Poisons Unknown (4 page)

“Man says somebody tried to blast him from the balcony,” McGinnis told him. “Guy got away.”

Liddell nodded glumly. “You’re sure I didn’t have any calls or visitors, eh?” he asked the night clerk.

The clerk coughed nervously and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. His eyes hopscotched around the room, avoiding Liddell’s gaze. “A call did come in for you just after you got back. They said not to bother you—they just wanted your room number. They were going to send something over.” The motion of his hands became more agitated. “I thought nothing of it, so I gave them your number.”

“And they damn near gave it to me.”

There was a brief commotion in the hallway as two men pushed their way through the curious group that had gathered near the doorway. One of the newcomers was in uniform, the other in plain clothes.

“All right, folks. Nothing to see in here. Get back to your rooms,” the man in plain clothes told them. He shoved his Western sheriff-type hat on the back of his head, nodded to the uniformed man. “Break it up, Ed. Get the hallway cleared.”

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He nodded to the house detective and turned to Liddell. “I’m Hennessy. Detective sergeant.” His eyes roamed around the room, noted the bullet-scarred dresser, the smashed window. “Looks like you’ve been having some trouble.” He whipped a leather notebook from his pocket. “Let’s hear about it.”

“Sneak thief, sarge,” the house man told him. “Mr. Liddell here apparently walked in on him. He threw a couple of shots, went out the window, ran along the balcony, and got away.”

The plain-clothes man grunted, walked over to where Liddell’s .45 lay against the wall, picked it up in a handkerchief, and held the barrel to his nose. “This yours?” he asked Liddell.

Liddell nodded.

“Pretty heavy iron to be packing,” he commented. “Must have been expecting trouble?”

“I always carry it. It’s licensed. I operate a private agency in New York.”

The sergeant raised his eyebrows. “Oh, a big-town op, eh? Got anything that says so?”

Liddell reached into his pockets, brought out his credentials, and handed them over. The plain-clothes man riffled through them, copied some information into his notebook, handed the papers back. “You check in at headquarters?”

Liddell shook his head. “Just got in this afternoon. Didn’t have time.”

The sergeant considered it, shook his head. “You’ve been in long enough to make somebody mad.”

“It was a sneak thief.”

The plain-clothes man snapped his notebook with a scowl. “Look, Liddell, maybe I’m only a small-town boy, but don’t get cute with me.” He jabbed in the direction of the window with his pencil. “The glass is on the floor inside the room. That means it was broken by somebody outside. Somebody who was waiting for you.”

Liddell shrugged. “It doesn’t figure. I’ve only been in town a few hours.”

Hennessy stuck the notebook back in his hip pocket. “Don’t mean a thing. Don’t take some guys as long as others to get unpopular. Some guys got a knack for it.” He dropped Liddell’s .45 into his jacket pocket. “Suppose we take a run downtown and have a talk.”

“What about?”

The plain-clothes man shrugged. “We’re the curious kind. We like to know who’s buzzing our territory.”

“I’m very sorry about all this, Mr. Liddell.” The room clerk looked on the verge of crying. “Is there anything I can do?”

Liddell jammed his hat on the back of his head. “Yeah, when I come back from the Bastille, have my stuff moved to another room. One that doesn’t front on the municipal firing-range.”

J
OHNNY
L
IDDELL SQUIRMED
on the hard wooden chair in City Hall. His watch showed the time to be 1:10. He lit his fourth cigarette in a half hour from the butt of the last one, swearing under his breath.

He glared at a frosted-glass door that stated
District Attorney—Private
in gleaming gold leaf. Finally he got up from the chair and walked over to a railing-enclosed space where a male stenographer was typing out a deposition.

“How long they figuring on keeping me here? I’ve had a bad day,” he complained.

The male stenographer looked up, scowled at him. “Look, it’s like the story of the Chinaman and the two guys to hold him. I don’t like it, either. I don’t get no double time for overtime. Go on over and sit down. When they want you, they’ll call you.” He went back to his typing.

