Bare Trap (9 page)

“I’ve got your party,” she told him pertly.

“Liddell?” Lulu Barry’s distinctive voice flowed through the receiver. “Don’t tell me you’ve got something for me already, I hope?”

“A nice headache and a couple of lumps on my skull. On you they might look good. You could put feathers on them and somebody’d think they were a new hat.”

“Been getting into trouble? I thought the case was pretty much on ice.”

Liddell snorted. “It’s only beginning.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I need a fast identification. Two hoods working as a team. Big guy with a mashed nose named Maxie. The
other guy small, looks like an ex-jockey, and packs a forty-five. Make them?”

“What do you want them for?” Lulu countered.

“A return match. They thought I ought to leave town. I got stubborn. Next time I’d like to be the one that walks away.”

She hesitated. “I think I know who they are. The big fellow’s name is Maxie Seymour. He’s an ex-prize fighter. Does a lot of dirty work for the Syndicate. Strong-arm stuff.”

“That’s the guy.” Liddell nodded. “Where does he hang out?”

“I don’t know.” The columnist paused for a moment. “He does have a girl. She may know.”

“What’s her name?”

“I’ll find out.” Liddell could hear the booming voice shout for Glennon, then a short conversation. “She’s a bit player over at one of the studios.”

“Her name wouldn’t be Terry Devine?”

The voice on the other end took on a sharp note. “I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

“I don’t.”

“Then how do you know about Devine?”

Liddell scowled at the receiver. “Putting two and two together. It would explain why Maxie and his playmate found Shad Reilly so easily the night they gave him the hosing.”

“I don’t follow you,” she told him testily.

“It’s not important. Shad was out with Devine that night. They parked in an isolated spot and the two hoods drove up later and gave it to the kid. The Devine babe probably set it up, took him to a prearranged spot. What about the little guy?”

“I don’t know much about him. Probably working for Yale.”

Liddell nodded. “That’s what I figured.”

“Anything else you need?”

“Yeah. A gun.”

There was a brief pause. “A what?”

“A gun. They got mine. Can you get me one?”

“That’s a tough contract,” the receiver hedged. “What kind?”

“A forty-five.”

“It may take some time.”

“I haven’t got any time, Lulu. I need one as fast as possible.”

“Give me an hour or so. You know the Hotel Lamont? Near Grauman’s?”

“I’ll find it.”

“There’ll be an envelope with your name on it at the Western Union counter. In it there’ll be a coat check for a hat and a package.”

Liddell nodded. “Thanks, Lulu. Maybe I can do as much for you sometime. I’ll let you know as soon as I make contact. I’ve got an idea those two will sing like the Andrews sisters when the heat really goes on.”

• • •

The Kangaroo Room of the Hotel Lamont was a dim, noisy, and smoky bar. Small tables, jammed with parties of four, were packed side by side in a small space bordering an open square reserved for dancing. A thick pall of smoke hung over the place, swirling slowly and lazily in the draft from the opened door. The bar itself was packed two deep, Air Force blues and Army pinks spicing the drabness of the civilian garb that lined it.

Liddell and Muggsy elbowed themselves a place at the bar, ordered drinks. While the bartender was pouring them, Liddell excused himself and headed for the neon-lighted door that led to the hotel lobby.

A bellboy directed him to the Western Union counter where a querulous looking old maid looked up as he approached.

“My name is Liddell. Johnny Liddell. I was expecting a message. Has it arrived?”

The woman looked him over, pushed a stray lock of lifeless iron-gray hair into place, stabbed it there with a
yellow pencil, and riffled through a pile of envelopes on the corner of her desk. She stopped at one, nodded. “Here it is. Just left here about fifteen minutes ago.”

Liddell took the envelope, slid a quarter across the desk. He walked back into the lobby, tore open the envelope, extracting a small cardboard square that bore the imprint
Hotel Lamont
and a huge block number
27.
He dropped it into his jacket pocket, headed for the checkroom.

A middle-aged woman was reading the pink edition of a morning tabloid in the checkroom. She blinked nearsightedly at the check as Liddell laid it on her counter, but picked it up and walked to the end of a rack of topcoats, selecting a hat.

“Don’t forget my package.” Liddell called down to her.

