Bullet Proof

by Frank Kane

  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 m
e 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.”

  Chapter Nine

  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 elev
ator 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.”