by Frank Kane
“I read someplace that if you can’t see the smoke, you can’t enjoy it,” she whispered. “It’s a fact.” She consulted Liddell’s wrist again. “How much longer, Johnny?”
“Right now,” Liddell told her. He dropped his cigarette to the floor, ground it out, walked over to the door, opened it. Muggsy came up behind him. There were no lights in any of the other cabins. At the far end of the court the neon sputtered fitfully, spilled a red stain over the trees and the road. A yellow square of uncurtained window identified the office.
Johnny Liddell stepped out the doorway, circled around to the back of his cottage. The weeds grew knee high, effectively covering an accumulation of bottles and beer cans. He swore under his breath, almost fell to his knees. They stopped, melted into the shadow of the building, waited. There was no sign of life anywhere else in the court.
Slowly, carefully, he picked his way to the rear of what he figured to be Number 16. He listened outside the paper-thin wall, heard no sounds. There was no car in the driveway separating Cabin 16 from the one next to it. Liddell flattened himself against the wall, worked his way to the front.
The key with the tag fitted the door perfectly. He pushed it open, stepped in. Muggsy followed closely behind, kicked the door shut with her foot.
Liddell tugged the .45 from its holster, slipped it into his left hand, felt for the light switch. He pressed it and the shabby room sprang into blinding brilliance.
It was a duplicate of the cabin they had rented. The big ugly bed, the rickety bureau, the half-opened lavatory door. The only light in the room came from the unshaded fixture in the ceiling that spilled the yellow, revealing light into all but the corners of the room.
Terry Devine lay across the bed, her face turned toward the wall. She wore one shoe; the other had been kicked into a corner. Her black hair tumbled over her face, her green angora sweater was thrown across the back of the room’s only chair.
A handkerchief had been forced between her teeth as a gag, the red angry welts across the whiteness of her back testified to the fact that her abductors had sought information from her. The gaping wound in her throat that had spilled a viscid, dark-brown pool on the floor was evidence that they had got it.
Johnny Liddell stood in the doorway, cursed bitterly under his breath. Muggsy Kiely gave a strangled gasp, tried to swallow a clenched fist. The color drained from her face, leaving her make-up a garish blot on the pallor. She turned away, leaned her forehead against the wall.
Liddell walked over to the bed, caught Terry’s wrist, felt for a pulse. He shook his head, dropped the arm, stared down at her. An odd shade of red in the pool on the floor caught his eye. It seemed brighter than the rest. Liddell bent over, studied it, brought out his pencil, fished it up, stuck it between the leaves of his notebook.
He stalked around the room, opened drawers of the bureau, looked under the bed, examined the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.
“What are you looking for?” Muggsy’s voice was hoarse, spiced with a note of incipient hysteria. She made a determined effort to keep her eyes away from the bed, and its contents. “Why don’t we get out of here?”
Liddell grunted, nodded. “We’re going. I was looking for her bag. There’s no sign of it.” He walked back to the bed, stared down at the dead girl. “There’s no way of her knowing it, but we’ve already evened things up for her with one of them.”
“Duke?”
Liddell nodded. “He was one of them. He had the key to the cabin in his pocket.”
“You think there were others?”
“At least one.” He took out his handkerchief, wiped off the knob of the door, the light switch, doused it. Then, using the handkerchief on the knob, he opened the door a crack, satisfied himself that the occupants of Ocean View Court were still preoccupied with their own affairs. He wiped the outside of the knob, opened the door wide enough for Muggsy to slip through, followed her.
Back in their own cabin, Muggsy sank onto the bed. Under the relentless glare of the ceiling light, her face was chalky and had a greenish tinge. “She didn’t deserve that.” She shook her head. “Nobody deserves an ending like that, Johnny.”
Liddell paced the room, stuck a cigarette into his mouth. “We’ll pay off for her. We’ll pay them all off.”
“Who do you think the other one was? Maxie?”
Liddell stopped pacing, walked over to where she sat. He yanked his memo book from his pocket, opened it to the page where he’d stuck the bright-red thing from Terry’s cabin. “What’s that look like to you?”
