Masters of Noir: Volume Two (4 page)

Liddell pinched his nostrils between thumb and forefinger. “Unless Charles got together with Eastman and decided to doublecross the big shot. Then he could have pulled a triple cross by telling the big shot that Mona was getting ready to pull out."

Herlehy took a swallow of coffee, grunted. “The only way we'll know for sure is to ask them.” He drained the container, tossed it at a waste basket. “I've got a call out for both of them. We'll get them—and when we do we'll get a few answers to a few questions."

Johnny Liddell lived in the Hotel Abbott, an old, weather-beaten, grime-darkened stone building that nestled anonymously in a row of similar stone buildings on East 31st Street. The lobby was large, noisy, seemed bathed in a perpetual pink light, the reflection of the huge neon sign to the right of the entrance that identified
The Cowl Room—Cocktails.
The easy chairs spaced throughout the lobby were filled with men who perused their newspapers with a determination undampened by the noise around them.

A short fat man at the cigar counter was trying, with indifferent success, to interest the blonde who presided over it in his plans for the evening. She looked over his shoulder, waved at Liddell as he came in.

Liddell winked back and headed for the bank of elevators in the rear, but was deterred by a gesture from the immaculate creature behind the registration desk.

"A message for you, sir,” he said importantly. He made a production of removing an envelope from a pigeonhole prominently numbered 625. He handed it across the desk, worked hard at a semblance of an urbane smile that missed by miles. “Your friends were disappointed that they missed you.” He stood adjusting his cuffs.

Liddell turned the envelope over. It bore the return address of the Hotel Abbott, had “Johnny Liddell” scrawled across the front. He looked up into the clerk's eyes.

"They wanted to leave a message, so I suggested they use our facilities.” He dry-washed his hands, bobbed his head.

Liddell slit open the envelope, pulled out a folded sheet of note paper. It was blank on both sides. He growled under his breath, swung the register around, satisfied himself that no new arrivals occupied adjoining rooms or rooms across the hall.

"What'd these friends of mine look like?” Liddell demanded.

"I only saw one. He had a slight accent, and—"

Liddell growled, started away from the desk toward the elevator.

"I hope nothing's wrong, Mr. Liddell,” the clerk called after him.

"I hope you get your hope."

The dry-wash was going full speed. “Of course, I didn't give out your room number. I never—"

Liddell stopped, grinned mirthlessly at him. “You didn't give out my room number. You just stick an empty envelope into my box.” He turned his back, entered the grillwork elevator cage.

At the sixth floor, he looked both ways, satisfied himself there was no stakeout in the corridor. He walked down to his room, put his ear against the door. There was no sound.

The keyhole showed no signs of being tampered with, but he didn't have to be a locksmith to realize that the lock couldn't put up a respectable struggle with a bent bobby pin. He slid his key in the lock, turned it. He pushed the door open, flattened himself against the wall, waited for some indication that one of his “friends” was inside.

Finally, he applied one eye to the edge of the door.

Charles, the headwaiter at Mona Varden's club sat in Liddell's favorite easy chair facing the door. A fixed smile was frozen on his lips, his eyes stared at Liddell unblinkingly. His throat had been cut expertly from ear to ear.

Liddell walked in, closed the door behind him. The room gave every evidence of a careful search. Drawers were pulled out, their contents spilled on the floor, the pillows on the couch and in the chairs had been slashed.

He walked over to where the dead man sat, stared at him for a moment. Then he picked up the telephone, dialed police headquarters. He was connected with Inspector Herlehy.

"You can stop looking for Charles, Inspector. I've got him here at my hotel."

"Good,” the inspector's voice approved. “Keep him there. I've got some questions to ask that baby."

Liddell nodded, looked over to where Charles sat. “He's not likely to be going any place. If he tries turning his head it'll fall off."

The receiver was silent for a moment. “Dead?"

"Real dead."

Herlehy growled at him. “I'll have a squad up there right away.” He slammed the receiver down.

6.

Late that afternoon, Johnny Liddell sat at his desk in his 42nd Street office, stared out across Bryant Park. He swung around at the sound of the inner office door opening, grinned at his redheaded secretary as she came in with a pile of correspondence for signing.

