Johnny Liddell's Morgue, page 14
“What’s his weak spot?”
The managing editor shook his head. “If he had one, we’d have put the finger on him years ago.” He knocked the dottle out of the pipe, pulled a pouch from his pocket. “The guy can’t be touched. He’s got too much on the right people.” He dug the pipe bowl into the pouch, started to pack it with his index finger. “You better make tracks. By the way, what put him on your tail?”
“Remember the Benson case?”
Lewis nodded. “The copper who was supposed to have killed himself?”
“He didn’t. He was murdered and made to look like he did the Dutch.”
The managing editor scratched a match, touched it to the pipe bowl. “Figured as much. Can you prove it?”
Liddell shook his head. “His sister tried to. She went to work for one of Zito’s stooges. Got her hands on a copy of Zito’s ice list. Her brother’s name wasn’t on it.”
“Can she prove it?”
Liddell grinned glumly. “She had her throat cut last night in a tourist court up near Armonk. I got the list back from Angelo — the creep that runs the Dude Ranch up there. Incidently, get a flash on him?”
Lewis consulted the stack of galleys at his elbow, shook his head. “Should I have?”
“You will. Anyway, two of Zito’s goons took me out of my office this morning and they went over it with a fine-tooth comb. I haven’t got the list any more.”
The managing editor sighed, took a deep drag on his pipe, formed a blue cloud of smoke with pursed lips. “See what I mean?” He shook his head. “Neither you nor I have a prayer of a chance of going up against Zito.”
“How about his babe?”
Lewis ridged his brows. “His babe?”
“The one that testified before the crime commission. The big black-haired blister that wouldn’t even give them her name.”
“Mary Lister? She’s not Zito’s babe. Hell, that hot pepper would burn him to a crisp.”
“What’s the tie-in?” Johnny wanted to know.
Lewis shrugged. “She used to run errands for the Syndicate. Carried a lot of orders and messages that couldn’t be trusted to writing or telephone wires. Every time she visited a city, some hood got knocked off. She was pretty valuable to the boys.”
“And now?”
“They’ve put her out to pasture.”
Liddell looked thoughtful. “Gal like that should know plenty.”
“But plenty. Why do you think she’s still alive? She knows too much.”
“That’s usually fatal.”
The managing editor grinned humorlessly. “Not with little Mary. She saw too many guys get theirs — guys who knew a lot more than she did. So she took out life insurance.”
“Meaning?”
“The way I understand it, she’s planted photostatic copies and full confessions naming names, places and dates with about ten people around the country. The day anything happens to her, they’re delivered to the FBI and about twenty of our top hoodlums keep a date with the electric chair.”
Liddell pursed his lips, whistled soundlessly. “She sounds like the kind of gal I’d like to meet.”
“You’re wasting your time, Johnny. She wouldn’t crack. Why should she? She’s sitting too pretty.”
Liddell stood up. “You’d be surprised how persuasive I can get.”
The managing editor took his pipe from between his lips, tapped at his teeth with the stem. “It’s a dry run, Johnny. Even if she wanted to talk, she couldn’t. They’ve got as much on her as she has on them. You mentioned Benson. Ever meet him?”
Liddell shook his head.
“Nice, tall, good-looking kid. He turned the charm on Mary. Thought he could get enough dope out of her to smash the top mob. He was a smart cop.”
Liddell shrugged. “Not too smart. They got to him.”
“Ever wonder why a smart cop got himself into a position where he could be knocked off and have it made: to look like suicide? And with no signs of a struggle?”
“Go on.”
“Figure it out for yourself. He knew he was playing with quick death. Yet, the guys who were out to hit him get their hands on his gun to do the job with. What’s it sound like to you?”
“It sounds like he should have taken his gun to bed.”
Lewis nodded. “It sounds like that to me, too. Don’t forget, Johnny. Mary Lister’s specialty is putting guys on the spot. There were twenty-eight gang killings in the past five years — and all twenty-eight were playing footsie with little Mary before they stopped the big one.”
“Where do I find her?”
