Bare Trap (13 page)

Liddell didn’t answer.

“If you are, you’re wasting your time. The Las Caminas cops have been over this place with a fine-tooth comb. The boss hasn’t been around here in forty-eight hours.”

“Maybe you know how to reach him?”

The guard shook his head. “I don’t know nothing. I get paid to patrol the grounds, I patrol the grounds. Nobody pays me to know nothing.”

“Let’s go inside.”

The guard didn’t move. “I ain’t seen the search warrant.”

Liddell jabbed harder with the gun. “This is it. Do you lead the way or do you want to do it the hard way?”

“If you ain’t the law, you’re wasting your time trying to heist this place. They cleaned it all out — ”

“Keep right on stalling, pal,” Liddell grunted. “It’s your head if you like to wear it with holes in it.”

The guard shrugged, started toward the steps to the Casino. Liddell caught him by the collar, stopped him. “There’s just one thing. If it turns out that there’s more than just you around, you won’t be in any condition to find out how it turns out.”

“I’m the only outside man.”

“For both our sakes I hope so.”

The guard led the way to a side entrance to the Casino, stopped at a jab from Liddell. “This is as far as you go.”

“Now what?” the guard asked, his voice tinged with fear.

“That depends on you.”

“Look, mister. I’m no hero and I don’t look good with a hole in my head. I’ll behave.”

Liddell nodded. “That’s being smart. Do that and you’ll walk away from this. Try yelling or bringing help in any way and you’re the one guy I’ll know where to find. Walk over to that small tree.”

The guard walked over to the tree, kept his face averted.

“Back up to the tree, bring your arms around it.” When
the guard had complied, Liddell snapped handcuffs on both wrists. “Now, in case you get wanderlust, you can take the tree with you. And don’t forget, while it’s not sporting to shoot a sitting duck, I haven’t got a license, anyway, so I won’t mind.”

He turned, walked over to the French doors leading into the Casino. The room beyond was dark. He gently tapped out a small pane of glass above the knob, stuck his hand through, opened the door, let himself in. He conjured up in his mind’s eye the location of the various games, skirted along the row of one-armed bandits, cut across below the roulette table where he had played two nights before, headed through the drapes to the little corridor that led to Yale Stanley’s office.

There was a thin thread of light under the closely fitted door. He walked up to it, tapped lightly.

“Duke?” a muffled voice demanded.

Liddell held his face close to the door. “Yeah.”

There was the stutter of an electric latch, the door swung slowly open. Liddell stepped through, .45 in hand, kicked the door shut with his heel.

Stack was seated in the chair behind the big desk. He was riffling through the top drawer, only the top of his head showing. He didn’t look up as Liddell walked in.

“Get it, Duke?”

Liddell grinned humorlessly, little hard lumps forming on the sides of his jaw. “Yeah. He got it,” Liddell grunted.

The man at the desk froze. He seemed suspended in air for a moment, then his head raised; he looked up at Liddell through his lashes. Then his eyes dropped to the black, apparently bottomless muzzle of the .45.

“What’s the idea?” he gurgled.

“I got a message for you. From Terry Devine in Cabin Sixteen.”

A muscle jumped under Stack’s left eye, his lips went slack. “You’re lying. Terry’s — ”

“She’s dead all right. But she left a message saying she’d be waiting for you.” He motioned the other man to his
feet with the gun. “What happened to the carnation?”

Stack looked down at the left lapel of his coat, looked up. “I didn’t wear one tonight.” He licked at his lips, seemed to be getting the quiver under his eye under control. “What the hell’s this all about?”

Liddell motioned him away from the desk with the muzzle of the gun. “Over to the wall. Dig your face into it,” he snapped.

Stack took his time about pushing the chair back from the desk, got up, walked back to the wall, faced it. Liddell sidled around the desk, got the top drawer open, riffled through it in search of the small key ring he had seen Yale Stanley drop into it. The key ring was gone. He bent over to open the second drawer.

There was a whir of well-oiled machinery, the squeak of a sliding panel. Liddell looked up in time to see Stack’s back disappearing through the panel into an unlighted passageway. Cursing himself for forgetting the private entrance the guard had told him about, Liddell started after Stack. He had just cleared the panel when it slammed shut behind him, throwing the passageway into complete darkness. Somewhere up ahead he thought he heard footsteps.