"Better sign these while you can still write,” she told him. “Some of it's a week old.” She dropped the letters on his desk, helped herself to a cigarette. “See tonight's paper? Lee Morton, the columnist, really gave you a working over. Said something about the best way to get rid of a client is to let them get murdered. He was wondering what, kind of business you'd be going into next."

Liddell grunted, picked up a pen, started signing the letters. “He thinks we're holding out on him.” He waded through the pile, pushed them away. “He's a prima donna anyway."

Pinky pursed her lips. “Maybe so. But a guy like that could be real helpful, seems to me. In that job of his he knows all the characters at the club. Don't forget he hangs around there almost every night."

Liddell shrugged. “He's still a prima donna."

The redhead picked up the letters, checked through them. “My feminine intuition tells me you have something more up your sleeve than a hairy arm.” Her eyes rolled up from the letters to his face. “You wouldn't look good with your throat cut."

He started to answer, broke off at a sharp knock on the office door. He held his finger to his lips, pulled open the top drawer, brought out a .45. He walked across to the door to the outer office, reached for the knob.

He was almost thrown off balance by the force with which the door was pushed open. A girl ran in, slammed the door behind her, leaned against it.

She was young, blonde. There was no color in her face, her make-up stood out as garish patches against the color. She wore a well-filled Nile-green sweater and skirt. She looked from Liddell to the redhead and back, reached up, tucked a loose tendril of hair into place with incredibly long, graceful fingers.

She made a desperate attempt to gain control of herself, almost made it. “I've got to see you, Mr. Liddell.” She was breathing heavily.

Liddell looked her over, nodded toward the customer's chair. He walked into the outer officer, opened the hall door, satisfied himself the corridor was empty. He stuck the .45 into his waistband, walked back into the private office.

"Do I know you?"

The blonde shook her head. “I was Charles’ sweetheart. I worked as hat check girl at the club."

Liddell hoisted one hip on the corner of the desk, nodded for her to go on.

She licked at her lips. “It's true? Charles is dead?"

"He's dead all right. Know who did it?"

She shook her head. “All I know is it's just like Mona. They'll be after me next.” She fitted a cigarette to the wet red blob of her mouth with a shaking hand. “They're probably after me right now."

Liddell steadied the cigarette, held a light, waited until she had filled her lungs. “Who're they?"

"I don't know."

Liddell stared at her for a moment, walked around behind his desk. “Let's start at the beginning. You were Charles’ girl. What's your name?"

"Bea. Bea Clarke.” She pulled the cigarette from between her lips, crushed it out. “Don't let them do it to me, Mr. Liddell. Don't let them."

Liddell nodded. “You were in on the jewel jobs?"

The girl licked her lips, nodded.

"Who was the top man in the set-up, Bea?"

She shook her head. “I don't know. God help me, I don't know. Only Mona knew."

"How about Charles?"

"Only Mona."

Liddell drummed on the corner of his desk with the tips of his fingers. “Did you know Eastman? Hook Eastman?"

The girl buried her face in her hands, started to sob. She nodded. “He was part of the set-up. He did the actual stick-up.” She raised her tear-stained face. “The head man signaled to Mona which ones were to be taken—"

Pinky brought two glasses and a pint of bourbon in, poured a drink for the girl.

"That figures,” Liddell conceded. “Mona couldn't have spotted the real stuff from the floor. We had it backwards.” He wrinkled his brows. “Then the big shot was out front quite a bit. Go on. Then what?"

"Mona would get word to me which ones were to be taken. Charles would take over the checkroom and I'd go out for air. I'd be on the curb when the mark came out. Eastman would be down the street waiting for the signal."

Liddell poured himself a drink. “Suppose there were several women in the party. How would he know which one to take?"

The girl took a deep swallow from her cup, coughed. “I'd fix the left side of my hat. That would mean the woman on the left. If I fixed the right side, it meant the one on my right."

"What happened last night? How come Charles went to my place?"

