Poisons Unknown

by Frank Kane

  “What do you mean? Who would it be?”

  “Some of your own boys, maybe. Could even be some of your organization who don’t like the way things are going—Camden and the temple getting knocked over, things getting out of hand.”

  Marty watched the private detective apply a match to his cigarette, exhale twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. “That’s crazy. They know better than that.”

  Liddell shrugged. “Then maybe the letter is on the level. Maybe Frederici is putting his whole pile on the line for a winner-take-all roll.” He took the cigarette from between his lips, rolled it between thumb and forefinger. “This is just conversation. You said yourself I’m not here to crack this thing in five minutes. I’m just up here to keep you company.”

  Marty nodded jerkily. “Yeah, that’s right.” He stole another quick look at the watch on his wrist. “Two minutes to go,” he said. “How about a drink, Liddell? I got some of that private stock you like.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Kirk walked over to his desk and jabbed at the button. The door swung open. Hook’s dark head appeared in the opening.

  “Bring in a bottle of my private stock, Hook,” Kirk told him.

  After the door swung shut, Marty drummed on the edge of the desk with thick fingers, stared at the closed door thoughtfully. “You were just making with the talk when you said it might be some of my boys, weren’t you, Liddell?”

  “Not entirely. It’s a possibility. I don’t see how anybody else could hope to get at you.” He looked around. “How many ways to get in here?”

  “Just that door. The way you came.” Kirk walked over, sat on the edge of an upholstered chair facing Liddell. “They’d need a tank to get through there. First they’ve got to go through the lobby, get past Tim and half a dozen of my boys I got planted around. Then they got to get past Hook, who’s planted out front of the door here.” Perspiration glistened on his forehead. “Unless Hook’s in on it.”

  “It’s been known to happen.” Liddell checked his watch, slid his .45 from its holster, rested it between his thigh and the arm of his chair. “He’d be the ideal guy to handle the contract.”

  “Why should he? The Hook’s been with me since I ran the old Variety Club over in the Quarter. That’s twenty years ago. Why should he want to see me hit?”

  “Who knows? You saw the way he looked at the babe. Maybe he figures he’ll rate if you’re not in the way. Maybe he figures—”

  Marty’s jaw sagged. He jumped up, paced the room. “You’re nuts.” He stopped in front of Liddell’s chair. “He wouldn’t pull anything like that. Just for a dame!”

  “Not only for the dame, Marty. No guy likes to stay Number Two boy all his life. You were Number Two boy in this town once. Seems to me your boss met with a bad accident. His tough luck was your good luck.”

  Kirk’s face clouded ominously. Some of the old menace gleamed through the slitted eyelids. “He got soft. He didn’t rate—” He broke off as the door opened and the bodyguard entered with a bottle, two glasses, and some ice. Kirk’s eyes followed the small man as he crossed the room, set down the tray. “Pour it, Hook.”

  The guard dropped two pieces of ice into each glass, drenched them down with whisky from an unlabeled bottle.

  “Ever try that private stock of mine, Hook?” Kirk asked silkily.

  The thin man looked startled, rolled his eyes upward without raising his head. “You give us all orders to keep our hands off. Regular whisky’s good enough for me.” He picked up the glasses, held one out to Liddell, the other to Kirk. His eyes didn’t change expression as he saw the .45 Liddell cradled carelessly in his lap.

  “Try it once, Hook,” Kirk told him.

  The bodyguard looked from Marty to Liddell and back. “What’s the idea, boss?”

  “Try it.” Kirk’s voice was edged, harsh.

  The thin man shrugged. “Okay.” He put one glass back on the desk, raised the other to his lips. He sniffed at it for a second, then, tilting his head back, he drained the glass. His thin lips tilted upward at the corners in what he intended as a smile as he reached to set the glass back on the desk.

  He never made it.

  His body seemed to stiffen. He laced both hands against his midsection, stretched up on his toes. Then slowly his knees buckled, tumbling him to the floor.

  Liddell was out of his chair in a second, kneeling beside the fallen man. Marty seemed frozen to the spot. “The rat! It was him. He tried to poison me!”

