by Frank Kane
Liddell looked around, saw Eddie Richards for the first time.
The fat man sat slumped in a chair at the far side of the fireplace. His arms hung down at his sides, and his big head drooped on his chest, spilling his chins over his collar. Black, dried blood ran down the side of his face from an open cut over his eye and became matted in the heavy growth of beard on his jowls. His overripe lips had been mashed to a pulp; spilled blood stained his shirt front.
“He was stubborn, too,” Stanley growled.
Liddell looked away from the fat man to the gambler. “He dead?”
Stanley looked over at the unconscious man, spat. “Not yet. But he will be if he doesn’t stop trying to outsmart me.” He looked back at Liddell, scowled. “How deep are you in this frame, shamus?”
“What frame?”
Stanley’s open palm snapped the private detective’s head back again. “Don’t answer my questions with questions, Liddell.”
Maxie shuffled over. “Let me soften him up for you, Yale. He’s still a tough guy. Let me soften him up,” he pleaded. His beady little eyes looked inflamed, his thick lips slobbered. “I got it coming to me.”
“Don’t get overanxious, Maxie,” Liddell spat at him. “Your pal Duke had it coming to him, too, and I saw to it that he got it.”
Maxie started for the private detective, was pushed back by Yale Stanley. “Cut it out, I told you, Maxie,” Stanley ordered. He waited until the goon relaxed, then turned to Liddell. “I heard about the Duke. So it was you, eh? That’s another score we’ve got to settle.”
Liddell stared at him, offered no answer.
“What were you doing in the broad’s apartment?”
When Liddell showed no signs of answering, Stanley slashed his open palm across his face again.
“What were you doing there?”
“Getting the evidence to send your pal in Lulu Barry’s office to jail.”
Stanley’s eyes grew bleak. “Busy little fellow, aren’t you?” His eyes glowered at Liddell from behind triangular-shaped pouches. “Who else knows about it?”
“Lulu Barry. Mendy. Benny Cardell.”
“You’re lying.”
Liddell shrugged. “Okay, so I’m lying. How the hell do you think I knew where you were?”
“Who else was there when you talked to Mendy?”
“A couple of guns from Chicago. Estes and a guy named Ryan.” He grinned crookedly at the worried frown on the gambler’s face. “The Syndicate sent them in to take care of you.”
Stanley turned his back on Liddell, walked over to a table, poured himself a drink, glowered at the private detective over the rim of the glass.
“Don’t listen to him, Yale. He’s lying,” Maxie growled.
Stanley shook his head. “Estes was in town tonight. He called to tip me off that Liddell was on his way out here.” He set the glass down hard, raked his fingers through his hair.
Liddell grunted. “You’re a funny operator. Here they got a call out for you for murder and all you’re worried about is a two-bit gun like Estes.”
“I can beat the murder rap because I didn’t kill the kid. But if my number’s up with the Syndicate, that I can’t beat.” Stanley jammed his fists into his jacket pocket, paced the room. He stopped pacing in front of Liddell, jabbed his finger at him. “You know damn well I didn’t kill that kid. It’s a frame and I’m not standing still for it.”
Liddell fumbled through his pockets, came up with a cigarette. “If you didn’t, who did?”
“That rat.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the unconscious Richards. “He had that babe of his in the office call me and tell me to get out to the old country club. When I get there, the kid was dead. He was hiding in an inside room; you were calling the cops. All set to put the finger on me.”
Liddell wiped his mouth with the side of his hand, stuck the cigarette between his lips. “Where were you when the cops got there?”
“Not too far away.” Stanley twisted his lips in what passed for a smile. “Far enough.”
Liddell lit his cigarette, filled his lungs with smoke, let it dribble out slowly, soothingly. “What’d you run away for, Yale?”
“You think I’m crazy? I know a setup when I see one. That fat slob wants the kid out of the way, knocks him off, and has me there as a ready-made fall guy when the cops arrive. Only it didn’t work out that way.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to work him over until he’s ready to go to the cops and admit it was a frame-up.”