He threw caution to the winds, started after his prisoner on the run, didn’t see the outstretched foot, hit it full speed, sprawled headlong. He hit the stone floor with a slam that knocked most of the breath out of his body, sent the .45 skidding into some dark corner.

Instinctively, he rolled as he hit, felt the two hundred pounds of the other man as he threw himself at where Liddell had lain. The private detective lashed out with his heels, heard the other man grunt as they made contact. Liddell managed to get to his feet, crouched, waited for the next assault.

The only sound in the corridor was the heavy, labored breathing of the two men. Liddell could feel the perspiration running down the back of his shirt as he strained his eyes against the darkness, tried to make out the whereabouts of his adversary.

Suddenly, he caught the dull glint of a knife blade. Stack’s sole scuffed the stone floor as he shuffled in for the kill. He held his knife waist high, point up in the manner of a skilled knife fighter. Liddell kept his eye on the knife, waited for the other man to close in the distance.

As soon as Stack had shuffled within striking distance, Liddell kicked out with his heel, had the satisfaction of hearing the other man growl with pain. The knife clattered to the floor. Both men dived for it, struggled in the darkness of the passage. Stack managed to get his hand on it, rolled over on his back to use it.

Liddell caught his wrist desperately, tried to force it back to where he could smash the knuckles against the stone floor. The perspiration beaded on his forehead, ran down into his eyes, blinding him. Stack caught his breath in gasping sobs, used his free hand to claw at the detective’s throat.

Liddell relaxed his pressure on the knife hand, tried to tear the fingers loose from his throat. The grunting and gasping grew louder. Liddell’s fingers around the other man’s wrist grew slippery and wet.

Stack grunted, threw all of his two hundred pounds into a desperate effort to dislodge Liddell, succeeded in throwing him off balance. He pulled himself laboriously to his knees, started to move in for the kill. Liddell threw himself forward, wrestled him back against the wall, thrashing and panting. Suddenly, Stack’s foot slipped and they crashed to the floor, Liddell on top.

Stack sighed deeply, stopped struggling.

After a moment, Liddell pulled himself painfully to his feet, stood swaying in the darkness. He lit his cigarette lighter, looked down at Stack in the weak light.

Stack lay on his back, his leg folded under him. He stared up at Liddell with wide-open eyes, a stream of saliva glistening from the corner of his lips down his chin. The handle of the knife projected from just below the breastbone like an obscene horn, staining the front of his shirt an angry red.

Liddell wiped his lips with the back of his hand, steadied
himself against the wall. After he had caught his breath, he made a desultory search of the corridor for his gun, gave it up. He followed the wall to the end of the passageway, found a door that opened onto what was obviously a private parking-lot. There was only one car in it, a small black business coupé.

He walked back to where Stack lay, caught him under the arms and dragged him out to the car. He got the door open, dumped the body onto the front seat. Then he kicked the motor into life, headed back to the Ocean View Court.

The old man who ran the office could be seen inside sitting with his chair tilted back, his hat over his eyes. Liddell eased the car past the entrance, slid it into the parking-space next to Cabin 16. He made certain Ocean View Court was still wrapped up in its after-hours affairs, dragged the body into the cabin, closed the door quietly after him, and snapped on the light.

“Here’s the other one, baby,” he told Terry.

He carted the body across the floor, dumped it at her feet.

“They always used to lay great warriors out with their dog at their feet. You won’t mind if the best I could do for you was a rat, will you, baby?”

He looked around, made sure he had left no trace of his presence, flicked the light switch, eased out the door. He cut back around Cabin 16, made his way through the weed-choked patch behind the court, headed for the ocean highway.

Ten minutes later he waved down a late cruising hack, drove out to where he had left the rented car, headed back to his hotel.

T
HE NOISE REVERBERATED
like thunder. Then it leveled out to the sharp chatter of a machine gun. Johnny Liddell opened one bleary eye, deciding it was somebody trying to knock the door to his room off its hinges.

He groaned, squinted at the luminous face of the clock on his night stand, made the time out to be ten to five. The pounding on the door took on an impatient note. He slid his feet from under the covers and pulled on his trousers.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered.

