by Frank Kane
Liddell pursed his lips, considered it. “I don’t think he’ll have the stuff on him by the time the police get him.” He examined his fingernails. “I have a feeling that he and I’ll have time for a nice heart to heart talk before I get around to handing him over to Homicide.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MUGGSY KIELY sat across the table from Johnny Liddell, watched him read the newspaper account of the finding of Terry Devine’s body. He finished the story, nodded, folded the paper, laid it down on the table.
“The sheriff’s office thinks it was murder and suicide, Johnny.”
Liddell nodded. “They’re half right. Stack killed the kid, no question about it.” He jabbed a blunt forefinger at the newspaper account. “The coroner says it was his belt she was whipped with and the knife in him was probably the one used to kill the girl.”
“How’d he get there, Johnny?”
Liddell shrugged. “You read the same story I did. The old guy who runs the place says he checked in the night before. When they weren’t out after twelve hours he went in and found them.” He raised his hands, palms up. “Simple as that. You know what I think? I think Stack’s conscience hurt him and he couldn’t live after what he’d done to Terry.”
“Maybe. But who was it decided he couldn’t live? It wasn’t Stack. That’s for sure.” She dropped her voice. “You’re sure it was Stack who killed her and not Maxie, Johnny?”
Liddell nodded. “Positive. Stack and the Duke. My guess is that Terry will rest a lot easier now. A lot easier than a certain columnist I have in mind.”
Muggsy shook her head stubbornly. “You’re wrong about that, Johnny. I don’t care what anybody says, I won’t believe that Lulu Barry is mixed up in a shakedown racket.”
“The items appeared in her column and only in her column. Explain that.”
“Coincidence. After all, out of maybe a hundred thousand items that she handles a year suppose ten or fifteen do play into a blackmailer’s hands. That doesn’t prove a thing. They might be planted by a smart press agent who feeds her a lot of legitimate news along with them.”
Liddell scowled at the list of items on the table in front of him. “Some coincidence! I suppose it’s also a coincidence when Carter Sales tells me the final pressure that made him come through was the item in Lulu’s column?”
Muggsy picked a cigarette from the pack on the table, tapped it. “Johnny, Lulu’s an important person. She wouldn’t stoop to blackmail. She couldn’t.”
Liddell groaned. “Feminine logic. She’s important, therefore she can’t stoop to blackmail. Did it ever occur to you that maybe the only reason she can get away with blackmail is because she is important?” He watched morosely while she lit her cigarette. “And that’s not all she’s stooped to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Another one of your coincidences,” Liddell snorted. “She arranges to get me a gun. I have to pick it up at a place halfway across town. And guess who’s waiting there for me? Maxie and Duke!”
“How do you know they were waiting there for you?”
Liddell smote his forehead with his palm. “How do you explain the fact that they were so conveniently on hand to intercept Terry’s note? You think they just dropped by for a drink?”
“Would that be impossible?”
Liddell groaned, got to his feet, and paced the small living-room. “Muggs, be reasonable. These guys are wanted for questioning in a murder case. You think they’re hanging out in bars?” He walked back to his chair, dropped into it. “They were there to pick up our trail and get us out of Lulu’s hair. Then Terry made it simple for them by setting up the date on the water-front. They kept it instead of her and it’s no thanks to your dear Lulu Barry that we’re not making up a fourth for bridge with Shad Reilly and Duke at the Las Caminas morgue!”
Muggsy shuddered, rubbed her arms. “I can’t believe it.”
“And who do you think tipped the cops off that I was the one who gunned out Duke at Terry’s place?”
“Now who’s being ridiculous? How would she know you were there?”
“Because she’s not an idiot. She heard that we walked away from the stakeout down on the pier. She sent Duke to get the scrapbook they must have made Terry tell about. When he was shot — and with a forty-five — she put two and two together.” He lifted the cigarette from between Muggsy’s lips, took a deep drag, then replaced it. “Lucky thing for me I got the inspiration to get rid of that thing when I did.”
