Bare Trap (4 page)

“Take us there instead.”

The cabby nodded, swung hard on the wheel, screeched into a U-turn, headed back toward La Cienaga.

“So that’s it. You and the driver are buddies. You’re going to split this ransom that thing’s clicking up,” Liddell
accused.

Muggsy grinned. “Never saw him before in my life. But you were in that witch’s den so long we practically became buddies. Right, Benny?”

“Right, Miss Kiely.” The driver nodded.

Liddell stared glumly out the window for a moment. “I don’t think Richards is going to like the idea of dragging this Lulu Barry into this, Muggs. That was one of the reasons he didn’t want local talent on the case.”

“You want to find out where Shad’s been gambling, don’t you?”

“Sure, but-”

“Okay,” Muggsy cut him off. “Lulu’s the gal that can tell you. And stop kidding yourself. Lulu Barry probably knows more about Shad being among the missing than you do.”

The cab shuddered to a stop for a light; the cabby swung around in his seat to study Liddell. The stubble of a beard darkened his chin line, the tattered end of a toothpick projected from between dry, caked lips.

“I don’t want to stick my nose in, folks, but if you don’t have an in, you won’t get in to see Lulu. She don’t hardly see nobody these days. Handles most of her stuff by phone.”

Muggsy nodded. “It’s okay. She’ll see us.”

The cabby shrugged. “Just thought I’d tell you, save you wasting your time. I know a couple of her stooges. She don’t even get to see them. They check in by phone, like I said.” The light switched to green, he swung around, ground the cab into gear, roared out ahead of the cars that had clustered around him.

“Benny’s got a point, Muggs. What makes you think the great Lulu will see you?”

“She’ll see us. She’s an old pal from away back. I’ve known her ever since I was a kid.” She dug into her handbag, came up with a pack of cigarettes, and stuck one between her lips. “Pop used to do feature stuff and interviews in those days and the family got to know her pretty well.”

“Okay, if you say so. I hope you know what we’re doing.

“I do, Johnny. She’ll be a big help, honest. She has her finger on everything that goes on in this town.”

The cab groaned its way up La Cienaga, swung left on Sunset Boulevard, came to a stop in front of a white frame house set about a hundred feet back off the boulevard.

“This is it.” The cabby swung around on his seat, grinned back at them. “Want I should wait?”

Liddell shrugged. “You might as well. You’re probably going to have to drive me to a loan office to bail us out now.”

He followed Muggsy through a small whitewashed wooden gate, up two steps. She pushed a disguised button at the side of the door and waited a moment. There was a muted buzz, and the door swung open.

The room beyond, apparently once a sun porch, had been fixed over into a waiting-room. Several upholstered chairs and a large sofa with a low mahogany coffee table in front of it were scattered around the room. The walls had been painted a pastel green; rust-colored drapes, hung by the windows, formed a pool on the floor. The walls were decorated with Western prints, which were repeated on the parchment shade on the library-table lamp.

The door to an inner room opened and a tall cadaverous female in a poorly fitting black dress came out to meet them. Her eyes were framed by a pair of thick-lensed glasses that gave them the effect of popping out of her head. Her angular body gave no sign of development of any kind, the dress hanging in discouraged folds from her shoulders to below her knees. She carried a stenographer’s notebook, and a yellow pencil was jabbed into the graying hair that was pulled into an untidy bun on the back of her neck.

“Hello, Miss Kiely.” Her voice was tired, dry. “Anything special?”

Muggsy nodded. “This is Johnny Liddell, a private detective from New York. I wanted Lulu to meet him.”

The thin woman regarded Liddell owlishly, shrugged. “You know how she is, Miss Kiely. I don’t know if it can be done.” She pulled the pencil out, scratched at her scalp with it. “I can ask her.”

“Thanks, Glennon.”

As soon as the thin woman had closed the door to the inner office behind her, Liddell turned to Muggsy. “What was that?”

“Glennon’s Lulu Barry’s right hand. She’s been with her since Lulu started the column. Used to be her script girl back in the old days.”

“I didn’t know they made movies that far back,” Liddell grunted.

After a moment the inner door opened, disclosing Glennon in the doorway. There was a frosty smile on the thin, unpainted lips. “She wants you to come in.”

