Bare Trap (6 page)

“Where’s he been hiding?” Liddell asked finally.

Richards snorted. “Damn-fool kid! He’s been holed up in the lodge of an old country club north of here.” He spun the car around a slow-moving milk truck. “There’s a bottle in the glove compartment if you want a shot. It’s pretty chilly.”

Liddell found the bottle, took a deep slug, welcomed the warming glow it produced. He was considering the advisability of a repeat dose when the big car swung off the macadam onto a winding country road. Richards throttled it down to a steady forty, bounced it along until he came to two stone pillars with a faded sign. He drove through, braked the car to a stop in front of a peeling stucco building.

“This is it.”

“No lights in the place,” Liddell pointed out. “You sure he was expecting us tonight?”

Richards nodded. “I told you he was laying low. He’s probably sitting in the dark waiting. I’ll give him a toot
to let him know it’s us.” He leaned on the horn for three short, shrill blasts.

Nothing happened.

After a few seconds, Richards tooted again. There was still no sign of life in the building.

“That’s funny,” the producer grunted. “What do you think?”

Liddell took another slug from the bottle, reached inside his jacket, came up with a .45. “I think I’d better have a look.”

He left Richards in the car, followed a badly overgrown path to the doorway. At the door he strained his ears, heard nothing but the distant hum of some insect. He stepped to one side, out of possible range from inside, rapped with the muzzle of his gun, waited.

When there was no response to his knock, he tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand. He pushed the door open, hugged the wall to avoid being silhouetted by the moonlight. For fully fifteen seconds he waited, got no sign of anybody inside.

Still hugging the wall, he entered the darkened room beyond, gun first. His free hand groped along the inner wall for a switch. When he found it, he pressed it, spilling yellow light into the room from an unshaded overhead bracket.

The room was big and looked even bigger than it was because most of its furnishings had been moved out. The windows were curtainless, black eyes in the dirty white paint of the walls. In the corner an old, unpainted desk wore an inch of dust on its top surface.

In the center of the room a man lay face downward, his feet toward the door. The amount of blood that had spilled from the holes in his back made it highly improbable that he would be getting up.

There were two doors leading into the room. Both were closed. Softly Liddell walked to the nearest door, pushed it open. It was another large, bare room giving mute evidence of where Shad Reilly had spent the few days he had
been missing. The other room was smaller, had apparently once been used as a locker room. That, too, was empty.

Outside, Richards gave signs of being nervous. The horn tooted twice. Liddell walked around the body on the floor, stood in the doorway, and motioned for the producer to join him. Then he walked back to where the dead man lay, knelt beside him, and half turned him over. He had been very young, very handsome. Now he was very dead.

From the doorway came a muffled gasp. Richards waddled in, fell to his knee beside Liddell. He stared at the dead man.

“That him?” Liddell wanted to know.

Richards nodded, the flabby chins wabbling madly. He swabbed at his face with a damp handkerchief, struggled to his feet, staggered to the desk, and leaned against it. “Dead?” In the yellowish light, his skin was saffron; his full red lips had a greenish tinge.

Liddell nodded. “Plenty.” He looked around. “No phone here, I suppose?”

Richards shook his head ponderously. “There’s one in the tavern down the road. They may let you use theirs.”

“You stay here. I’ll go notify Homicide,” Liddell told him.

Richards’s face gleamed wetly. “You’re going to leave me here alone with him?” He kept his eyes averted from the body on the floor.

Liddell nodded. “He won’t bother you. And don’t touch anything until the cops get here. They’re awfully narrow-minded about things like that.”

S
ERGEANT
J
ERRY
M
ACY
of Homicide didn’t fit into the usual pattern of flat-footed, beetle-browed Central Office cop. Instead, he looked more like a refugee from a varsity football squad. After he had looked the body over, he led the way to the inner room where Shad had lived and closed the door so that his squad could work without interruption. He found a straight-backed chair near the wall and sat down.

“When you reported this you said the kid’s guardian was with you,” he told Liddell. “When we get here, you say he’s disappeared. Suppose you break it down for us.”

Liddell shrugged. “That’s the way it is, Sergeant. I left Richards here to watch the body while I called in the report. When I got back, he was gone.”

