by Frank Kane
Liddell nodded. “I’ll find it. Don’t forget what I said. Don’t answer the phone or open the door. For anybody.”
She nodded, slid arms around his neck, and pressed her body close to his.
20
THE SHACK STOOD about a hundred feet off the Bayou St. Jacques road. It was surrounded by a decayed picket fence from which most of the pickets had fallen to rot in the weed-choked front yard. Johnny Liddell drove the rented car past the house, swung it off the road, parked it behind an old moss-bearing oak. He turned off his lights and sat for a moment. There was no sound but the distant hum of some insect.
He got out of the car and followed a badly overgrown path to the doorway. The steps creaked under him as he climbed to the porch. There was no light in the house, no sign of life. Liddell tried the doorknob softly, found it locked, and brought out a handful of keys. The third one he tried opened the door. The room beyond was in pitch-darkness.
Liddell stepped in and closed the door behind him. He had the eerie, uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t alone in the room. He squinted into the darkness, strained his ear for some sound that would betray the presence of someone else. There was no sound.
After a moment, Liddell slid his hand along the wall until he felt the light switch. He pressed the switch, throwing the room into sudden, blinding light. Simultaneously, he dropped to his knee, his .45 at ready.
Al Frederici, the pseudo Brother Alfred, sat in a large armchair not ten feet away, staring at him with unblinking eyes. He no longer wore the black beard or white robe in his disguise as Alfred and looked more like the pictures on the F.B.I. B.I. card. His holster, with a snub-nosed automatic nestling in it, hung over the back of his chair, the gun butt less than a foot from his hand.
Liddell got up and walked over to where Alfred sat. He bent over him, examined the three little dark holes that had ripped through from the back of his head spilling a cascade of red down his shirt.
Liddell scowled, straightened up, looked around. On the table at the dead man’s elbow there was a bowl of melted ice, two glasses half full of brown liquid.
He put his fingers inside a glass, spread them out until he could lift the glass without defacing the prints on the outside. Then he breathed on the outside of the glass.
There was no sign of a print.
He repeated the procedure with the other glass, found a full set of prints.
“That’s a big help,” he growled. “The killer wore gloves.” He was about to set the glass back on the table when he heard a car skidding to a stop. Quickly, he crossed to the switch, doused the light, wiped off any possible prints with his handkerchief.
He pulled aside the corner of the blind and looked out. A police car had pulled up in front of the house. The door opened, Sheriff Lalonde of San Vincente hopped out, riot gun in hand. He looked around, then started up the path to the house.
Liddell crossed the room and pushed up the sash of the window on the far side. He threw one leg over the sill and had just cleared the window when the front door was kicked open.
He ran across the weed-choked yard toward where he had left his car. Suddenly, a man’s head appeared in the window he had just come through. Liddell kept going, made the shelter of the big oak. There was a series of sharp bangs from behind; buzzing slugs bit chunks out of the bark of the tree over his head. Liddell dropped to his knees and made for the car.
It seemed like an eternity before the motor roared into life. He threw the car into gear and headed back for the road. As he swung onto the road, a figure materialized in the glare of his headlights. He stood with legs planted apart, riot gun in his hand.
Liddell jammed on the brake, skidded the car to a stop. Lalonde stood in the beam of the headlights, leering at him. “I told you we’d be meeting again, shamus,” he raised the riot gun, “but this is the last time.”
“Okay, sheriff. I didn’t kill him and you know it. But I’ll go along.” Liddell raised his hands.
The sheriff shook his head. “I’m not taking you alive, Liddell. You’re too smooth a talker. You might talk your way out of it. This time I’m making sure.” He had the riot gun almost at his shoulder.
“You can’t get away with it, sheriff,” Liddell yelled.
“Any peace officer has the right to blast a killer who tries to escape.”
Liddell slipped his foot off the brake.
The riot gun in Lalonde’s hands started to belch orange flame. The windshield fell to pieces around Liddell, as he jammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The big car roared, jumped ahead, sprang at the man in the road like a living thing. He stood there, squeezing the trigger.
Liddell had a momentary view of the sheriff’s face across the top of the hood. His mouth was open, and he was screaming something. The full-throated roar of the motor drowned him out.
