Masters of Noir: Volume One

by Ed McBain

  Harper came to his feet again. The yellow-haired one turned lithely, stepped up to him and shook his head sadly. Then he set himself with both feet planted flat and wide apart and struck with his right fist so hard Harper flipped and struck the ground like a plank.

  "Now, tie him to a tree, like I said."

  Two of them took Harper over to the nearest pine, dragging him along the ground. One ran to the chrome and yellow car and returned with a length of rope. They lifted him to a sitting position and tied him to the tree. He stared groggily, moving his lips—watching his wife, Julia.

  "Please, little girl,” the one with Linda said. “Tell me the absolute truth now. Don't you fib to me. Are you going to grow them,” he made a gesture with both hands near his chest, “like your mama?"

  The other four stood in a circle around Julia.

  "Dell!” Julia called. “Dell—do something."

  They laughed. “He's faking,” one of them said.

  "You've got to stop this,” she said, breathing rapidly. She wasn't crying, but she was close to tears. She stamped her foot. “Go away!” she shouted. “Leave us alone!"

  "Oh, crazy!” one of them yelled. “She jiggles!"

  "Go ahead and scream your head off,” the yellow-haired one said. “Nobody can hear you, darling. The falls makes too much noise. We know, don't we guys?"

  "We know ev—ry—thing,” they chorused.

  "'Cause we come to this spot a lot,” the yellow-haired one said.

  "What do you want?” Julia said.

  "Strip, baby,” the yellow-haired one said. “Just strip, that's all."

  "What? Dell—Dell!"

  "Run, Julia!” Harper shouted. “For God's sake, run!"

  "Strip,” the yellow-haired one said. “Let's see the goodies."

  "Are—are you crazy?” Julia said in a whisper. She started backing away from them. They were in a circle around her. One of them knocked his knee against her leg.

  "Take your clothes off,” the yellow-haired one said. “Or we'll do it for you. Whichever way you like, honey. We're going to have a picnic, too—'cause we got your message."

  "What do you mean?” Julia said.

  The yellow-haired one stepped up to her, grabbed the front of her jersey and yanked down on it, ripping it. Then he moved back again.

  "Whichever way you want,” he said.

  Julia Harper stared at them.

  "We like to watch,” one said.

  "Run,” her husband said. “Run, Julia—run."

  "Well?” the yellow-haired youth said.

  Julia Harper looked at them, then slowly lifted her arms and pulled off the jersey. Then she went on just as the yellow-haired youth told her. There was silence now, with only the sound of the waterfall.

  Occasionally, Harper heard her cry out. The last of them was over there behind those bushes with her now. Harper had shouted himself hoarse. He still tried to shout off and on. He stared, his eyes sick and gone. He was defeated.

  The bushes were not high. Now and again he could see one of their heads come up above the bushes, grimacing. Twice he saw Julia's feet. There was very little noise now. Finally, the fellows came out from behind the bushes, looked at Harper, then walked over to the car. The yellow-haired one, who had been playing with Linda, turned and walked over to Harper. The rest of them came along.

  They did not speak. They just looked at him.

  "I'll get you,” Harper said. “Don't ever forget that. I'll get you—I'll get you ... “

  They formed a straight line in front of Harper and looked down at him soberly and shook their heads in unison. They stood there shaking their heads for a few seconds. Then abruptly, they turned and ran for the yellow and chrome hot-rod, climbed in, and drove off.

  Linda came and stood in front of her father and shook her head.

  Harper screamed at her. “Stop—stop it!"

  She giggled and began running in circles.

  "Julia?” he called. “Julia—are you all right?"

  He looked up and she had just stepped out from behind the bushes. She had her shorts on and the torn yellow jersey. She moved slowly and she looked pale and sheened with sweat, and as if she might have been crying. Her hair was damp and snarled, and brown pine needles clung in its dark richness. Lipstick was smeared all around her mouth.

  "I couldn't do anything,” Harper said. “Don't look at me like that. There was nothing I could do. What could I do against all of them? Untie me—quick."

