Masters of Noir: Volume One

by Ed McBain

  "It took you a long time, Mike,” Liddell told him softly.

  The big man started, turned. “You shouldn't sneak up on people like that, Liddell.” His face was a damp grey in the early morning light. “I've had a bad night."

  "Sometimes it gets worse before it gets better."

  "Look,” a hard note crept into the big man's voice. “Don't go giving me a hard time. Drop around in the morning, and—"

  Liddell pulled his right hand out of his jacket pocket far enough for Murphy to see that it held a gun. “Why put off until tomorrow what can be knocked off tonight?” He flipped his butt at the gutter. “I don't like people walking out and leaving me in the middle, Mike. You and I have some talking to do."

  Murphy shrugged resignedly. “Okay, come on up.” He turned his back on the gun, led the way through the lobby toward the penthouse elevator. When the car had started upward, he said, “I guess you've got a right to be sore, but there was nothing else I could do, Liddell."

  "What am I supposed to do? Laugh it off like the little good sport I am and stand still for the rap?"

  "They can't prove you had any thing to do with it. They think it was the kid. This Tate Morrow guy.” Murphy shrugged. “He's dead. It can't hurt him. You start a stink and a lot of people get hurt. Me, Arms, you, all of us.” The car slid to a stop. Murphy led the way to his apartment and opened the door with a key. “Why not let well enough alone?"

  Liddell's smile showed no sign of amusement. “There's a little thing like a reputation to uphold, pal. And another little thing like paying off for your boys. Or wouldn't you understand that?"

  "Cut it out. Do you think it feels good for me to have to go see Laury stretched out on a slab in a morgue?” Murphy scaled his hat at a chair, walked over to the bar, poured himself a stiff drink and tossed it off. “But that's no reason why we should foul everybody else up."

  "What'd you tell the cops out there?"

  Murphy poured some more liquor into his glass. “I denied that I knew anything about any diamonds. I told them that as far as I knew Laury never even heard of Arms.” He drained the glass, set it down. “I told them I didn't know of any connection you had with her."

  Liddell showed his teeth in a grim grin. “But when I show them your retainer—"

  "It was in cash. One guy's C-notes look pretty much like another's.” Murphy dropped into a chair, raked his fingers through his hair. “I know I'm acting like a heel, Liddell, but that's it."

  "Whose idea was this whole thing?"

  The man in the chair looked up, chewed on his lower lips. “Arms. It wasn't the police that called when you were here. It was Arms. I had to call him back.” He fumbled through his pockets, came up with a cigarette. “The cops had gotten to him and he denied the whole thing. He told me what would happen to me if I didn't back him up.” His hand shook as he lit the cigarette.

  "That's how he knew I was on my way out, eh?"

  Murphy nodded. “After you left, I sent Red home in a cab. I got a call from some hick cop named Murray about a half hour after that. I went right out.” He cupped his cigarette in his hand, took a deep drag. “They had her out at the county morgue. I had to identify her."

  Liddell scowled down at him. “You're sure nobody but you and Arms was in on this diamond sale? Nobody else? Servants or anybody?"

  "Nobody. Arms didn't want a leak. He wouldn't even have let me hire you if he'd known.” He got up, paced the room. “Even if he did do it, I can't spill. They'd have me as an accessory to Lane's tax evasion for one thing. I was her manager and made out all her returns. And besides, Arms probably has an iron-clad alibi and he'd wait it out until the heat was off and get me for it.” He stopped pacing, took a last drag on the cigarette, stubbed it out. “I can't spill."

  "Okay,” Liddell growled. “Now at least I know where I stand. But I'm telling you just what I told Arms. I'm going to bust this wide open and I don't care who gets hurt. Someplace along the line, the killer must have made at least one mistake. That's all it takes. Just one."

  6.

  The morgue was in the basement of the new four-story stone courthouse in Carport. Johnny Liddell wheeled his car into the courthouse parking lot, squeezed it between two whitewashed lines that specified, “For Official Use Only.” He crossed the courtyard, pushed through a revolving door, followed a stencilled arrow that pointed To the Medical Examiner's Office.