“I still can’t believe it, Johnny. I’m sorry, but I still can’t believe it.”
“Then you still think it’s coincidence that made these items appear in Lulu’s column — and no other column — on the date in Terry’s scrapbook? And it was coincidence that Maxie happened to be at the Hotel Lamont just at the time I was picking up the gun? And it was a further coincidence that a woman should call Homicide and say I did the shooting at Terry’s place last night? You’re slipping, Muggs.”
“Okay, so I’m slipping. This is one wild-eyed Liddell theory that I’m not buying. How do you figure on proving it?”
Liddell considered it, shrugged. “There are two ways. One way is to grab Yale Stanley and persuade him to turn her in — ”
“Persuade?”
Liddell grinned grimly. “You’d be surprised how persuasive I can get with a guy who tried to dot my eyes with a forty-five. I’ll bet that after a few minutes alone with him, he’ll be pouring out his innermost secrets.”
“Okay, so you’re going to try to beat it out of him. I don’t think you can do it. What’s the other way?”
“Take what I’ve got and drop it in Devlin’s lap.”
“Now, that’s pure inspiration. You think Devlin or any other cop would go up against Lulu Barry with what you’ve got? She’d have him picking daisies so far out of town that he’d only get rumors by carrier pigeon.” She reached over, covered his hand with hers. “Can’t you get it through that head of yours that Lulu Barry is important in this town? Why, Devlin wouldn’t arrest her if he caught her standing over a hot body with a smoking gun. That’s crazy, Johnny.”
“Okay, so it’s crazy. But there’s nothing that says I can’t go up against her.” He hit the table with his fist. “Don’t you see that she’s in this up to her neck? For years she’s been bleeding these people white. Now it’s murder. If anything has happened to Richards, she’s as guilty of murder as if she’d pulled the trigger herself. And, baby, pull or no pull, if she’s in on murder I’m going to get her if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
“It probably will be,” Muggsy grunted assent. “And even if you do, you’ll have so many enemies you won’t be able to get a dog license in any state of the Union, let alone a private op’s license.”
Liddell pulled his hand away from hers, stamped to the window, and stared down on the lights below. After a minute, Muggsy slid her arms around him, nestled her cheek against his shoulders.
“Johnny, you know I’m with you. It’s just that I can’t see any sense in your starting something that has to end by destroying you.”
Liddell growled deep down in his chest.
Muggsy caught him by the shoulders, turned him around. “You know I’m right.”
Liddell stared down at her, kissed the tip of her nose. “I think maybe you are, baby. The chances are that if I crack Lulu Barry wide open every paper that carries the Barry column will consider it a personal insult.”
“You’d never get another license, Johnny.”
Liddell nodded. “And you know what? If I didn’t do it, I wouldn’t want a license.”
Muggsy stared at him. “You mean you’re going after her anyhow?”
Liddell grinned crookedly. “You mean I’ve got a choice?”
She studied his face for a moment, found no sign of indecision. “I think you mean that.”
He nodded. “I’m going after her, Muggs. If the price of a license is letting a leech like that operate, then I can’t afford one.”
Muggsy got up on her tiptoes, slid her arms around his neck, pressed her lips against his. “If that’s the way you feel, go get her. I never saw much future in being married to a walking shooting gallery, anyway.” She held him at arm’s length. “A private eye with a conscience, by God! Wait until Dashiell Hammett hears about this!” She kissed him again, mussed his hair. “But how are you going to do it?”
“If she’s as deep in this as I think she is, there’s bound to be some trace of what’s going on in her files.”
Muggsy frowned, slid out of his arms. “You mean you’re going to break into her files?” Concern clouded her eyes. “That’s awfully risky, Johnny. That place is about as easy to get into as Fort Knox.”
“That’s where you come in.” He walked out to the kitchenette, came back with a bottle and two glasses. “You’re pretty close to her. You can keep her out of the way while I’m doing it.”
“How?”
