Masters Of Noir Vol Ii Part 2

BIG STEAL by FRANK KANE

The girl at the mike had a husky voice that did things to the spine.

She was tall, redheaded, put together in a way that flowed tantalizingly as she swayed to the rhythm of the music. Her black, decollete gown clung to her like a wet bathing suit.

At the bar, Johnny Liddell hung a cigarette between his lips, let it dangle there unlighted. He could hear the heavy breath of the bartender as it whistled through his teeth. The rumble of conversation that had filled the room a few minutes before had died down to a whisper, gla.s.ses stopped jingling as she did things to a torchy number.

Suddenly, the song was over, the house lights came up. There was a moment of silence as though the audience was catching its collective breath, then a roar of applause exploded.

Johnny Liddell swung around to the bar, discovered the unlighted cigarette between his lips, dropped it to the floor. The gla.s.s in front of him was empty, he signaled to the bartender for a refill.

"Quite a number," Liddell grinned.

"That babe's all woman," the bartender wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "I watch her twice a night seven nights a week and she still does it to me." He reached to the backbar, grabbed a bottle, tilted it over a jigger. He replaced the bottle on the backbar, dumped a couple of pieces of ice into the gla.s.s, washed them down with soda.

Liddell dropped a bill on the bar. "Full house you got. She draw them like this every night?"

The bartender pursed his lips, his eyes hop scotched from table to table. "Every night. And all spenders, not a stiff in the place. All big uptown society people." He snagged the bill, headed for the cash register.

On the floor, the redhead was still taking bows. Liddell found a fresh cigarette, lit it. He took a deep drag, blew it through his nostrils in twin streams. He swung around on his barstool, squinted through the smoke, studied the faces around the dance floor. Some he knew, some he recognized from the Sunday supplements. The bartender was right when he tagged it a top-drawer crowd.

The audience finally let the redhead go. She turned, headed for the backstage entrance. The walk was a production.

The house lights went down, a yellow spot probed through the semi-darkness, picked up the M. C. as he pranced out onto the floor. He was tall and thin, had unbelievably broad shoulders and walked with a peculiar mincing step. Even from where Liddell sat, his teeth looked too white and too even to be real. He fluttered through a couple of off-color jokes that brought a faint ripple of laughter and sang two nasal choruses of a number never destined to become popular as the result of his rendition.

The door to backstage opened and a man in a tuxedo that fitted snugly across the hips, showed signs of ample and expert padding at the shoulders circled the floor, threaded his way through the tables. He walked down the bar to where Liddell sat, stopped at his elbow.

"You're Mr. Liddell?" The voice showed the faintest trace of an accent.

"I'm Liddell." He dropped the cigarette to the floor, got down from the stool.

"Will you follow me?" The man in the tuxedo led the way back through the tables to the backstage door.

The glitter and the tinsel of the dining room had no counterpart backstage. There was a long, dingy corridor lined with doors. It smelled exotically of one part perspiration, compounded with three parts perfume.

They stopped in front of a door decorated with a peeling gilt star. The man in the tuxedo knocked. "It's Charles, Mona."

"Come in. I'm decent."

The redhead sat on a straight-backed chair in front of a cluttered dressing table. Half a dozen snapshots and telegrams were stuck in the molding of a fly specked mirror over the table. Her thick red hair was hanging down over her shoulders, and she had changed the close fitting dress for a black silk dressing gown. Her face had been wiped clean of make-up, giving it a fresh and youthful look. Her mouth was moist and soft looking.

"Thanks, Charles," she dismissed the man in the tuxedo with a smile, waited until he had closed the door behind him.

"I'm glad you could come, Liddell. I need your help." She studied him frankly, seemed satisfied with what she saw. She reached over to the dressing table, picked up a long silver box, shook out a cigarette. She offered one to the private detective. He took one, smelled it, put it back.

"I prefer tobacco in mine." He reached into his pocket, brought out one of his own cigarettes. "You're in trouble, you say?"

The redhead leaned forward and accepted a light. "Not yet. That's what I need you for. To see that I don't have any trouble." She let the murky, sweet-smelling smoke dribble from between half-parted lips. "Anybody see you come back here?"

"Just the guy you sent for me."

"Charles? He doesn't matter." She got up from her chair, walked over to the door, opened it a crack and looked up and down the corridor. Satisfied that n.o.body was within hearing distance, she closed the door. "I have to talk to you, but this isn't the place to do it. Can you meet me after the last show?"

"I'd like to think it's my fatal charm, but it's business?"

The redhead nodded. "It'll be worth your while."

Liddell grinned. "I'll bet." He pulled over a chair, reversed it and straddled it, resting his elbows on the back. "Can't you give me some idea of what it's all about? Maybe I can put the next couple of hours to good use."

The redhead caught her full lower lip between her teeth, shook her head. "I want you to have the whole picture before you begin. I can't give it to you here." She walked over to where he sat, ran the palm of her hand up his lapel. She wet her lips with her tongue until they glistened. "In this place you never know when someone might walk in-and I get nervous with an audience."

Liddell shrugged. "You sold me. Where and when do I meet you?"