  The door itself was of frosted glass, bore the legend Medical Examiner's Office with Dr. Harry Mizner in smaller letters under it. Next to it were two huge metal doors on which were lettered simply Morgue.

  Johnny Liddell pushed open the frosted glass door and walked into the medical examiner's office. The dank, damp air of the morgue beyond seemed to permeate the room. A painfully thin middle-aged man with a prominent adam's apple looked up from a pile of forms he was filling out. His hair was rumpled; the stub of a cigarette was clenched between his front teeth.

  "Dr. Mizner?” Liddell asked.

  The thin man shook his head. “I'm his assistant. Can I help you?"

  "My name's Liddell. One of my boys was brought in tonight. His name is Tate Morrow. Gunshot."

  The thin man scowled, nodded. “Just finished working him up. The doc's in talking with the lieutenant now.” He nodded his head toward the morgue. “You can go in if you like."

  Liddell nodded his thanks, headed for the white enamelled door set in the back of the office. As he pushed the door open, a blast of hot, carbolic-laden air enveloped him. At the far end of the room, a small group of men were huddled around one of several white examining tables. Liddell recognized the homicide lieutenant he had encountered in Laury Lane's house earlier in the evening.

  Lieutenant Murray showed no signs of enthusiasm as the private detective walked up. He muttered something in a low voice that caused his companion, a short rotund man with a thatch of untidy white hair, to look up.

  "You Dr. Mizner?” Liddell addressed the short man.

  The medical examiner nodded, studied Liddell curiously. “You were the employer of the dead man?"

  Liddell nodded, looked from the M.E. to the homicide man and back. “I thought maybe you might have something to clear the kid. Some evidence that he died before she did or that he didn't fire the gun? Anything that I can hang my hat on."

  Dr. Mizner nodded. “We've got plenty for you, my boy. He was dead before that bullet ever hit him.” He nodded to the canvas covered bulge on the table. “Death was caused by a depressed fracture at the base of the skull.” He picked up a sheaf of papers, riffled through it. “The woman didn't kill him, either, from the looks of it. We did a dermal nitrate test soon's we brought her in. Negative."

  "Doesn't mean a thing,” Murray growled. “Lots of negative reactions show up even after you do fire a gun."

  The M.E. shook his head. “Not in this case. Some guns with a tight breech don't kick back nitrates, but we did a test on this gun. The test showed positive.” He looked over at Liddell. “I've just finished telling the lieutenant that I won't go along with his theory of the killing."

  Murray growled deep in his chest, glared at Liddell. “Okay, so you prove to me you're right and I'll admit I was wrong. I've checked both Arms and the girl's manager, Murphy. They both claim your story about a big diamond deal is for the birds. Got a better story that'll stand up?"

  Liddell shook his head. “Arms threw the fear of God into Murphy. He got him on the phone right after you checked him. They got together on a story."

  "It's your word against theirs. Can you make it stick?"

  Liddell tugged at his lower lip with thumb and forefinger. “I don't know. The retainer was paid in cash, and Murphy insisted that it be kept just between Tate himself and me. But he did admit the story in front of a witness."

  "Good. Who?"

  "His girl. She was at his place when I got there. She's a redhead from the 1954 Revue. Her name's Claire Readon."

  Murray tugged his notebook from his pocket, copied the name i
nto it. “Know where she lives?"

  Liddell shook his head. “No, but it shouldn't be hard to find out. Joe Gates is the press agent for the show. He knows where all the girls live. Sometimes he has to work up a party at a moment's notice.” Liddell pulled out his wallet, fingered through the cards. “He's at the Edison Hotel. Has a combination office and apartment there.” He consulted his watch. “It's about 5:10 now. We should be able to get him."

  "Not we. I'll get him,” Murray growled. He stamped out of the morgue into the M.E.'s office. After a few minutes he was back, his face long.

  "Get him?” Liddell wanted to know.

  The homicide man nodded. “I got him."

  "He tell you where to reach her?"

  Murray nodded. “Bellevue morgue. She was killed by a hit-and-run driver about three o'clock this morning."

  7.

