by Frank Kane
Too late, Liddell tried to close the bedroom door. Some instinct drew the thin man’s attention. He stared at the door for a moment, brought up the .45.
“You, in there. Come out or I’ll blast you out,” he ordered.
Liddell flattened against the wall, waited for Duke to come after him. There was no sound from the outer room. There was a slam of a door from the kitchen. Liddell, cursing himself for trying to outwait Duke, pushed open the bedroom door and ran through to the kitchen.
He yanked open the service door. Duke was crouched at the head of the stairs. The .45 in the little man’s hands sounded like a cannon in the confined space. Two slugs chewed pieces out of the door jamb near Liddell’s head. He dropped to his face on the floor, tried to wriggle back into the room. The little man in the hallway beyond stood up, the gun in his hand belching orange flame. A flying splinter of wood stung Liddell on the forehead. His finger tightened on the trigger of his .45; the gun jumped twice in his hand.
The thin frame of the gunman in the hall seemed to stagger under a body blow. He stared at Liddell, his jaw beginning to sag. Desperately he tried to raise the .45 to firing position, but it had apparently grown too heavy. He staggered backward, lost his footing, disappeared down the steep stairs.
When Liddell walked to the head of the stairs and looked down, Duke lay sprawled at the bottom, a tangle of arms and legs. He was dead by the time Liddell reached him.
The private detective debated the advisability of waiting for Homicide, decided not to take the time, quickly relieved the dead man of a wallet from his breast pocket, a worn leather notebook, some loose slips of paper, and a key with a paper tag from his jacket pocket.
He stepped across the body, rushed down the remaining flights of stairs, oblivious to the screams and curses above, the opened and slammed doors on the flights below. The service stairs led into a small area way. He crossed the area-way, climbed a small fence, found himself in an alley. Somewhere close by a police siren was screaming, and in the distance others joined its full-throated roar. He voted against going up the alley, climbed another fence that brought him into the back yard of a house facing on the far side of the square.
He emerged into a tree-shaded street, walked to a corner, waved down a cab, gave Muggsy’s address, and settled back.
The cab circled the block, passing the entrance to the Denton Towers, which was now clogged with police cars and curiosity seekers.
“Wonder what’s wrong there?” Liddell asked.
The cabby gave the building a contemptuous glance, grunted. “Some dame probably gave herself the deep six. The joint’s full of kepties and every so often they come out of those windows like leaves in a rainstorm.” He felt his way through the crowded streets, past the police cars. “Some of ‘em ain’t bad before they take the jump, but it sure don’t do anything to improve their appearance when they land!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
MUGGSY KIELY STRETCHED OUT on the couch in her apartment, watching Johnny Liddell as he pored over the contents of the wallet he had taken from Duke’s body. In a small pile he put the bills, the driver’s license, the gun permit. In another pile he put the business cards, scribbled memoranda, the little notebook, and the loose papers. Then, he took the tagged key, studied it. On the tag it bore the numeral 16 and an inked notation Ocean View Court.
“What’s it look like to you, Johnny?” Muggsy asked curiously.
Liddell turned the key around, shrugged. “Looks like a motor court key.” He dropped it on the table, started scooping up the bills and identification and returning them to the wallet.
“Don’t you think you should have stayed and notified Devlin, Johnny?” Muggsy wanted to know. “He’s really going to flip his wig when he finds out you were there and didn’t call in a report.”
“If he finds out.” He straightened up, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I couldn’t afford the time, Muggs. You know what would have happened. I’d have to wait for the Homicide boys, give a statement, answer a lot of questions.” He stirred the small pile of papers still remaining in front of him with his finger. “I can use that time to better advantage.”
“If Devlin tags you for running away from the shooting you’ll have more time on your hands than you’ll know what to do with.” She sat up, nodded at the papers on the table. “Why’d you put them on the side? Something in them?”
“Make me a drink and I’ll find out,” Liddell promised.
