Bullet Proof

by Frank Kane

  “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.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  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 trac
e 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 gray-haired 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 gray-haired 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 gray-haired 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 gray-haired 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—”