Macy nodded, copied down a description of Richards, handed it to a plain-clothes man to call in. After the detective had left, the sergeant turned his attention back to Liddell.

“Body just as you found it?”

Liddell nodded. “Didn’t touch a thing.” He held up a pack of cigarettes, got a nod, lit one. “What’s it look like to you, Sergeant?”

“Looks like a man’s dead. Let’s get back to you. You say you were working for this Richards?”

“The kid” — he indicated the outer room with a toss of his head — ”had been missing. He hired me to find him. Tonight he got a call from the kid saying he was holed up out here. We came out to get him, found him like that.”

“Private eye, eh? Local?”

Liddell shook his head, dug into his jacket, came up
with his papers, passed them to the sergeant. “I run an agency in New York. Took this one on as a favor. They didn’t want any publicity and thought a local might spill.”

The sergeant flipped through Liddell’s papers, made a few notes in a leather notebook, handed them back. “Anything else I ought to know, Liddell?” He looked the private detective squarely in the eye. “I know all about how private detectives outsmart the dumb, flat-footed cops. That goes fine in Hollywood — in the movies. It don’t go at all here.”

‘Okay, Sergeant. I play that way, too. I’ve done some work on the Coast before. Inspector Devlin will tell you I level with the Department.”

“As long as we understand each other. Why was the kid hiding out in the first place?”

“He was in a jam. Got in over his head with a gambler named Yale Stanley. Couldn’t pay off.”

The sergeant looked interested. “Go on.”

Liddell shrugged. “You know the rest. Yale sent a couple of muscle boys to muss the kid up. Told him next time it would be worse. The kid took to the woods.”

The Homicide man got out of his chair, brushed an invisible speck of dust off his arm. “Yale Stanley, eh? I’ve been waiting a long time to pin something on that baby. Looks like today’s the day.”

“I hope it’s that simple.”

“You know any reason why it shouldn’t be?” There was a sharp edge to Macy’s voice.

Liddell shook his head. “Nothing definite. Just a hunch that this wasn’t a welsh killing.”

Macy grinned, buttoned his coat, and pushed his fedora low over his eyes. “Maybe this time your hunch won’t check out. Yale Stanley threatens a guy who owes him money; a few hours later that guy is found dead. Add that up and subtract your hunch and you still get a good reason for a pickup call on Yale.” With a brief nod to Liddell, he crossed the room and re-entered the outer room where the fingerprint men and photographers were finishing up with
the remains of Shad Reilly.

Liddell followed him out, watched while the men from the medical examiner’s office were examining the wounds. When the examination was over, Liddell walked over to the medical examiner.

“Looks like a small caliber, eh, Doc?” he asked.

The medical examiner looked from him to the sergeant. Macy nodded. “He’s a private eye hired by the kid’s guardian. Found the body and called in the report.”

The doctor turned back to Liddell. “Can’t tell for sure until we dig the slugs out, but I’d say a twenty-five — certainly no bigger than a thirty-two. Five of them, close range.” He turned to initial a slip held out by a man in white and signaled for them to take the body out.

“Any idea when it happened?”

The doctor shrugged, consulted his wrist watch, frowned for a moment. “I’d say from the condition of the body he got it about three-thirty or four.”

Liddell nodded, watching glumly while the medical examiner closed his case, waved so long to the technicians, and followed the men from the morgue detail. After the door had closed behind the doctor, Macy walked over to Liddell. “What time’d you come on the case, Liddell?”

“About four yesterday afternoon. Why?”

The Homicide man turned to one of his squad. “These privates really have the hours, Al. On a case in the afternoon, off about twelve hours later. Sometimes we can’t crack them that fast, eh?”

• • •

Muggsy Kiely answered the door in response to his knock. She wore an old housecoat, her short, blond hair was tousled, and her face was wiped clean of make-up, revealing a bridge of freckles across her nose. She stared at Liddell as he walked past her into the apartment.

“Either you’re up awful early or you stayed up awful late,” she told him. She watched as he stamped through the foyer, tossing his hat in the general direction of the couch. “Johnny, something the matter?”

Liddell grunted. “We found the kid.”