“Blackmailer!” Muggsy got up from the couch, disappeared into the kitchen to reappear with a bottle and two glasses. She stopped behind Liddell, stared curiously over his shoulder at the little notebook he was examining. “What’s the list of names for?”
“I don’t know. But take a look.” He underscored the name Shad Reilly with his thumbnail. “Shad was on the list.”
Muggsy reached over his shoulder, took the book from his hand, studied the names, whistled soundlessly. “He was in good company, at least. These are all big shots. What’s the connection?”
“My guess is that they were all in the same boat.”
“What’s the check next to certain names mean, do you suppose?”
Liddell took the book back. “That, my pet, is one of the things I intend to find out.” He cleared a space on the table for her to set down the bottle and glasses. “That and a couple of other things.”
“Such as?”
“Let me show you.” He walked out to the foyer, took Terry Devine’s scrapbook from under his hat, brought it into the living-room. “I want to show you something.’ He riffled through the pages, stopping on a page containing a blind item from a column. “Read that.”
Muggsy read through it, nodded. “Could be just a filler to create interest, or it could be some dirty gossip. This town is full of it.”
“Suppose it’s legit. Who would you figure it meant?”
Muggsy reread the item, shrugged. “It could mean any one of a hundred men in this town. So what?”
“So nothing maybe. On the other, so plenty. Suppose you were a guy who was in a mess like that and you read this item, what would you think?”
Muggsy scowled at him thoughtfully. “I’d probably have a guilty conscience and think it pointed right at me. That what you’re driving at?”
“Part of it.”
“But why would Terry Devine collect these clippings?”
“Maybe they’re her press clippings. Maybe she’s the scandal that’s impending.” He riffled through other pages, stopped at similar items. “There’s over a dozen of them.”
Muggsy sniffed. “She may be good, but not that good. After all, every guy she dates wouldn’t turn out to be a crisis.”
“Maybe that was the idea, Muggs.”
“Meaning?”
Liddell shrugged. “Meaning maybe these guys were hand-picked and set up for a shakedown. From the sound of the items, they all involve guys who are in no position to fight back.”
Muggsy’s eyes widened, her lips formed an O. “The old badger game, eh?” She considered it, wrinkled her nose, shook her head. “That went out with the crystal set. Nobody would fall for an oldie like that. Not in these days.”
Liddell snorted. “Hell, they would in this town.” He flipped the book open to a series of photographs. In each one, Terry Devine was sitting at a table with a man. In the background there were other tables, smears of faces. “What do you make of this?”
Muggsy shrugged. “Night-club photos. Everyone collects them. Sort of a souvenir of a night on the town.” She leaned over, studied some of the pictures closely, whistled softly. “Say, that witch really gets around. Some of these guys are big deals, and — ” She broke off, stared at Liddell. “You’re not hinting that these are some of the suckers?”
Liddell nodded. “She didn’t have a gun handle to cut notches in, so she framed her kills twice — once for the setup, once for the notebook.”
“Sort of a portable trophy room, eh?”
Liddell opened Du
ke’s notebook to the list of names. “Now, baby, this is where you come in. Take a look at the faces in those pictures and see if they match up with these names.”
“But this is Duke’s list. Why would he have the names of Terry’s conquests?”
Liddell tried the cognac, walked to the ice box, came back with some ice, and dumped three cubes into each glass. “I’m testing a hunch that they worked together. It would make the setup foolproof.”
“How?”
“Blackmail’s a dirty word, Muggs. There-are nicer, safer ways of making a sucker pay off.”
“Such as?”
“Gambling debts. No real gentleman ever reneges on a gambling debt. And when he does, it’s always easy to prod him a little bit.” He pointed to the checks next to some of the names. “My guess is that these needed the prodding.”
Muggsy took the notebook, turned the scrapbook toward her, checked the pictures against the list. Finally she looked up.
“Bingo, Sherlock. Four of them match.”
