Masters of Noir: Volume One

by Ed McBain

  "On what? There's not a judge in the county would hold me on your pipe dream. It's like you said, you haven't got a thing but an idea—a screwy idea. I'll be around if you want to talk to me."

  3.

  Mike Murphy lived in the Livermore Arms, an expensive pile of mortar and plate glass overlooking the East River at Beekman Place. Johnny Liddell parked his car out front, plowed across the deep pile rug in the ornate lobby to the desk. A white-haired man in an oxford grey suit with a wing collar made a half-hearted attempt to wipe the boredom out of his eyes as Liddell approached, but didn't quite make it. His teeth were too shiny and too even to be real and Liddell had a passing suspicion about the color in his cheeks.

  "Can I help you?” His fingers toyed with the triangle of white linen that peeped from his breast pocket.

  "Will you ring Mike Murphy's apartment? Tell him Johnny Liddell must see him immediately."

  "Certainly, sir.” The white-haired man sat down at a small switchboard, plugged in one of the wires. He licked at his lips before he spoke into the mouthpiece, nodded, then pulled the plug from the board. “It's rather late, but he says he'll see you.” He smoothed the hair over his ears with the flat of his hand. “It's the penthouse."

  Liddell nodded, headed for a bank of elevators in the rear of the lobby. He jabbed the button marked Penthouse, chafed at the slow progress the cage made upward. The elevator glided to a smooth stop; the doors slid noiselessly open. Liddell crossed the small hall, pushed the buzzer set at the side of the door three times. There was the stuttering of a latch and the door swung open.

  Mike Murphy stood in the middle of the room, a glass in his hand. He was tall, his broad tapering shoulders seeming to balance precariously on the slimness of his waist and hips. He wore his thick, black hair long on the sides, plastered back against his head. On top it was a mass of curls. His mouth was smeared with lipstick; his eyes were slightly off focus. He waved Liddell in.

  "Come in, come in.” He called over his shoulder. “You can come on out, honey. It's a friend."

  The door to an inner room opened and a long-legged redhead walked out. Her hair had been loosened and fell over her shoulders in a molten cascade. She had on a blue gown that gave ample evidence she wore nothing under it. As she walked, her breasts traced wavering patterns on the shiny silk of the gown. Her eyes were slanted, green. She looked Liddell over, seemed to like what she saw.

  "This is Claire Readon, Liddell. Meet a real live private eye, baby."

  "You should have come earlier. The party was fun.” Her voice was sultry, disturbing.

  Murphy waved toward a small portable bar that showed signs of having had a busy evening. “You'll have to make your own, Liddell. I don't think I could make it across the room."

  Liddell walked over to the bar, found some ice cubes in a scotch cooler, dumped them into a glass. He spilled two fingers of bourbon over them, swirled it around the glass. “When's the last time you saw Lane?"

  Murphy's features were marred with an annoyed frown. “Tonight, when I took the stuff out to her.” He took a deep swallow from his glass. “How's that kid of yours getting along? That blondie can be fun when she—"

  "Tate's dead. So's Lane.” Liddell smelled his glass, took a swallow. It tasted as good as it smelled.

  The other man did a slow double take. He blinked his eyes, shook his head. “Dead? How?"

  Liddell shrugged. “Murder. The stones are missing. Looks like it was a heist."

  "Wait a minute.” Murphy put down the glass, walked across the room and disappeared into what was apparently a bathroom. There was a sound of water running. When he walked out, some of the vagueness in his eyes was gone. “When'd it happen?"

  "Near as I can judge, around one. She called me, and I heard the shot. By the time I got out there, the cops were all over the place.” He drained his glass, set it down. “They figure it for an inside job.” He looked over at the redhead. “How many people were in on the deal, Mike?"

  Murphy shrugged. “Just me and Laury on our end.” He bit at the cuticle on his nail. “Arms, of course. He was buying the stuff."

  "You didn't leak?"

  "Me?” Murphy shook his head emphatically. “Hell, I never even mentioned it to Claire. Did I, kid?"