Lewis stared at him for a moment, shrugged. “No use trying to talk you out of it?”
Liddell shook his head.
“Okay. She’s got the penthouse in Barkley Towers.”
The Barkley Towers was an expensive pile of rocks and plate glass at the river end of 57th Street. Johnny Liddell crossed a modernistic lobby furnished with brightly colored couches and chrome chairs which complemented the soft pastel carpeting.
He headed for the elevator bank labeled Penthouse, pushed the top button. After a moment, the car slid to a noiseless stop, the doors opened. He stepped out into the ankle-deep pile of the rug, crossed to the steel door leading to the penthouse.
He knocked, waited. On the second knock, he heard sounds from within the apartment. The door opened an inch.
“Who are you looking for?” The voice was low, sultry, still retained a faint trace of a southern accent.
“My name’s Liddell. I’m looking for Mary Lister.”
There was a slight pause. “What for?”
“It’s about a mutual friend. A man named Benson. He’s dead.”
The door closed. He could hear the sounds of a chain being removed, then it swung wide open. “Come in.” The sultriness of her voice hadn’t quite prepared him for what he saw. She was tall, utterly striking in her beauty. Her hair was silky black, caught behind the ears by a blue ribbon, allowed to cascade down over her shoulders. Her lips were full, wet and soft looking. She wore a tight-fitting dressing gown that clung seductively to the well-formed, full bosom, the rounded thighs and hips.
She waited until Liddell had walked past her, closed the door. “Who sent you here?”
“Nobody. I’m trying to clear Benson’s name. You’re the only one left that can help me.”
She ran the tips of her fingers across her forehead. “You’re sure Al Zito isn’t behind your coming?”
Liddell slowly shook his head.
The girl led the way in to a sitting-room. The gown was drawn tightly across her hips, seethed rhythmically as she walked. She motioned him to the couch. “I knew Benson. I knew him well. We were getting ready to go away together when they did it to him.” She caught her full lip between her teeth. “He never killed himself.”
“Can you prove it?”
The brunette shrugged, the sway of her breasts traced patterns against the fabric of her gown. “What good would it do? They’d kill me.”
Liddell shook his head. “Not if we can smash them first. You’ll always be in danger until we do. That’s why I came to you.”
“You mean you’d go up against them alone?”
“If I have to.”
The brunette turned the full power of her green eyes on him, took in the rugged jaw, the heavy shoulders. She seemed to like what she saw. “I believe you would.” She pursed her lips, then nodded. “I’ll play along.” She reached over, picked up a decanter and two glasses. She poured some liquor into each, handed one to Liddell. “We’ll need luck.” She lifted her glass.
Liddell sniffed at the glass, tasted it. It tasted as good as it smelled. He drained his glass. The girl followed suit, coughed, spilled her glass down the front of her gown.
“Damn!” She set her glass down. “I won’t be a second. Let me get into something fresh.” She smiled, disappeared in the direction of the bedroom.
Liddell slid out of his jacket, tossed it across a chair, folded his shoulder holster over it. Then he went back, stretched out on the couch.
He was on his second cigarette when she returned. She had changed the robe for a nightgown that brought a catch to his throat. She was full-hipped and had long legs. Her stomach was flat. She walked over to where he sprawled on the couch.
“As long as we’re going to be partners — ” She smiled lazily, looking down at him.
He sat up, reached up, ran his hands over the smoothness of her hips, the flat of her back. She sank to her knees, her lips sought his, covered them hungrily. Her hands were at the back of his neck, her nails digging into his shoulders.
Gently, he got up from the couch, pulled her to her feet. Her eyes were glazed, her lips wet, shining. “I’m crazy for big men,” she murmured. Her mouth sought his again.
After a moment, he held her away, consulted his watch.
“Am I boring you?” she pouted.
“Never, baby.” He checked his watch again. “I just want to know when fifteen minutes are up.”
“Why?”
Liddell grinned. “I figure that’s how long it would take a couple of guns to get across town from Zito’s place.”
The girl’s lids half-covered her eyes, her teeth glistened through half-drawn lips. “What are you talking about?”