"My place. About 3."

Liddell grinned at her. "It may be unchivalrous to mention it, but I don't know where your place is."

"I thought you were a detective?" she chided. "I'm in Marlboro Towers, suite 3D." She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. She reached into her pocket, brought up a key. "I don't usually pa.s.s out any keys to my apartment, but you understand. This is business. Besides, I may not be there exactly at 3. You can wait inside."

Liddell bounced the key on his palm, dropped it into his pocket. "You'll be all right until 3?"

The redhead nodded. "You're going to see to that."

"I am? How?"

She walked over to the dressing table with the same strut she had used on the dance floor. From the top drawer, she took out a paper-wrapped package. "You're going to mind this for me. Nothing will happen to me while you have that package. It's sort of like an insurance policy."

Liddell took the package, turned it over incuriously, dropped it into his side pocket.

"No questions?" She turned the full power of her green eyes on him.

"Not unless you want me to ask them."

He pushed back his chair and stood up. The redhead ran her incredibly graceful fingers through her hair, stared at him thoughtfully. "You're quite a man, Liddell. My kind of man, I think."

"What kind's your kind, Mona?"

She shrugged. "A man who knows there's a time and place for everything. Who asks questions when they should be asked-and who knows when to wait for answers."

"I'm the patient type."

She grinned at him. "Two hours isn't so long." She went over to him, reached up on her toes, pressed her mouth against his. Her lips were as soft and moist as they looked. "That'll carry you over."

He tried to slide his hand around her waist but she slid under his arm. "I'll be expecting you at 3, Liddell." She leaned back against the edge of the table, looked up at him from under lowered lids. "You won't be late?"

Liddell grinned crookedly. "Not even if I break two legs."

The evening breeze flapped the awnings on some of the fancier boites along the avenue, felt good after the closeness of the bar. Liddell checked his watch, found he had two hours to kill, decided it was a good night for walking. He was halfway up the block when a man came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Don't turn around fast, Liddell," a whining voice told him. "I got a nervous finger." The man took his position at Liddell's right, another man materialized on his left. The man on the right moved a topcoat he had folded over his right arm. The ugly snout of a .45 poked out from under its folds. "Let's walk around the corner. It's a nice night for a ride."

His companion reached into Liddell's jacket, pulled out his gun, dropped it into his pocket. "What's it all about, friend?" Liddell looked the man over. He was thin, undersized, a fact that his carefully built-up shoulders failed to conceal. His hair was thick, black and rolled back in oily waves from his low hairline. He wore it in a three-quarter part, revealing the startling whiteness of his scalp. His thin, bloodless lips were parted in what was intended to be a smile, but there was no trace of it in the eyes that squinted across the high bridge of an enormous hooked nose.

"We're going to a party."

Liddell's eyes dropped to the .45. "You make it hard to refuse. But I'll take a rain check. I'm not dressed for a party."

The thin lips tilted at the corners, the eyes grew bleaker. "You are for this one. It's a come-as-you-are party."

They turned the corner, headed for a car sitting a few feet down the block without lights. The man with the gun signaled for his companion to get behind the wheel, then he and Liddell slid into the back seat.

"What'd the girl tell you, Liddell?" the hook-nosed man wanted to know. From the tone of his voice, it seemed as though he didn't care whether Liddell told him or not.

"What should she have told me?" Liddell countered.

The man with the gun ignored the question. "Who you working for on this caper? The insurance company?"

Liddell considered it, shook his head. "No one. She gave me hot flushes with that song of hers; I went back to see if I could do myself any good." He shrugged. "From the reception I got, I guess a lot of guys get the same idea." He settled back in the corner, managed to work the package the girl had given him out of his pocket. He could feel the perspiration beading on his forehead as he shoved it down behind the seat.

The hook-nosed man reached out, caught him by the lapel. "What are you squirming about?" His face was a white blur in the interior of the car. The snout of his gun bored into Liddell's midsection.

"I was trying to reach a cigarette."

Hook-nose pushed him away. "Okay. But get it with two fingers. Anything but a cigarette comes out, and I blast the hand off."

Liddell brought up a cigarette, stuck it between his lips. He wiped the perspiration off his upper lip with the side of his hand. The gunman's lips were twisted in a grin in the flickering light of the match.

"I always thought you private eyes were tough. You look real tough on television," he chuckled. "What're you sweating about?" He jabbed the gun into Liddell's side, was rewarded with a grunt. "On T.V. you'd be taking this away from me. Here, I'll be giving it to you-slug by slug."

Liddell smoked silently, watched the character of the neighborhood change from densely populated to suburban with longer and longer stretches of unpopulated areas showing up. About forty minutes from the Queensboro Bridge, the car left the paved road, found an old dirt road that headed toward the Sound.

"What's on the program?" Liddell wanted to know.

The hook-nosed man chuckled. "A swim. Only you're not going to know about it."

The car shuddered to a stop and the driver swung around on his seat. "You better find out what he knows first, Hook. The boss is going to want to know what the girl has on her mind. If she's selling out-"

"I know, I know," Hook growled. "You stick to your wheel. Let me take care of my end." He jabbed the gun into Liddell's side. "Out."

