A Real Gone Guy, page 12
“Associate? I thought you said he was your client.”
“I first met Lorenzo when I was a junior partner in the law firm that handled his affairs.” Mason dug a cigarette holder from his breast pocket, screwed a cigarette into it, tilted it from the corner of his mouth. “Subsequently, he offered me a junior partnership in his enterprises, which I naturally accepted.”
Liddell watched the man touch a jeweled lighter to the cigarette, suck it to life. “You’re perfectly satisfied with the police version of how Lorenzo died?”
Mason frowned. “I don’t think I understand.”
“You accept the version that he was killed resisting a holdup?”
“Is there another version?”
Liddell shrugged. He got up, walked to the dresser, added some liquor to his glass. “At least one other. A woman friend of Hollister’s—that’s the holdup man-thinks Hollister was hired to kill Lorenzo.”
Mason pulled the cigarette holder from between his teeth, stared. “But that’s preposterous!”
Liddell shrugged, walked back to his chair. “I’m not saying it’s anything but a pipe dream. You asked me if there’s another version. That’s it.”
The attorney chewed on the mouthpiece of the lighter, shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”
“That makes it practically unanimous. Neither do the police.”
“This woman. Who is she?”
“A client.” Liddell ran the palm of his hand across his eyes. “This is even more preposterous. I don’t even know who she is.”
“And on the strength of that, you’ve been intruding into Mr. Lorenzo’s affairs? The woman’s obviously out of her mind.”
“I might have gone along with that, except for what happened to Denny Lyons,” Liddell nodded. “Only now I’m not so sure.”
“What has Miss Lyons to do with it?”
“Last night she called me. She indicated that she was willing to tell me a couple of things that happened the night Tommy was killed. Apparently she waited too long.”
“Preposterous,” Mason snorted.
“Preposterous to believe that someone would hate Lorenzo bad enough to want him killed?”
“I didn’t say that. Obviously, a man in Tommy’s position makes enemies. People are jealous, people try to—”
“Like Judge Taylor?”
The attorney’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You said lots of people hated Lorenzo because of his success. That’s often true of men who make a success. But I just asked you why should Judge Taylor hate him?”
“And if I say I don’t know?”
Liddell shrugged. “Then I’d say we’re both wasting our time sitting here sparring.” He finished his drink, set the glass on the floor alongside the chair. “And I don’t think you came over here to spar.”
“I came over here to stop you from prying into Mr. Lorenzo’s affairs.”
“And if I don’t?”
Mason stared at him. “You’re licensed to operate in this state. Maybe some of the people Tommy was able to do favors for will see to it that you no longer have that license.”
“Then I’ll really ream you,” Liddell snapped. “Before the ink got cold on the order revoking that license, I’d be working for a paper that hates Lorenzo’s guts. And there’s nobody big enough to stop that paper from printing what I write.”
The attorney sighed. “I didn’t say it would have to come to that.”
“Why are you so anxious to call me off?”
“I don’t think our holdings can stand the bad publicity that may result if you continue to stir things up. Tommy’s dead and can’t defend himself. Many of the things you will dig up may look worse than they actually were. To air all that dirty linen in public couldn’t help but hurt the organization he built up.”
“You didn’t answer my question about Judge Taylor.”
Mason examined the butt in his holder, shook it free. “I think I’ll change my mind. I’ll have some of that bourbon after all.” He waited until Liddell had crossed to the bureau and returned with a glass half filled with liquor. “I must warn you that any knowledge I have of the Taylor situation is at best secondhand.”
Liddell nodded. “Go ahead.”
Mason took a deep swallow, coughed. “Judge Taylor, as you know, was the judge who sentenced Tommy to the penitentiary. You knew that?” Liddell nodded, signaled for him to continue. “About three years ago, Judge Taylor resigned from the bench. He’s apparently a little psycho and has more than once made public threats against Tommy’s life.”
“Why?”
“His daughter committed suicide just before he retired. He seems to believe that Tommy was responsible.”
“But you don’t?”