The intercom on the stenographer’s desk buzzed. He flipped the button. “Yes, sir?”

The intercom chattered back at him. He nodded, flipped the button to
off
.

“They want you now.” He nodded toward the glass door. “And if you’ve had a bad day, mister, from the way the boss sounds, the night’s not going to be exactly a breeze, either.”

Liddell dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it out. He walked over and entered the room, closing the door behind him. Hennessy, the detective sergeant, lounged comfortably in a wooden armchair across the desk from a tall thin man in a loose-fitting tweed jacket.

“I’m Wilson, the district attorney.” The man behind the desk pasted a smile on his thin lips but made no effort to get up. “I’m sorry if you’ve had to wait.” His tone didn’t bear out the words. “You know Sergeant Hennessy?”

Liddell nodded. “I wouldn’t exactly say we’ve struck up an undying friendship, but we’ve met.”

Wilson nodded. He touched the tips of his fingers together, studied Liddell. “The sergeant thought we should meet. So there would be no future misunderstandings. You understand?” He smiled again, but it consisted merely of a twisting upward of the corners of his mouth. The cold expression in his eyes was unchanged. “Won’t you sit down?”

Liddell crossed the room and dropped into an armchair facing the desk. “I don’t know what this is all about, Mr. Wilson. An attempt was made on my life. I fired back in self-defense. I have a license for my gun.”

The district attorney nodded. He was tall, loose-jointed. He wore his hair long, parted low on the left side, little kinky curls over his right ear. His nose was broad at the base, inclined to a slight hook, his dark face hinting at traces of mixed blood generations back. “No one questions your right to defend yourself. The only question that does occur to me is why it would be necessary.” He held his well-manicured hands out, palms up. “You’re a stranger in town. We’re concerned.”

Liddell nodded. “I’ll bet.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Okay?”

The sergeant shifted in his chair. “Look, Liddell, don’t give us that persecuted act. This is no third degree.” He reached over to the edge of the desk, picked up a card. “The Benton Agency registered you yesterday as an op. You didn’t get here until today. You’re not here twenty-four hours when there’s gunplay. We want to know why.”

“Maybe I looked like rich pickings for a sneak thief. He was giving my stuff a going-over when—”

“In the Delcort? Rich pickings? The only thing you could pick up in that flea bag couldn’t be sold on the open market. It might be traded, but—”

Wilson cut him off with a gesture from a well-manicured hand. “I think we’ll get further if we stop underestimating each other’s intelligence, sergeant.” He leaned back and refolded his hands across his chest. “Certainly, Liddell, you don’t expect us to believe that a sneak thief attempted to rob you, closed the window, then shot through it?”

Liddell smoked silently, offering no comment.

“By the same token, we don’t expect you to believe that every time somebody defends himself against felonious assault in New Orleans, I come to my office for a midnight conference on it.”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

The district attorney leaned forward. “Who that man was on the balcony and why he tried to kill you.”

Liddell sighed. “I went all over that with the sergeant.”

“Suppose you go all over it again with me?” There was a hard note in the district attorney’s suave tones.

“Well, I came back from a date—”

“With?”

“Gabby Benton.”

The sergeant snorted. “His boss,” he told the
D.A.
“Naturally, she’d back him up on anything.”

“When I walked into my room,” Liddell ignored the interruption, “I thought I noticed something or someone on my balcony. The glass broke, and he started throwing lead. I ducked behind the bureau, fished my gun from the bottom drawer, shot back at him.”

A quick flash of annoyance wiped the last vestiges of simulated good nature from the district attorney’s face. “You haven’t told us who the man was or why he was there, Liddell.” He snapped up the cover of a humidor, selected a fat Havana, bit the end off it, spat it at a square leather wastebasket. “Suppose we come to that part.”

“I don’t know who he was,” Liddell told him flatly.

“What are you doing in New Orleans?” Hennessy shot at him.

“I was brought in on a case that Gabby Benton was afraid was getting too big to handle alone.”

“What case?”