“Was there a package?” A poorly fitting denture that showed signs of slipping slurred her enunciation. She turned the check over, studied the penciled marking on the back, smiled self-consciously. “I guess I’m slipping,” she lisped.

She walked back to the counter, reached down under it, brought up an oblong box about six inches long by five wide by two deep. “That’s a heavy one,” she commented, scooping up the quarter from the counter and fitting it into the slot on her cash box. “Must be a pint.”

“You’ve been peeking,” Liddell grinned.

“Good thing I didn’t know it.” She bared the denture at him, went back to her tabloid.

Liddell headed for the men’s room, found it empty. He ripped open the box. Inside, nestled in cotton batting, he found a gleaming, well-oiled .45. He took it out, examined it. It was fully loaded, the serial numbers filed off. He hefted it in the palm of his hand, approved, slipped it into his empty shoulder holster.

Stepping back into the dimness of the Kangaroo Room, he had to wait for a moment until his eyes became adjusted. He squinted down the bar to where Muggs was sitting, morosely contemplating her half-filled glass. He was about to make his way down to join her when his eye stopped on
another familiar figure.

Terry Devine was sitting at a small table for two. As Liddell looked, her eyes suddenly stopped on him, widened, looked away fast. He started through the maze of closely packed tables toward her. She looked in his direction again, shook her head. Her eyes pleaded with him through the smoke. He stopped, puzzled.

As he watched, she signaled the waiter, paid for her half-finished drink, got to her feet, and shoved her way through the crowd to the far entrance to the lobby. For a second Liddell debated the advisability of trying to cut her off, decided he could find her whenever he needed her.

After she had disappeared through the neon-decorated exit to the lobby, Liddell shouldered his way down to where Muggsy sat waiting.

“Everything okay?” she asked in a low voice.

He nodded. “Perfect. Now I don’t feel quite so naked.” He picked up the drink that had been waiting for him on the bar, sampled it. “I think I just saw Terry Devine at one of the tables. She powdered before I could reach her. I wanted to talk to her.”

Muggsy nodded cynically. “Don’t kid me, Liddell. From past experience I’d say it was a lot more satisfying to talk with the divine Terry in a less public place.”

Liddell scowled, applied himself to his glass. “Wonder what she was doing here?”

“Nothing unusual about her being here. This spot is laughingly called the Happy Hunting Ground. All the lone wolves hang out here and bay at each other. As for her ducking you, it may tome as a terrific blow to your pride, but maybe you’re not her type.”

Liddell sighed. “There is that possibility,” he conceded. “Possibility, not probability. After all, I am prettier than Maxie.” He drained his glass, motioned for Muggsy to do the same, ordered a refill for both.

“Maxie? You mean your late visitor? What’s he got to do with Terry Devine?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. That’s what I wanted to
ask her.”

Muggsy Kiely chewed on the tip of her nail, frowned at Liddell. “You’re holding out on Watson, Sherlock. This is the first I hear of this.”

Liddell shrugged. “There’s nothing to hear. Lulu told me that Maxie played house with a little brunette that plays bit parts. That fits Terry to a T, doesn’t it?”

“Her and a million others in this town.”

Liddell nodded. “Yeah. But it also explained how come Shad Reilly was taken to just the right kind of a spot to get his ears pinned back.”

“Couldn’t it be that the sluggers followed them?”

“Could be. But if I was a kid that owed dough to a character like Yale, who was unhappy with me because I wouldn’t pay it, I’d be watching for anybody following me. I certainly wouldn’t drive up to a deserted spot and set there like a sitting duck like he’s supposed to have done.”

Muggsy nodded. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Okay. So if Terry is Maxie’s playmate, she probably knows where to find him. That’s why I want a word with the divine Terry.”

Muggsy snorted. “Knowing you, I’d say — ”

The Kangaroo Room’s only waiter sidled up to them, looked around dramatically, dropped his voice. “Your name Liddell?”

Liddell nodded.

The waiter passed over a folded note. “The dark-haired number in the angora sweater that was sitting over there” — he rolled his eyes toward the center of the room — ”asks me to get this to you.” He looked at Muggsy, raised his shoulders apologetically. “It ain’t my idea, lady. She says it’s very important I should wait until she’s gone before I give it to him. Says she don’t want nobody to see her making contact with him.”

