by Frank Kane
Doc Travin tore the top off his container of coffee, tested it with his finger, “Damn near ice-cold,” he growled. “You make your fairy stories too interesting.”
“What's with you two characters?” Muggsy asked in a shocked tone. “You sound like you're going to sit there and let them get away with this.”
“I didn't say that exactly, Muggs,” Liddell told her. “I said doc has all the aces.”
“But?”
Liddell shrugged. “Sometimes a trump can take an ace. I think I have a couple of trumps.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
Liddell pursed his lips. “It may be slightly illegal.” He looked at Doc Travin speculatively. “Illegal and dangerous.”
Doc Travin stirred his coffee around the soggy container with his finger. “How illegal?”
“Illegal entry, housebreaking, robbery.”
“What for?”
Liddell shrugged. “Evidence that may give us a foot in the door.”
Doc Travin drank his cold coffee, crushed the cup, dropped it in the wastebasket. He leaned back, avoided Liddell's eyes. “What a blessing to be deaf. That way you can't hear an illegal proposal.”
Liddell stared at him for a second, nodded. “Maybe you're right. Maybe it's a good thing you didn't hear me because I'm going through with it. But you'd better stay out of it, doc. You've got a job to worry about.”
“That's right. I've got a job, and you've got a license. If you get caught at this caper, your license is gone, you'll be blackballed in every state of the Union, and serve time on top of it.”
Muggsy got up. “Come on, Johnny, what are we waiting for?”
Doc Travin shook his head. “You're not going, Muggs. It's bad enough he's out of his mind and is going to bull himself into a cell for the next five 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, doc.” Muggsy stuck her chin out her blue eyes flashing defiance. “I'm not letting him go into this alone.”
Doc Travin grinned. “Who said he's going to do it alone?”
Muggsy blinked. “You mean you're in?”
“Of course I'm in.”
Liddell grinned. “Don't be crazy, doc. A guy in your position can't afford to get fouled up in a mess like this.”
“Ain't it a fact?” Doc Travin sighed. “I've got a feeling I'm going to hate myself in the morning, but I'll bet tonight's going to be fun.”
Chapter Fifteen
Doc Travin drove on the ride back to the city. Muggsy Kiely sat between him and Johnny Liddell in the front seat. Nobody did much talking until the car approached the Queensborough Bridge.
“How are we going to work this, Johnny?” Doc Travin wanted to know. He swung the sedan into a line of trucks and cars converging on the bridge entrance.
“I don't know, doc,” Liddell grunted. “I've got to keep away from the D.A.'s men until we've got something to fight with. If they serve me with any kind of papers before then I'm done.”
“Why don't you hole up at my apartment until you're ready to go up against Deats, Johnny?” Muggsy suggested. “I don't think he'd be crazy enough to try to crash there.”
“Okay with you, Liddell?” Travin asked.
Liddell nodded. “Okay. Know how to go?”
“Crosstown at Fifty-Ninth?”
“Make it Sixtieth. Then you can hit Central Park South at Fifth.”
Conversation lagged again as the car separated from the stream of cars on the Second Avenue side of the bridge. Fifteen minutes later, Doc Travin pulled his car to the curb in front of Muggsy's apartment. He leaned past Muggsy, opened the door.
“Suppose you two go up and have a sandwich. I'll be back in an hour or so.” He consulted his watch. “No selfrespecting burglar would break and enter much before midnight, anyway.”
“Where are you going?” Liddell wanted to know.
“I think I'm going to have a talk with Inspector Herlehy at headquarters and tell him what you told me. He's a good guy to have on your side at a time like this.”
Liddell nodded. “I'll go with you.”
“Better not, Johnny.” The medical examiner shook his head. “Right now you're in no spot to win any popularity contests down there. What's more, the D.A. may get a brainstorm, pick you up, and jug you just long enough for Doc Seville to sweep up all the loose ends. I'll be back around eleven.”
Liddell permitted himself to be shoved out the door, stood on the curb, and watched Doc Travin's sedan melt into the stream of traffic.
“Come on, Johnny. I'll fix you a drink,” Muggsy invited.