Muggsy stared at it, wrinkled her brow. “A petal of a flower. A — A carnation?”
Liddell grinned bleakly. “Yeah, a carnation. Seen one lately?”
Muggsy stared up at him, nodded. “That fellow at Yale Stanley’s. The big shot. What was his name?”
“Stack.”
Muggsy nodded. “That’s the one I mean. You think it was him?”
“Positive. In the struggle with the girl some of his flower got ripped off. Not enough to make it stick in a court of law, but enough to make it stand up for me.”
“Why not Maxie? Maybe Stack was only standing by.”
Liddell shook his head. “It doesn’t stack up like Maxie. In the first place, Terry was his babe and had the Indian sign on him. In the second place, Maxie wouldn’t go for the belt whipping and knife. He’s the more primitive type — he’d use his hands and get a big charge out of it.” He snapped closed the memo book, stuck it back into his pocket. “But an esthetic soul like Stack with his carnation — this kind of a kill would appeal to him.”
“What are you going to do, Johnny?”
“Pay off for Terry.”
Muggsy caught him by the sleeve. “Don’t be crazy. You won’t get away with it. You can’t constitute yourself a judge and jury and go around carrying out your own sentences.”
“I don’t intend to.”
“But you said — ”
“I said I was going to pay off for Terry. I am. I know Stack was in on the kill and I’m going to fix it so the police will know it, too.”
“How?”
Liddell caught her by the elbow and pulled her to her feet. “Never mind. I’m getting you home first. Then I intend to have a little visit with friend Stack.”
• • •
Yale Stanley’s Dude Ranch looked different when it was closed. Without the flattery of the hidden battery of floodlights, it was just a tired, old, gray-white frame building sprawling in the darkness. Tonight there were no cars in the parking-lot, the amiable giant in the maroon uniform who presided over the door was gone, there was no bright light spilling out of the windows to light the ground, no feverish pitch of conversation. Just a tired, old, gray-white building relaxing with its make-up off.
Liddell left his car under a big tree a hundred yards off the entrance to the Ranch. He cut across the shrubbery diagonally toward the building, roughly in the direction he estimated the parking-lot to be. After a few seconds he reached the tall California hedge that rimmed the lot. The heavy rain had stopped, but the sky was still cloudy, lowering. He stopped, squatted down in the shadow of the hedge, took his bearings, tried to chart in his mind the most direct route to the room Stanley had used as an office.
Then, he started skirting the parking-lot, working his way closer to the house. There was no sound other than the rustle of leaves and the soft squish of his own footsteps in the soggy turf.
Suddenly, he stopped, melting into the deeper shadows of the hedge. He could hear the crunch of footsteps on the gravel in the parking-lot. Coming toward him he could make out a tiny red spot that glowed into a coal, then died away. Liddell strained his eyes against the curtain of darkness in an effort to make out the man behind the cigarette. From the height of the glowing end, Liddell estimated that he was something less than six feet.
The man with the cigarette stopped, the cigarette alternately glowing red, dying away. Cautiously, Liddell started toward him, taking extreme precau
tions against advertising his presence by a dislodged stone or snapped twig. He slid the .45 from its holster, tried to circle behind his man. After what seemed hours, he could make the man out — a light man in a Mackinaw, a battered felt hat perched on the back of his head. He was still smoking, his attention seemed fixed on the entrance.
Liddell wiggled through the hedge, came up noiselessly behind him, jabbed the snout of the .45 into his kidneys. The guard stiffened, the cigarette fell from his fingers. He made no attempt to move.
“How many of you around the place?” Liddell asked.
“Just me out here. I’m the watchman.”
“How about inside?”
The slight man shook his head. “I don’t know. They come and go by a private entrance on the far side. I’m only supposed to patrol the grounds.”
Liddell slid his arm around the man, patted him down, relieved him of an automatic from the Mackinaw pocket, tossed it back into the hedge.
“Stack around? Or any of Stanley’s boys?”