The attorney shook his head. “I don’t see how it could be possible. When the girl’s body was posted, it developed that she was pregnant and Tommy had already been in jail a year by that time. Besides, to the best of my knowledge, he never met the girl. She was away at school when. Tommy was sentenced.”
“Yet, Lorenzo knew about it almost as soon as it happened. Almost as though he had been waiting for it to happen.”
“How can you know that?”
“I just left an ex-playmate of his, Carla Wallace. She visited him right after the girl killed herself and she says Tommy was beaming all over the place.”
Mason shrugged. “Carla is a little prejudiced.”
“She has a right to be. How about the fighter? The one who got his brains scrambled on Lorenzo’s orders because he looked at his girl?”
Mason crossed his knees, picked a piece of lint off his jacket, let it float to the floor. “Why do we have to go into all these people? The police are satisfied that Tommy was killed during a holdup. Why can’t you be?”
“A lot of reasons. Let’s say, for example, that I have a client who wants to find out what really did happen. For another, let’s say that I’m a little narrow minded. I don’t like people who try to make me a patsy.”
The attorney stared for a moment, his eyes widened. “The papers said the police were questioning a private detective. That was you?”
Liddell grinned glumly. “You’ll be disappointed to know that I had a foolproof alibi. So were the police.”
“Naturally, I’m very glad for you. But you must appreciate my position as well. I’m responsible for the Lorenzo enterprises and I can’t stand by and watch those properties being wrecked in what may be on your part a fruitless attempt to get revenge on a possibly nonexistent murderer. The publicity would ruin us in some instances—”
“Like for instance the Silver Swan enterprise?”
A film seemed to cover the other man’s eyes. He blew through the empty cigarette holder, seemed to be making up his mind. “What has Mr. Carter’s club to do with us?”
Liddell stood up. “I don’t think there’s any sense in our going any further. I know Lorenzo, not Carter, owned the Swan. And you’re too smart not to know that I know it.”
“I thought you probably did.” Mason dropped the holder into his breast pocket. “You can understand that if word did get out, the Swan’s license would be canceled immediately. First, because Tommy as an ex-convict was ineligible for the license, secondly because there was an undisclosed interest.” He dry washed his hands. “Carter has put the place on a very successful basis, and I’ve made an agreement with him to let him go on running it.”
“That gives Carter a motive, too.” Liddell grinned. “With Lorenzo alive, Carter was just a stooge, taking orders from a man he hated in order to keep doing something he loved. With Lorenzo dead, Carter’s practically back in business.”
“I’d sooner believe Herrick would be behind his death than Carter.” Mason shook his head. “You know Herrick’s background?”
Liddell grinned. “I sent him where he met Lorenzo.”
“Herrick was crazy about the Lyons girl. Maybe he figured that with Tommy out of the way he might stand a chance.”
“Would he?”
The attorney pursed his lips. “I’m just guessing, but offhand I’d say no. Denny Lyons wanted Tommy not only for his money, but because he was a celebrity. I think right to the end she was hoping he might marry her, although deep down inside she must have known.” He shrugged. “She kept seeing him.”
“Most cases the headache is finding somebody who hated the victim enough to kill him. In this one, the trick is going to be to find one who didn’t.”
“You won’t consider dropping this investigation, Liddell?”
Liddell shook his head, watched while the other man pulled himself to his feet. “Not a chance.”
“I was afraid of that. Well, there’s an old saying that if you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em.” He held out his hand. “If there’s anything I can do to help get this thing wrapped up, please let me know.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When the attorney left, Johnny Liddell sat in the big armchair, stared glumly at the closed door. After a while, he got up, walked over to the dresser, freshened his drink and ambled to the window. The hum of traffic ten stories below, the soft diffused lighting of the sky, the bright neons of the stores, the slow moving dots that were pedestrians took his mind off his troubles for a moment.
But perversely, the problem of who killed Tommy Lorenzo persisted in pushing all other considerations from his mind. He was uncomfortably aware that the deeper he got into the case and the closer he came to the killer, the less anxious he was to put the finger on him. He toyed with the idea of dropping the investigation, remembered the attempt to frame him for Denny Lyons’s murder, dropped the decision.