  The Hotel Lowell was on an old stone building on a side street off Seventh Avenue on 47th Street. Its facade was dirty and neglected-looking. Inside, the lobby was dingy, lightless and dusty. A couple of discouraged-looking rubber plants were placed around it in an attempt at decoration, and half a dozen chairs were scattered in strategic places in a futile attempt to make it look cozy.

  A gaunt, grey-haired old man with a pince-nez on a sleazy black ribbon stood behind the registration desk, looked askance at Johnny Liddell's unshaven chin, deep lines of fatigue.

  "Miss Readon has had an accident. She's not here.” He stopped picking his teeth, sucked at them noisily. “Matter of fact, I hear she's dead."

  "How about a room-mate? Understood she shared a room with another girl in the show.” Liddell consulted a pencilled note on the back of an envelope. “Leona Sabell.” He looked up. “She in?"

  "Who'd you say you were?” the old man demanded.

  "Tell her I'm a detective working on her room-mate's accident.” He interpreted the look of disbelief in the room clerk's eyes. “A private detective. Insurance."

  His disbelief washed out, the old man sat down at a neglected looking keyboard, jabbed in a key, talked into the mouthpiece. He tugged out the key and nodded. “She's in 312.” He lost interest in Liddell, went back to an open copy of the Mirror.

  A blonde opened the door to 312 in response to his knock. She was wearing a hostess gown that clung closely to a figure he considered worth clinging to. Her thick, glossy blonde hair was caught just above the ears with a bright blue ribbon, then allowed to cascade down over her shoulders.

  "You the insurance dick?” She looked him over, stood aside and followed him into the small living room.

  "Cozy place you've got here.” Liddell tossed his hat on an end table.

  "It's a dump and you know it,” the blonde contradicted him. From close up she looked older than she had in the dim light of the hall. The bright table light mercilessly exposed the fine network of lines under her eyes and the losing fight her makeup was waging with the lines at the sides of her mouth. She looked tired. “You didn't come up here to write the place up for House Beautiful. What's on your mind?"

  "Claire."

  The blonde's lower lip trembled slightly. “The poor kid. Did they get the one that did it?"

  Liddell shook his head.

  "What kind of a rat can he be? To hit a kid and let her lay there in the gutter to die like a dog?” she said bitterly.

  "I don't think she was hit there.” Liddell picked up two cigarettes from a cup on the coffee table, lit them, and passed one to the girl. “I've had a good look at the place. My guess is she was driven there and dumped."

  "Why do you say that?"

  Liddell shrugged. “No sign of skid marks, for one thing. For another, when a car plows into somebody, a lot of dirt is dislodged from under the fender. No dirt. In fact, no signs of a hit-and-run."

  The blonde stood with the cigarette halfway to her lips. “What are you trying to tell me?"

  "I think the kid was murdered. Her body was dumped there in an attempt to make it look like a hit-and-run.” He took a deep drag on the cigarette, let the smoke dribble from his nostrils. “She was crossing from north to south on a one way street, yet the fracture is on the left side of her skull."

  "So?"

  "The street runs east. If a car tagged her, it would have thrown the right side of her head against the curb."

  "Unless it was going the wrong way on the one-way street."

  "Unless it was going the wrong way on the one-way street,” he conceded. “But my guess is that there was no car."

  "But why should anyone go to all that trouble to kill a kid like Claire? She didn't have an enemy in the world. Everybody was crazy about her."

  Liddell watched while the girl crossed the room. The tired lines in her face weren't duplicated in her figure. “You were with her last night. Up at Murph's place?"

  The blonde nodded. “Four of the other girls and I."

  "What happened?"

  "Nothing. Murph picked us up at the stage door after the show. We went up to his place. I left the party about two with the rest of the girls. Claire stayed on."

  "She didn't leave the party at all?"

  The blonde shook her head. “Nobody did."

  "You're sure of that?"

  "Positive. It was a pretty good party, but nobody left until it broke.” She took the cigarette from between her lips, studied the carmined end. “Of course, some of the girls and their dates wandered off into other rooms for awhile, but nobody left."

  "Claire wander off?"

  The blonde caught her full lower lip. “No more than anybody else. They were in Murph's study for awhile."

