by Frank Kane
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 thirty-two 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 thirty-two 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.”
Chapter Ten
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 Forty-Seventh 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 thirty-two. 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 thirty-two 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 bra
in.”
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.