Liddell shrugged. “Any way. Get her up here to bare your maidenly heart. Have dinner with her. Anything to get her out of her office. As long as you’re with her, it’ll be a snap. The minute she leaves, you can phone her office, let it ring thee times, hang up, let it ring three more, hang up. I’ll know she’s on her way back and get out.”
“What about Glennon?”
“She’s got to go home sometime. It’s a cinch she doesn’t work twenty-four hours a day. I’ll just wait until she gets on her broomstick and goes back to her haunted house to sleep.”
Muggsy giggled, watched him pour some cognac into each of the glasses. “Don’t say such things about Glennon. I’ve got a warm spot in my heart for her. She’s about the only female in the case you haven’t gone on the make for.”
“I was getting around to her.” He stopped pouring. “I didn’t hear you say stop.”
“I didn’t. I have a feeling I’m going to need a man-sized drink before the night’s over.”
Liddell capped the bottle. “After it’s all over we’ll do it up right. Right now I think we’d better get moving.” He picked up his glass, waited until she picked up hers, then touched his glass against hers. “Here’s to a license on its way to getting canceled.” He drained the glass, setting it back on the table. “I wonder how I’m going to like driving a truck?”
“You’ll probably love it and have a girl in every truck stop.” She emptied her glass, set it next to his. “You know, we can still keep our skirts clean by telling Devlin everything we know, whether he does anything about it or not, and — ”
“And stop feeling noble? No soap. I’m enjoying it too much.”
“Okay. It was just a suggestion. What’s our first step?”
“Call Lulu. Set up a date for tonight.”
Muggsy nodded, walked over to the phone, dialed a number. After a moment: “Lulu? Muggsy Kiely.”
The receiver chattered amiably, ended on an interrogative note.
“I haven’t heard from Liddell,” Muggsy lied, crossed her fingers.
“He was picked up by the police? Are you sure? What for?”
She listened, nodded.
“I’ll probably be hearing from him then. No, I’m not seeing him. I was wondering if you could have dinner with me tonight and — ”
The receiver became voluble for a moment.
“Oh. Gee, I’m disappointed. Maybe we could make it later. Say around twelve or twelve-thirty after the broadcast?” She shook her head at Liddell, shrugged. “Gee, I hope you can, Lulu. There are some things Johnny told me last night that I want to talk over with you.”
The receiver rattled for a minute. Muggsy grinned, touched her thumb and forefinger to make a circle, and held it up triumphantly.
“Gee, it’d be swell if you could. About twelve-thirty at Romanoff’s? I’ll be there. Thanks a lot, Lulu.” She dropped the receiver on the hook. “She thinks she can meet me at twelve-thirty.”
Liddell nodded. “What’s this about the broadcast?”
“I forgot all about tonight being her broadcast night. She does one about nine to hit New York at twelve and then she does the repeat for the Coast at eleven-thirty. Give you an idea?”
“A glimmering. Where does she broadcast from?”
“The studio.”
“How about Glennon?”
Muggsy shrugged. “Works with her during the broadcast, I guess. In case anything late comes through.”
“That gives me from eleven-thirty through twelve for sure.” He consulted his watch, grimaced. “It’s only seven-thirty. That gives us four hours to kill. Got any suggestions?”
Muggsy lifted her glass, put it to her lips. “Can’t you think of anything interesting to pass the time?” she asked over the rim.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JOHNNY LIDDELL dropped the cab at Ciro’s, three blocks north on Sunset from the frame building where Lulu Barry made her headquarters. He walked into the bar, perched on a bar stool, had a cognac and soda. He took his time drinking it, watching the movie people fresh from the lots arrive in droves for their evening play. Every so often a wide-eyed tourist would walk in self-consciously, fail to control the widening of her eyes as she brushed close to one of her Celluloid idols. Liddell thought of Carter Sales, wondered how many of the movie greats now being ushered to their tables were paying tribute to the same source.
He checked his watch. It was eleven-eighteen, twelve minutes before Lulu Barry went on the air to bring her palpitating audience up to the minute on the doings of the stars — presumably only those stars who were delinquent in their payments. He dropped a dollar in change on the bar, ransomed his hat from a breath-takingly beautiful girl in skintight satin breeches.
