A Real Gone Guy, page 13
“Now do you know her?” Muggsy wanted to know.
The private detective stared at it, wrinkled his brow. “I don’t exactly make her, but somehow she looks awful familiar.” He covered the lower portion of the face, studied it. Then he repeated the procedure with the upper half of the face. “Damned if I know from where.”
“She’s your client, but you’ve never seen her? No wonder Herlehy thinks you’re on tea. How the hell do you do business with somebody you’ve never even seen?”
“It ain’t easy,” Liddell admitted. He handed the picture to Muggsy. “Does she look familiar to you, too?”
Muggs shook her head. “Not particularly.” She studied the full-blown blonde with dark eyes, winced at the heavy application of make-up. “Of course, if I saw her with her face washed, it might make a difference.”
Liddell rubbed the palm of his hand across his eyes. “Did you ever have a feeling in connection with somebody like this? You know, another sense chiming in. You heard her singing or she was wearing a certain perfume or something like that? That’s the kind of a feeling I get from this picture.”
“You mean you’ve not only seen her, but you’ve felt her, smelled her or tasted her?” Muggsy snorted. “What’s the matter, can’t you keep track any more?”
“Cut it out, Muggs. You know what I mean.” He took back the picture, studied it further. “Chances are it’s since I took on the job. But the only women in the case so far are Denny Lyons and Carla Wallace.” He broke off, squinted at Kiely. “There it is again. I have a feeling it’s in connection with Denny. A chorus girl or a dancer in the show—”
Muggsy snapped her fingers. “The hatcheck girl. She’s a brunette now, but that’s a simple thing.” She covered her hair, nodded vehemently. “That’s who it is—the hatcheck girl.”
“At the Swan,” Liddell said. “She must have it figured that someone there was responsible for Hollister’s death. But who?”
Kiely smoked thoughtfully. “Does it have to mean that? Maybe she just got the job there because Lorenzo used to hang out there.”
Liddell shook his head. “It’s more than that. Everything seems to center there—the bodyguard who wasn’t the night Lorenzo got killed—the hatcheck girl that’s trying to get something on the guy who killed her man, the canary who got killed when she decided to sing.” He lit a cigarette from his, passed it to Muggs. “I don’t suppose you know that Dutch Carter doesn’t own the Swan. Lorenzo owned it.”
“The hell he did.” Kiely warmed his palm on the bowl of the pipe. “That should make a juicy story when it breaks.”
“If it breaks,” Liddell grunted. “By now Lorenzo’s lawyer knows I know about it and they’re probably working with the State Liquor Authority getting it straightened out.” He tasted his manicotti, sighed. “I hate to leave anything this good, but I’d better get over to the Swan and—”
“Wouldn’t do you any good,” Kiely told him. “The police have slapped a padlock on the joint until they finish their investigation into the Lyons killing. They’ve had the whole staff from the chef down on the griddle since noon.”
“Good. Then maybe they’ve got the hatcheck girl on ice. If I can talk to her and find out what she really knows, we might have something.” He looked to the newspaperman. “You can fix it for me to see her, can’t you?”
“I guess so.” Kiely walked across the room to a pay phone on the back wall. He dropped a coin in the slot and dialed a number. They could see his lips moving, then he dropped the receiver back on its hook and rejoined them.
“She still there?”
Kiely shook his head. “Didn’t show for questioning. The cops have an APB out on her.”
“Another dry well,” Liddell groaned.
“Not too dry. Know who she’s down on the records as? Herrick’s common law wife. He didn’t show for questioning either. When Herlehy sent a car for them, they’d blown the coop.”
“How about Dutch Carter?”
Kiely shrugged. “Very co-operative, I guess, but that won’t stop them from keeping a padlock on the Swan until they get what they’re after.”
“Where does Carter hole out?”
Kiely spooned the manicotti. “Why Carter?”
“I want to have a word with my client, remember? Who’s more likely to know where Herrick’s hiding than Carter?”
The newspaperman tasted the dish in front of him, approved. “He used to keep a place in the Parrott House over on East End.” He looked to Muggsy. “He still there?”