“The telephone call you made to Al Zito, telling him you had me on the spot. Just like Benson.”
“You’re crazy,” she snarled. “If that’s what you think, get out of here. Get out!”
Liddell made no move. He looked at the girl, at her beauty. “It’s not that easy, baby,” he told her. “I can’t keep running forever. Sooner or later there’s got to be a showdown.”
“You think you can buck the Syndicate?” she sneered. “They’ll break you in two. Just like they break everybody that tries to buck them.”
Liddell nodded. “That’s why it’s got to be smashed no matter who gets hurt.”
The brunette backed up to the chair where his .45 lay in its holster, “I’ve heard that song before But the ones who sang it are all worm food. I’m still around. So is the Syndicate.”
“And you fingered the ones that sang the song.”
“That’s what I get paid for.” She swept her arms around the apartment. “I like living like this. You think I’d let you or anyone else stand in the way of it? What’s it mean to me if some jerk gets out of line and has to get hit? Sure, I finger them. And you’re right about me calling Al Zito. He told me to keep you here.”
She ran her cupped hands under her breasts, then down over her stomach, along her thighs. She licked her lips. “You can’t live forever, so — Her eyes widened at the sight of the .38 that had suddenly appeared in his hand. “What are you going to do?”
“There’s a forty-five in the holster, baby. Get it.”
“What for?”
“I’m going to give you the chance you never gave the guys you bird-dogged. I’m going to give you the first shot. Then, I’m going to do something that should have been done years ago. I’m going to smash the Syndicate.”
“You can’t. Look, be reasonable. I’ll get you out of here. You can go down the back stairs. They’ll never get you. They’ll — ”
“There’s nothing personal in it, baby. If it would do any good to take you in, I would. But you’d be out before the ink got dry.”
“You’ll never get away with it. Zito has connections higher than you’ll ever reach.”
Liddell nodded. “That’s just it. They won’t come out of the woodwork until those letters of yours reach the FBI and the police.”
The color seeped out of the brunette’s face, leaving her makeup dark patches against the pallor. She grabbed for the .45, was squeezing the trigger almost before it was out of the holster. Liddell heard a lamp smash at his ear, felt the impact as one of the heavy slugs hit his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger. The little .38 jumped in his hand.
The brunette stiffened, went up on her toes. A bright red stain appeared on the front of the gown. She looked down incredulously, dropped the .45, grabbed at her middle.
She went to her knees, fingers laced over the wound. “You shouldn’t have done it, Johnny Liddell.”
“I had to. There’s a mad dog running loose in this city and he’s got to be stopped no matter who gets hurt. It was the only way I could.” He caught her as she fell forward, eased her to the floor. After a moment, he got up, walked to the phone.
He dialed the Dispatch, asked for the managing editor. “Lewis? This is Liddell. You’d better contact the FBI and tell them to watch their mail for the next few days.”
He dropped the receiver on its hook, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The phone shrilled at his elbow. He lifted its hook, held it to his ear.
“Mary. This is Joey. We’re coming up. Keep him away from his gun.”
There was a click as the receiver was tossed on the hook. Liddell hung up on his end, picked up his coat and gun, headed for the back staircase, shoulders held straight.
A GAME OF MURDER
JOHNNY LIDDELL checked his watch with the big four-faced clock over the information booth, found he was six minutes slow. Grand Central Terminal was jammed with commuters on their way from Westchester and Connecticut to their midtown offices and shops. Liddell bucked the crowd, elbowed his way down to Track 36, where the Twentieth Century was in. By the time he got there, a stream of travelers was already headed up the familiar red carpet. Liddell flipped a cigarette into his mouth, squinted down the dimness of the ramp in search of Muggsy Kiely.
He scratched a match into flame, touched it to the end of his cigarette. He was just blowing it out when the girl bumped into him. He had a fleeting glance at a small, pert face, a shock of coppery red hair, a pair of wide, frightened blue eyes.
He dropped the match, caught her as she stumbled.