The night air was cool after the heat of the day. He took his time walking the three blocks to the house. As he approached it, he took a look at his watch. Eleven twenty-two. At this moment, Lulu Barry would be at her mike, checking over her script for the last time before the On The Air signal flashed, and Glennon was probably at her right hand, ready to pass along any last-minute flashes. That gave him at least forty-five minutes’ grace.
Sunset Boulevard was deserted except for the occasional whizzing by of taxicabs. He stopped, lit a cigarette, looked in both directions. He saw no one who appeared in any way interested in his actions. He walked boldly through the gate and melted into the shadows of the doorway. He stood there motionless for ten seconds, saw nothing to alarm him.
After carefully grinding out his cigarette, he brought out a fine steel rule from his pocket, fitted it to the door. On the second try, he was rewarded by the sound of a sharp click, the knob turned in his hand. He opened the door, slipped in, closed it behind him.
He waited in the dark for a moment until his eyes had adjusted themselves, then tried to reconstruct the appearance of the little waiting-room. He recalled the distribution of the furniture, carefully skirted the library table, heading for the door to the inner office. It pushed open easily in his hand, the room behind it in complete darkness. He closed the door behind him, slipped the .45 from his holster, and waited. Then, sliding his hand along the wall, he found the button, flooded the room with light.
Glennon’s office was as he had remembered it, a small workroom with a cluttered desk, a few filing-cabinets, and a bank of telephones. He walked over to the desk, snapped on a small desk radio, turned it low to the station on which Lulu Barry broadcasted. His watch said eleven twenty-eight and the rhythms of a dance band came from the set.
Carefully, methodically, Liddell sifted through the papers on the top of Glennon’s desk, checked through an advance proof of the next day’s column, found nothing of interest. Next, he tried the filing-cabinets.
The row on row of Manila folders contained a wealth of information on the habits and mores of the denizens of the Hollywood jungles.
There was the sound of three chimes from the radio. Liddell waited. Then an unctuous voice flowed through to announce:
“And now, through the courtesy of Petal, the cream that gives your skin th
e glow of roses, we bring you that chatterbox of Hollywood, the woman who knows everything about the people you dream about — Lulu Barry. Miss Barry’s syndicated column appears in over — ”
Liddell closed his ears to the monotonous patter of the announcer, went back to his examination of the files. He riffled through until he came to a Manila folder marked Carter Sales. He took it out, brought it to the desk. From his pocket he took the penciled notes he had made from Terry Devine’s scrapbook containing the dates of the column items. He checked through the file, failed to find the items filed under Carter Sales. Puzzled, he went back to the files, brought back the file on Walter Arnold. Again, there was no item filed for the date in Terry’s scrapbook.
He was about to return the folders to the file when he saw a lightly penciled note on the back cover of the file. He checked it against the code numbers he had copied from the scrapbook. They checked.
Lulu Barry’s voice sounded louder than it had. Liddell’s attention snapped back to the radio. It was still a low mumble.
Then Lulu Barry said again, in a loud tone, “Don’t move.”
Liddell started, looked up to the door, where the columnist stood covering him with a businesslike looking automatic. He looked from her to the radio and back.
“We always do our rebroadcast from tape,” she explained. The gun in her hand was steady, pointed at Liddell’s head. “And I thought I was going to like you, Liddell. Funny how wrong you can get.”
Liddell nodded. “The same to you.”
She walked over to the desk, flipped closed the files he had been studying. “Carter Sales and Walter Arnold, eh?” She stepped back, kept him covered with the gun. “Seems a shame to have to coop something like you in a cage for five or ten years, but the law is narrow-minded about people who break into other people’s homes. I think they call it robbery.”
“Burglary,” Liddell corrected wryly. “One element of it must be breaking and entering.”
The radio on the desk chattered away breezily. Liddell looked at it from the corner of his eye. “Mind if I shut that thing off?”