  "Where's that located in relation to the living room?"

  "You're blowing up a dry well, mister.” The blonde shook her head. “The study's at the back of the apartment and they would have had to cross the whole living room to get out. I'll swear on anything you want that neither Claire nor Murph left that apartment for even ten minutes."

  "How long did Claire know Murph?"

  The blonde shrugged. “Six or seven months. She met him at a party over at Lee Stevens’ place. There were a lot of radio people there. Claire thought Murph could help her break into radio."

  "Why?"

  "He was a big wheel in radio until he took over the Lane dame. I guess he'll go back into it. He has a lot of connections. Claire thought he could help her.” She took a last nervous drag at her cigarette, then crushed it out. “The poor kid. She wanted so much—and the way she had to end up.” She shook her head. “I think you're wrong. There's nobody had any reason to hurt that kid. She never did a thing to a soul."

  "Did she ever mention Louis Arms?"

  "The hood that runs that joint out on the south shore?"

  Liddell nodded.

  "Never. I'm sure she didn't know the guy. Why?"

  "I don't know. I have a hunch Arms could be the guy who had her killed."

  The blonde's jaw dropped. “You're crazy. Why would a big shot like Arms knock off a kid that's hardly got the hayseed out of her ears? This was her first year in town."

  "I don't know. Arms doesn't like to leave loose threads hanging around. Maybe Claire was a loose thread.” He reached over, took another cigarette, chain-lit it from the one he held. “She ever mention Laury Lane?"

  "Just that Murph was her manager. I don't think she ever met her. Lane was pretty snooty, you know. Didn't mix with chorus girls.” She ridged her forehead, regarded him through narrowed eyes. “How would she be a loose end?"

  "I don't know. All I know is that Arms is pretty anxious to keep something pretty quiet. One by one the people who knew about it are waking up dead. Maybe he thought Claire knew about it."

  The blonde shook her head. “I never heard her mention the guy's name, and she used to spill the works to me. Like I was her old lady or something.” She continued to shake her head. “I never heard her mention his name."

  Liddell got up, walked over, recovered his hat. “Okay, Lee. That's what I wanted to know. Maybe I'll be seeing you around.
"

  The blonde split her soft lips in a grin. “If you don't, it's your fault.” She pulled herself up from the couch, paid no attention to the expanse of thigh the open gown revealed. “Do you have to go?"

  Liddell nodded. “Yeah. You see, there are only two people left who know what Arms is so anxious to conceal. I'm going to pay a visit to the other one."

  8.

  Mike Murphy had aged ten years in ten hours. His hair was rumpled, there were discolored sacs under his eyes and the dark shadow of a beard glinted on his chin as he opened the door to Liddell.

  "Liddell! I've been trying to reach you. Did you hear about the redhead?"

  Liddell nodded, walked into the apartment, closed the door behind him. “I heard. I'm also convinced it was no hit-and-run."

  The big man headed for the bar, found the bourbon bottle empty, settled for some scotch. He tossed it off. “You think it was murder?"

  Liddell nodded. “A pretty sloppy murder, at that."

  Murphy nodded, paced the room. “Sloppy or neat, the result's the same. The kid's dead.” He stopped, stared at Liddell. “But why? She didn't know a thing. I told you I didn't tell her anything."

  "Maybe she overheard or took part in a telephone conversation that made her dangerous."

  Murphy licked at his lips. “You—you think when Arms called here? How could he know she was here?"

  Liddell walked over to the bar, helped himself to a drink. “I don't mean that call.” He drained his glass, set it down. “The earlier call."

  "I don't follow you, Liddell."

  "I got a call around one or one-thirty. It was a girl. She said she was Lane. Asked me to get out there right away."

  "So?"

  Liddell shrugged. “Lieutenant Murray checked the local operator. Lane never made a call to New York that night.” He poured some more liquor into the glass, swirled it around. “Funny, huh?"

  "A scream. Sounds like you're making out a case against yourself. Then you didn't get a call?"

  "I got the call all right. And it's not me I'm making the case out against."

  "Who then?"

  "You. That call was made from right here."