There was a faint jar, then the road was empty in the glare of the headlights. Liddell jammed on the brakes, ran back to where the sheriff lay in the middle of the road.
He was on his back, one leg folded crazily under him. The riot gun lay alongside his outstretched hand.
Liddell bent down, felt for his pulse. There was none.
The brunette started, looked up wide-eyed as Johnny Liddell let himself back into his apartment. He ignored the question in her eyes, headed for the end table, and poured himself a stiff drink from the bottle.
“What’s happened? Alfred isn’t—”
Liddell repeated the prescription, nodded. “Dead. Shot through the back of his head.” He set the glass down, wiped his mouth. “The half of the stub he got from Jorges is probably gone, too.”
“I don’t get it,” the brunette shook her head. “All the time I thought it was Alfred behind it. It figured to be.”
Liddell shucked his jacket, slid out of his shoulder holster, and threw it on the couch. “It looks like it’s a neat package now. Alfred’s dead for real this time. Kirk’s dead, the sniper’s dead, and Marty’s bodyguard has a half-emptied magazine to prove he died protecting his boss.”
He walked over to his window, stared out. “Just for good measure, your friend the sheriff over in San Vincente is dead, too.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean, Johnny.”
Liddell didn’t turn around. “Marty was through with you, wasn’t he, Wanda? He was getting set to throw you out, and you didn’t like it. He must have been, or he wouldn’t let that little gun-slinger of his look at you like you were a piece of beef. When Marty’s through with you, there’s not a lot you can do about it, is there, baby?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “You weren’t going to stand still for it, were you?”
The girl shook her head and couldn’t seem to frame words with her lips.
“You knew about Jorges and the two halves of the stub to get the five hundred thousand. You had an idea and sold it to Alfred.”
“I didn’t, Johnny. You’re wrong. I—”
“It had to be someone real close to Marty. Someone who knew just how soft he really was. It wasn’t Hook, or he wouldn’t have stood there and taken that one in the belly. You figured that if you had one half of the stub you could muscle the other half out of Marty. You didn’t realize he was more scared of the big boys than he was of getting killed.”
The brunette caught her lower lip between her teeth, chewed it.
“All right,” she said. “I did plan to break away from Marty. I told Alfred about the five hundred thousand. He wanted to try for it.” She caught him by the arm. “You knew Marty—he was fixing to swing me into that stable of hustlers of his, shipping me around the country like I was cattle or something. I told Alfred how easy it would be to scare Marty. But that’s all I intended. Just to scare him. I didn’t know about the guy with the rifle.”
She walked over to the couch and helped herself to a drink. “The first I knew about it was when they called me to tell me Marty was dead. I rushed out to Alfred’s place to find out what was going on, and he was dead, too. I was scared, so I came here.”
“You’re a liar. You knew all about the guy with the rifle. You even opened the curtains on the window and gave him the signal.”
“You can’t prove that, Liddell.”
“I don’t have to. They can only burn you once—for killing Alfred. And they’ll have no trouble proving you did that.”
“How?”
Liddell shrugged. “You signed your name to it. Alfred was drinking with whoever killed him, but the killer was wearing gloves. It had to be a woman.”
“Why?”
“Because a gun-smart hood like Alfred, going up against a killer like Marty Kirk, even a softened-up Marty Kirk, would never let anyone but a woman get that close to him wearing gloves. You probably even wore the gloves home and left them there to be found with the powder burns on them.”
“Who have you told this to, Johnny?”
Liddell shrugged. “No one—yet.”
“You wouldn’t turn me in, Johnny. Not now. Not after we—”
“Turn it off, baby. You set me up for the kill, too, when you set Marty up. You signaled your boy with the reacher to take two. You couldn’t have known that Hook would be in the room just at ten. Your boy took care of two, thought he was finished for the night. He was—for good.”
The girl sobbed deep in her throat. “Even if that were true, I didn’t know you then. I couldn’t have—”
“Is that why you tried to put me on the spot for Sheriff Lalonde? He knew I was there, Wanda, came for me with a riot gun. He wasn’t looking for a pinch—he wanted me dead. You set it up.”