“Which ones?”
She pointed to a slick-haired man in a summer tux in one of the pictures. “Carter Sales, Mammoth’s white hope for the bobby-socks trade. The studio’s been building him for big things.” She pointed to another picture in which a man with wavy, white hair grinned toothily at the camera. ‘‘Walter Arnold. He’s been doing character stuff for years. I think he’s under contract to Supreme. This one’s Rex Harvey, the cowboy all the kids yelp with on television. The other you know — Shad Reilly.”
“How about the others?”
“They may be on the list but I don’t recognize them.” She pushed back the scrapbook. “This is dynamite, Johnny.”
Liddell nodded. “My guess is that this is what Terry Devine wanted to tell me tonight. She planned to go back to her apartment, get the scrapbook, and give us the setup. Somehow, Maxie and Duke got wise, short-circuited her message, and met us in her place.”
“Why should she? She’s in it up to her hips.”
“In the shake racket, yes. But I’ve got a hunch that when she found out that Shad had been murdered she started figuring ways and means of bailing out. It’s one thing to set a guy up for a shake or put him on the spot for a beating. But murder’s an entirely different thing. Terribly permanent.”
Muggsy chewed on the tip of her fingernail, frowned at Liddell. “Suppose you’re right about the racket. How did they manage to get the items into a column? And whose column?”
Liddell shrugged. “Easy. The columnist was in on it.”
“I won’t buy that. Why should they cut a columnist in?”
“Why not? In a town like this, who’s in a better position to know who’s vulnerable and where the shake will hurt most? Then, after the sucker’s on the hook, who can put the heat on most effectively?”
Muggsy shook her head, flipped the pages back to one of the blind items, studied it. “Hard to tell which column it came out of.”
“Not too hard,” Liddell told her. “It won’t take you more than an hour.”
“Me? You mean I’m supposed to find out what column these items came out of? You must be crazy. There are more columns in this town than peroxide blondes. And that ain’t a few, playmate.”
“Stop making a federal case out of it, Muggs. It’s simple.” He pointed to a penciled date at the side of each item. “You drop by the public library, get the files on all local papers for these days, check the various columns. I’m sure all these items came out of the same column.”
“Have a heart, will you, Johnny? Suppose it’s some correspondent from the West Falls, Minn., Daily Clarion. We’ve got that kind around, too, you know.”
“Forget them. If this item is to be effective, it would have to appear in a column that carries some weight. A column that a studio might pay some attention to.”
“Like Lulu Barry’s, no doubt?”
“Like Lulu Barry’s. Or any one of a dozen top columns. Maybe it’s from one of the trade papers, I don’t know. After all, that’s your department.”
“And what’s your department?”
Liddell picked up the key with the tag that he had taken from Duke’s pocket, toyed with it. “I’m going to find the door this key fits.”
“Why?”
He dropped the key into his jacket pocket, leaned back. “Terry Devine never showed up to keep our date and she never got back to her place. It figures that Duke and Maxie caught up with her and have her hidden out someplace. We know where Duke is — maybe Maxie is keeping Terry company.”
“And you figure on crashing the party. Haven’t you heard that three’s a crowd — especially in a motel?”
Liddell nodded. “I wasn’t figuring on Maxie staying around.”
“I’ve got a better idea. I’m coming along. Then you’ll have a fourth for bridge.”
Liddell shook his head. “No dice, baby. Maxie plays rough.”
“But you need me.”
“I’ll struggle along without you this time, Muggs.”
“That’s what you think, Buster. But around about the time you try to get into the motel alone, you’re going to wish you had me along.”
Liddell grinned. “I told you this was business, Muggs.”
“Sure. And what’s more conspicuous than a stag male checking into a passion pit at this time of night?” She shook her head. “You’ll never make it without me, Johnny.” She grinned maliciously. “I’ll bet this is the first case on record of a gal having to blackmail her guy into checking her into a motel.”