  Liddell looked up, shook his head. “Not unless that stuff’s sharper than it was in the old days. He’s bleeding.” He pointed to a rapidly spreading dark spot on the front of Hook’s jacket.

  “Bleeding? How the hell can that be?” Marty walked over, stared down at the body.

  “Get back!” Liddell shouted.

  There was a faint hum of an angry bee. Marty jerked his hands to his face. Red started to trickle through the fingers. He pitched forward and hit the floor face down. He didn’t move.

  Liddell flattened himself against the floor, tugged the .45 from Hook’s pocket, wormed his way to the window. He applied a cautious eye to the corner and tried to locate the source of the shots.

  Directly across the street were a hotel, a huge modern office building, and on the corner a department store. He eliminated the hotel as not being high enough and the department store as unlikely, settled for the office building. He leaned the barrel of the .45 on the window sill, watched, waited.

  He didn’t have long to wait. In a matter of seconds, a dark shadow separated itself from the other shadows, headed for the edge of the roof. Finally, a man’s leg appeared over the edge and felt for the top landing of the fire escape. Then the rest of the body came into view. The man peered over the railing to the alley below, seemed satisfied, started down the stairs.

  Liddell waited until the upper portion of the man’s body sat on the front sight of his .45, then squeezed the trigger. The boom of the .45 was deafening in the close confines of the soundproofed room.

  Across the street, the man on the fire escape staggered. He tried to get back to the roof, stumbled to his knees. Slowly, he managed to pull himself to his feet, stood swaying. Liddell’s .45 barked again.

  The man on the fire escape stiffened, clawed at the guard rail. His knees folded under him. He toppled over the low rail, crashed headlong to the alley below.

  Liddell knelt with his eyes glued to the window until he was satisfied that the gunman across the way had been alone. Then he walked back to where Marty lay, turned him over on his back. A blue-black hole that was still bubbling under his right eye made it apparent that he was beyond help.

  The private detective debated the advisability of reporting the shooting to the police, lost the decision. He was too close to the end of the twisting trail to be detoured by police procedure. He wiped Hook’s .45 clean and dropped it alongside the dead bodyguard’s body. He picked his up from his chair and stuck it in its holster. Then he headed for the street.

  The street was cool after the closeness of Marty’s penthouse. The cross streets were filled with heavy after-dinner traffic, but the square was relatively deserted. Liddell crossed the street and blended into the shadows of the tall office building. When he had satisfied himself that he was unobserved, he slipped into the alley that ran alongside it.

  The man was spread-eagled over a stack of garbage cans. Lying near by, its stock shattered by the fall, was a high-powered rifle equipped with telescopic sights and silencer. Liddell leaned over the man’s face, studied his features, failed to recognize him. Imported talent.

  Quickly, efficiently, he ran through the man’s pockets and transferred the wallet, a few papers, and a key with a small red tag into his own pockets.

  Then he retraced his steps up the alley, swung onto the avenue, and headed for a cab.

  19

  THREE HOURS LATER, Johnny Liddell sat at the table in his hotel apartment and scowled at the small pile in front of him. The dead
sniper’s wallet had given him nothing aside from the man’s name and an address in Los Angeles, neither of which meant anything to him. A few decks of Heroin secreted in an inner compartment of the wallet testified to the fact that he was a professional killer; the six one-hundred-dollar bills to the fact that he was a highly paid expert.

  Liddell picked up the folded piece of notepaper, reread it for the third time. Check into Carlyle Apartments in New Orleans under the name of William Wellington. The enclosed $400 will pay for your trouble. If I still need you, I’ll know where to reach you and the other $600 and your instructions will be delivered by messenger before you do the job. It was unsigned.

  Liddell pulled from his pocket the typewritten note Marty Kirk had received. He compared the typing and was satisfied that both had been done on the same machine. He leaned back, raked his fingers through his hair, and swore under his breath. He was at a dead end—the sniper apparently had no more idea of where the man who hired him could be found than Liddell had.

