Bullet Proof

by Frank Kane

  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 co-operation 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 shooting-gallery 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!”

  Chapter Six

  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 brak
es 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.”