  The redhead squirmed into a more comfortable position on the couch that caused the gown to dip breathtakingly at the neckline. “I still don't know what you're talking about.” Her words were softly slurred. “What's more, I don't care. I came to this party for fun, not to talk business."

  Murphy ignored her, smoothed some of the wrinkles out of his brow with the tips of his fingers. “This is a hell of a mess. You knew the stuff wasn't insured?” Liddell nodded.

  "The police know about the stones?” Murphy asked.

  "Yeah."

  The big man groaned. “Now it comes. The Feds are going to want to know where the dough came from and why it wasn't declared. What a mess. If she'd only listened to me—"

  "I listened to you, Mike. It didn't do me any good—so far,” the redhead said. “I guess I'm not smart like Laury."

  "You're something better. You're alive,” Murphy said. He turned back to Liddell. “It looks like Arms."

  Liddell freshened his drink, took a sip. “Looks like.” He looked from Murphy to the girl and back. “What time did you get the stuff out to her, Mike?"

  "Ten-thirty. Eleven, maybe. I got back here in time to pick Red up at the stage door after the show. She's in the 1954 Revue." He frowned as the redhead held her glass out to Liddell for a refill. “Maybe you better take it easy, baby. The cops may be around asking questions."

  The redhead grinned saucily. “Don't give it another thought, Mike. I'm over eighteen.” She accepted the refill and started to work on it, her eyes giving Liddell the full treatment over the rim.

  "You got back here, then, maybe at twelve?” Liddell asked.

  Murphy considered, nodded. “Just about."

  "Didn't leave after that?” Murphy's eyes narrowed. “Say what you mean. Are you asking me if I was anywhere near Lane's place when it happened? You think I was in on it?"

  Liddell shook his head. “Look. There were only four or five people who knew Lane had the diamonds tonight. I'm trying to eliminate as I go along. Got any objections?"

  Murphy stared at him sullenly. “I don't like it."

  "Maybe Tate Morrow don't like being dead. But he is. How about it?"

  "I didn't go out all night."

  "Can you prove it?"

  "If I have to."

  "You have to."

  The big man glared at him for a moment, dropped his eyes, shrugged. “There were eight or ten others here with us. Three or four of the other babes in the line at the Revue brought their dates up here. The party just broke about a half an hour ago.” He looked over at the redhead. “That right, Claire?"

  The redhead nodded solemnly. “We've been here ever since show break. Nobody left the place, not even for a paper."

  Liddell drained his glass, set it down. “Okay, that's all I wanted to know.” The phone started to ring. Murphy lumbered across the room to answer it.

  The big man talked for a moment, then held his hand over the mouthpiece. “The cops. They want me to go out to identify Laury.” He took his hand from the mouthpiece, talked for a moment and hung up. He wiped the thin film of perspiration off his upper lip, with the side of his hand. “I'm glad you broke the news to me first.” He glanced at his watch. “Anything else you want from me, Liddell? I've got to get out there."

  Liddell said, “Just one thing. These stones—any way of identifying them?"

  The big man shook his head. “They were all loose. She wanted it that way. Some half-smart chiseler told her they were easier to sell and the Government couldn't trace them.” He picked a cigarette from a container on the coffee table, fitted it to his lips with shaking hands. “That's why Arms was so interested. He was getting a buy at the price he was set to pay and the stuff wasn't even hot."

>   "Did Arms know that you hired the agency to watch over Lane?"

  The pinched look was back in Murphy's eyes. “No. I was afraid to tell him, because I was afraid he'd kick over the deal. He didn't want anybody to know about it. Just Laury and me. And him."

  "Mighty convenient."

  "What do you mean?"

  Liddell grinned humorlessly. “Suppose something happened to Laury and you? Then there'd be nobody to say that Laury ever had $150,000 in unset diamonds, and they wouldn't have cost Arms anything."

  Murphy started, the cigarette fell from his slack lips. “You don't think he meant to have us both killed?"

  "Why not?” Liddell walked over to where the cigarette lay smouldering on the rug, picked it up and crushed it out. “Maybe the killer thought Tate was you and knocked him off without knowing. Maybe right now Arms thinks he's safe, that the only two people who knew about the deal aren't in any condition to do any talking."