“I didn’t!”
“It had to be you. You were the only one who knew I was out there. Only the person who killed Alfred could have known what I would find. You tipped Lalonde so he could catch me with a body on my hands and have some justification for burning me down before he took me in.”
Wanda shook her head. “No, Johnny. You’re wrong.”
“I checked the switchboard on the way in, baby,” he growled. “You made a call while I was gone.” He took a deep breath. “That wasn’t smart.”
“Maybe I didn’t care. Maybe I was sure you weren’t coming back.” There was a new note in Wanda’s voice. “Turn around, Liddell. I want you to see it coming.”
Liddell turned from the window. The brunette had taken his gun from its holster and held it with its muzzle pointing at Liddell’s midsection. “I guess it’s like they say. If you want a thing done, do it yourself.”
“Then it’s all true, baby?”
“You’re smarter than I gave you credit for being, Liddell.” The girl nodded. “Jorges called one day when Marty was out. He told me where Marty was to contact him. Instead, Alfred and I went over. We got an awful jolt when we found out he had only half the stub. Then we started putting the pressure on Marty for his half.”
“That’s when I got into the act, eh?” Liddell nodded.
The brunette tossed her head angrily. “I knew you were bad medicine from the minute I found you lifted the glass out of the temple. I wanted to get rid of you, but when Al muffed it from the window, he got cold feet. He tried to play it smart. He put on that disappearing-act for you out at the park. I should have killed you then and had it over with.”
Liddell rubbed the back of his head. “You were the one that sapped me? It was a real professional job.”
“It was a pleasure.”
“What was the idea of the staged accident?”
Wanda shrugged. “Everybody was supposed to figure Alfred was burned in the wreck. I even identified him. That was your signal to go home and take your nose out of our business.”
Liddell stared at the black maw of the .45. “That was the wrong way to do it, baby.”
“We made mistakes,” the brunette conceded. “Not only with you, but with others. That bucktoothed little Martinez snooping around found Jorges’s wallet. That could have been dangerous.”
Liddell nodded. “How’d you know about it?”
“Your girl friend, Gabby,” Wanda told him. “She found out Martinez was trying to get in touch with you, so she called Marty to tip him off. Only Marty didn’t get the message. I did. Alfred paid her a visit.” She made a gesture across her throat. “He corrected that mistake.”
“And then you killed him.”
The brunette shrugged. “I had no choice. He started to turn yellow. When Marty didn’t crack like we thought he would, he wanted to take off. He wanted me to go with him. Can you imagine? He actually thought I was trading Marty in for him even. Yeah, we made lots of mistakes.”
“You’re still making them, baby. Where do you go from here?”
The full lips split in a taunting grin. “Paradise. I’ve got Jorges’s half of the stub, and I know where Marty kept his half. With a half a million dollars I can really go, Liddell.” Her finger tightened on the trigger. “But before I go, I’m correcting the biggest mistake of all. You.” Her finger whitened on the trigger. “Say hello to Marty and Alfred for me, Liddell.” She clenched her teeth, started squeezing the trigger.
The .45 clicked metallically.
“It shoots better with bullets in it,” Liddell told her.
Wanda stared at the empty gun and offered no resistance when he walked over and wrenched it from her hand.
She wet the soft lips with the tip of her tongue, flung her hands around his neck, and clung to him. “I didn’t mean it, Johnny,” she said. “I couldn’t have done it.”
He held her out at arm’s length. The green, almond-shaped eyes were dimmed with tears; her full lips trembled.
“We can have so much together. We can go away. With a half million, we can have everything.”
Johnny Liddell stood there, drinking in the pure beauty of her face and body. Mentally, he counted off the men whose deaths lay at her door.
He raised his hand, hit her across the face with the flat of his palm, and knocked her sprawling. She lay there quietly, a thin trickle of blood running down her chin as he walked across the room, lifted the receiver from its hook, and asked the operator for Homicide.
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Text Copyright © 1953 by Frank Kane
Cover Art, Design, and Layout Copyright © 2012 by F+W Media, Inc.
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Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4214-7
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4214-5
Cover art © 123RF/Michael Thompson