She led the way through a small, barely furnished cell. She indicated the piled desk, the bank of phones, the rows of filing-cabinets. “This is where I work.” She continued through to a heavy oak door, knocked, waited for a bellowed invitation to enter, pushed the door open.

The room beyond had been converted into a huge office, dominated by an oversized desk at which a striking woman with startling blue hair topped by an absurd hat presided over a battery of telephones. She rose as Muggsy and Liddell walked in, offered each her hand. Liddell liked the firmness of the grip.

“So this is Liddell, eh?” Lulu Barry studied him through wise old eyes, then nodded her approval. “It’s about time you came after this girl.”

“Nice try, Lulu.” Muggsy turned to Liddell. “You see, she’s working as hard at getting me married off as I am.”

One of the telephones started to hum.

“Glennon!” the blue-haired woman bellowed. “Get the phones and don’t put anything through to me.” The hum stopped immediately. Lulu Barry leaned back, jabbed at her hair with her finger tips. “Sometimes I wish Don Ameche hadn’t gone to all the trouble of inventing the damn
things.” She stared at Liddell with a frankly appraising look. “I hear you’re pretty good, Liddell.”

The private detective grinned. “I hear you’re better than that.”

Lulu shrugged. “We manage to keep our finger in. You, for instance. I know that you used to be with Acme, opened your own shop a few years back. You stand right with the Police Department, have a rep for playing it straight. You’re tough and have gone up against some hard boys and walked away from it.”

Liddell looked over at Muggsy and grinned. “You’ve been reading my press clippings.”

“Think so?” The columnist grinned. “Okay, I’ll tell you some things that Muggs couldn’t know. You were at the Mark in Frisco until this morning. You got a hurry-up call from L.A., took the two o’clock plane, went to Eddie Richards’s office. How’s that?”

Liddell stared at her for a moment, then broke into a slow grin. “Not bad.” He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then dropped his eyes to the woman behind the desk. “Maybe I can break it down for you. I was at the Mark having a drink with the vocalist from the band when the call came from L.A. She heard me say I’d be here as soon as possible, even saw me to the plane. A vocalist in a band never knows when a plug in Lulu Barry’s column might be important so she phones you the tip about a New York private eye getting a hurry-up call to your town. Your leg man picks me up at the plane, checks me through to Richards’s office.”

The columnist held her hands, palms up, in mock despair. “You’re damn near as good as they said you are.”

“Couldn’t get away any earlier than the afternoon plane, eh?” Muggsy sniffed. “Say, Lulu, how much would it cost for a private service on this guy?”

“That what you came to see me about?”

“No, but it sounds like a good idea,” Muggsy told her.

“We wanted some information on Shad Reilly,” Liddell broke in. “I’m trying to find out how much he’s been gambling
and where. The kid’s in a jam with some gamblers and I want to straighten it out for him.”

“That what Richards hired you to do, Liddell?”

Liddell shrugged. “You asked why we came to see you. That’s what we’re trying to find out.” He got out of his chair.

“Sit down, sit down. I’m impressed.” The columnist waved him back into his chair. She found a long, gold cigarette holder, fitted a cigarette into it. “I’m not asking you to discuss your client’s affairs. Besides, I presume Richards told you I was out to gyp the kid out of Wally’s estate.” She tilted the cigarette holder in the corner of her mouth. “That, my friend, is strictly for the birds. If anything, I’m trying to keep Richards from getting into that money himself.”

“He’s not that dumb. Sooner or later he has to make an accounting. The kid comes into the estate in less than a year or the Fund gets it. Either way he’s got to answer to somebody.”

Lulu Barry sniffed. “Suppose something happens to the kid before he’s twenty-one? Know who gets it then?” She jabbed a forefinger at Liddell. “It goes to Eddie Richards — lock, stock, and barrel!”

“Are you sure of that, Lulu?” Muggsy demanded.

“Of course I’m sure of it.”

“All the more reason why we’d better get the kid squared away on the gambling tabs,” Liddell grunted. He pinched at his nose with thumb and forefinger. “Maybe that’s why Richards wouldn’t pay off the tabs, eh?”

“Why not? If the boys give it to Shad, Richards gets the money and is in the clear. How deep is the kid in?”

Liddell shrugged. “Deep enough for somebody to send a couple of boys to teach him a lesson. He’s been hiding out ever since. I can’t square it for him until I find out who he’s in to and for what. Muggs thought you might have a line on it.”