“Where is he?”

“In the Las Caminas morgue.”

Muggsy’s jaw dropped as she sat down hard in a convenient chair.

“What happened to him?”

Liddell scowled, walked over to the window overlooking lower Los Angeles, and stared down through the half-light of dawn at the deserted city below. “Murdered.”

“Murdered? But why? Who did it?”

Liddell spun around. “That, my chickadee, is the sixty-four-dollar question. It could be Yale Stanley, it could be Richards, it could be any one of a dozen people.”

“You’re not serious. Certainly not Richards. That kid was the apple of his eye.”

“Why not? Far as I can gather he was living all right off the kid’s money. Besides, now that we’ve found Shad, Richards has taken a powder.”

Muggsy shook her head slowly. “It doesn’t make sense, Richards killing Shad.” She looked up. “How’d you find him?”

“Richards took me to him. Said he got a call from the kid telling him Yale Stanley knew where he was. We went out to bring him back with us and when we get there he’s dead.”

“Well, certainly Richards wouldn’t take you out there if he’d killed him. Why would he do that?”

Liddell walked into the kitchenette, took a bottle from the cupboard, and poured himself a short drink. “Maybe he wanted to have a witness to see him discover the body.” He rubbed the heel of his hand along the bristle on his chin. “For all we know he might have known where the kid was right along. We only have his word that the kid called him tonight.”

“Then why would he run away? Johnny, it doesn’t make sense.”

“I know it,” Liddell grunted. “Maybe he got cold feet, maybe not. That’s what I’ve got to find out.”

“You’re going to stay on the case?”

Liddell nodded vehemently. “You’re damn right. At least until I find Richards and get a sensible answer to what happened tonight.”

Muggsy got up from her chair and walked into the kitchenette to start a pot of coffee. “How do you figure to do it?”

“That blond secretary of his. I want to get to her before the cops do.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m pretty damn sure she’s more than a secretary. If anybody knows where the fat boy is, she does. He may even be hiding out in her place. How can I reach her, Muggs?”

Muggsy pursed her lips, shrugged. “I don’t know her that well. I just see her — ” She broke off, stared at him for a second, snapped her fingers. “Maybe I do at that.” She walked over to the telephone, dialed a number.

“Let me in on it.”

“It may work, it may not,” the girl told him. “I’m calling the studio. We all have to leave on file a number where they can reach us in case of an emergency. I’m hoping that goes for office help as well.” She held up her hand, turned on the charm, argued with somebody at the other end for a moment, and then made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. Liddell pushed a pencil and pad in front of her, watched while she scribbled an address, hung up. “Got it.” She grinned triumphantly.

“Well, give.”

She consulted the penciled memorandum. “She lives in the Spotlight Club on Figueroa.” She handed him the slip.

“You’re still my girl.” Liddell pecked her on the cheek.

“Maybe. If this case keeps boiling down to a series of interviews with packs of she-wolves in their dens, I don’t know if there’ll be enough left of you to make it worth while.”

“Don’t give up so easily.” Liddell grinned. “Like Church-ill
always says, it may take blood and sweat and tears but there’ll always be a Liddell.”

• • •

The girl on the switchboard at the Spotlight Club was reluctant to ring Margy Winslow’s number.

“Do you know what time it is, mister?” she argued. “She never gets up before nine and it’s not even eight yet.”

“This is police business,” Liddell told her.

“Again? Say, what’d she do, kidnap Lassie or something?”

“Look, baby, I haven’t got the time to argue. Tell her it’s Liddell and let her make up her own mind.”

There was a slight pause, then the operator capitulated. “Well, all right,” she said doubtfully. “I’ll see if she wants to talk to you.”

The phone buzzed, there was the sound of a receiver being lifted. He could hear the mumble of conversation between the operator and the blonde, then a click and the girl’s voice came through. “Hello, Liddell.”

“Hello, Margy. I’ve got to see you.”

“What’s the idea of waking me up in the middle of the night. I’ll be at the office in a couple of hours.”

The complaining voice of the operator cut in. “He told me it was police business, Miss Winslow, and — ”

“Will you get off my line and stop listening in?” the blonde scolded. “I’ve warned you about it before.”