He slithered barefooted across the floor, unlocked the door. Sergeant Jerry Macy of Homicide stood framed in the doorway.

“You took your time about it,” Macy grunted. He walked in, reached for the light switch, and stood regarding Liddell, hands on hips, feet akimbo. “Sleeping the sleep of the just, eh?”

Liddell scowled at him and raked his hair back from his forehead with his fingers. “What’s the idea, Macy?” He turned, stared back at the clock on the bedstand. “Don’t you ever go to bed?”

“Look, Liddell.” The Homicide man’s voice was dangerously soft. “This is no game of marbles and we’ve got a couple of guys on ice to prove it. You play potsy with me and Inspector Devlin or no Inspector Devlin, I’m going to make you sorry you ever stuck foot in my territory.”

“If you woke me up in the middle of the night to prove to me what a tough cop you are — ”

“I’m going to do better than that. I’m going to prove to you what a jerk you are to think you can get away with what you’ve been trying to pull in this town for the last
thirty-six hours.”

Liddell groaned. “Now I’ve been pulling something. What am I supposed to have done?”

The Homicide man pushed his fedora on the back of his head, jutted his chin out at Liddell. “I’ll be glad to tell you.” He started to tabulate on spatulated fingers. “You’re not in town more than thirty-six hours when we get a killing, a gun ambush of a cab on Water Street, a gun battle in the apartment of one of the principals in the first killing, a body in a hallway, an attempted robbery of the premises of another principal in the first killing — and you want to know what you’re supposed to be up to. You think this is a Keystone Kop comedy with you showing up the dumb flatfeet on the force?”

Liddell walked over to the bureau, took a pack of cigarettes off the top, selected one, lit it. “Why me?” He let the smoke dribble down his nostrils.

“Not even a good try, shamus,” Macy growled. “We got you on this one, and it’s going to mean your license.”

“What is?”

“Let’s see your rod. It’s a .45, isn’t it?”

Liddell nodded. “I usually carry a .45. But I haven’t got it.”

“I’m in a hurry, Liddell. Let’s see your rod.”

Liddell walked over to the closet, opened the door. “There’s my harness. Look for yourself. It’s empty.”

The Homicide man pushed him aside, examined the holster, shook down his jacket. He brushed past Liddell, walked into the bedroom, and searched under the pillows, in the bedstand drawer, in the half-unpacked suitcase. When he came out of the bedroom, his face was an ugly red. “Look, pal, you might as well stop twisting. We got a tip on the killing in the Devine dame’s apartment. You did the killing. Now where’s the rod?”

“My gun was stolen from me yesterday afternoon.” When the Homicide man started to wave the statement aside, Liddell shrugged. “Don’t believe me. Call the houseman who was on duty. He had to break in. They clobbered
me, took my rod, and were going through my things when the tenants downstairs yelled for the houseman.” He indicated the phone. “Go ahead and check.”

Macy stamped across the room, tore the receiver from its hook. “You’re damn right I will.” He growled into the phone, got insistent when the voice on the other end of the phone seemed hesitant. After a moment he slammed the phone back on its hook. “He’ll be right up. In the meantime, you’d better be getting ready. The inspector wants to see you.”

Liddell took a last deep drag of his cigarette, snubbed it out. He walked through the bedroom into the bathroom, was in the shower when he heard the house detective’s knock on the door. He took his time about selecting a shirt, was tying his tie when he walked into the outer room.

Macy’s face was a dull red of frustration. The house detective, a dark stubble of beard glinting on his chin, was sitting in the chair looking unhappy.

“Hi, Mac,” Liddell greeted him. “Sorry we had to drag you out of bed, but the sergeant didn’t believe I got a mugging here yesterday afternoon.”

“Why wasn’t it reported, Liddell?” Macy roared.

Liddell shrugged. “Wouldn’t do either of us any good. It might scare the other guests to know there were sneak thieves around. And it certainly wouldn’t help my rep to have it known that somebody took my gun away from me.”

Macy’s eyes hopscotched from the private detective to the houseman. “You ought to know better. A felony should be reported immediately.”

The house’ detective managed to look even unhappier. He rubbed the bristle on his cheek with the side of his hand, shrugged. “He wasn’t going to make a complaint, Sergeant, and like he says the hotel wouldn’t like me to start something like that.”