“Don’t ask me, mister. I’m just one of the help. What are you, sheriff’s office?”
Liddell didn’t answer.
“If you are, you’re wasting your time. The Las Caminas cops have been over this place with a fine-tooth comb. The boss hasn’t been around here in forty-eight hours.”
“Maybe you know how to reach him?”
The guard shook his head. “I don’t know nothing. I get paid to patrol the grounds, I patrol the grounds. Nobody pays me to know nothing.”
“Let’s go inside.”
The guard didn’t move. “I ain’t seen the search warrant.”
Liddell jabbed harder with the gun. “This is it. Do you lead the way or do you want to do it the hard way?”
“If you ain’t the law, you’re wasting your time trying to heist this place. They cleaned it all out — ”
“Keep right on stalling, pal,” Liddell grunted. “It’s your head if you like to wear it with holes in it.”
The guard shrugged, started toward the steps to the Casino. Liddell caught him by the collar, stopped him. “There’s just one thing. If it turns out that there’s more than just you around, you won’t be in any condition to find out how it turns out.”
“I’m the only outside man.”
“For both our sakes I hope so.”
The guard led the way to a side entrance to the Casino, stopped at a jab from Liddell. “This is as far as you go.”
“Now what?” the guard asked, his voice tinged with fear.
“That depends on you.”
“Look, mister. I’m no hero and I don’t look good with a hole in my head. I’ll behave.”
Liddell nodded. “That’s being smart. Do that and you’ll walk away from this. Try yelling or bringing help in any way and you’re the one guy I’ll know where to find. Walk over to that small tree.”
The guard walked over to the tree, kept his face averted.
“Back up to the tree, bring your arms around it.” When the guard had complied, Liddell snapped handcuffs on both wrists. “Now, in case you get wanderlust, you can take the tree with you. And don’t forget, while it’s not sporting to shoot a sitting duck, I haven’t got a license, anyway, so I won’t mind.”
He turned, walked over to the French doors leading into the Casino. The room beyond was dark. He gently tapped out a small pane of glass above the knob, stuck his hand through, opened the door, let himself in. He conjured up in his mind’s eye the location of the various games, skirted along the row of one-armed bandits, cut across below the roulette table where he had played two nights before, headed through the drapes to the little corridor that led to Yale Stanley’s office.
There was a thin thread of light under the closely fitted door. He walked up to it, tapped lightly.
“Duke?” a muffled voice demanded.
Liddell held his face close to the door. “Yeah.”
There was the stutter of an electric latch, the door swung slowly open. Liddell stepped through, .45 in hand, kicked the door shut with his heel.
Stack was seated in the chair behind the big desk. He was riffling through the top drawer, only the top of his head showing. He didn’t look up as Liddell walked in.
“Get it, Duke?”
Liddell grinned humorlessly, little hard lumps forming on the sides of his jaw. “Yeah. He got it,” Liddell grunted.
The man at the desk froze. He seemed suspended in air for a moment, then his head raised; he looked up at Liddell through his lashes. Then his eyes dropped to the black, apparently bottomless muzzle of the .45.
“What’s the idea?” he gurgled.
“I got a message for you. From Terry Devine in Cabin Sixteen.”
A muscle jumped under Stack’s left eye, his lips went slack. “You’re lying. Terry’s — ”
“She’s dead all right. But she left a message saying she’d be waiting for you.” He motioned the other man to his feet with the gun. “What happened to the carnation?”
Stack looked down at the left lapel of his coat, looked up. “I didn’t wear one tonight.” He licked at his lips, seemed to be getting the quiver under his eye under control. “What the hell’s this all about?”
Liddell motioned him away from the desk with the muzzle of the gun. “Over to the wall. Dig your face into it,” he snapped.
Stack took his time about pushing the chair back from the desk, got up, walked back to the wall, faced it. Liddell sidled around the desk, got the top drawer open, riffled through it in search of the small key ring he had seen Yale Stanley drop into it. The key ring was gone. He bent over to open the second drawer.