The blue-haired woman nodded. She leaned back, bellowed “Glennon!” The door to the outer office opened,
and her shapeless assistant shuffled in. “Get me that file on Shad Reilly, will you?”

The thin woman bobbed her head, disappeared, and was back in a moment with a Manila folder. She dropped it on Lulu Barry’s desk.

The columnist dumped out a pile of penciled and typewritten memoranda, a dozen or more photographs taken in various night clubs and bearing their imprint. She shuffled through them, reading a note here and there, finally looked up.

“Looks like it would be Yale Stanley.” She pushed back the papers, watched while her assistant returned them to some order and put them back in the folder. “The kid apparently has been spending most of his time in Yale’s place out on the beach.”

“Know the place, Muggs?”

The blonde looked worried, nodded. “I’ve been there. Stanley’s bad medicine, Johnny. If the kid’s in bad with him, he’s in bad.”

“Fill me in on this Yale Stanley, will you, Lulu?”

The columnist pursed her lips, touched the tips of long-nailed fingers together. “Muggsy’s right, Liddell. Yale’s a bad boy. He came on here six, maybe seven, years ago and took over for the Syndicate.”

“Like that, eh?” Liddell plucked at his nostrils with thumb and forefinger. “What about this joint of his?”

“He calls it the Dude Ranch. It’s about thirty-five miles south of here. Gets a big play from the movie crowd. It runs wide open most of the time.”

“Does he provide the muscle or just the front for the operation?”

Lulu Barry considered it, shrugged. “He probably could do the rough stuff himself, but I have an idea Yale considers himself above the goon work now. He has a couple of boys working for him, and if he needs more help, all he does is send an SOS to Vegas or Chicago, and they ship in the specialists.” She picked up her pencil, doodled on her desk pad. “Even then, he doesn’t have last say. He has
to get an okay from the boys higher up.”

Liddell nodded. “I know how the Syndicate operates. Who’s Stanley’s boss?”

The columnist looked up from her doodling, dropped her eyes again. “I wouldn’t go into that, if I were you, unless I had to. All you wanted to know was where Shad Reilly’s been gambling. Now you know, what were you figuring on doing about it?”

Liddell shrugged. “Go out and have a talk with Stanley. Find out what the damage is and try to settle it. Once we’ve got that cleared up, the kid can come out of his hole and I can go home.”. He got up out of his chair, leaned over the desk. “But before I do go home, there’s one more favor I’m going to ask you, Lulu.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to ask you for a peek at the file you’ve got built up on Muggsy. I’ll bet it’s a pip.”

Y
ALE
S
TANLEY
’
S
D
UDE
R
ANCH
was a sprawling white frame building perched above the ocean, roughly two miles north of Laguna. A long, winding gravel driveway led from the state road to the entrance.

Johnny Liddell turned the rented car over to the doorman, a big six footer in a maroon uniform. The doorman motioned with his hamlike hands and an attendant materialized from the gloom, climbed into the car, swung it expertly away from the building in the direction of the parking-lot beyond.

“Do you have a reservation, mister?” the doorman asked in a surprisingly gentle voice. “They’re pretty crowded in there tonight.”

Liddell shook his head. “Who would I see?”

The doorman looked down at the folded bill in Liddell’s hand, tilted his hat back on his head. “Ask for Stack. He runs the place for Yale.” He reached over, snagged the bill from between Liddell’s fingers, grinned broadly.

Liddell led the way up the short flight of stairs into the Ranch. He checked his hat in the foyer, walked through into a brightly lighted barroom. He found Muggsy a bar stool and squeezed in beside her.

The white-jacketed barman came over, flashed a smile from a pair of thin lips, wiped off the bar with a circular motion. His hair was parted in the middle and brushed down and back. His eyes were watery, red rimmed. “What’ll it be, folks?”

“Two bourbon and water,” Liddell told him.

The barman nodded, reached back to the back bar, snagged a bottle of Harper. He produced a couple of shot glasses from under the bar, filled them to the brim.

“How are chances of getting inside?” Liddell asked.

The bartender shrugged, picked up two bills from the bar, rang up the drinks, slid some silver back. “I wouldn’t know, mister. I just work here.” He flatfooted it back to the bar, didn’t seem to care whether Liddell saw him push the button on the back bar or not.