“Far’s I know.” Muggsy chewed at her full lower lip. “Why should Carter tell you where Herrick is, Johnny? You’ve caused him and his business enough grief already.”
“He’ll talk,” Liddell nodded. “Particularly if I can get to him before the softening up the cops gave him wears off.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Parrott House was a huge apartment house on East End Avenue. Johnny Liddell crossed the lobby to an ornate registration desk where an impeccably dressed man was absorbed in adjusting the edge of a cuff that peeked from the end of his dark jacket.
“Dutch Carter. What floor’s he on?” Liddell wanted to know.
“Penthouse A.” The clerk raised his eyes, studied Liddell from behind discolored, triangularly shaped sacs. “I’ll have to announce you.”
Liddell reached into his pocket, brought out a bill, folded it suggestively. “It’s all right. I want to surprise Carter.”
The clerk eyed the bill, made no effort to pull his hand back as Liddell slid it across the counter. “I don’t know, sir. He has company. Another gentleman.”
“It’ll be all right.” Liddell brought another bill from his pocket, slid it across the counter. “I’ll tell him I didn’t even stop at the desk.”
The clerk folded the bills, stowed them away in his vest pocket. “I guess there’d be no real harm—” He plucked at his lower lip. “You will tell him you neglected to stop by the desk?”
Liddell nodded, walked to the end of the lobby past a bank of elevators to one labeled “Penthouse.” He pushed a red button on the panel, leaned back against the wall. The elevator sighed to a noiseless stop at the penthouse, the doors slid open silently. Across the hall, a metal door had a gilt “A” stenciled on it.
There was no bell; Liddell rapped at the door with his knuckles. The door opened, Dutch Carter stood in the doorway, a glass in his hand. He frowned when he recognized Liddell, watched the private detective with narrowed eyes as Liddell walked past him into the living room.
“Come in, by all means come in,” he snapped sarcastically.
A man was sitting in an upholstered chair on the far side of the room. Liddell recognized him as Sam Mason, Lorenzo’s lawyer.
“I didn’t know you had company, Dutch,” Liddell told him.
“You’re a liar,” the night club man told him pleasantly. “The old fruit at the desk must have told you. How much did it cost to get past him?”
“Ten.”
“You’re spoiling him,” Carter growled. “It usually only costs cops and reporters half that.” He nodded to Mason. “You know Sam Mason?”
“We’ve met,” Mason drawled. “I had a little talk with Liddell earlier this evening, trying to persuade him to apply his well developed curiosity to other projects than the affairs of Mr. Lorenzo.”
“Discourage this shamus?” Carter grunted. “That’s a real dry well.” He turned to Liddell, pointed to a portable bar that showed signs of having had a busy evening. “Help yourself. I’ve had a very tough day. Lifting an ice cube would floor me.”
Liddell crossed to the bar. “I’m surprised to see you here, Mason. You keep real bad hours.”
“We’ve got a very poor union. As a matter of fact, Carter sent for me. What’s your excuse?”
Liddell dropped some ice into his glass, washed it down with bourbon. “I heard Dutch was having some trouble with the cops. Thought I might be able to help.” He softened the drink with some water from a pitcher.
“That’d be the day,” Carter snorted. “If it wasn’t for you and your long nose, there wouldn’t be any trouble with the police.” His eyes narrowed curiously. “But just for the record, how could you help me?”
“Maybe I could find Herrick for you.”
The corners of the night club man’s lips twisted upward, dimples dug white trenches in his cheeks. “Maybe that wouldn’t be a favor.”
Liddell considered it, nodded. “That figures. When they do get him they may persuade him to tell why you let an ex-con hang around the place. It could even cost you your license if they get narrowminded about it.”
Carter lowered his eyes to his glass, walked over to the bar and turned his back while he freshened his drink. “Who knew he was an ex-con?”
“You. Hell, you can smell a con a mile off. In the old days you wouldn’t stand for a creep like that in the same building. You think the cops don’t know that?”
Carter turned around. “Then maybe you have some idea why I let him hang around?”