There was a whir of well-oiled machinery, the squeak of a sliding panel. Liddell looked up in time to see Stack’s back disappearing through the panel into an unlighted passageway. Cursing himself for forgetting the private entrance the guard had told him about, Liddell started after Stack. He had just cleared the panel when it slammed shut behind him, throwing the passageway into complete darkness. Somewhere up ahead he thought he heard footsteps.
He threw caution to the winds, started after his prisoner on the run, didn’t see the outstretched foot, hit it full speed, sprawled headlong. He hit the stone floor with a slam that knocked most of the breath out of his body, sent the .45 skidding into some dark corner.
Instinctively, he rolled as he hit, felt the two hundred pounds of the other man as he threw himself at where Liddell had lain. The private detective lashed out with his heels, heard the other man grunt as they made contact. Liddell managed to get to his feet, crouched, waited for the next assault.
The only sound in the corridor was the heavy, labored breathing of the two men. Liddell could feel the perspiration running down the back of his shirt as he strained his eyes against the darkness, tried to make out the whereabouts of his adversary.
Suddenly, he caught the dull glint of a knife blade. Stack’s sole scuffed the stone floor as he shuffled in for the kill. He held his knife waist high, point up in the manner of a skilled knife fighter. Liddell kept his eye on the knife, waited for the other man to close in the distance.
As soon as Stack had shuffled within striking distance, Liddell kicked out with his heel, had the satisfaction of hearing the other man growl with pain. The knife clattered to the floor. Both men dived for it, struggled in the darkness of the passage. Stack managed to get his hand on it, rolled over on his back to use it.
Liddell caught his wrist desperately, tried to force it back to where he could smash the knuckles against the stone floor. The perspiration beaded on his forehead, ran down into his eyes, blinding him. Stack caught his breath in gasping sobs, used his free hand to claw at the detective’s throat.
Liddell relaxed his pressure on the knife hand, tried to tear the fingers loose from his throat. The grunting and gasping grew louder. Liddell’s fingers around the other man’s wrist grew slippery and wet.
Stack grunted, threw all of his two hundred pounds into a desperate effort to dislodge Liddell,
succeeded in throwing him off balance. He pulled himself laboriously to his knees, started to move in for the kill. Liddell threw himself forward, wrestled him back against the wall, thrashing and panting. Suddenly, Stack’s foot slipped and they crashed to the floor, Liddell on top.
Stack sighed deeply, stopped struggling.
After a moment, Liddell pulled himself painfully to his feet, stood swaying in the darkness. He lit his cigarette lighter, looked down at Stack in the weak light.
Stack lay on his back, his leg folded under him. He stared up at Liddell with wide-open eyes, a stream of saliva glistening from the corner of his lips down his chin. The handle of the knife projected from just below the breastbone like an obscene horn, staining the front of his shirt an angry red.
Liddell wiped his lips with the back of his hand, steadied himself against the wall. After he had caught his breath, he made a desultory search of the corridor for his gun, gave it up. He followed the wall to the end of the passageway, found a door that opened onto what was obviously a private parking-lot. There was only one car in it, a small black business coupé.
He walked back to where Stack lay, caught him under the arms and dragged him out to the car. He got the door open, dumped the body onto the front seat. Then he kicked the motor into life, headed back to the Ocean View Court.
The old man who ran the office could be seen inside sitting with his chair tilted back, his hat over his eyes. Liddell eased the car past the entrance, slid it into the parking-space next to Cabin 16. He made certain Ocean View Court was still wrapped up in its after-hours affairs, dragged the body into the cabin, closed the door quietly after him, and snapped on the light.
“Here’s the other one, baby,” he told Terry.
He carted the body across the floor, dumped it at her feet.
“They always used to lay great warriors out with their dog at their feet. You won’t mind if the best I could do for you was a rat, will you, baby?”
He looked around, made sure he had left no trace of his presence, flicked the light switch, eased out the door. He cut back around Cabin 16, made his way through the weed-choked patch behind the court, headed for the ocean highway.