Bare Trap

by Frank Kane

  “I stumbled on something yesterday, Margy. If I’m right, neither Richards nor the kid owed Stanley money for gambling losses.”

  “But you said yourself — ”

  Liddell nodded. “There were IOU’s. I saw them. But suppose Yale and Terry were working a badger game. She puts the suckers on the spot, he puts the shake on. They sign the IOU’s to get off the hook, and he collects them as gambling losses. How about it?”

  Margy caught her lower lip between her teeth, worried it for a second, shook her head. “Not Richards. What would he have to lose?”

  “About twenty years. Don’t forget Terry was under age at that time. The expression in my circles is San Quentin quail.”

  The blonde’s eyes widened. “I see what you mean.”

  “Buy it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible.”

  “Okay. Then, let’s work on the assumption that that’s what happened. Richards and the kid were only two of the suckers. I want to have a talk with some of the others.”

  The blonde shook her head. “What others?”

  “Know a character named Carter Sales?”

  “Who doesn’t? He’s the hottest thing in the studio.” She leaned forward, her eyes wide. “You don’t mean him, too?”

  “I don’t know,” Liddell admitted. “I want to have a talk with him. That’s where you come in. I want to know where to reach him.”

  The blonde leaned back in her chair, shook her head. “No can do, Johnny. His address is on the restricted file.”

  “But it’s on file?”

  “I couldn’t get it for you, Johnny.” The blonde shook her head firmly. “There’d be murder around here.”

  “There already has been. I’m just trying to see to it that there’s no more of it.”

  She continued to shake her head, but without conviction. “I can’t.”

  “Everybody connected with the lot has to file their address in case of emergency. Right?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “Baby, this is an emergency. Shad Reilly’s dead, and for all we know so are Richards and Terry. If they’re not, they’re liable to be unless I can get to them damn soon.”

  “There must be another way,” the blonde wailed.

  Liddell shook his head. “Without him I’m up against a stone wall. The only other leads are out of circulation. There’s just a chance he may know something that will break that stone wall. I’ve got to have it.”

  “They’ll trace it to me,” she protested weakly.

  “How would they? If I’m right, Sales won’t be doing any talking. Nobody will even know I was there.”

  Margy wavered. “Suppose you’re wrong. Suppose he doesn’t even know Terry or Yale? How can you be sure?”

  Liddell grinned wryly. “You can take my word for it, baby. Carter Sales knows both Yale Stanley and Terry Devine. You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  The blonde wet her lips with the tip of a pink tongue. “I have a feeling I’m going to hate myself in the morning, but if you say so.” She opened an oversized purse that sat on the corner of the desk, fumbled in its depths, and came up with a small ring of keys. She fitted one of the keys to a small lock on the bottom drawer of the desk.

  The steel-lined drawer rolled out easily. She reached in, brought out a small index card file. “Only two people have a key to that drawer,” she pointed out wryly, “and Richards isn’t around. So if this goes wrong, you know whose lap it’s going to be sitting in.” She opened the file, picked out a small card, handed it to Liddell. “He lives out in Bel-Air. About a half-hour drive.”

  Liddell nodded, copied down the address on the back of an envelope. “Stop worrying, baby. Carter Sales isn’t going to make any beef.”

  The blonde returned the card to the file, locked it in the drawer. “You’ll let me know how you make out?”

  “It may be awfully late.”

  The blonde took a deep puff on the cigarette, blew the smoke at him in a long feathery stream. “It won’t be too late.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IT HAD GOTTEN UNBEARABLY HOT after the heavy rain of the night before. Johnny Liddell, who had insisted on a convertible at the Drive-Yourself agency, wondered now whether a hard top wouldn’t have helped to ward off the merciless scorching of the sun. The open top and rolled-down windows didn’t help much because even the breeze was warm; it felt as if it had been blown out of one of those driers they use in a barbershop.