“You go on up, Muggs,” he told her. “I'll be back in about an hour.”
“Where are you going?”
“I'm going on that expedition I mentioned. You don't think I'd let doc take the risk of going along. I'm already a dead duck as soon as Deats can tag me. The worst that can happen to me now is that they throw the book at me. But it's worth the try.”
“You're crazy, Johnny,” Muggsy argued. “Why'd you let doc come all the way in from Carport unless you're going to let him go along?”
“I need doc. If my hunch is right, his being medical examiner of the old lady's home town might speed things up.”
“What about Herlehy?”
Liddell shrugged. “I'll worry about Herlehy when we get to him.” He signaled a cruising cab, winced as it screeched to a stop at the curb. “Have that drink ready. I'll probably need it by the time I get back.”
The cab dropped him at the corner of 61st and Park, a block from the building housing Doc Seville's office. There was nobody in the lobby as he walked in. He avoided the elevator, climbed the five flights of stairs to the office he had visited several days before. It was completely dark. He took out a ring of keys, tried several, found one that turned easily, walked into the doctor's office.
He went through the door beside the receptionist's desk, walked straight to the cabinet where he had seen Doc Seville place the X-rays on Mrs. Merritt. With the questionable assistance of a cigarette lighter he selected the proper envelope, stuck it in the waistband of his trousers, buttoned his coat over it. He closed the drawer, made sure there was no sign of his presence, walked through the two offices into the corridor.
A half hour later he was fitting his key into the lock on Muggsy Kiely's door.
Muggsy came out of the kitchen to meet him. She had changed to the royal-blue housecoat; her thick blond hair was caught behind the ears with a matching ribbon, allowed to cascade over her shoulders.
“Everything all right, Johnny?”
Liddell nodded, tossed the Manila envelope on the table. “So far.” He consulted his watch. “Travin call here?”
“It's only nine-thirty. He said he wouldn't be here until midnight.”
Liddell grinned crookedly. “I have an idea that when he tells that story to Herlehy he'll get faster action than he expects.” He walked into the living-room, sank onto the couch with a sigh. “How about that drink you started out to make an hour ago?”
“Coming right up,” Muggsy promised. She disappeared into the kitchen, returned with a tray loaded down with ice and glasses and a bottle of bourbon. She set it on the end table, dumped some ice into each of the glasses, spilled a generous slug of bourbon over them. “Get what you were after?”
Liddell nodded. “I got what I was after. Whether it's what I need or not is a different story.” He reached out, caught the girl by the hand, pulled her down onto his lap. “This may not go the way we hope it will, Muggs,” he told her. “So far the dice have all been loaded against us. If our luck doesn't change—” He shrugged, grinned at her, kissed the side of her neck.
She reached over, placed one of the glasses in his hand, took one for herself. “In that case maybe I'll get some attention. Ever since you've been on this one, I've gotten about as much attention as last week's newspaper.”
Liddell looked at his watch. “It'
s only nine-thirty and doc isn't due back until twelve.”
“That soon?” she pouted. She reached up, opened his collar, loosened his tie. “He certainly doesn't expect us to sit here and twiddle our thumbs until he gets here.”
They didn't.
* * *
It was actually a quarter to twelve when the buzzer sounded. Liddell got up off the couch, walked to the phone, lifted the receiver off its hook.
“Yeah?” he grunted. “Okay, let him come up.”
He walked into the kitchen, ran the tap water, held a glass to his head.
“Who was it, Johnny?” Muggsy called in from the couch.
“Doc. He's on his way up. Water?”
“Please.” Muggsy reached over, snapped on the light, spilled a yellow gleam into the room.
Liddell brought the glass to her, picked up the bottle from the end table, spilled a little into his glass. “A hair off the dog,” he explained, downed it, shuddered. “Tastes like it, too.”
Muggsy stifled a yawn, pulled her robe together. “I'd better clean this mess up.” She picked up the glasses, the melted bowl of ice, the almost empty bottle, took them to the kitchen.
