Masters Of Noir Vol I Part 10

The house itself was set back from the highway and s.h.i.+elded from the road by a row of evergreens. Liddell swung through the stone pillars that supported a rarely-closed iron gate, followed the short winding driveway to the house. There were two other cars parked in front of the garage, on the concrete ap.r.o.n. Liddell left his in front of the house, walked up the two steps to the door.

There were no lights in the hall, but he could see a triangle of yellow light toward the back of the house were it spilled from an open door. He debated the advisibility of walking around back, decided to knock.

Almost immediately the door opened and he could make out the bulky figure of a man silhouetted in the opening.

"I'm Johnny Liddell. I want to see Miss Lane."

The door opened wider. "Come on in." The man stepped aside, waited until Liddell had entered, fell in behind him. "Straight ahead to the study."

Liddell followed the darkened hallway to the open door. He stopped at the entrance to the room and looked around. Two men looked at him incuriously. One of them, a tall man in a rumpled blue suit and a battered fedora, grunted, "Who's this, Allen?"

"Name's Liddell. Says he wants to see Miss Lane."

"Be my guest," the man in the rumpled suit grunted. He walked over to where a blanket was draped over a suggestively shaped bulge, pulled it back.

Laury Lane lay on her back, her arm crooked languidly over her head. Her thick blonde hair was a tangle on the thick pile of the rug. Her green eyes were half closed. Her lips, full and inviting, seemed set in a half smile. A hole midway between her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s had spilled an ugly red stain on the white silk of her evening gown.

The man in the blue suit watched the scowl ridge Liddell's forehead. He dropped the blanket back over the girl's face. "You say you're Liddell?"

The private detective nodded, dug into his pocket, brought out a pack of cigarettes and held it up for approval. When the lieutenant nodded, he stuck one in the corner of his mouth where it waggled. "I'm Liddell. Who're you?"

The man in the blue suit pinched at his nostrils with thumb and forefinger. "Murray. Lieutenant in homicide out here. Mind telling me what brings you out this way at this hour?"

"Lane was a client. She wanted to see me."

Murray pursed his lips, considered it. He tugged a dog-eared memo book from his hip pocket, jotted down some notes. "So you just drop by at-" He pushed up his sleeve, consulted his wrist watch- "at two o'clock in the morning?" His eyes rolled up from the notebook to Liddell's face. "Keep kind of late office hours, don't you?"

"Something had happened. She called me to get right out here. Something she wanted to talk to me about."

The homicide man wet the point of his pencil on the tip of his tongue. "What was it that couldn't wait?"

Liddell shrugged. "She didn't say."

"Maybe we can tell you," Murray grunted. He led the way to the french doors that opened onto the back patio. "Put some light out here, Al," he snapped at one of the other men.

Liddell followed him, stared down at the body of a man, sprawled face down on the patio. He knelt beside the body, lifted the hat off its face, swore under his breath.

"Know him?" Murray wanted to know.

Liddell nodded grimly. "One of my boys. Name's Tate Morrow."

"Have you any idea what he was doing out here, or is it customary with your organization to make late calls on clients?"

"Tate was a.s.signed to Lane. He was bodyguarding her." He straightened up, brushed the folds out of his knees. "Any idea of what happened?"

Murray grinned humorlessly. "We thought you might have some idea. Busting out here this way."

Liddell shook his head. "No ideas." He took a deep drag on his cigarette, wrinkled his nose in distaste, dropped the cigarette to the patio floor, ground it out. "Could be that Tate heard the shot that got the blonde, came running, and-"

The homicide man snorted. "Why don't you start levelling? You can see he was headed away from her, not toward her." He jabbed his hand into his jacket pocket, brought up a small gun, wrapped in a handkerchief. "This was lying right next to her hand. It's got one bullet fired." His eyes were bleak, unfriendly. "My guess is that the one in his back will match it."

"That's crazy and you know it. Why should Lane shoot the guy who was protecting her? And if she did, who shot her?"

"He did," Murray snapped. "Show him, Al."

The other detective walked over, spilled the contents of an envelope into the palm of his hand, held them toward Liddell. "Diamonds. We found them right near his hand, where he dropped them when he fell." Murray turned his back, walked into the den. "That's the way we see it," he said flatly.

"That's the way you're supposed to see it. It's a set-up, can't you see?" Liddell argued. "You think that babe could get a gun, aim it and bring him down with one shot when she's wearing a .45 slug for a lavaliere?" He caught the homicide man by the arm, swung him around. "That babe was deader than Kelsey the minute that slug tagged her. And my guess is that Tate was dead before that."

Murray caught the private detective's hand, lifted it from his arm. "Why should anybody go to all that trouble?"

"The diamonds," Liddell snapped.

"And then leave without them?" Murray shook his head. "You're not making sense."