The telephone on the night table started to buzz. He glared at it for a moment, then shuffled over to it.
“Johnny? This is Muggs,” the receiver answered his grunt. “What are you doing that you can’t drop?”
“Nothing.”
“Meet us at Luigi’s. I think we’ve got a break at last.”
“Who’s us?”
“Jim and me. He’s in on it now. He dug up the break.”
Liddell grinned humorlessly. “You’re sure he’s not trying to put me on the spot for besmirching your reputation?”
“Oh, that.” He could almost picture the redhead’s perky grin. “He said to tell you he knows it’s the proper thing for him to go out and get a .38 for the occasion, but they cost too much for just one use.”
“Good.”
“Can you make it?”
“What time?”
There was a brief delay while Muggsy consulted the big newsroom clock. “I’ve got two more checks to make on a story I’m doing, then I can get away. Jim can, too. Give us, say, about twenty minutes, then another twenty to get there. Make it a half hour at Luigi’s. Okay?”
“Can’t you tell me what you’ve got?”
“I’d rather show you. We’ll get there as soon as we can.” Before he could protest, the line went dead. He stared at the receiver for a moment, then dropped it on the hook.
The cab dropped Johnny Liddell in front of an old brownstone house in the heart of a residential area in Brooklyn. There was no sign of a restaurant in the block except for the oversized garbage cans that blocked the areaway of the house.
The cabby swung around in his seat. “You sure this is the address, Cap? Don’t look like no restaurant around here.”
Liddell pushed a bill through the front window and waved away the change. “It’s a restaurant, all right. You remember it for your customers who want good food. It’s so good Luigi doesn’t have to advertise.” He slammed the cab door, crossed the sidewalk to a decorative iron grille leading to the basement apartment. He fumbled for the concealed bell, pushed it. After a moment, the door creaked open. A tall, amply proportioned woman stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Johnny.” She smiled her welcome. “Come in, come in. Is a long time since you come see Seraphine.” She put her hands on her ample hips coquettishly. “What’s the matter, Seraphine she lose her appeal?”
Liddell chucked her under the chins, walked past into the dining room. The walls had been broken out of what was once a basement apartment to make one huge room. In the far corner, an old-fashioned wood-burning stove encouraged a few pots to give off a tantalizingly spicy aroma. There were only two other customers lingering over coffee at red-checked-clothed tables. Neither Muggsy nor Jim Kiely was around.
“I’m expecting the Kielys, Seraphine,” he told her.
The fat woman nodded, her mustache adding brilliance to her toothy smile. “Miss Ronnie, she call. She say she be little bit late.” She winked. “Miss Ronnie, she worth waiting for, no? Besides, Seraphine has wine in the cupboard.” She rolled her eyes, pursed her lips, made an oval with thumb and forefinger. “Chianti. Real good chianti.”
“You make it sound irresistible. Besides, since Kiely’s going to get stuck with the check, the price is right.” He watched her waddle to the cabinet near the stove, return with a raffia-covered bottle, three glasses. She set them down at a table near the far wall, waved him over. Then she headed for the table where the last two customers dawdled, and started figuring a check with constant recourse to pudgy fingers.
Liddell poured himself some wine, settled back to wait. After a few minutes he had the dining room to himself as Seraphine escorted the other customers to the door. Even the chianti failed to wipe the bad taste of the case from his mouth. The chianti bottle was half empty by the time the buzzer on the grille door announced the Kielys’ arrival.
Jim Kiely stalked into the room, walked over to where Liddell sat. “I’ve been looking for you,” he growled. “Get on your feet.”
Liddell looked past the newspaperman to Muggsy. She shrugged helplessly. Liddell pushed the chair back, stood up.
Kiely swung at him, missed by inches, grinned. “Well, that’s that. The least a man can do, eh? Fight for his daughter’s honor.” He tossed his hat at a hook, pulled out a chair, looked at Liddell. “Well, come on, come on. Don’t stand there. Let’s get down to business.”