  The telephone at his elbow shrilled. He contemplated the advisability of not answering it, finally scooped the receiver from its cradle.

  “Liddell?” The voice was low, husky, disturbing.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Wanda. Marty’s girl. I’m downstairs in the lobby.” She paused for a moment, seemed to be taking a deep breath. “I’ve got to see you. Can I come up?”

  “Come ahead. I’m in room three-forty.” He dropped the receiver back on its hook, staring at it speculatively. Then he picked up the wallet, the tagged key, and the typewritten notes, dropped them into his jacket pocket, and hung it in the closet. He looked around, scowled at the bright overhead light, snapped it out, and turned on the bridge lamp over the armchair.

  Then he lifted the phone, asked for the house detective, waited until McGinnis answered. “See the girl that just called me on the house phone, Mac?”

  There was a long, low, appreciative whistle from the other end of the wire.

  “She alone when she came in?” Liddell asked.

  “All alone. She headed for the desk, asked if you were in. The clerk gave me the high sign, and I gave him the nod. I hope it was okay.” A worried note crept into the house man’s voice. “Hell, I didn’t think anybody would mind if a babe like that—”

  “She didn’t talk to anybody after she called me?”

  “There was nobody else but me in the lobby. She walked right from the booth to the elevator. I don’t mind telling you I couldn’t take my eyes off her from the minute she—”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Okay, Mac. That’s all I wanted to know.” Liddell dropped the receiver back on the hook, walked to the door, and pulled it open.

  She was even more breath-taking than earlier. The thick blue-black hair was piled on top of her head. Her face was scrubbed clean of make-up as it had been the first night he saw her at the temple. Tonight, though, she wore a red smear of lipstick on her full lips. She wore a full-length camel’s-hair polo coat, no stockings, a pair of loafers.

  She walked past him into the room and waited until he had closed the door behind her. “Lock it,” she said in a low voice.

  Liddell snapped the lock. “What’s it all about?”

  “Marty. Alfred got him just like he said he would, didn’t he? What happened? You were there. You must have seen it.”

  Liddell nodded. “He planted a sharpshooter with a reacher—”

  “A reacher?”

  “A silenced rifle with a telescopic-lens setup. It was like shooting sitting ducks. He got Hook, too, you know.” He led the way to the couch. “Sit down and catch your breath.” She stood uncertainly in the middle of the floor.

  When he helped her off with her coat, he whistled noiselessly. Under the camel’s-hair coat she wore only a pair of light-blue silk pajamas, the trouser legs rolled up to her knees.

  “I was ready for bed when the call came from Leo. I was too scared to take the time to dress. I just grabbed a coat and ran.” She walked closer to him, put her hands on his chest. “I didn’t know where else to go, Johnny.” Her full lower lip trembled. “Poor Marty. I thought he was just cracking up, seeing bogymen in the shadows. Don’t let Alfred get me the way he got Marty, Liddell.”

  “Why should he want to kill you?” Liddell fought to keep his glance at face level, lost the struggle.

  “I worked pretty close with Alfred. He might be afraid I know where he’s hiding out.”

  “Do you?”

  The girl’s face went a shade whiter. She wet her lips with the tip of a pink tongue. “He has a hide-out on the old Bayou St. Jacques road. That’s where he was holed up when he lit out of the temple.”

  Liddell nodded thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you tell Marty this?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I felt a little sorry for Alfred.” She dropped her arms, walked to the window, and looked out. “I thought he was a little crazy. He was going to do such big things—take over Marty’s operation. Everything, me included. He said Marty was getting soft.” She swung around. “I thought it was just talking. I didn’t believe he could do it or that he’d even try.” As she walked back toward him, the sway of her breasts traced designs on the shiny silk of her pajama jacket. “He knows I know all that.” She shuddered, massaged the back of her arms with her palms. “Got a drink handy?”

  Liddell nodded, walked into the kitchenette, and came back with a bottle and two glasses. He spilled some liquor into each of the glasses and passed one to the girl.

  “When you spoke to Marty’s boys, did they tell you whether they found the guy who picked off Marty?”