Liddell had time to run his fingers through his hair, adjust his tie, and get back into his jacket by the time the doorbell sounded. He walked over, threw open the door.
Inspector Herlehy stood towering over Doc Travin in the corridor. He pushed past Liddell, stalked into the living-room. The little medical examiner followed him in.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Liddell grunted. “I suppose you're all loaded down with warrants and everything.”
“Stop talking stupid, Liddell,” Herlehy growled. “Deats is after your hide. Not me. I would have been over here hours ago if I wanted to find you.”
“Herlehy's on our side, Johnny. I told him the whole story,” Doc Travin said.
Liddell's eyes shifted back to Herlehy. “Believe it?”
Herlehy growled, threw his hat on the couch, dropped down with a grunt. “It sounds screwy. Screwy enough to make sense. Why didn't you tell me all this?”
“You didn't give me a chance. Any time I tried to give you the score you accused me of snowing you. You even tossed me to the D.A.”
“Okay, okay. So maybe I was wrong. Maybe you were leveling.” The inspector found a fresh piece of gum in his pocket, denuded it of its wrapper. He nodded to Muggsy as she returned, tray, fresh ice and fresh bottle in hand. “According to doc, you've got Seville pegged as Matt Merritt's killer. Right?”
Liddell nodded.
“But there's not a thing in what you gave doc that lets us move in on him. Not a shred of evidence,” Herlehy growled.
“That's what we're going after, Herlehy,” Doc Travin put in.
Herlehy growled, let Muggsy pour him a drink, accepted it. “It won't do you any good, doc. This guy's too smart. The way he's covered up, he's left us nothing.”
Liddell walked out to the foyer, came back with four X-ray negatives, handed them to Travin. “What do you make of these, doc?”
Doc Travin muttered under his breath, stood up, flattened the negatives against the lamp shade. He studied each one carefully, put them down. “What the hell's this got to do with it?”
“What about them?”
Travin picked them up, held them to the light again. “Must have been a bad accident. The old woman's got a bad concussion over the right ear. The oldest kid's jaw has a bad fracture, the other kid a compound—”
Liddell caught the medical examiner by the shoulder. “What do you mean, the old woman, the young kid, and the other kid, doc? They're all X-rays of the same person!”
The medical examiner's eyes didn't leave Liddell. He picked the plates up, subjected them to another scrutiny. “You're nuts, Liddell. This one is the skull of an elderly person, probably a woman. This is the jaw of an entirely different person—less than half the age of the first. And this is obviously the forearm of a youngster.” He tossed the X-rays on the table. “What is all this?”
“Those are the X-rays Doc Seville claims he took of Mrs. Merritt right after he took her into the hospital.”
Inspector Herlehy looked from Liddell to Travin and back. “Then he's faking her injuries. Why?”
Liddell snapped his fingers. “Take a look at them. A broken jaw, so she can't talk. A skull fracture, so he can claim she's unconscious. Even a compound fracture of the right arm, so she can't write the answers to any questions. It's as clear as the nose on my face, inspector. Mrs. Merritt knows something that Doc Seville doesn't want her to spill.”
Doc Travin groaned. “What are we doing sitting here? She's probably dead right now.”
Inspector Herlehy looked worried. “Why should they kill her? They think they're in the clear. They'd be better off waiting a couple of months and then letting her die of natural causes.”
Doc Travin stamped on the floor, swore. “Why should they? She has no close relatives to ask embarrassing questions. Doc Seville will just sign the death certificate and the daughter will sign the burial form. Then some undertaker pal of Seville's will cremate her and who's the wiser? Later on, if any questions are asked, they can always say it was the old girl's wish that the services be quiet and private.”
Herlehy walked out to the foyer, picked up the phone, dialed headquarters. “Never thought of that. She might be dead already.” He dropped his lips to the mouthpiece, gave an extension number. Then: “This is Inspector Herlehy. Put a man to check vital statistics. See if a death certificate has been filed in the past week or ten days on Emma Merritt. Snap to it and call me at this number.” He read the number off the instrument.