"Suppose I don't?"

"Then you get it here. Be my guest." He pulled away from Liddell. "Don't count on us being afraid to muss up the car. It ain't ours."

Liddell nodded, pushed open the door, stepped out. When the hook-nosed man got up from his seat to follow, Liddell took a long-shot gamble. He caught the door, slammed it shut behind him. He heard the yowl of pain as it collided with the gunman's head, started running.

The sand seemed glued to his feet, made his shoes feel like hundred-pound weights as he sprinted for a clump of trees and underbrush a hundred feet away. His heart was pounding in his chest, his breath coming in gasps as he reached it. From the car came a series of sharp snaps, and slugs whistled over his head, chewed bits out of the tree next to him. He dove down onto his face, lay there.

He could hear Hook cursing shrilly, yelling orders at the driver. Liddell lay still for a moment, then parted the bushes. Hook and the driver were approaching cautiously, guns in hand. Liddell crawled back further into the bushes, pulled himself to his feet behind a tree.

"We split up. You go around that way, I'll go this," Hook snarled at the driver. "He's got no gun and we got to get him."

"The boss ain't going to like it if he gets away, Hook," the driver said.

"He ain't getting away," Hook promised.

Liddell could hear the cras.h.i.+ng of branches as the two men pushed their way into the wooded area. He squeezed back out of sight behind the tree, squinted against the darkness. To his left he could see the driver pus.h.i.+ng his way toward him. He moved around the tree, waited.

Suddenly, as the driver came abreast of him, Liddell jumped. He tried to get his arm around the man's throat to cut off any warning, missed. The driver yelled his surprise and struggled. Liddell had his gun hand, twisted it behind the other man's back, pulled him in front of him as a s.h.i.+eld.

A bush to the right seemed to belch flame. The man in Liddell's arms stiffened, jerked twice, then went limp. To the right he could hear the cras.h.i.+ng of bushes as Hook ran for the car. Liddell let the driver's body slump to the ground, wasted precious minutes fumbling in the dark for the dead man's gun. By the time he found it, he could hear the roar of the car as its wheels spun in the sand. Suddenly, it got traction, roared back toward the road. Liddell pushed his way out of the bushes, squeezed the trigger of his gun until it was empty. In the distance he could hear the roar of the car's motor, the scream of its tires as it skidded onto the road.

He went back to where the driver lay, turned him over on his back, lit a match. One of Hook's shots had caught him in the neck. It left a little black hole above the knot in his tie that had spilled a crimson stream down his s.h.i.+rt.

It only took one.

Liddell consulted the watch on his wrist, groaned when he realized he had less than an hour to reach the redhead. He headed for the road, didn't see another car or a place to telephone for over an hour and a half.

When he finally did reach an all-night drugstore, there was no answer from the redhead's apartment. The girl on the switchboard at Marlboro Towers couldn't remember whether Miss Varden had come in or not. Liddell slammed the receiver back on its hook, cursed vigorously. He dropped another coin in the slot, dialed police headquarters.

It was almost four o'clock when Johnny Liddell left the elevator at the third floor in Marlboro Towers, walked down to the redhead's door. He tried the k.n.o.b, found it unlocked pushed the door open. A uniformed cop, standing near the window, looked at him with no sign of enthusiasm as he walked in.

"Inspector Herlehy here? I'm Johnny Liddell."

The cop pointed to a closed door. "He's expecting you."

A bed lamp was burning, throwing a pale amber light over the bed. Mona Varden lay on the pink coverlet of the bed. One arm dangled to the floor; the other was thrown across her face, as though to ward off a blow. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear, and a pool of blood had formed on the rug next to the bed.

Inspector Herlehy of Homicide stood at the far side of the bed, chomping on the ever-present wad of gum. "Your tip came too late, Liddell," he grunted. He nodded to the bed. "She was like this when the boys got here."

Liddell nodded. "No trace of who did it?"

The inspector shrugged. "The lab boys are working at it." He pulled a fresh slice of gum from his pocket, denuded it of wrapper, folded it and stuck it between his teeth. "We thought you might be able to help."

A white-coated representative of the medical examiner's office walked over, stared down at the body and shook his head. "That was a pretty nifty dish until somebody decided to make hash out of it," he said. He handed Herlehy a receipt to sign, waited until it was initialled. "Thanks, Inspector. We'll take her along if you don't need her any more."

Herlehy nodded. He walked over to a window, stared down into the street below. Liddell walked around the bed, watched grimly while two men transferred the body from the bed to a stretcher, covered it with a sheet and walked out. When the door had closed behind them, Herlehy swung around. "Okay, Liddell, suppose you start talking."

"Let's go outside." He led the way into the living room, dropped into an easy chair, fumbled for a cigarette.

"What's your connection with the redhead?" Herlehy wanted to know.

"I never spoke to her before tonight. She contacted the office about six, wanted me to meet her at the club after the twelve o'clock show."

Herlehy pushed his broad-brimmed sheriff-type hat on the back of his head. "That can all be checked."