Liddell touched the sore spot behind his ear, winced. “I don’t know anything about any frame-up. All I know is I was hired to find the kid and when I did find him he was dead. I went to call the cops and Richards was gone when I got back.”
The gambler stuck his face down near Liddell’s, bared his teeth. He slammed the cigarette from between the private detective’s lips with a sweep of his hand. “You’re a liar. You were in it with him. You were all set to finger me for the cops.” The soft voice had risen to an angry shout. “Weren’t you?”
Liddell was aware that Maxie had shuffled into position at his side, stood licking his thick lips expectantly. “You’re wrong, Yale. I wasn’t in on any frame. I don’t think they could make it stick.”
Some of the wildness drained out of the gambler’s face. “Why not?”
Liddell shrugged. “You didn’t have any reason. The kid owed you fifty grand — at least you had his paper for that much. Killing him would only mean you were out that dough. You wouldn’t kill him.”
The gambler stared at him, rubbed the back of his hand over the bristles on his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, that’s right. Anybody could see that. I’d be out that fifty gees by killing him. Why would I want to go and do a thing like that?”
“But we’ve got to give them a killer in your place, Yale,” Liddell told him. “One they can pin it on.”
Stanley whirled to Richards. He walked over to the fat man, kicked him in the ankle. “Here’s your killer. He didn’t want the kid to pay me the dough he owed me. He killed him to get all the dough.” Richards groaned, stirred. His discolored eyelids flickered, the cruelly smashed lips twitched. Stanley kicked him again, the fat man’s eyes rolled in their sockets. He stared at the gambler blankly. “Wake up, you fat slob and talk, or I’ll fix it so’s you’ll never talk again,” Stanley growled.
The fat man rolled his head weakly. “I didn’t set you up, Yale. I never did it.”
Stanley slashed out with the flat of his hand, knocked the fat man’s head to the side. “You killed him, didn’t you? You killed the kid?”
Richards shook his head, the chins wabbling crazily. “Why would I kill him?” His beady little eyes filled with tears. “He was my kid. I brought him up. Why would I kill him?”
Liddell pulled himself painfully from his chair and staggered over. “Richards, it’s Liddell. Can you hear me? Liddell.”
The black marbles rolled behind their discolored pouches, focused blearily on Liddell. “Tell him, Liddell. I didn’t kill the kid. Tell him.”
“You could have, Richards. You could have killed him before you picked me up. You could have framed Stanley by calling him to go out there.”
Bubbles formed in the corners of the smashed lips. “Why? Why should I kill him? I did everything for that kid. Everything I’d do for my own kid.” He rolled his head helplessly, blubbered. “I didn’t kill him.”
“You were afraid you’d have to get up the fifty thousand he owed me, Richards. You couldn’t bear to see him pay off. You-”
“I don’t have fifty thousand, Stanley. I’m broke. Dead broke.”
Liddell caught him by the shoulder, shook it. “That’s why you did it, isn’t it, Richards? You used up the kid’s dough. You were afraid of what would happen when — ”
“The kid had no dough. Not a dime,” the fat man blubbered.
“What happened to it?”
Rich
ards shook his head. “There never was any. Wally Reilly died broke. I carried the kid out of my own pocket.”
“You’re lying,” Stanley screamed. “Why would you do that?”
“Wally was my friend. He didn’t leave a dime. Not a dime.” His eyes rolled upward. “I didn’t want the kid to know his old man was a failure. I didn’t want anyone to know. I gave the kid everything to make it look like Wally had taken care of his own kid.” The fat man took a gasping breath, shuddered. “Wally was my friend, and — ” The big head dropped, rolled helplessly, the chins spilling out on his chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
YALE STANLEY PACED THE ROOM like a caged animal. Every few steps he would stop, lift the fat man’s eyelids, and listen to his heavy breathing.
Liddell sat in a chair across the room, smoking silently. “We’d better get him to a doctor, Yale. He’s in bad shape.”
The gambler whirled on him. “He’s not going to die, I tell you. He’s going to tell them he killed that kid.” He pulled out the .45 that was stuck in his waistband. Its muzzle looked big and black and empty as it stared at Liddell’s belly. “And you’re going to back it up.”