He hung up the phone, sat twirling his thumbs. Nobody in the room spoke for the next ten minutes. Herlehy left the phone, started to pace the room, stopping only long enough to walk out onto the terrace, stare down on the network of lights that identified Central Park.
Muggsy went into the bedroom to apply a fresh coat of make-up, Doc Travin sat staring moodily at the ceiling, and Liddell applied himself to a morose inspection of the tips of his shoes.
The phone rang with a sudden piercing sharpness.
Herlehy grabbed it from its hook, held it to his ear. “You're sure of that?” he demanded. “How far back did you go? Good. Stand by a moment.” He held his hand over the mouthpiece. “It hasn't been filed yet. That means the old gal is still alive.”
“We'd better get up to that sanitarium of his and make sure Seville doesn't rectify that oversight right away,” Liddell growled.
Herlehy nodded, removed his hand from the phone. I'll want a car and four men right away. We'll pick them up at the Fifty-Seventh Street entrance to the West Side Drive, lieutenant. Hop to it.”
* * *
The Seville Sanitarium was a trim, two-story stucco building, set behind a well-manicured lawn on the outskirts of Bronxville. The big police sedan skidded to a stop in the crushed-bluestone driveway. Inspector Herlehy jumped out, followed by Johnny Liddell and the medical examiner. Muggsy Kiely followed them up the stairs more leisurely.
Herlehy strode purposefully across the small lobby to where a colored boy sat behind a small switchboard.
“Sorry, mister,” he said. “Visiting-hours over long ago. You can't come in here this hour.”
“What room's Mrs. Merritt in?” Herlehy demanded. He flashed his shield under the boy's saucer-sized eyes. “This is police business.”
“I don't know nothing about any police business, mister,” he protested. “I can't let you in without Doctor Seville-”
Herlehy reached over, caught the boy by the lapels of his white jacket, lifted him clear off his seat.
“I don't want to see Doctor Seville; sonny. I asked what room Mrs. Merritt is in. What is it?”
The whites of the boy's eyes stood out against the blackness of his skin. His eyes rolled from face to face, ended on Herlehy's. “I don't know. I'm only the relief man, mister.”
Herlehy pushed him back in his chair. “Find o
ut. You've got a register of some kind around.”
The boy nodded, opened a card file with shaking fingers, went through it. “Miz Merritt, she's in Sixty-Two, mister. Yes, suh, in Sixty-Two.”
Herlehy nodded, spun on his heel, started down the corridor. The boy behind the switchboard watched the four cross the lobby. As soon as they had turned down the far corridor, he spun on his chair, started plugging wires in the board.
Room 62 was almost in complete darkness. On the bed a heavily bandaged figure lay, its features completely covered by white gauze, with only thin slits for the eyes. The sheet rose and fell slightly with her breathing, but there was no other sign of life.
Dr. Travin turned on the light over the bed.
“She's alive, isn't she, doc?” Liddell demanded fiercely in a low voice.
Travin nodded, caught the limp arm that hung over the side of the bed, counted the pulse. He scowled, walked to the foot of the bed, read the chart, replaced it.
“Fracture of the right arm, fractured jaw, and lateral fracture of the skull.” He looked to Herlehy. “If any one of those injuries is a phony, as the faked X-rays would indicate, we've got enough on Seville to warrant our taking any necessary steps.”
“Well, let's stop talking and do something.”
Travin looked down to the right arm. “It's in a cast. Ethically I have no right to remove it without the consent of her physician.”
“Ethics be damned. You have every moral and legal right. Take it off, doc. I'll assume all responsibility,” Herlehy said.
The medical examiner looked at him, frowned, shrugged his shoulders. From an inside pocket he pulled out a scalpel in a leather case. “I'm not too sure about what's cooking, but from the smell I'd say somebody's goose is being cooked. I hope it's not ours.”
The only sound in the room was the tearing sound of the scalpel ripping through the cast. Liddell scuffed his shoe nervously as the cast fell to the ground. They all leaned forward.
Doc Travin took the woman's arm between his fingers, probed gently, then looked up at Herlehy. “There's no more fracture here than I've got.” He massaged the arm gently, held it under the light. “But take a look here.”