“Yeah. You were afraid he might spill that you don’t own the Silver Swan, that Tommy Lorenzo owned it and just let you run it.”
The hard smile drained from Carter’s mouth, his eyes hopscotched from Liddell to the man in the chair.
The lawyer shrugged. “He’s been talking to Carla Wallace.”
Carter cursed bitterly. “He knows it, you know it, Herrick knows it, she knows it, the whole goddamn world knows it. I might as well take ads in the evening papers and let the marks know it.”
“It’s not quite as bad as that, Dutch.” Mason cooled the palms of his hands around his glass. “Liddell doesn’t work for the Liquor Authority and I’m sure that if we help him settle his problems, he won’t be interested in adding to ours.” He cocked an eyebrow at the private detective.
“Always open to suggestions.”
“As I told you, I want Lorenzo’s name kept out of this as much as possible. That goes particularly for the Silver Swan—some of his financial associates might not think too highly of his investing frivolously in a night club.” He stared at Liddell thoughtfully. “You can understand that?”
“I’m not after the Swan’s license, I’m after Herrick.”
“Why?”
Liddell pulled an envelope from his pocket, dumped the picture of Lee Chambers into his hand. He held it toward Dutch Carter. “Make her?”
Carter took the picture, held it under the light, frowned at it for a moment. “I don’t know. Seems like I’ve seen the broad, but—”
“Suppose she had black hair?”
The puzzled look on Carter’s face dissolved. “The hatcheck girl at the club!”
Liddell took the picture from between his fingers, returned it to the envelope. “Herrick’s shack-up. Right?”
“And your elusive client?” Mason wanted to know softly. He pursed his lips, shook his head. “Then there really was one. My apologies.”
“What do you want with the broad?” Carter wanted to know.
Liddell stared at him for a moment. “Maybe I want to give her her money back and bow out of this case.”
The man in the chair set down his glass. “Now you’re making sense, Liddell,” he approved. “You must realize that your theory about Mr. Lorenzo’s death was ridiculous.”
“No. I’ve just changed my mind about what they should do to his killer. My present opinion is that they should give him a medal.”
Carter looked from one to the other. “What the hell are you two talking about, clients, who killed Lorenzo and all that?” He glared at Liddell. “You told me you were looking into Lorenzo’s death for an insurance company.”
Mason pulled himself to his feet. “He was hired by your hatcheck girl to prove that Mr. Lorenzo’s killer was not a holdup man but a hired gunman. In other words, Mr. Lorenzo’s death was not just an accidental killing but a cold-blooded bought-and-paid-for homicide. That’s right, Liddell?”
Liddell grinned. “I think Dutch would dig it better if you just called it a contract hit.”
The night club man stared at him, his lower jaw sagging. “That’s nuts.” His voice lacked assurance. “The papers said this guy Hollister lifted Tommy’s wallet and when the cops broke in—”
“I read Superman in the papers every night, but that doesn’t say I’m going to put on a cloak and step out second story windows.”
Mason picked up his hat from a nearby table, smoothed the crown with the flat of his hand. “Well, this is where I came in. I can’t do anything about getting the Swan reopened sitting around here discussing comic strips. I’ll talk to you in the morning, Dutch.” He nodded to Liddell. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around as well, Liddell.” He walked to the door, left without a backward glance.
Carter took a deep swallow from his glass, sank onto a couch, stared at Liddell. “You leveling?”
Liddell nodded.
“You know what that means?” Carter growled. “That means this Central Division dick, the guy who put the hit on the gun, he was in on the deal. Only, that don’t figure because I know this dick and he don’t take.”
“That’s the way I had it figured first, Dutch, only I was wrong. There’s another way, a surer way. You call the cops, tell them a dangerous killer’s holed out in a room and send them in shooting. That’s what our boy did.”
“So why was the canary’s neck twisted?”
“She knew who was behind it. It wasn’t Hollister who talked her into getting rid of the bodyguard that night. She didn’t know Hollister from a hole in the ground. Whoever hired him fixed it up for her to give him a clear field.”