“Quick. Stand in front of me. Put your arms around me and kiss me.” Her voice was almost inaudible. “Please!” she begged.
Liddell dropped his cigarette to the floor, ground it out. He looked into the wide blue eyes, searching for evidence of a rib. “What’s the gag?”
“Please don’t ask questions. Just kiss me,” she pleaded.
“Never let it be said Liddell deserted a damsel in distress,” he shrugged. He slid his arm around her waist, kissed her. Her mouth trembled against his for a moment. Then, she placed her palms against his chest, pushed him away. “That’s enough.”
“Not for me, baby,” Liddell grinned. He put his face toward hers, but she turned away. He dropped his arm from her waist, scowled at her. “What the hell’s this all about?”
The redhead kept looking over her shoulder as though she expected to see some fearsome thing. “It was a man. He was following me. I came here to lose him.”
Liddell looked around. “See him any place?”
She shook her head. “That’s why I wanted you to kiss me. I thought he might pass us by looking for a girl alone.”
Liddell grinned ruefully, sighed. “Me and my fatal charm. Liddell, the red herring.”
“Liddell?” The girl eyed him with new interest. “Are you Johnny Liddell?” She was still frightened, but there seemed to be new hope in her eyes. “If I need you, can I call you?”
Liddell nodded. “Any hour of the day or night. Our services are always available. Have tuxedo, will travel.”
“I’d better be going now. Thanks a lot.” With a last look over her shoulder, the redhead melted into the crowds streaming down the ramp toward the Hotel Roosevelt.
Liddell felt a tug on his sleeve, turned to face Muggsy Kiely. “Muggs! Am I glad to see you.” He tried to kiss her, got pushed away.
“What was that?” Muggsy nodded her head in the direction the redhead went. “The night shift going off so the day shift can take over?”
“I never saw the girl before in my life,” he protested. “Honest, Muggs.”
Muggsy’s lips formed an unbelieving “No?” She dabbed at Liddell’s lips with her handkerchief, stared at the red stain with a moue of distaste. “She was just passing by and couldn’t resist your manly beauty, no doubt?”
“Believe it or not, that’s what happened.”
“Still got your watch?”
Liddell groaned. “There you go again. Thinking women love me only for my money.” He tweaked her nose playfully. “How about you?”
The mock frown on her face softened into a grin. “There isn’t that much money around.” She reached up, caught him around the neck, kissed him. He ran his eyes over her, from the fluffy poodle cut to the smart sandals, with appropriate stops on the way. He caught up her bags, hooked his arm in hers, headed for the Vanderbilt Avenue cab ranks.
The worn traveling clock on his night-stand table said 2:15, the darkness of the room testified to that being a.m. The pounding on the door got louder, more determined. Liddell estimated the chances of whoever it was going away, lost the decision, swung his feet out of bed, found a bathrobe and slippers.
“Keep your shirt on,” he called out. “I’m coming.”
The pounding stopped. Liddell shuffled from the bedroom, through the living-room, opened the door. The little redhead from the station stood there. As soon as the door was opened, she slid through, closed it behind her. “You told me if I needed help to come,” she told him. “I need help badly.”
“You’d better sit down. You look like you could use a drink.” Liddell led the way to the sofa. He cleared off a pile of papers and a book, watched the girl drop wearily onto the cushion.
She was about 25, he decided, weighed in the neighborhood of 115 pounds with not an ounce of it wasted or misplaced. Her face was unnaturally white, her makeup standing out in blots on her cheeks. A thin network of lines under her eyes testified to the fact that she was near exhaustion. Her sensuous lips drooped. “I didn’t know where else to come.”
Liddell nodded, disappeared into the kitchenette, came back with a bottle, some ice, two glasses. “You’d better have a touch of this.” He set a glass down on the coffee table, tilted the bottle over it, dropped in a couple of ice cubes. “It’ll make you feel better.”
The redhead took the glass, held it to her lips. Her hand shook so that the glass clinked against her teeth. She drained the glass, set it down. She made an attempt at a smile, almost made the grade. “Thanks.”