Ocean View Court turned out to be a mean little cluster of paint-peeled prefabricated huts huddled off the ocean highway south of Los Angeles. A noisy neon light chattered the fact that there was still a vacancy as Johnny Liddell guided his car off the highway toward the small shack marked Office. He glided the car to a stop, watched while the old man inside the shack walked to the window and peered out at them.
Muggsy cuddled closer to Liddell and brought his face around against hers. “No sense giving him any better look at us than necessary,” she alibied.
The door to the office creaked open, the old man limped painfully over. He carried a dog-eared old ledger with him.
“Evening, folks.” There was a faint Midwestern twang in his voice. He rested the ledger on the side of the car. “Got a nice double for you.” He held the key in his hand up to catch the faint light from the office. “Number Twelve. Can show it to you, if you like.” The tone of his voice implied that he’d prefer not to.
“Don’t go to any trouble, Pop. We’re not fussy,” Liddell told him. “What’ll it cost?”
“Five for the night — or any part of it,” the old man told him. He turned his head, spat. “You figuring on getting an early start in the morning?”
Liddell nodded. “Pretty early, Pop.” He brought out a roll of bills, handed over a five. “You needn’t put a call in. We’ll be gone before you get up.”
The old man grinned lewdly, stuck the ledger in the window, waited while Liddell scrawled an indecipherable signature. “Just follow the road on back. Number Twelve’s the sixth one on the right.” He folded the five, stuck it into his vest pocket. “When you leave, leave the light on so’s I’ll know case I get a chance to rerent it.” He turned, shuffled painfully back to his office.
“Nice high-class places you take me, Mr. Liddell,” Muggsy sniffed. “It’s a good thing my poor old dad doesn’t know the kind of a man you really are.”
Liddell eased the car into gear, bumped the hundred yards to where a small stake in the ground bore the numeral 12. He swung the car off the road between two of the small cottages, cut the motor, doused his lights. He led the way to the cottage, opened the door with the key, fumbled until he found the switch. A pale, ineffectual yellow light spilled from a single bracket in the ceiling, revealing a huge, badly made double bed, a rickety wooden dresser with a speckled mirror hanging askew over it, the half-open door to the lavatory.
Muggsy walked over to the mirror, set it straig
ht, looked around with wrinkled nose. “Pretty sordid.” She walked over to the bed, tested it, sat down. “Now what?”
“Duke’s cabin must be two farther down.” He took the tagged key from his pocket, rechecked the number on it. “After a decent interval of time, I’m going to turn the lights out and pay Number Sixteen a visit.”
“We’re going to pay Number Sixteen a visit,” Muggsy corrected him firmly. “If you think I’m going to sit in this bedbug menagerie alone, and in the dark yet, you’ve got rocks in your head.”
“Be reasonable, Muggs. If Maxie Seymour’s in there waiting for Duke there may be rough stuff.”
“I’m coming.”
Liddell groaned, shook his head. “I told you to stay at your place.”
“And I told you that if you tried to register into a riding-academy like this stag they’d call the white wagon for you.” She looked around the unpainted walls, the threadbare carpet, the dingy gray bedspread. “Somehow I can’t picture even the divine Terry looking good to anybody in these surroundings.”
Liddell walked over, sat on the edge of the bed beside her. He pulled the .45 from its holster and checked it. He returned it to its holster, walked over, turned out the lights. “Okay, Muggs, if you insist. But remember, stay in back of me, and if any shooting starts, get under cover as soon as you can. Don’t try following me.”
“Okay, Johnny.” She reached over, lifted his wrist, consulted the luminous dial of his watch. “How soon?”
“In a couple of minutes.” He found his cigarettes, put two between his lips, lit them, handed one to Muggsy. They smoked silently for a moment, the crimson tips of the cigarettes glowing like red dots in the darkness. Finally, Muggsy dropped hers to the floor, crushed it out with her foot.