randolph’s duds, stuck Randolph’s ring on his finger, burned up his face and drove the car into a tree.”

  “That’s big talk, Johnny. Can you prove it?”

  “Haven’t tried yet. I just stumbled on the setup tonight. I’ll go after it first thing in the morning and wrap it up for you.”

  “First thing in the morning hell,” Steve Baron screamed. “You get on it right now.”

  “Have a heart, Steve,” Liddell protested. “I’ve been going on this case for three days now. I haven’t had any sleep. I need some rest.”

  “Rest my grandmother,” the chief growled. “You give us some proof of that chatter you just gave out with and I’ll see that you get a nice rest—on full pay and with a bonus. Now hop to it. And see that I’m kept informed of what’s going on.”

  “Okay,” Johnny agreed wearily. “I’ll get a letter out to you tomorrow night.”

  “Letter hell,” Baron yelled. “Keep in contact with me by phone. Collect.”

  The telephone clicked in Liddell’s ear as the connection was broken. He replaced the receiver on the hook, stared at it and turned to face Toni Beiden, hands on hips, in front of him.

  “Well?” The girl reporter’s lips were compressed in a thin white line. “You had a story like that and you sat on it until I missed my deadline?”

  Johnny Liddell got up wearily, soothed her. “This is just a hunch on my part, newshawk. Suppose I gave it to you and you got under the wire with it and it turned out to be a phony? You’d look pretty sick.”

  Toni shook her head. “You’re not talking me out of it that easily, Johnny Liddell. You’re not dopey enough to feed that story to your home office unless you’re pretty sure it’s on the beam.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s still only my interpretation of what’s been going on in this town. I’ve been wrong before on this case and it could be I’m off on another off-trail.” He sniffed. “Any more of that coffee left?”

  “
You’re not getting any coffee or anything else until you do something about proving that goofy theory of yours. Gee, what a story that would be. Harvey Randolph alive. Wow!”

  Johnny Liddell nodded. “It sure would be. But before we can do anything along that line we’ve got to persuade the coroner’s office and Inspector Devlin that we haven’t been hitting the hop. Me, at least.”

  “Well, there’ll never be a better time than right now.”

  “Do you have any idea what time it is, sugar?” he asked.

  The girl consulted the small watch on her wrist. “Only one forty-five. Doc Morrissey will still be at the hospital, and from what I’ve heard, Devlin hasn’t slept since this case started.”

  “Me neither,” said Johnny. “Okay. Let’s go over and see Doc Morrissey.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE CORONER was still up, puzzling over county records, when Toni and Johnny arrived. His eyes looked puffy from lack of sleep, but the boyish grin was still working. He pushed back the records, got up.

  “Hello, Toni. Still keeping bad company, I see.” He shook hands with Johnny Liddell. “Without even looking at my watch, I can guess that the gin mills around town are closed.”

  Liddell tossed his hat on the desk, hoisted a heavy thigh on the corner of it, pulled out a cigarette. He watched moodily as Toni sought the easy chair, and dropped into it.

  The coroner looked from the girl to Liddell and then back. “Say, what’s eating you two? You look like you’re in trouble and you act like you’re sick. What goes?”

  Johnny lighted the cigarette, blew the match out with great deliberation. “Doc, are you sure that the body in that car was Randolph’s?”

  “You serious?”

  “Dead serious.”

  A frown ridged Morrissey’s forehead. He walked around the desk, dropped into his chair. “I’m not sure; I’m positive.”

  “Why?” Toni asked.

  “A guy is dressed in Randolph’s clothes, he’s got Randolph’s papers in his pockets, is driving Randolph’s car and has Randolph’s teeth in his mouth. Who would you say it was?”

  Liddell froze, the cigarette half to his lips. “What did you say about Randolph’s teeth?” he asked.

  “You heard me,” Morrissey told him. “We had one of the headquarter boys check the teeth in the corpse’s mouth against Randolph’s dental chart. They matched perfectly.”

  A slow, sinking feeling assailed the pit of Johnny’s stomach. He took a deep drag on the cigarette, but the feeling persisted. “I forgot about that,” he growled.

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “There’s something screwy, then. I’d bet anything that’s not Randolph’s body.”

  “You’d lose,” the coroner told him. “It was Randolph.”

  “You’ve been wrong before, Doc.” Liddell was stubborn. “A whole lot hinges on your being wrong this time.”

  The coroner pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one, crossed the room and unlocked the metal filing cabinet. After rummaging through a pile of large manila envelopes, he selected one tied with red cord and pulled it out.

  “I shouldn’t be showing this stuff in front of a reporter,” he said, nodding toward Toni, “it’s official records. But this is one argument I’m going to win from you.”

  He dumped a batch of records and typewritten reports on the desk, rummaged through them, and came up with a dentist record with inked notations and arrows. “This is the chart of Randolph’s teeth, provided by his own dentist.”

  “Why didn’t his dentist check the teeth?”

  “He’s on a short vacation up at Arrowhead. There was no need to bring him back. Any flatfoot in Homicide can check a tooth, see if there’s a filling, check for a bridge and tell whether it’s there or not.”

  “Okay,” Liddell nodded. “Now what?”

  The coroner picked up the chart and with the point of his pencil showed the various fillings and bridges in Randolph’s mouth. Next to each was a check and a set of initials.