  "But when he finds out?” Murphy ran his finger around the inside of his collar as though it had suddenly become tight. He dropped into a chair. “What then?"

  "He'll probably try to correct his mistake,” Liddell said. “But, by then, maybe we'll have him in a spot where he won't be able to."

  "What are you going to do?"

  Liddell picked up his hat, set it on the back of his head. “I'm going out to Arms’ place and have a little talk with him. If I get to him before he finds out you're still alive, I may be able to surprise him into giving himself away."

  "You're going out there alone?"

  Liddell grinned. “Like to come along?"

  The big man shook his head emphatically. “No, thank you."

  From the couch came the sound of a soft snore. Liddell walked over, took the empty glass from between the redhead's fingers, threw a knitted cover over her. The girl stirred slightly, purred softly and curled up into a ball on the couch.

  4.

  Louis Arms operated the Casa Demain, a plush booby trap on the south shore of Long Island. From the outside, it gave no indication of its character, but looked like any large country estate that had been kept up. Shrubs, lawn, trees were all in good condition, only a small brass nameplate affixed to one of the pillars at the gate identifying it as a roadhouse.

  Tonight it looked different than it had on the other occasions he had visited it. Without the flattery of a hidden battery of floodlights, it was just a tired old grey-white frame building, sprawling in the darkness. Tonight there were no cars in the parking lot, there was no high-pitched conversation from tuxedoed marks and their evening-dressed companions. Just a tired old grey white building relaxing with its makeup off.

  Johnny Liddell left his car under a big tree a hundred yards off the entrance to the Casa. He cut across the shrubbery and headed for the rear of the building where Arms had his private office. He rapped at the door, waited. After a moment, the door opened a crack. “Yeah?” a voice asked.

  "I want to see Arms. Tell him it's Johnny Liddell."

  The door opened wider; the man stepped aside. “He's expecting you."

  Liddell walked in, froze as the snout of a gun jabbed into his ribs. He made no attempt to resist as the man at the door relieved him of his .45, expertly fanned him.

  "You know your way to the office,” the man told him.

  Liddell walked to the door at the end of the corridor marked Private, waited while the man with him knocked, then pushed the door open.

  Louis Arms sprawled comfortably in an armchair. He waved to Liddell as he came into the room. The man with Liddell pushed him into the room, closed the door behind him.

  "Hello, Liddell. You made good time.” Louis Arms’ voice was soft, silky with an elusive trace of the Boston Back Bay where he'd gotten his start. He was long and loose-jointed. His sandy hair had receded from his brow to the crown of his head, exposing a freckled pate. He had a ready smile that plowed white furrows in the mahogany of his face. It transformed everything about his expression except his eyes. They were cold, wary.

  "Murphy?” Liddell wanted to know.

  The man in the chair shrugged. “He's really got the wind up. That ice the broad was selling came from under the carpet. He can't account for it."

  "That's his headache,” Liddell growled.

  The ready smile was back on Arm's lips. He shook his head. “It's yours. He's going to tell the cops it was all a pipe dream of yours, this story about me buying a lot of undercover ice."

  Liddell's eyes went bleak. “And you?"

  Arms reached out, snagged a cigarette from a table at his elbow. “I didn't ask you to drag me into it. It's an out and I'm taking it.” He hung the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, touched a match to it. “A cop named Murray called me about an hour ago. I told him the same thing."

  "Thanks, pal."

  "Look at it my way. I got enough grief without shopping for any. This broad makes me an offer, I take it. I wasn't in the market to get mixed up in any murder rap.” He took the cigarette from between his lips, rolled it between his fingers. “Get it, Liddell? I don't want any part of it."

  "What am I supposed to do? Hold the bag? You got the wrong boy, Arms. I lost one of my men in this deal. I don't stand still for that."

  The cold smile was still pasted on the lean man's face. “I heard all about how tough you are, Liddell.” The pat smile faded. “Maybe you haven't heard about me. I'm a guy don't like to be played for a patsy. By you or anybody else."

  "Meaning what?"

