Masters Of Noir Vol Ii Part 3

"Pinky, my secretary, will verify." He took a deep drag on the cigarette, took it from between his lips, lifted a crumb of tobacco from the tip of his tongue. "She wanted help on something. She wouldn't talk there, asked me to meet her here."

"It doesn't make sense," Herlehy growled. "Why didn't she have you meet her before she went to the club-or even here after the show? Why drag you in to that upholstered sewer only to tell you to meet her here?"

"I don't know, she just-" He broke off, snapped his fingers. "Maybe I do at that. Maybe she just wanted to give me the package to hold. That's what it was, the package!"

Herlehy growled. "That clears everything up. What package?"

"It was about so big by so long." Liddell described it with his hands. "She said it was insurance that she'd be able to meet me."

"Where is it?"

Liddell crushed out the cigarette. "I stuck it down behind the cus.h.i.+ons in the car they were using to take me for a ride. It's-"

"It's gone," Herlehy groaned. "They've got that car stashed away someplace, and-"

"No. It wasn't their car. They socked it just to take me for a ride. Chance is Hook dumped it as soon as he got to town."

Herlehy motioned the uniformed cop over. "Take this down and phone it right in. I want it out on the wires immediately." He turned to Liddell. "Give him the details."

Liddell scowled in concentration. "It was a dark one-black or dark blue. Looked like a 1953 Lincoln to me. Chances are it has a couple of bullet holes in the back. I emptied a gun at it." He looked at Herlehy. "You get a make from the local cops on the driver?"

Herlehy shook his head. "Not yet. We will. Now, about this guy Hook. You make him?"

"It seems to me I know him from somewhere, but I can't put my finger on it. Give me a couple of hours with the nickname file and I'll make him. I never forget a face, inspector, and in his case it's going to be double in spades."

The uniformed patrolman answered a knock at the door. A tall, carefully tailored man stood in the hallway, a grey Stetson in his hand. He looked around curiously at the sight of the uniformed cop, raised his eyebrows at the presence of the other two.

"I'm Lee Morton of the Dispatch," Dispatch," he told no one in particular. "I have an appointment with Mona Varden." he told no one in particular. "I have an appointment with Mona Varden."

Herlehy tugged at his earlobe. "Lee Morton, eh? The gossip columnist?"

Morton nodded. His bright little eyes hopscotched around the room, missed nothing. "Mona Varden called me, said she'd have a real story for me tonight."

"Know what the story was about?" Herlehy wanted to know.

The columnist pursed his lips, shook his head. "She didn't like to talk over the phone. She often had good items for me and I'd pick them up here."

"Why? You were at the club tonight," Liddell told him. "I saw you there."

Morton grinned humorlessly. "I'm there almost every night. It's part of my job. But if Mona were seen talking to me, she'd be blamed for everything I printed." He looked Liddell over dispa.s.sionately. "You're Johnny Liddell, aren't you?"

Liddell nodded.

The columnist turned back to the homicide man. "I don't like to appear curious, Inspector, but perhaps it's not too much to ask what's going on? After all, it's not usual to keep a date with a night club singer to find the police force and the town's best-known private eye playing chaperone. Where's Mona?"

Liddell c.o.c.ked an eye as if he were figuring. "Just about now they're loading her onto a slab at the city morgue."

The grey hat fell from Morton's fingers, rolled on the floor. He picked it up, dusted it off mechanically with the palm of his hand. "Is that on the level?" he turned to Herlehy.

The homicide man nodded.

"Who did it?" the columnist demanded.

"That's what we're trying to find out, Morton," Herlehy growled. "Right at the moment we've got it narrowed down to nine million people, but by tomorrow maybe we'll be able to eliminate some of them."

Inspector Herlehy slumped in an armchair at police headquarters, watched Johnny Liddell leafing patiently through book after book of pictures. A door opened and a uniformed lieutenant walked in.

"Got something?" Herlehy wanted to know.

"I don't know, Inspector. We ran the nickname cards through, then we ran only the cards of short men. That cut it down to sixteen. From the m.o. file we ran through the known guns who use .45s and we cut it down to three. One's dead, the other's in Quentin." He tapped a card on his thumb nail. "This one doesn't sound like it."

Liddell looked up from the mug book. "Why not?"

"Never went in for killing. He's been up several times for jewel jobs and stickups. Never used the gun." He looked at the card. "Name's Lou Eastman, nickname's Hook."

Liddell swore softly, snapped his fingers. "I said he looked familiar, inspector. Our agency was on the VanDeventer jewel job about seven years ago, remember? Eastman was up for the job, wiggled free." He walked down the row of cabinets, pulled out a drawer, flipped through the pictures, stopped at one and scowled at it. "That's the guy, inspector. Hook Eastman."

Herlehy nodded to the lieutenant, got up, walked to the wall where a water cooler was mumbling softly to itself, and helped himself to a drink. He crumpled the cup in his fist, threw it at a waste basket. "Sure of that, Liddell? I remember that little rat. I wouldn't figure him for a killer. He's too yellow."

"He ran out, didn't he? It was Eastman, all right."