The blonde licked her lips. “Charles got a call from the boss. He had just left Mona's place and she didn't have any jewels on her. Eastman had just delivered a big batch to her before the midnight show. Charles told him about you being in Mona's dressing room. He figured you'd left them at your place. They went over there—” She dabbed at her eyes. “That's the last I saw of Charles."

"You didn't see who he went with?"

Bea shook her head. “He was going to meet him in front of your hotel. He instructed Charles to come alone."

Liddell got up, paced the room. After a moment he stopped alongside Bea's chair. “You'd better stay under cover for a few days.” He looked up to Pinky. “Can you put her up until I wrap this up, Pink?"

"Sure,” Pinky nodded. “But what are you going to be doing in the meantime?"

"First, I'm going to patch up my relations with the press. I think Lee Morton might be more willing to cooperate if I fed him a couple of exclusives."

"Such as?"

Liddell winked at her. “Such as the name of the killer and the head of the jewel ring.” He caught Bea by the arm, lifted her out of the chair. “You take Bea along to your place, Pink. I'll be in touch."

When the hall door had closed behind the two girls, Liddell picked up his phone, dialed the
Dispatch.

"Let me talk to Lee Morton,” he told the metallic voiced operator. In a moment, he heard the columnist's voice. “Morton? This is Johnny Liddell."

"What's on your mind? A beef about today's column?” He didn't sound as though he cared one way or the other.

"I've got a thick skin,” Liddell assured him cheerfully. “But there's no reason why we can't be friends. We might help each other."

"How do you figure to help me?” the receiver demanded.

"I might have a nice juicy story for you. Exclusive."

There was no change in the expression in the columnist's voice. “And when might this change of operation take place?"

Liddell grinned. “You're a suspicious sort of guy. Just to prove my good faith, I'll give you one to start off. Bea Clarke, the sweetie of the headwaiter that was killed in my apartment, is giving herself up to the police tonight at 10."

The columnist's voice was cautious. “So?"

"She'll spill the whole set-up on the jewel jobs. How they were fingered, who did the heist, everything."

Morton sounded more interested. “Now you're beginning to perk. No one else in on it?"

"No one else. You get it exclusive. We can even arrange for her to turn herself into you."

"You got a deal, Liddell.” There was a change in Morton's voice. “I'll make it up to you. What's the other scoop?"

"I know where to lay my hands on positive proof of who killed Mona Varden. I'm willing to turn him over to you, too. Bea spilled it without knowing how important it was—"

The columnist's voice cracked with impatience. “What is it?"

"I'll do better than tell you. I'll show it to you. It's in Mona's flat. I'm on my way. Want to come?"

"Don't move. I'll pick you up at your office."

7.

Lee Morton drove a Caddy, a ‘54 convertible, with all the skill of an expert. He wove the big car through the heavy East Side traffic and pulled up at the Marlboro Towers exactly twelve minutes after leaving Liddell's office.

Liddell led the way to the elevator, got off at Mona Varden's floor. He looked up and down the hallway, opened the door with a key he took from his jacket pocket. The door opened noiselessly. He motioned the columnist in and closed the door after them.

Liddell produced a flashlight, ran it around the room, came to the bedroom door. He motioned for the columnist to follow him and led the way into the room where the body had been found. He seemed sure of himself, walked directly to the head of the bed, played the flashlight over the ornamental frieze, bent down to examine it more closely.

"You see, in order to see whether or not anyone on that bed was dead, you'd have to lean over. What's the most natural thing? You hold onto the frieze to keep your balance? Right?"

Morton considered it, nodded. “It sounds all right."

"Check. Okay, now our killer probably thought he was being very smart and wiped off all prints.” He flicked the light at the frieze. “But the chances are a hundred to one, he never remembered sticking his fingers into that frieze. His prints there will hang him."

"The police know about this?"

Liddell shook his head. “Not yet. I just wanted to look it over before I called Herlehy. Now I'm convinced the killer's prints are in that frieze."

He led the way to the living room. “You hold down the fort. I'll get Bea Clarke and the inspector."

"Why the girl?"

Liddell shrugged. “I have a hunch she was here and found the body. Her prints may be in there. Mine are from leaning over the body. We'll want to eliminate those."