  He drove through the Strip to Beverly Hills, headed through until he came to the foothills, then swung north to Bel-Air. Already the air seemed cooler as he headed the car down the long tree-lined roads, past the high walls and big gates of the estates that ranged back beyond sight.

  Carter Sales’s place was identified only by the sedate number 12 on the sidewalkless lawn that extended beyond the walls to the road. Two huge stone pillars supported a pair of wrought-iron gates. He checked the address against the penciled notation he had made in Richards’s office, swung the car wide, and headed it for the iron gates.

  A wizened little man, his face the color of well-polished leather, wearing a pair of worn jeans and no shirt, walked up to the gate and looked out. “Want somebody, mister?” he called in a cracked voice.

  “Carter’s expecting me,” Liddell called back.

  The old man scratched at his head with fingers stained by the gardening he’d been doing, and shrugged. He walked over to the gate, unlatched it, swung it back. “Didn’t tell me nothing about expecting company,” the old man grumbled. “You sure he’s expecting you?”

  Liddell drove in and stopped by the old man. “Do I look like the type to be collecting Carter Sales’s autograph?”

  The old man considered it a very funny remark. He opened his mouth in a delighted whoop, laughed until his eyes watered. “You don’t at that,” he admitted. He watched Liddell drive up the curving driveway, then closed the gates behind him. He was still chuckling as Liddell disappeared around the bend leading to the house.

  The house itself was set on a nine- or ten-acre plot, up on a knoll that overlooked the rolling country beyond. It was an aggressively modern ranch type done in stucco and mahogany, sprawling over what looked to be about a half an acre. Huge picture windows reflected the sun and were counteracted by a clump of magnolias that spilled a wide area of cool-looking shade over the southern end of the house.

  Liddell drove the convertible to a small graveled parking-lot near the four-car garage, got out, stretched his legs, looked around. There was no sign of life around the place.

  He walked over to the ponderous, studded door and leaned against a small bell set into the jamb. He could hear it ringing someplace inside, but nobody came to answer. After a moment he rang again. This time he got action.

  The door swung open, and he was face to face with a man who topped him by a few inches, whose broad tapering shoulders seemed to balance precariously on the slimness of his waist and hips. He wore his thick blond hair long on the sides, plastered back against his head. On top it was a mass of tight curls. The almost feminine perfection of his features was marred by a frown of annoyance. He was Carter Sales.

  “What’s on your mind, mister?” he asked.

  “Like to talk to you for a few minutes, Sales.”

  The frown deepened. “How did you get in here?”

  Liddell’s eyes widened. “Drove in,” he said innocently. “It’d be a helluva hike from the station.”

  Sales didn’t think it was funny. “Never mind the funny remarks. How’d you get by the gates?”

  “Told the old guy you wanted to see me.”

  Carter Sales’s full upper lip curled. “Well, I don’t.”

  “You just think you don’t, pal. Me, I think you want to see me awful bad. That is, unless you want to go back to whatever you were doing before you fell into this racket.”

  The movie star’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

  Liddell wiped his forehead with the side of his hand. “It’s t
oo hot out here to talk. Besides, what I’ve got to say ought to be private — for your sake.”

  Sales pushed the door open, stepped aside. “It better be good,” he warned. He watched as Liddell walked past into the dim cool of what was apparently a den.

  “Nice place you got,” Liddell told him.

  Sales slammed the door and stalked into the den. “Let’s cut the small talk. Who are you and what do you want?”

  Liddell shrugged, tossed his hat on a low-slung library chair. “Name’s Liddell. I’m a private detective.”

  “What do you want here?” The movie star’s voice was less belligerent, more cautious.

  “Conversation.”

  “About what?”

  “Terry Devine.”

  The prettiness of the blond man’s face disappeared. Hard lines joined his nostrils with the ends of his mouth, hard lumps formed on his jaw as he clenched his teeth. “Get out.”

  “Did you know Terry has disappeared?”

  “Get out, I told you.” The big man moved toward Liddell, his shoulders hunched, his fists clenched.