  “See those initials?” he asked. “That means that the guy who checked the stiff’s mouth found each of those fillings and replacements just as in the chart.” He started to collect the papers, returned them to their envelopes. “That’s a positive identification. Hell, a dental check’s almost as good as a fingerprint. There are no two mouths in the world exactly alike.”

  Johnny Liddell nodded glumly. “That’s hell,” he commented. “Here it fit together just like a clock. Only, it’s got no works. It won’t go.” He smoked his cigarette in silence, watched Morrissey return the folder to the files. “I’ve still got a hunch Harvey Randolph’s not dead.”

  Morrissey locked the filing cabinet, returned the keys to his pocket, placed himself back behind the desk. “Then they sure played a dirty trick on him, Johnny. They buried him yesterday.” He dug into his bottom drawer, came up with a bottle. “From the looks of you, I’m prescribing this.”

  Johnny nodded, unhooked himself from the desk, paced up and down while Morrissey poured three slugs into lily cups. “There’s got to be something,” Liddell insisted. “That’s the only way it makes sense. That’s the only way we can tie up the Goodman, Varden and Moreno killings and come out even.”

  “Have your drink and stop talking to yourself, Johnny,” Morrissey urged. “What you need is a little sleep. Things’ll be a lot clearer in the morning.”

  Johnny Liddell handed the girl reporter her cup, emptied his, tossed it in the approximate direction of the wastebasket. “Where was Randolph buried, Doc?”

  “Meadowmere. Why?”

  “I’m going out there and take a look at him.”

  Toni Belden sat up on the end of her chair. “But he’s buried, Johnny. He was buried yesterday.”

  Liddell snorted. “Graves have been robbed before now,” he said. “Maybe by digging him up I can save somebody else from being in the same spot he’s in. Me, for instance.”

  Doc Morrissey drank his drink carefully, crushed the cup in his hand. He tossed it into the basket, leaned back and regarded the ceiling. “What a blessing to be deaf. Like that you can’t hear illegal proposals.”

  Johnny Liddell stared at the coroner for a moment. “Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe it is illegal. It’s a good thing you didn’t hear me because I’m going out to Meadowmere and have a look at that stiff. Maybe you better stay here. You got a job to worry about.”

  The coroner nodded. “That’s right. And you’ve got a license. If you’re caught at this caper, it’s as good as losing a job. You’ll be blacklisted in every state of the Union and serve time on top of it.”

  Toni Belden got up. “Well, Johnny. What are we waiting for?”

  Morrissey shook his head. “You’re not going, Toni. It’s bad enough that he’s out of his mind and is going to bull himself right into a cell for the next ten 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.” Toni Belden stuck her chin out, her blue eyes flashed defiance. “I’m playing along with him all the way. And I’m not going to let him go out there alone. He wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  Doc Morrissey grinned. “Who said he was going alone? I’m going with him.”

  Johnny Liddell leaned across the desk. “I should have known you wouldn’t let me down, you old four-flusher. But then I should have realized that grave robbing would appeal to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Doc,” Toni said penitently. “I should have known better, too. I’ve never known you to let down a friend.” She turned to Liddell, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him. “That’s for luck, Sherlock. Don’t let it give you any ideas.” She blew a kiss to the coroner, walked to the door. Her hands on the knob, she turned again. “But don’t forget, fellows, if there’s any news, little Toni gets first crack at it.”

  Johnny Liddell reached across the desk, gripped the coroner’s hand. “I’m not holding
you to that, Doc,” he said. “It would be crazy for a guy in your position to get messed up in a deal like this.”

  “It sure would,” Doc Morrissey nodded agreement. He got up out of the chair and stretched. “I’ve got a feeling I’m going to hate myself in the morning for this, but let’s go.”

  The black sedan hummed over the road leading to Meadowmere. A slight drizzle started, the sky clouded up. Johnny Liddell squinted into the darkness as they swung left off Route 126 onto a rougher county road.

  “Pretty near there now,” Morrissey told him. “This road runs along the back of the cemetery. Saves passing any guards or watchmen.” He stared out at the wet road. “Besides, in this kind of weather, they’ll probably stick close to their shanty out front.”

  Ahead to the right, Liddell could make out the shapes of tombstones and shafts. “That must be it up ahead.”

  Morrissey nodded. “Right. Let’s see now. That burial receipt back at the office said Randolph was in section seven.” He turned on the light on the dash of the Buick, spread out a map of the cemetery. “Ah, there it is.” He speared a rear section of the map with a square finger. “That’s a break. Section seven isn’t too far in from the back here.”

  The car hummed along for about a quarter of a mile before Morrissey called for Liddell to pull over. Johnny swung the car off the road under a big tree, cut the lights. It was so black, Liddell fancied he could reach out and touch the darkness.

  “I figure Randolph’s grave is about a hundred and fifty feet or so to the right,” the coroner muttered. “We walk from here.” He got out of the car, opened the rear door. Liddell could hear the clatter of shovels. “Don’t forget the flash,” Morrissey instructed.

  The coroner led the way through the high weeds to a fence that enclosed the rear of the cemetery. He tossed the shovels over one at a time.

  “Okay,” he told Liddell in a low tone. “You’d better boost me up. I’m not as young as I used to be when I was at my peak as a grave robber.”

  Liddell made a stirrup for him by interlacing his fingers. He caught Morrissey’s foot, lifted him to the top of the wall. A moment later he heard the light thud as the coroner dropped to the other side. In a matter of seconds Johnny too was straddling the wall and jumped to the other side.