Liddell grinned at him, held a chair for Muggsy. “Glad you’re not mad at me, Jim.”
“Who’s not mad?” Kiely growled. “Did my best to cream you, didn’t I?” He dug a pipe and leather pouch out of his pocket. “Thought a bit about getting a horsewhip and doing it right. You got no idea how tough it is to get horsewhips these days.” He shook his head.
“Muggsy fill you in on what really did happen that night?”
“I never asked her,” Kiely stuck the bowl of a blackened briar into the pouch, started packing it with the tip of his index finger. “Just because a fat-headed cop named Herlehy starts trying to burn me up with a fairy tale’s no reason I’ve got to start sticking my nose into other people’s business. Just as long as it isn’t monkey business.” He tamped down the tobacco firmly.
“Muggsy was just giving me an alibi for the time Denny Lyons was killed.”
“It figured.” Kiely stuck the pipe between his teeth. “That’s what Herlehy thought, too, but there were a couple of things threw him off. When his man got to your place, he says, it looked on the level. You’d been there all night.” He scratched a wooden match, touched it to the pipe. “You want to leave it there, that’s okay. I know Muggs well enough to know she wouldn’t do anything without a good reason—even if it’s only being in love.”
Muggsy slapped his arm. “Cut it out, Jim, or you’ll have Seraphine crying into the manicotti. Didn’t you ever notice what big ears she has?” She got up. “I’d better give her a hand.”
Liddell shook a cigarette loose from a crumpled pack, stuck it between his lips. “I was set up for a patsy on the Lyons kill, Jim. I was there when the cops broke in.”
The newspaperman expelled a stream of grey-blue smoke.
“You were the guy that went down the fire escape, then?”
“As fast as I could. The real killer sapped me, spilled a fifth of liquor all over me to make it look as if I’d passed out. Then he called the cops and got out.” He caught Kiely’s hand, pulled the still burning match to his cigarette. “I had my hat on when he sapped me and I guess it saved me some. I came to just before the cops got there.”
Kiely blew out the match, tossed it into an ash tray. “Muggsy?”
“I called her on my way home, briefed her and asked her to meet me there to make it look as if I’d been in all night.”
“Why would anyone try to pin that kill on you? You knew Denny Lyons?”
Liddell shook his head. “Never saw her before that night. I went to her dressing room, started asking questions about Tommy Lorenzo. Somebody didn’t like that. They tried to shut her up and discourage me at the same time.”
Kiely rattled the juice in his pipe bowl. “Then you weren’t snowing me when you told me you thought there was something fishy about the Lorenzo kill?”
“I only had a client’s word for it then. Now I’m positive that Hollister wasn’t a stick-up man but a killer imported to punch Tommy’s ticket one way. Then Hollister was double-crossed by the guy who hired him and was killed by the cops trying to get away.”
“This client of yours? Who is it?”
Liddell chewed on his lip indecisively. “Her name’s Lee Chambers. She was Hollister’s common law wife.”
Kiely waited while Muggsy and Seraphine came over, loaded down with steaming dishes. He picked up a fork, took a small piece of manicotti and tasted it. He burned his tongue, swore under his breath.
“Is good,” Seraphine assured them. “You no mind if Seraphine go upstairs? Seraphine no sleep good last night. Luigi he snore.” She flashed a smile at them, waddled to the flight of stairs and climbed them with a loud snorting and puffing. After she had disappeared at the top of the landing, Kiely dropped the fork.
“To get back to this client of yours, any chance of my meeting her?”
Liddell shrugged. “As good a chance as I have. I’ve never seen her, don’t even know what she looks like.”
Kiely ground his teeth on his pipestem, stared at him. “Then that’s where we’re one up on you.” He reached into his pocket, brought out an envelope. “This was just wired in from BCI in Detroit. Note with it said it was a publicity picture of Lee Chambers when she worked a joint called the Black Cat out there.” He dumped a photograph from the envelope, held it out to Liddell.