Muggsy nodded, made a fair job of a grin. “Can’t say I blame her. Open it up, Liddell. Maybe she’s got a brother for me.”

Liddell separated three quarters from the change on
the bar, pushed them toward the waiter, waited until he was gone. He unfolded the paper. It was a note hastily scrawled in pencil on Hotel Lamont stationery.

I
want to see you but I mustn’t be seen talking to you. Will you meet me at Pier Twenty-Six on Water Street at ten-thirty? It’s very important.
It was signed
Terry Devine.

Liddell scowled. “Yet when I started over to speak to her she ran like a scared jack rabbit.” He reread the note. “I wonder what’s on her mind?”

“I hate to think.” Muggsy grinned, consulted her watch. “It’ll take about twenty minutes to get to Water Street from here in the landlocked helicopters they call taxis in this town. That gives us forty minutes.”

Liddell folded the note, slipped it into his pocket. “Not we. Me,” he corrected. “If she was throwing a party she would have written R.S.V.P. in the corner. This is private.”

“That’s what you think, darling. I’m not leaving you alone on a deserted pier with a she-wolf like Terry Devine. My father would never forgive me if anything happened to his favorite private detective. Besides, don’t forget that little Muggsy fixed you up with your only decent contact in this town, and I’m watching Lulu Barry’s interests.”

Liddell scowled at her fiercely, melted it down to a grin. “Okay. You come along. But don’t forget, I do the talking.”

“As long as you keep talking, I have no objections.” She selected a cigarette from the pack he held out to her, took a light, drew in a lungful of smoke. “Wonder why she picked such an isolated place to meet?”

“If she is being followed, it’s an easy place to spot a tail. Or maybe she’s just playing Treasure Hunt and has to bring back a water-front derelict.” Liddell shrugged. “At any rate, we should know before very long.”

W
ATER
S
TREET
was shrouded in an inky blackness that blocked out any recognizable landmarks. A driving rain lashed furiously at the closed windows of the cab, sending a stream of water cascading down the windshield. The few street lights that dotted the block were little more than a yellow aura that spilled on the oily blackness of the pavement. The cabby guided the big car to a stop, rolled down his window, peered at a big frame building across the road.

“This is Pier Twenty-Six, mister,” he called over his shoulder. “You sure this is the place? Far’s I know nothing starts around here until about four in the morning.”

“This is the place,” Liddell told him. He consulted his wrist watch. “It won’t be long now.”

The cabby shrugged, cut his motor. “You’re the boss.” He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, sucked it into a red glow, slid down comfortably in his seat to wait.

Muggsy Kiely stirred uneasily, tried to see out the streaming windows, but gave it up as a lost cause. “Nice night for a murder,” she murmured, “or shouldn’t I even mention such a possibility?” She shuddered slightly. “I wish she hadn’t picked such a deserted spot for us to wait for her.”

“You brought it on yourself. You could be sitting in a nice dry apartment waiting for me. But no, you have to get wanderlust. Maybe we could get you a cab, and — ”

“Nothing doing. I’m here and here I’m staying.” She held her watch up to the window, tilted it until the faint light of a near-by street light hit the dial. “It’s ten-thirty now. She should be here.” She turned, peered out the back
window. “This must be her now, Johnny. A car just turned that corner back there. It has no lights.”

Liddell spun around, stared out the window. “Get down, Muggs. Quick! You, too, driver!”

The black shape of a large sedan pulled abreast of the cab. Five loud roars drowned out the sound of its motor, then it picked up speed, rocketed down the street.

Muggsy got up on her elbow, her face chalky in the half-light. “Johnny, you all right?”

Liddell swore fluently, got up from the floor of the cab, brushed himself off absently. “I’m all right, Muggs. How about you, driver?”

“Okay. But look what the bastards did to my hack. Windows and everything all chewed to hell. Do we go after them?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned the key in the ignition, stamped his motor into life.

“Damn right. Better get going before we lose them.”

The cabby threw the car into gear, released the clutch. The cab flopped noisily, swayed drunkenly.

“Not tonight we don’t,” the cabby growled. “They got our tires.” He slammed open the door, stood out in the rain, sadly surveyed the damage. “And that ain’t all. Who pays for the wear and tear?”