  She untied him, and he saw the blazing anger and disgust in her eyes. She walked to the car and got in and sat there. Harper gathered the blankets, the picnic basket and put them in the car. He avoided the gallon thermos. He put Linda in the back seat, then quickly slid behind the wheel.

  "We'll call the cops,” he said. “Soon as we get to town. First phone we see. We'll stop and phone the cops."

  Julia began sobbing, staring straight ahead.

  He reached toward her, touched her shoulder. “You all right, we'll stop at a hospital—right away."

  She spun away from him, turned and looked at him. Then she flipped the sun-visor down and looked at herself in the mirror. She found her white-beaded purse. Her hands were trembling. She took out her lipstick and as she began to outline her mouth in deep red, apparently oblivious to the way it was smeared, sobs broke convulsively from her.

  "I couldn't do anything,” Harper was saying. “They knocked the hell out of me, Julia. I couldn't do any—"

  "No! No! Of course not!” She threw her purse to one side, tears of anger and frustration streaming down her face. “They—they would've—beat you—"

  "You saw how it was."

  "Oh, yes. Sure.” She was sobbing without restraint now. “I'm glad you didn't—do anything."

  "What?” he said, thoroughly puzzled.

  Julia straight-armed the sun visor back into place. “I said, I'm glad you didn't do anything, Dell. Because I liked it, Dell. I liked every minute of it. Every God damned minute of it!"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  FRAME by FRANK KANE

  The phone on the night table started to ring shrilly, discordantly. Johnny Liddell groaned, cursed softly, dug his head into the pillow, but the noise refused to go away. He opened one eye experimentally, peered at the half lowered shade and noted that it was still dark.

  He tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes, but it wouldn't wipe away. The phone kept ringing. Finally, he reached out and lifted the receiver off its hook.

  "Yeah?” he growled sleepily.

  "This is Laury Lane. Come out here right away. That man of yours is going crazy and—” The voice was drowned out by the flat, ugly bark of a shot. The line went dead.

  Liddell was suddenly wide awake. And ice cold. He started to jiggle the cross bar on the phone. “Hello. Hello.” The only answer was the soft click of a phone being hung up at the other end.

  Liddell continued to jiggle the cross bar. The metallic voice of the operator cut in: “What number are you calling?"

  "I'm not calling a number. Somebody was calling me. We've been cut off. Can you get them back?"

  "I must have the number."

  Liddell growled deep in his chest. “Never mind, thanks. They'll probably call back.” He tossed the receiver back on its hook, started stuffing his legs into his trousers. He headed for the bathroom, completed the waking-up process by splashing ice cold water into his face, then finished dressing. He shrugged into a shoulder harness, clipped his .45 into place, covering it with a jacket. He was headed for his garage less than ten minutes after the phone had started to ring.

  2.

  Laury Lane lived in a small colony of two-acre plot estates just outside of Sands Point on Long Island's North Shore. Johnny Liddell headed out Northern Boulevard, making the forty-minute ride in something short of a half hour.

  The house itself was set back from the highway and shielded from the road by a row of evergreens. Liddell swung through the stone pillars that supported a rarely
-closed iron gate, followed the short winding driveway to the house. There were two other cars parked in front of the garage, on the concrete apron. Liddell left his in front of the house, walked up the two steps to the door.

  There were no lights in the hall, but he could see a triangle of yellow light toward the back of the house were it spilled from an open door. He debated the advisibility of walking around back, decided to knock.

  Almost immediately the door opened and he could make out the bulky figure of a man silhouetted in the opening.

  "I'm Johnny Liddell. I want to see Miss Lane."

  The door opened wider. “Come on in.” The man stepped aside, waited until Liddell had entered, fell in behind him. “Straight ahead to the study."

  Liddell followed the darkened hallway to the open door. He stopped at the entrance to the room and looked around. Two men looked at him incuriously. One of them, a tall man in a rumpled blue suit and a battered fedora, grunted, “Who's this, Allen?"

  "Name's Liddell. Says he wants to see Miss Lane."

  "Be my guest,” the man in the rumpled suit grunted. He walked over to where a blanket was draped over a suggestively shaped bulge, pulled it back.