Carter considered it, shook his head. “It don’t figure. Why should Denny string along with a killer? What’d she have to gain?”
“Maybe she didn’t have anything to gain. Maybe she figured to have plenty to lose.”
“How?”
“Maybe Lorenzo was getting ready to turn her out to pasture. I met one of his ex-girl friends today. From what it looked like, Lorenzo didn’t figure any guy could follow him and he made damn sure very few would try.”
“Yeah, Mason said you saw Carla.” The night club man rubbed the heel of his hand along his chin. “Maybe you’re right, but in my book Denny was a lot smarter than Carla—a whole lot smarter.”
“Then we’re back to why did she cover for the killer?”
“What the hell are you looking at me for?” Carter growled.
“I was just thinking—Hollister, the gun, came from Detroit. In the old days, you had a pretty good in with the Purple Gang out there. Interesting coincidence, isn’t it?”
Carter slammed his glass down, stood up. “So then I kill my meal ticket. You nuts? Without Denny Lyons that joint wouldn’t draw flies.”
“Maybe you had no choice. Maybe she was shaking you down.”
A mirthless grin dug trenches in Carter’s cheeks, failed to reach his eyes. “Me? Lyons wouldn’t give me the sweat off her brow. Shake me down for what? Money?” he snorted. “She wanted money from me like she wanted a twisted neck. Anybody hired that gun, Denny did.”
“You just said she liked money. Why would she set fire to Fort Knox?”
“You said you saw what happened to a game he got tired of playing? You seen one of his ex-broads you seen ‘em all. Maybe Denny was making sure she didn’t end up in the gutter with the rest of them.”
“Why didn’t she leave?”
“You didn’t know the broad. She wanted to be social. She kept hoping Tornmy’d break down and marry her. She wanted it so bad she could taste it. She’d even have let him spit in her eye if he’d let her shake her bustle around as Mrs. Tommy Lorenzo. Society and fame—for that she’d take anything.”
“You figure she saw she was digging a dry well and got out before he put her out?” Liddell pursed his lips. “You think she’d have the connections to hire a pro like Hollister to make the hit?”
“She knew her way around, that broad.”
Liddell drained his glass, set it down. “That would explain everything except one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Who killed her?”
“Maybe Danny Herrick did.”
“Why?”
Liddell shrugged. “Maybe he knew she had Tommy knocked off and was shaking her down. He took a deep swallow out of his glass. “He saw you talking to her and he gets excited, figures maybe she’s setting him up as a patsy for the kill. Maybe he follows her home that night and knocks her off when she gets tough.”
Liddell considered it, shrugged. “There’s one guy who could tell us how close that is to being right.”
“Herrick?”
“Yeah. Now for the $64,000 question. Where do I find him?”
Carter didn’t raise his eyes from his glass. “What makes you think I’d know?”
“Where is he?”
Carter appeared to reach a decision, drained his glass and set it down. “He has a hideaway a little way upstate. It’s a joint run by a friend of his. He’s always bragging he’s got a ready-made hole to duck into.”
“How do I get there?”
“Out Route 22 past Townsend. It’s a joint called Billie’s. You go out there, you want to go heeled. It’s a real tough setup.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Billie’s turned out to be a sprawling, peeled-log cabin set back about fifty feet off Route 22, with plenty of parking space in front. There was a clustered collection of parked cars, late model and jalopy, mud stained and gleaming. Overhead, a flickering neon that chattered ceaselessly to itself spilled a red pool out toward the road, dyed the drooping branches of the pines that sheltered the cabin.
Johnny Liddell swung off the road, parked the Buick alongside a stripped-down hotrod, crossed the gravel to the entrance. He stood in the doorway for a moment, waited until his eyes accustomed themselves to the dimness. It was a typical teen age hangout. To the left, a long bar was presided over by a cadaverous man wearing a vest and no tie. Beyond was the main room, a postage-stamp-sized dance floor ringed by tables set so closely that to pass among them the bar-girls had to rub thighs and buttocks against the shoulders of the male patrons.