"You're making less. You don't think that handful of little stones is what Tate was guarding, do you? Lane had over $150,000 worth of unset stones. Where are they?"

The homicide lieutenant looked thoughtful, plucked at his lower lip. "That's the first I hear of this. Fill me in."

Liddell found another cigarette, lit it. "Lane was getting ready to retire. Did you know that?"

Murray shook his head, nodded for one of his men to answer a ring at the front door. "I don't know much about the theatrical crowd. All I know I read in the columns. I thought she was a big star?"

Liddell shrugged. "She's had her day. But she's been fading fast for the past couple of years. This year she decided to go back home. She was British, you know."

"Excuse me." Murray went over to the door to shake hands with a small man carrying a brown instrument case. They carried on a whispered conversation for a few minutes; then the newcomer went over and pulled the blanket back from the dead woman. Murray walked over to where Liddell was standing.

"The medical examiner," he explained. "So she was going back to Britain. So?"

"She was turning everything she had into cash." Liddell took the cigarette from between his lips, scowled at the glowing end. "For years she's been collecting diamonds. They're easier to hide, and the Treasury boys can't put them onto an adding machine like they can the contents of a safe deposit box." He took a last drag on the cigarette, stubbed it out in an ash tray. "She hired us to keep an eye on her until she turned the stones into cash."

Two men from the M.E.'s office brought in a stretcher. Liddell broke off and watched glumly as they transferred the blonde to the stretcher, strapped her on.

"Whoever killed her knew about the stones. So he tried to make it look as though Tate did the job."

"Could be," Murray agreed.

"You've got other ideas?" Liddell wanted to know.

The homicide man shrugged. "Just ideas, so far. No proof." He reached over, picked a thread off Liddell's jacket and let it float to the ground. "Suppose your boy here did stop one, but his confederate managed to get away with the bulk of it?" He looked Liddell in the eye. "Who knew about the diamonds?"

Liddell scowled. Hard lines joined his nostrils with the end of his mouth, hard lumps formed on his jaw as he clenched his teeth. "Mike Murphy, Lane's personal manager, for one. It was his idea to hire the agency because the stuff wasn't insured."

"Who else?"

Liddell studied the homicide man's face carefully. "Louis Arms. He was supposed to be the buyer."

"Arms, eh?" Murray raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips. "Anybody else?"

Liddell shrugged angrily. "Not that I know of. Not unless they spread it around."

"Think they were likely to?" Murray sneered.

"No."

The homicide man nodded. "Then that leaves just you and your boy, Liddell." He jabbed his pencil at the private detective. "But you can undoubtedly tell us where you were all evening?"

"In bed."

"Witnesses?"

"This happened to be my off night. I was in bed alone."

Murray squinted, plucked at his lower lip. "But you got a phone call from the Lane girl and she told you to get right out here?"

Liddell nodded. "That's right."

The homicide man walked over to the desk in the corner of the room, lifted the telephone from its cradle. "We don't have dials out here yet, you know. Pretty small time stuff to a big operator like you, I guess." He turned his attention to the phone. "Millie? Ed Murray from Homicide. Say, about an hour ago, do you remember a call Laury Lane made to New York? Number was-" He raised his eyebrows at Liddell.

"Homeyer 5-7236," Liddell grunted.

"Number was Homeyer 5-7236." He waited a moment, then pursed his lips, looked at Liddell from under lowered lids. "You're sure of that?" He nodded, dropped the receiver on its hook. "There haven't been any calls from this number to a New York number tonight."

"Maybe I got the message by ouija board," Liddell growled.

"Maybe you didn't get the message."

"Let me get this straight, Murray. You're trying to say that I didn't get a call from Lane, that I came out here to meet Tate and cut up the dame's diamonds. Then what happened to them?"

Murray grinned bleakly. "Maybe this isn't the first time you came out tonight. Maybe you got here right after the shooting, picked up as much of the loot as you could find in the dark, hit back to town, stashed it and then came back to put on this injured innocence act."

"That's how it is, eh?"

Murray nodded. "That's how it is. What are you going to do about it?"

"You mean I've got a choice? I'm going to find the real killer and hand him to you on a silver platter. You don't have to worry, though, I'll label him for you so you'll know him when you fall over him."

"And if I decide to take you in and book you?"

"On what? There's not a judge in the county would hold me on your pipe dream. It's like you said, you haven't got a thing but an idea-a screwy idea. I'll be around if you want to talk to me."

Mike Murphy lived in the Livermore Arms, an expensive pile of mortar and plate gla.s.s overlooking the East River at Beekman Place. Johnny Liddell parked his car out front, plowed across the deep pile rug in the ornate lobby to the desk. A white-haired man in an oxford grey suit with a wing collar made a half-hearted attempt to wipe the boredom out of his eyes as Liddell approached, but didn't quite make it. His teeth were too s.h.i.+ny and too even to be real and Liddell had a pa.s.sing suspicion about the color in his cheeks.