  “Look, pal, the cameras are off. Be a big boy, will you? You’re on a spot and I may be able to help you get off it.”

  Sales caught him by the lapels and started shoving him toward the door. Liddell threw his arms upward and out, broke the hold. He caught the bigger man by the shirt, pulled him toward him, throwing him off balance, then he shoved. Sales rocketed backward, hit a low table, fell over, and hit the floor with a thud.

  “Not very hospitable, are you?” Liddell growled. “This is no shake and I’m not here representing Terry Devine. I told you I want conversation and that’s all I want.”

  Sales sat on the floor, shook his head to clear it, glared murderously at the private detective. “You won’t get away with this,” he murmured. “Not twice, you won’t.”

  “Maybe not. Let me put it this way. Either I get the conversation or a couple of feature writers I know get a yarn that’ll curl every bobby socks in the country. What’ve you got to lose by listening?”

  Carter Sales started to his feet with an oath, didn’t manage to make it. “You might even be able to take me,” Liddell conceded, “but it won’t do your profile any good and it’ll surer than hell wash up your career. If I let you up, will you get smart and listen?” He stood over the bigger man out of reach of his arms, close enough to keep him off balance.

  “Listen to what?” Sales growled.

  “Now you’re being smart.” Liddell reached down, helped the movie star to his feet. “I told you there’s no shake involved. I want some help, and I’m willing to do you a favor along the line.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Look, pal. I don’t care what your personal habits are and what kind of a jam you’ve gotten yourself in. It just so happens that in doing a job for a client I can do you a good turn. And there’s no price tag on it.”

  Sales glared at him sullenly.

  “I’ve stumbled on a shakedown racket being pulled in this town. You’re one of the suckers. I need some details.”

  “So I just sit down and bare my little heart. That it?”

  Liddell shook his head. “I don’t need that kind of details. Suppose I tell you what I know, then you can figure whether or not I’m fishing.” He pointed to a chair. “Okay to sit down?” When Sales gave no answer, he dropped into one of the low chairs and looked up at the man towering over him. “You got sucked into a badger game with Terry Devine, had to sign a batch of IOU’s for Yale Stanley to get off the hook. You balked at paying off and two of Yale’s boys persuaded you it was smart to pay. Right?”

  The angry scowl on the blond man’s face answered the question. “You said Terry had disappeared. That right?”

  Liddell nodded. “It’s on the streets. There was a killing in her place last night. A little hood named Duke fielded a couple of forty-five slugs with his belly, got indigestion from them. He’s at the Las Caminas morgue and Terry is nowhere to be found.”

  “Served the little bastard right,” Sales muttered from clenched teeth. “But what’s that got to do with me?”

  “I want to find Terry and through her Yale Stanley. He’s wanted for questioning in the murder of a client of mine.”

  “Who’s the client?”

  “Shad Reilly.”

  Sales nodded, walked over to a liquor cabinet, poured a couple of drinks, brought one to Liddell. “Sorry I tried to rough you up.” He set his glass down on the low table, brushed himself off. “Not that it did me much good,” he admitted ruefully. “Where do I come in?”

  Liddell tasted the liquor approvingly. “I figure Terry took you someplace to set up the frame, maybe someplace Yale used as a hideaway.” He looked at the actor, drew no response. “Maybe that’s where they’re holed in.”

  Sales stared at him stonily.

  “I figure it must have been a fairly isolated place,” Liddell continued. “It wouldn’t be anything public because your face is too well known, and they wouldn’t have as big a hammer. It wouldn’t be gambling. Terry’s over eighteen now, so she can’t pull that gag any more.”

  “She used that one, too, eh?”

  “Every dirty one in the book. An old guy like Walter Arnold it might be pictures taken in an unguided moment.” He stroked his chin, plucked at his lower lip. “With you, it’d have to be something that would kill you with the bobby socks trade, something that would send the Parent-Teacher Associations howling for your scalp instead of your autograph.”

  “So?”