Liddell shook his head. “It won’t wash. He must be telling the truth when he says the kid had no money.” He looked over at the unconscious man. “If the kid had no money, Richards had no reason to kill him.”
The hard note crept back into Stanley’s voice. “So it’s me again, eh, Liddell? You were conning me along.” His finger grew white on the trigger. “Get this, shamus. If I’m going to sit in the gas chamber it’ll be for a killing I did. And you’re as good a one to start on as any.”
Liddell could feel the perspiration beading his lip. “You couldn’t know the kid had no money. Richards said so himself.”
The finger relaxed on the trigger. “Keep talking.”
Liddell shrugged. “You’re still in the clear. If you didn’t know the kid had no dough, you wouldn’t kill him, knowing the fifty grand was lost the minute he died.”
Stanley considered it, nodded. “That figures.” He narrowed his eyes, glared at Liddell. “If it wasn’t me and it wasn’t Richards, who did the killing?”
Liddell risked the movement necessary to wipe his lips. “How about Maxie?”
There was a deep animal growl from behind Liddell. Yale Stanley swung the .45, covering the muscle man. “Don’t get excited, Maxie. We’re just talking.” Without moving his eyes from the ex-pug’s face, “What about Maxie, Liddell?”
Liddell shrugged. “He beat the kid up a couple of days before he was killed.”
“On orders,” Maxie bellowed. “On Stanley’s orders.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I gave you orders to give the kid a going over. But killing him was your own idea, wasn’t it, Maxie?”
Maxie growled ominously. His beefy hands hung awkwardly at his sides. He stared at Yale Stanley through piglike eyes that had receded behind two puffy mounds. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, looked from Stanley to Johnny Liddell and back.
“So that’s it, eh?” He breathed noisily through his broken nose. “I take the rap, eh? You got me wrong, Yale. I don’t take no falls for nobody.” He started to shuffle toward the gambler. “Nobody, pal.”
Stanley’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Don’t push me, Maxie. I told you we’re just talking.”
“Framing, you mean.” The big man threw himself forward with surprising speed. One of his hamlike hands deflected the .45. The roar of the gun was like thunder in the confines of the room.
Before Stanley could pull the trigger again, Maxie’s beeflike fist caught him flush in the mouth. His lips popped, spilling red down the front of his shirt. He staggered back, brought the gun up to firing position.
Maxie was on him before he had time to squeeze the trigger, swatted the gun out of his hand. It skidded across the floor, hit the wall. Liddell staggered across the room and picked it up.
Yale Stanley, trying to get away from the battering Maxie was giving him, stopped one on the side of his head that sent him wobbling drunkenly. Maxie kept boring in, slammed the gambler against the wall. He propped him up with his left, preparing to smash his right into the smaller man’s face.
“You’ve had enough fun for one day, Maxie,” Liddell grunted. “Let him go.”
Maxie turned on him with a growl, blinked at the gun in his hand. “I’m not Yale Stanley, Maxie,” Liddell told him. “When I squeeze it, somebody goes down. For good.”
Maxie hunched his shoulders, his piglike eyes glaring at Liddell. “You’re in it with him. Trying to set me up for a murder rap.” His eyes hopscotched from the muzzle of the .45 to Liddell and back. “Nobody sets me up for that.” He started to shuffle toward the private detective.
“Maybe you didn’t kill the kid,” Liddell conceded. “But you’ll have a tough time proving it if you’re wearing a forty-five slug for a belt buckle.” He watched the big man inch carefully toward him. “You’ll never make it, Maxie. And don’t think I won’t shoot. Ask Duke.”
Maxie stopped, blinked at him with bloodshot, angry little eyes. “You’re trying to frame me,” he repeated dully. “I never killed the kid.”
“Okay, okay. I take your word for it,” Liddell assured him. “Behave yourself and maybe you can convince Inspector Devlin.” He nodded toward a chair. “Sit down and relax.”
Indecision ridged the ex-pug’s forehead.
Liddell indicated Richards and Yale Stanley with a toss of his head. “These two aren’t going to give me any trouble. You decide for yourself whether you’re going to be on your feet or like them when the cops get here.”