  Laury Lane lay on her back, her arm crooked languidly over her head. Her thick blonde hair was a tangle on the thick pile of the rug. Her green eyes were half closed. Her lips, full and inviting, seemed set in a half smile. A hole midway between her full breasts had spilled an ugly red stain on the white silk of her evening gown.

  The man in the blue suit watched the scowl ridge Liddell's forehead. He dropped the blanket back over the girl's face. “You say you're Liddell?"

  The private detective nodded, dug into his pocket, brought out a pack of cigarettes and held it up for approval. When the lieutenant nodded, he stuck one in the corner of his mouth where it waggled. “I'm Liddell. Who're you?"

  The man in the blue suit pinched at his nostrils with thumb and forefinger. “Murray. Lieutenant in homicide out here. Mind telling me what brings you out this way at this hour?"

  "Lane was a client. She wanted to see me."

  Murray pursed his lips, considered it. He tugged a dog-eared memo book from his hip pocket, jotted down some notes. “So you just drop by at—” He pushed up his sleeve, consulted his wrist watch— “at two o'clock in the morning?” His eyes rolled up from the notebook to Liddell's face. “Keep kind of late office hours, don't you?"

  "Something had happened. She called me to get right out here. Something she wanted to talk to me about."

  The homicide man wet the point of his pencil on the tip of his tongue. “What was it that couldn't wait?"

  Liddell shrugged. “She didn't say."

  "Maybe we can tell you,” Murray grunted. He led the way to the french doors that opened onto the back patio. “Put some light out here, Al,” he snapped at one of the other men.

  Liddell followed him, stared down at the body of a man, sprawled face down on the patio. He knelt beside the body, lifted the hat off its face, swore under his breath.

  "Know him?” Murray wanted to know.

  Liddell nodded grimly. “One of my boys. Name's Tate Morrow."

  "Have you any idea what he was doing out here, or is it customary with your organization to make late calls on clients?"

  "Tate was assigned to Lane. He was bodyguarding her.” He straightened up, brushed the folds out of his knees. “Any idea of what happened?"

  Murray grinned humorlessly. “We thought you might have some idea. Busting out here this way."

  Liddell shook his head. “No ideas.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette, wrinkled his nose in distaste, dropped the cigarette to the patio floor, ground it out. “Could be that Tate heard the shot that got the blonde, came running, and—"

  The homicide man snorted. “Why don't you start levelling? You can see he was headed away from her, not toward her.” He jabbed his hand into his jacket pocket, brought up a small gun, wrapped in a handkerchief. “This was lying right next to her hand. It's got one bullet fired.” His eyes were bleak, unfriendly. “My guess is that the one in his back will match it."

  "That's crazy and you know it. Why should Lane shoot the guy who was protecting her? And if she did, who shot her?"

  "He did,” Murray snapped. “Show him, Al."

  The other detective walked over, spilled the contents of an envelope into the palm of his hand, held them toward Liddell. “Diamonds. We found them right near his hand, where he dropped them when he fell.” Murray turned his back, walked into the den. “That's the way we see it,” he said flatly.

  "That's the way you're supposed to see it. It's a set-up, can't you see?” Liddell argued. “You think that babe could get a gun, aim it and bring him down with one shot when she's wearing a .45 slug for a lavaliere?” He caught the homicide man by the arm, swung him around. “That babe was deader than Kelsey the minute that slug tagged her. And my guess is that Tate was dead before that."

  Murray caught the private detective's hand, lifted it from his arm. “Why should anybody go to all that trouble?"

  "The diamonds,” Liddell snapped.

  "And then leave without them?” Murray shook his head. “You're not making sense."

  "You're making less. You don't think that handful of little stones is what Tate was guarding, do you? Lane had over $150,000 worth of unset stones. Where are they?"

  The homicide lieutenant looked thoughtful, plucked at his lower lip. “That's the first I hear of this. Fill me in."

  Liddell found another cigarette, lit it. “Lane was getting ready to retire. Did you know that?"