  Liddell shrugged. “Dope?”

  The actor bared his teeth, started for Liddell, stopped, and dropped his hands. “It was a frame.” He picked up his glass, tossed off the drink. “A beautiful frame, with me sitting dead center.” He ran his hand across his eyes. “Long as you know about it, there’s no harm in telling you the whole story.” He sank into a chair, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. “Ever meet Terry?”

  Liddell nodded.

  “Then you know she’s hotter than a welder’s torch when she wants to be. She got under my skin so deep I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. And it didn’t make a helluva lot of difference.” He took a deep breath. “One night she told about some friends of hers who had a place on the beach. Nice and private.” He broke off, scowled at Liddell. “I don’t suppose you know what it’s like to be in a spot like I’m in. It looks good, but it’s hell on horseback.”

  Liddell nodded sympathetically.

  “No matter where I go, everybody knows my face. I can’t register a babe into a hotel like a normal guy. I can’t even use an apartment or her apartment. You never know who’s going to phone a tip into the papers and then there’s hell to pay at the studio.” He smoothed back the lacquered hair on the side of his head. “That’s why it sounded so damn good to me.”

  “Go on.”

  Sales shrugged. “You know the rest. There were three couples there, all of them vouched for by Terry. Somebody suggested a couple of sticks — ”

  “Marijuana, eh?”

  “I’m not alibiing. I guess I just blew my top.” He rubbed his eyes, shook his head. “I’ve tried a million times to remember what went on, but I draw a blank. A couple of days later I got a reminder, but good.”

  “Pictures, eh?”

  Sales nodded grimly. “A flock of them. I guess even the tea didn’t kill the ham in me. There I was grinning like an idiot at the camera in every one of them. And, baby, take it from me. Any one of them would kill me deader than John Bunny in pictures.” He shook his head. “They had me posed with the four girls. One wasn’t enough.” He got up, spilled more liquor into his glass, then held the decanter up to Liddell, who shook his head. “So now you know why anybody who uses Terry’s name as an introduction isn’t exactly welcome.”

  “What’d they take you for?”

  “Twenty thousand the first time. The second time ten. And the third time they upped it to twenty again. I told them I wouldn’t pay off, so
they had those two hoods work me over. Not the face, of course,” he growled. “They didn’t want to damage their meal ticket. They gave it to me down below, but good.”

  “How come you let them tap you three times? Your studio would have stood behind you.”

  “That’s what you think. When I still didn’t come across after the shellacking, they hit me where I live. The columns started hinting about a big star who was mixed up in orgies. It was veiled, but I knew who they meant. And pretty soon everybody else would. So I paid.”

  “What column was it?”

  “Lulu Barry’s.” He grinned at Liddell mirthlessly. “You know what that means in this town? One more blast out of her and I’d be out.”

  Liddell nodded. “Where was this place you went to?”

  “A beach house near Laguna. It’s set out on a point, plenty private.”

  “Could you show me how to get to it on a map?”

  “What for?”

  “I think one of us ought to pay the place a visit and get rid of any evidence that might be lying around. Or maybe even hit the jackpot and find Yale and Terry.” Liddell cocked his head at the actor. “Might be worth the try.”

  “One of us?”

  “Me. That’s my business. You tell me how to get there. I’ll handle the rest of it.”

  Sales scowled at his glass, emptied it. “Got a map?”

  “By an odd coincidence I happen to have one in my pocket.” Liddell grinned. He spread a map of the Southern California coast line on the table.

  The actor got out of his chair, pored over the map. “You take the Coast road down to here.” He indicated a little side road that veered east. “This is the Dana Point road.” He indicated a blacker line. “You take the one that branches off toward the shore. There’s not much of a road after you pass the little summer colony right about here. From there on it’s pretty much dune country. You can’t miss the place. It’s the only house on the point.”

  Liddell studied the map, nodded. “I’ll find it.”

  “What happens if you don’t find the stuff and you take Yale and Terry alive?” Sales asked quietly.