"Can't hurt to have a talk with him," Herlehy conceded. He walked back to the desk, punched a b.u.t.ton on the base of the phone. "Put out an APB on Hook Eastman, suspicion of a.s.sault with a deadly weapon. Get his description from Identification." He dropped the receiver on its hook, chewed on his thumb nail for a moment. "I don't get the connection between a heist artist like Eastman and a babe like Varden with her throat cut."

"Any word on the car?"

Herlehy shook his head. "Not yet. But we'll find it if it's in town. And I can't figure a city rat like Eastman dumping the car in the sticks and making his way back. He wouldn't feel safe unless he could disappear down a sewer or into a subway."

It was almost noon before the car was recovered.

Inspector Herlehy sat sleeping in his desk chair in his office, heels hooked on the corner of his desk, window shades drawn. Johnny Liddell lay sprawled on the big leather couch. When the phone shrilled, the inspector started, dropped his legs from the desk. He lifted the receiver from its hook, held it to his ear, growled into it. After a moment, he replaced the receiver, walked stiffly to the window, opened the blinds, spilled a yellow pool of sunlight into the office. He walked over to the small sink, splashed cold water into his face, dragged a comb through his hair.

Liddell rolled over onto his back, stared around the room. His eyes finally came to focus on the inspector. "What time's it?" he yawned.

"Near noon," Herlehy grunted. He ran the tips of his finger along the stubble on his chin. "Motor Vehicle picked the car up on Ca.n.a.l Street about an hour ago. Identification's been going over it for fingerprints. No soap."

Liddell slid his legs off the couch, sat up. "What about the package?"

"They found it behind the cus.h.i.+on. It's on its way up." He walked over, sank into his desk chair, stabbed at a b.u.t.ton on his desk. When a young patrolman stuck his head in the door, he said tiredly, "Get us a couple of coffees, will you, Ray?"

"One black," Liddell added.

The cop's head was withdrawn. The door closed.

Liddell tottered to the sink, doused his face and hair. He was drying them off on the towel when a knock came on the door and Hennessy of Motor Vehicle walked in. He grinned a h.e.l.lo at Liddell, dropped a familiar brown paper-wrapped package on the inspector's desk. "Right where you said it'd be, inspector."

Herlehy nodded. He picked up the package, turned it over curiously in his hand. Then he broke the string. "Let's see what all the shooting's about." The brown paper wrapper peeled away to reveal a canvas pouch loosely basted at the top. Herlehy ripped the thread with his nail, dumped the contents of the bag on his desk top.

A cascade of diamonds of all sizes flowed onto the desk.

Liddell tossed the towel at its hook, whistled. "I'll be d.a.m.ned."

Herlehy stirred the pile with a blunt forefinger. "At least it makes sense. It explains where Eastman fits into the picture." He picked up one of the larger stones, held it up to the light, murmured appreciatively.

Hennessy, the man from Motor Vehicle, closed his mouth. It had been hanging open since the diamonds first poured out. "You knew this was there all the time?"

"We weren't sure what was in it," Herlehy said. He scooped the stones back into their bag. "This is the same bag Varden gave you last night?"

Liddell nodded.

Herlehy reached into his drawer, found a rubber band, closed the neck of the pouch, dropped it on his desk top. "Tie this up the same way I do, Johnny?"

"The epidemic of jewel jobs?"

Herlehy nodded. "It figures. Most of the jobs were Cafe Society. Who's in a better spot to finger the jobs? While Varden was strutting around, she could have been in a swell spot to get a slant at the worthwhile ice those rich dames were sporting. Then she signaled somebody-"

"Eastman?"

Herlehy considered it, shook his head. "No, not Eastman. It'd have to be somebody that was there every night or could go there without being conspicuous. Eastman couldn't. As an ex-con, one of the boys on the vice squad would have spotted him if he made the bright lights too often."

"I better be getting back downtown, inspector," Hennessy put in. "Do I tell the boss about this?"

Herlehy nodded. "Tell him to keep it quiet until we get ready to break it."

The patrolman with the coffee pa.s.sed Hennessy on the way in. He deposited two containers of coffee on the desk.

Herlehy flipped the canvas bag at him. "Take this down to the Property Clerk and get me a receipt on it, Ray," he told him.

Liddell gouged the top out of his container, tasted it, burned his tongue and swore under his breath. "The lab boys didn't come up with anything in Varden's apartment?"

Herlehy shook his head. "Some guy who couldn't sleep saw a man knocking at her door, but it was only Morton, the newspaper guy. We knew about that. Outside of that, a dry well." He stirred his coffee with his finger. "If we could find Eastman and shake out of him who it was that gave him the orders to pick you up-"

"Why don't we work backwards? Who knew I was in to see Varden? Just the headwaiter, the guy she called Charles. He must have tipped Eastman."

Herlehy looked thoughtful. "A headwaiter, eh? He could fit the picture. He's in the club every night. He could be the one Varden signalled to. He-" The inspector scowled, shook his head. "It don't wash. Look, suppose Varden was fingering for a jewel mob. She decides to doublecross them and hold out a batch of stones for herself. Does it make sense that she'd let the head man know who she was giving them to for safekeeping?"

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-c.o.c.ktails. The Cowl Room-c.o.c.ktails. The easy chairs s.p.a.ced throughout the lobby were filled with men who perused their newspapers with a determination undampened by the noise around them. The easy chairs s.p.a.ced 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.

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."