Liddell considered, then decided to play it straight. “A man disappeared. A man named Brother Alfred. We’re trying to find him.”

Wilson rolled the unlit cigar in the center of his mouth and fixed the private detective with the cold glare of his eyes.

“That happened in another parish. That has nothing to do with the city.”

Liddell shrugged. “You know that. Now I know it. But maybe the guy who tried to get me doesn’t know it.”

“Possibly you consider this episode amusing,” the district attorney told him. “I don’t. We will not stand for out-of-town gangsters or,” he shrugged, “private detectives using this town as a dueling-ground. That went out a hundred years ago. This town is law-abiding, and we intend to keep it that way.”

Liddell nodded. “Suits me. Having guys use my hide as a private shooting-gallery isn’t exactly my idea of fun, either.” He leaned over, crushed his cigarette out in a metal ash tray on the corner of the desk. “Can I go now?”

Wilson studied him coldly. “You’re free to go any time you wish, Liddell. We have no charges against you—yet.”

“My gun?” he asked Hennessy.

The sergeant looked to the district attorney quizzically.

“We understand each other, Liddell?” the district attorney asked. “There is to be no shooting, no gunplay.”

“I’ve got a license for the gun.”

“Exactly. You have a license for the gun. That does not give you the license to use it indiscriminately.” He flicked his eyes from Liddell to the sergeant. “Give him his gun, sergeant.”

Hennessy nodded. “It’ll be up any minute.”

Liddell scowled. “You had it with you.”

“That’s right.” The sergeant nodded. “But I sent it down to ballistics. We want a couple of slugs on file. It’ll make it a lot easier to keep tabs on you.” He chewed on the end of his thumbnail, staring at Liddell morosely. “I don’t have to remind you that the only permit issued is for that particular .45?”

Liddell didn’t answer, returned his stare.

“If you have any other guns with you, I’d advise you to turn them in. Because if we catch you with an unlicensed gun in your possession, Liddell, I’m personally going to toss you into the calaboz and throw away the key.”

• • •

The clerk at the Delcort waved Johnny Liddell down excitedly as he came in the lobby. Liddell stopped by the desk on his way to the elevators.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Liddell?” he wanted to know anxiously.

“Just peachy dandy. Look, just let me get some sleep. I’ll give you all the details some other time.” He held out his hand. “What room did you move me to?”

“Room three-forty. You won’t need a key. Miss Benton is up there.”

“What do you mean Miss Benton is up there?”

The clerk’s hand started to tremble. He steadied it with his other hand, tried a confident grin. It didn’t fool even him. “She—she came in about a half hour after you left. Somebody must have told her about the shooting.” He cast a baleful glare at the house detective, who was lounging on a chair in the corner reading a newspaper. “She came right over.”

“You’re sure it’s Miss Benton?” Liddell growled.

“Oh, yes. Positive.” The clerk’s head bobbed like a cork on a stormy sea. “I know Miss Benton for many years. She—uh—”

Liddell nodded. “I know. She uses this place for her setup raids. Okay, as long as you’re sure.”

Liddell took the elevator to the third floor, followed the corridor to 340. He listened outside the door for a moment, slipped the .45 from its shoulder holster to his right-hand pocket. Then he pushed the door open.

Gabby Benton jumped up from a chair, ran to him. “Where’ve you been? You’ve had me worried stiff!” she accused.

“Meeting the D.A. and a tough dick named Hennessy.” He accepted the invitation in her upturned lips, then tossed his hat at the bed. He walked over to the table, picked up a glass the girl had been drinking out of, smelled it, took a deep swallow.

“What’d Wilson want?” Gabby followed him to the table and stared into his face curiously. “He didn’t have anything on you.”

Liddell shook his head, added some more liquor to the glass from an open bottle. “He was just reading me the rules of the court. It seems that he intends to bag me, but good. Being a sportsman, he doesn’t want to shoot a sitting duck. When he gives me the works, he wants me to know why.”

“Did you tell him about Marty Kirk bringing you down?”