"Can I help you?" His fingers toyed with the triangle of white linen that peeped from his breast pocket.

"Will you ring Mike Murphy's apartment? Tell him Johnny Liddell must see him immediately."

"Certainly, sir." The white-haired man sat down at a small switchboard, plugged in one of the wires. He licked at his lips before he spoke into the mouthpiece, nodded, then pulled the plug from the board. "It's rather late, but he says he'll see you." He smoothed the hair over his ears with the flat of his hand. "It's the penthouse."

Liddell nodded, headed for a bank of elevators in the rear of the lobby. He jabbed the b.u.t.ton marked Penthouse, Penthouse, chafed at the slow progress the cage made upward. The elevator glided to a smooth stop; the doors slid noiselessly open. Liddell crossed the small hall, pushed the buzzer set at the side of the door three times. There was the stuttering of a latch and the door swung open. chafed at the slow progress the cage made upward. The elevator glided to a smooth stop; the doors slid noiselessly open. Liddell crossed the small hall, pushed the buzzer set at the side of the door three times. There was the stuttering of a latch and the door swung open.

Mike Murphy stood in the middle of the room, a gla.s.s in his hand. He was tall, his broad tapering shoulders seeming to balance precariously on the slimness of his waist and hips. He wore his thick, black hair long on the sides, plastered back against his head. On top it was a ma.s.s of curls. His mouth was smeared with lipstick; his eyes were slightly off focus. He waved Liddell in.

"Come in, come in." He called over his shoulder. "You can come on out, honey. It's a friend."

The door to an inner room opened and a long-legged redhead walked out. Her hair had been loosened and fell over her shoulders in a molten cascade. She had on a blue gown that gave ample evidence she wore nothing under it. As she walked, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s traced wavering patterns on the s.h.i.+ny silk of the gown. Her eyes were slanted, green. She looked Liddell over, seemed to like what she saw.

"This is Claire Readon, Liddell. Meet a real live private eye, baby."

"You should have come earlier. The party was fun." Her voice was sultry, disturbing.

Murphy waved toward a small portable bar that showed signs of having had a busy evening. "You'll have to make your own, Liddell. I don't think I could make it across the room."

Liddell walked over to the bar, found some ice cubes in a scotch cooler, dumped them into a gla.s.s. He spilled two fingers of bourbon over them, swirled it around the gla.s.s. "When's the last time you saw Lane?"

Murphy's features were marred with an annoyed frown. "Tonight, when I took the stuff out to her." He took a deep swallow from his gla.s.s. "How's that kid of yours getting along? That blondie can be fun when she-"

"Tate's dead. So's Lane." Liddell smelled his gla.s.s, took a swallow. It tasted as good as it smelled.

The other man did a slow double take. He blinked his eyes, shook his head. "Dead? How?"

Liddell shrugged. "Murder. The stones are missing. Looks like it was a heist."

"Wait a minute." Murphy put down the gla.s.s, walked across the room and disappeared into what was apparently a bathroom. There was a sound of water running. When he walked out, some of the vagueness in his eyes was gone. "When'd it happen?"

"Near as I can judge, around one. She called me, and I heard the shot. By the time I got out there, the cops were all over the place." He drained his gla.s.s, set it down. "They figure it for an inside job." He looked over at the redhead. "How many people were in on the deal, Mike?"

Murphy shrugged. "Just me and Laury on our end." He bit at the cuticle on his nail. "Arms, of course. He was buying the stuff."

"You didn't leak?"

"Me?" Murphy shook his head emphatically. "h.e.l.l, I never even mentioned it to Claire. Did I, kid?"

The redhead squirmed into a more comfortable position on the couch that caused the gown to dip breathtakingly at the neckline. "I still don't know what you're talking about." Her words were softly slurred. "What's more, I don't care. I came to this party for fun, not to talk business."

Murphy ignored her, smoothed some of the wrinkles out of his brow with the tips of his fingers. "This is a h.e.l.l of a mess. You knew the stuff wasn't insured?" Liddell nodded.

"The police know about the stones?" Murphy asked.

"Yeah."

The big man groaned. "Now it comes. The Feds are going to want to know where the dough came from and why it wasn't declared. What a mess. If she'd only listened to me-"

"I listened to you, Mike. It didn't do me any good-so far," the redhead said. "I guess I'm not smart like Laury."

"You're something better. You're alive," Murphy said. He turned back to Liddell. "It looks like Arms."

Liddell freshened his drink, took a sip. "Looks like." He looked from Murphy to the girl and back. "What time did you get the stuff out to her, Mike?"