  "Meaning that if there were any diamonds in that place tonight, you got them,” Arms told him bluntly. “Only three people knew about that deal outside of you and your stooge. One of them's dead, the other was with a mob all night and never went near the place—and me,” he hit his chest with the side of his hand, “I know about me. That leaves you, shamus."

  "That's what you think, Arms. I told you I wasn't taking this mess lying down. You're right about who knew about it, but you forgot one thing. There's three people I'm sure of—and you're not one of them. The blonde is dead, Murphy's got an iron-clad alibi, and I'm sure about me. In my book, that leaves you.” He jabbed his finger at the man in the chair. “And that's where I'm going to pin it."

  The man who had let him into the room caught Liddell by the arm, swung him around. He was an inch or two shorter than Liddell, but what he lacked in height, he more than made up in breadth. His face was expressionless, dead-pan. “The boss don't like guys to raise their voices at him, Liddell.” His voice was flat. “Don't do it again."

  Liddell looked from the dead-pan face to the gun in the man's fist. “Don't count on the gun too much, Junior. I've seen guys take things like that away from guys and feed it to them."

  The dead-pan was disturbed by an upward twist at the corners of the mouth. “You sure talk a rough evening.” He tossed the gun over to where Arms sat. “Maybe you'd like to live it up?"

  He gave Liddell no chance to sidestep his lunge. Automatically, the private detective fell away from it, saved himself the full force of the assault. The guard's shoulder caught him in the side, slammed him back against the door. He stumbled to his feet, found his arm in a lock. He struggled to free it, had the sensation of flying through the air. He slammed against the wall and slid to a sitting position. He stayed there for a moment, shook his head to clear away the cobwebs. The chunky guard stood over him, feet braced.

  "How do you like the kid's style, shamus?” Arms’ silky voice insinuated itself, seeming far away. “That's judo. Learned it in the Marines."

  Liddell braced his feet, slid upright against the wall.

  The guard licked at his lips, lunged again. This time, Liddell was waiting. He chopped viciously at the side of the man's neck, heard him gasp. As the guard started to sink, Liddell brought his knee up, caught him in the face, straightened him up. Then he put every ounce of strength behind a right overhand.

  The guard's head went back as though it were hinged. Liddell sank his left into his midsection to the cuff, s
tepped back and let the guard fall face forward. He hit the floor with a thud and didn't move.

  "That's barroom brawling.” Liddell wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I learned it in McGowan's Saloon on Third Avenue."

  Arms sat in the chair, the snout of the gun pointed at Liddell's midsection. The private detective ignored the gun, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, lit one. He took a deep breath, exhaled through his nostrils.

  "Louis isn't going to like you,” the man in the chair grunted. “He learned other things in the Marines. They're much more permanent."

  "You're scaring me to death, Arms.” Liddell stepped across the guard's body and walked over to where the night club operator sat. “If you're going to pull that trigger, pull it now. Because I'm walking out of here. And from the minute I do, I'm going to spend every second proving that you killed the Lane broad."

  Arms’ face went white under its tan. The finger on the trigger tightened for a moment, then relaxed. He forced the smile back into place. “Don't worry, Liddell. I'm not messing up my rug.” He dropped the gun into his lap. “There are other days and other places. Be smart and don't get under my feet. Or I might have to stamp you flat."

  Liddell turned his back on him, walked over to where the guard still lay, breathing noisily. He turned him over, pulled his .45 from the man's jacket pocket and hooked it into his holster. He turned, stared at the man in the chair for a moment. “Okay, Arms. It looks like your pot. Murphy will go along because he don't want the Feds snooping. So you've got aces back to back. But take the advice of an old timer. Don't push your luck too hard on just one pair."

  "I've done a little gambling in my time, too, Liddell,” Arms drawled. “I've got a few pet rules of my own. Such as, don't bluff when there's no limit on table stakes."

  5.

  It was almost light when Johnny Liddell got back to the Livermore Arms. He parked his car around the corner and walked to where he could keep an eye on the entrance.

  He was on his third cigarette when a cab skidded to a stop at the curb, and the familiar broad-shouldered bulk of Mike Murphy stepped out onto the sidewalk. While the big man was paying the cabby, Liddell walked over to where he stood.