The piglike eyes looked down at the unwavering muzzle of the .45. “You brought the cops?”
Liddell nodded. “They were tipped off a half hour after I left. Even if you did get to me and walk away from it, you’d never get out that door.”
Maxie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shuffled to the chair, sank into it. “You talked me into it, peeper.”
Johnny Liddell parked the convertible outside headquarters, ran up the steps. He asked the sleepy sergeant on the desk for Inspector Devlin. The sergeant yawned noisily, stared up at the clock. “Have a heart, Mac. The inspector’s been going night and day. He’s grabbing a little shut eye in his office.” He scratched at his head, grunted. “Be a good guy and come back in a couple of hours.”
“Suit yourself. I just wanted to tell him I’ve got a couple of guys in the tank on the other side of town that he’s been dying to meet. But if you prefer to have him read it in the paper — ”
Some of the sleepiness was gone from the sergeant’s eyes, replaced by watchfulness. “What guys?”
“Yale Stanley for one.”
“You talked me into it.” He nodded. He plugged in the intercom, spoke into it, pulled the plug. “Go on up.”
Devlin was sitting on the side of the old leather couch in his office, running stubby fingers through his hair. He was yawning when Liddell walked in.
“What’s this about Yale Stanley?” he demanded before Liddell had got the door closed.
“On ice over in Beverly Hills.” Liddell nodded. “I’ve got Maxie Seymour and Richards, too.”
“Richards alive?”
Liddell shrugged. “Just about. He’s in the prison hospital. They gave him a hard time.”
Devlin got to his feet. He punched the button on the base of his phone and shouted orders into it. He dropped the receiver on its hook, walked over to the sink in the corner, slapped water on his face.
Liddell dropped wearily into the chair on the far side of the desk, watched the inspector dry his face with a towel, hang it back on the hook behind the sink. He was running a comb through his hair when the desk phone rang. He walked over, snagged it.
“Devlin. Las Caminas Homicide. Hear you got a couple of goons I been looking for.” He listened to the chatter of the receiver, his face cleared. “Good. I’ll send a couple of boys over for them. Take good ca
re of them for me. Thanks.” He hung up the phone, nodded to Liddell. “Nice work, Johnny.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“Toss them into the tank and give them the damnedest grilling you ever saw.” He dropped into the swivel chair behind the desk, selected a cigar from the humidor. “We’ll get enough out of them to wash this thing up.”
There was a knock on the door, a uniformed officer came in, dropped a typewritten flimsy on Inspector Devlin’s desk. He read through it, grunted, nodded to the officer, who withdrew.
“What do you know about a dame named Glennon, Johnny?” he asked.
Liddell suddenly found his fingernails fascinating. “What should I know about her?”
“She’s dead.”
Liddell started, looked up. “How?”
Devlin bit the end off his cigar, spat it at the waste basket.
“Gas pipe. Report just came in.” He waved at the flimsy.
Liddell cursed under his breath. “Where?”
Devlin reached over, consulted the flimsy. “She had a beach house down in Laguna. No details yet. Just a flash from the car that found her.” He flipped the report in the out-basket. “Nice and simple. Just turned on the gas and went out.”
“Too nice and simple maybe.”
“Meaning?”
Liddell shrugged. “Sure it was suicide?”
Devlin stuck his cigar between his teeth, chewed on the end for a moment. “Pretty sure. There was a pickup order out for her on grand larceny. Did you know that?”
Liddell nodded. “Lulu Barry.”
“So you know. Well, Glennon probably figured the jig was up.” He scratched a match, applied it to the end of the cigar, drew in a mouthful of smoke. “You got some ideas?”
Liddell tugged at his nose, shrugged. “It’s probably screwy, but it sure is a good break for Lulu that Glennon did the Dutch.”
Devlin watched the gray-white smoke spiral ceilingward. “Why?”
“Puts the lid on a juicy scandal for one thing. Glennon was supposed to be working a shake racket with Yale Stanley. They used Lulu’s column to put the squeeze on the suckers.”