Liddell shook his head. “He didn’t ask me.”

Gabby lifted the glass from his hand, took a drink. “Now suppose you tell me what the hell it was all about?” She walked over and sat on the side of the bed. “All McGinnis told me was that somebody tried to pot you through the window.”

Liddell shrugged out of his jacket, loosened the top button of his collar, tugged the tie down. “So that’s how you knew? The house dick.”

“I throw quite a bit of change his way.” Gabby nodded. “Whenever we’re setting up a raid, it’s nice to have the house dick in your corner. He didn’t know you were a friend of mine until he checked your registration card. The boy from the Roosevelt checked you in, put my car registration down. Mac recognized it.” She watched Liddell from under half-closed lids. “You still didn’t tell me who tried to get you.”

“I don’t know. He got away. That big flatfoot friend of yours showed up in the doorway just as I went after the guy. He held a gun on me just long enough for the guy on the balcony to get away.”

Gabby scowled, bit on the tip of a lacquered nail. “Who could it be?” She watched Liddell intently. “Anything happen out at the temple when you went back?”

“Nothing much. I did get what I went for.” He snapped his fingers, went to the drawer, went through each drawer carefully, then swore fervently. Then he went through his valise, looked up. “It’s gone.”

“No use of you worrying alone. Tell me so I can worry too. What’s gone?”

Liddell slammed the drawers closed, walked back to the table, and poured himself another drink. “Alfred’s glass.” He tossed the drink off and grimaced. “It had his fingerprints all over it. I picked it up at the temple tonight in his personal washroom.”

“And it’s gone?” Gabby groaned.

Liddell nodded. “I had it when the shooting started.”

Gabby smoothed the wrinkles out of her brow with the tips of her fingers. “Well, that’s that. Now you’re back looking for a guy with a beard he can shave off, a—”

“Correction, please,” Liddell told her wearily. “Alfred doesn’t have a beard. I doubt if he ever had one.”

“How do you know? You never saw him.”

Liddell nodded. “Just the same he doesn’t have one. Not unless Wanda shaves. There was a full shaving-kit in his closet.”

Gabby groaned. “It looks like our chances of qualifying for that five-thousand reward are fading fast.” She shook her head. “I would have sworn that was a real beard.”

“Maybe it was. Maybe he shaved it off just before he disappeared. But I’d bet my share of the money he doesn’t have one now.”

“And you had his prints,” Gabby groaned. “If you’d only dropped the glass off at my place, or stuck it in the safe.”

“I didn’t have much of a chance to do anything, as you may remember. The police marched in and waltzed me off with them.”

“Would it pay to go back there with a fingerprint kit and—”

Liddell shook his head. “How could you isolate prints that belonged to Alfred? Of course, if we could get some prints off that delicious dish he had out there, that Wanda—”

“They’d more likely be Marty Kirk’s than Alfred’s,” Gabby put in.

Liddell stared at her. “Marty’s?”

Gabby nodded. “Marty’s been crazy about her for years. My guess is that he has her at the temple to keep an eye on Alfred.”

“Then there is some kind of a tie-up between Kirk and Alfred?”

Gabby shrugged. “I don’t know anything more than that, Johnny. There are a lot of rumors—that Marty supplies the temple with its dope and provides the muscle whenever the temple needs it. But they’re only rúmors. I couldn’t say they were true.”

Liddell thought it over, scratched his head. “That might account for Wanda seeming so indifferent about Alfred’s being among the missing.” He shook his head. “Well, one thing’s for sure. We’re not going to prove anything by sitting up all night talking about it. You better be on your way home. It’s getting late.”

“On our way home, you mean. You’re not going to stay here, are you?” the blonde argued. “Whoever it was might come back.”

Liddell grinned, walked over, caught the girl by the elbow, and lifted her to her feet. “Look, baby, I’m more likely to live to a ripe old age if I stay right here.” He led her to the door and opened it. “Your hospitality’s enough to kill a guy.”

She made a face at him. “I suppose you know a better way to die?” She slammed the door after her.