  The girl took a deep swallow from her glass, shook her head. “He was probably a hired gun. They’ll never find him.”

  Liddell grinned glumly. “Don’t make any book on that, baby. They can’t miss him.”

  She stopped with her glass halfway to her lips. “What do you mean?”

  “I picked him off the roof across the street with Hook’s forty-five. He’s spilled all over the alley next to the office building facing Marty’s place.” He dropped down on the couch alongside her. “He was outside talent. Brought in from L.A. especially for this job.”

  Her mouth was an O of amazement. “You went up against him with a forty-five and him using a rifle with telescopic sights?” She moved closer. “No wonder Marty went running to you when things started getting too deep. I’m glad I came.”

  “I didn’t do Marty much good. He’s dead.”

  “But you got the guy who did it.” She leaned back against the couch, strained her high, tip-tilted breasts against the fragile pajama fabric, and stared at him in open admiration. “Just like that. You picked him off the roof with a forty-five.” Her eyelids half veiled the green of her eyes; she studied him through the long lashes. “I could never pay you what you’re worth to protect me, but I’d try to make it worth your while.” She leaned close to him, her breath warm, fragrant on his cheek. He was aware of the disturbing smell of her hair, her body. “Let me stay here tonight, Johnny. I don’t want to go home, I’m afraid.”

  “Okay, baby. Make yourself at home.” He leaned over, found her lips with his. They clung for a moment, then she put the flat of her hands against his chest, pushed him away.

  “Do we need all that light?” She pulled herself to her feet, walked to the lamp.

  “I wasn’t kidding poor Hook. I do have a birthmark on my bottom rib.” She pulled the blouse of her pajamas high enough to reveal a strawberry-shaped blemish on the whiteness of her body. She dropped the blouse, fumbled with the zipper on the pajamas, snapped the light off.

  From where he sat, Liddell could hear the soft rustle of the silk as she slid out of the pajamas. Then she straightened up. The whiteness of her body gleamed in the reflected light from the window. Her legs were long, sensuously shaped. Full, rounded thighs swelled into high-set hips, converged into the narrow waist he had admired earlier in the evening. Her breasts were full and high, their pink tips
straining upward.

  As she stood there, she raised her hands slowly from her sides and loosened the pile of hair on her head, letting it cascade down over her shoulders. It gleamed in the faint light.

  She padded across the room, stood proudly in front of Liddell.

  The luminous hands of the clock set next to the bed pointed to 4:10. The girl stirred uneasily, opened her eyes, stared around in the unfamiliar darkness. Suddenly, she sprang to wide-eyed wakefulness, sat up, and pulled the blanket around her. “Liddell! Liddell! Where are you?” she called.

  The door to the bathroom beyond opened, spilling a triangle of yellow light into the darkened living-room. Liddell walked in, drying his still damp hair. He was dressed except for his shirt and tie. “Shower wake you, baby? Sorry. You go on back to sleep.”

  “You’re going to leave me here alone?”

  “I’ve got something I’ve got to do. You’ll be all right here. Just don’t answer any telephone calls or open the door.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Liddell balled the damp towel and tossed it at the open bathroom door. “To see Alfred. There are a couple of things I want cleared up before I hand him over to Homicide.”

  The brunette dropped the blanket, stood up. “Be careful, Johnny. He’s a killer. Don’t stick your neck out.”

  Liddell pecked at her cheek. “Look, baby, Marty wasn’t much of a guy. His being hit was no loss to the community. But he was my client, and I don’t like people who knock off my clients.”

  Wanda shook her head helplessly. “I wish you wouldn’t go.”

  “I won’t be long, baby.” He lifted his shoulder harness from a peg in the closet, adjusted it, and covered it with his jacket. “The Bayou St. Jacques road, you said. What’s the place look like?”

  The girl dropped her eyes. “I’ve never been there. He kept asking me to come, but I never did.”

  “Didn’t he tell you how to find the place?”

  Wanda looked up at him and nodded. “It’s a little shack set back off the right-hand side of the road. It’s about two miles past the highway crossroads. There’s a picket fence around it. There are no other houses near there.”