  Murray shook his head, nodded for one of his men to answer a ring at the front door. “I don't know much about the theatrical crowd. All I know I read in the columns. I thought she was a big star?"

  Liddell shrugged. “She's had her day. But she's been fading fast for the past couple of years. This year she decided to go back home. She was British, you know."

  "Excuse me.” Murray went over to the door to shake hands with a small man carrying a brown instrument case. They carried on a whispered conversation for a few minutes; then the newcomer went over and pulled the blanket back from the dead woman. Murray walked over to where Liddell was standing.

  "The medical examiner,” he explained. “So she was going back to Britain. So?"

  "She was turning everything she had into cash.” Liddell took the cigarette from between his lips, scowled at the glowing end. “For years she's been collecting diamonds. They're easier to hide, and the Treasury boys can't put them onto an adding machine like they can the contents of a safe deposit box.” He took a last drag on the cigarette, stubbed it out in an ash tray. “She hired us to keep an eye on her until she turned the stones into cash."

  Two men from the M.E.'s office brought in a stretcher. Liddell broke off and watched glumly as they transferred the blonde to the stretcher, strapped her on.

  "Whoever killed her knew about the stones. So he tried to make it look as though Tate did the job."

  "Could be,” Murray agreed.

  "You've got other ideas?” Liddell wanted to know.

  The homicide man shrugged. “Just ideas, so far. No proof.” He reached over, picked a thread off Liddell's jacket and let it float to the ground. “Suppose your boy here did stop one, but his confederate managed to get away with the bulk of it?” He looked Liddell in the eye. “Who knew about the diamonds?"

  Liddell scowled. Hard lines joined his nostrils with the end of his mouth, hard lumps formed on his jaw as he clenched his teeth. “Mike Murphy, Lane's personal manager, for one. It was his idea to hire the agency because the stuff wasn't insured."

  "Who else?"

  Liddell studied the homicide man's face carefully. “Louis Arms. He was supposed to be the buyer."

  "Arms, eh?” Murray raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips. “Anybody else?"

  Liddell shrugged angrily. “Not that I know of. Not unless they spread it around."

  "Think they were likely to?�
�� Murray sneered.

  "No."

  The homicide man nodded. “Then that leaves just you and your boy, Liddell.” He jabbed his pencil at the private detective. “But you can undoubtedly tell us where you were all evening?"

  "In bed."

  "Witnesses?"

  "This happened to be my off night. I was in bed alone."

  Murray squinted, plucked at his lower lip. “But you got a phone call from the Lane girl and she told you to get right out here?"

  Liddell nodded. “That's right."

  The homicide man walked over to the desk in the corner of the room, lifted the telephone from its cradle. “We don't have dials out here yet, you know. Pretty small time stuff to a big operator like you, I guess.” He turned his attention to the phone. “Millie? Ed Murray from Homicide. Say, about an hour ago, do you remember a call Laury Lane made to New York? Number was—” He raised his eyebrows at Liddell.

  "Homeyer 5-7236,” Liddell grunted.

  "Number was Homeyer 5-7236.” He waited a moment, then pursed his lips, looked at Liddell from under lowered lids. “You're sure of that?” He nodded, dropped the receiver on its hook. “There haven't been any calls from this number to a New York number tonight."

  "Maybe I got the message by ouija board,” Liddell growled.

  "Maybe you didn't get the message."

  "Let me get this straight, Murray. You're trying to say that I didn't get a call from Lane, that I came out here to meet Tate and cut up the dame's diamonds. Then what happened to them?"

  Murray grinned bleakly. “Maybe this isn't the first time you came out tonight. Maybe you got here right after the shooting, picked up as much of the loot as you could find in the dark, hit back to town, stashed it and then came back to put on this injured innocence act."

  "That's how it is, eh?"

  Murray nodded. “That's how it is. What are you going to do about it?"

  "You mean I've got a choice? I'm going to find the real killer and hand him to you on a silver platter. You don't have to worry, though, I'll label him for you so you'll know him when you fall over him."

  "And if I decide to take you in and book you?"