A Short Bier, page 16
Nothing was said until Emily and the judge were settled in the leather chairs in his private office. The judge settled back, cleared his throat nervously.
“I probably should have told you this morning. But it was so early and the news you brought was so shocking,” he began. He paused to wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.
Johnny Liddell nodded his encouragement, brought a bottle of bourbon from his bottom drawer. “Something did happen after I left,” he prompted.
The judge looked unhappy, nodded. “The girl, Miss Stanton, raised a scene. Kept making threats of what she’d do if Madden were to go through with his plans to marry Emily — ” He eyed the bottle. “I think I might have a small drink, if you don’t mind. To take off the chill.”
Liddell looked to the blonde inquiringly. She shook her head. “Go on, Judge.” Liddell brought two glasses from his lower drawer, walked over to the sink, washed them out, left a finger of water in each. “She made threats. And Madden?”
The old man licked at his lips again. “He told her she wouldn’t walk away from it. Those were the very words he used.”
Liddell poured some liquor into each of the glasses, held one out to the white-haired man. “He was very angry. Very angry.” He took a swallow from the glass, coughed. “I kept him there, trying to calm him down. I — I didn’t exactly tell you the truth about his man either. Madden sent him to find out where the girl had gone. A little before two-thirty the man called, said she was at the Dorset — where she lived. Madden went tearing out.”
Johnny Liddell cocked an eye at the man in the chair, was about to ask more details when there was the sound of a slamming outer office door, the door to the inner office burst open. Al Madden stood in the doorway, hand in pocket.
His eyes darted from Liddell to the girl, came to rest on the old man. “I’ve been looking for you,” he spat. As he started into the office, the front of the judge’s coat seemed to burst into flame. The roar of a .38 reverberated through the office and the acrid smell of gunpowder stung their nostrils. The slug staggered Madden, the second shot dropped him.
The blonde screamed, covered her eyes with her hands. By the time Johnny Liddell reached him, Al Madden was dead. Liddell lifted his eyes from the dead man to the shaking figure of the judge. “Nice shooting.”
The judge pulled the .38 from his pocket, looked at it as if he had never seen it before. “I — I haven’t fired a gun in years,” he mumbled.
“You sure haven’t forgotten how.” Johnny Liddell went through Madden’s pockets, brought out a snub-nosed .38, laid it on the floor. “How come you came heeled today?”
“I was afraid. After you left, Madden called. He said the police were looking for him. He wanted me to swear he was with me until after four.” The judge reached over, dropped the gun on the desk. He got up, walked to the girl, stood with his hand on her shoulder. “I realized then he was the killer. You were right.” He lost a fight to keep his eyes from the bundle on the floor. “I told him I wouldn’t do it, that I’d tell the truth.”
“That was like spitting in a tiger’s eye.” Liddell lifted his glass of bourbon, handed it to the girl. “Take a good swallow. You’ll feel better. “What else did he say?”
“He said he had to get rid of the girl. She could have put him in the electric chair and that I had as much to lose as he did if they pinned it on him. I — I told him I wanted no part of it, that I was going to accept your offer of help.” He licked at his lips. “He told me that if I tried to reach you or the police, the only place I could be reached would be at the morgue. He had nothing to lose.”
“That why you shot?”
The judge shrugged. “It was an automatic reflex. I saw him standing there with his hand in his pocket. I — I thought of all those gangster pictures I’d seen — ” He rubbed his hands across his eyes. “I — I guess my finger just tightened on the trigger.”
Liddell nodded. “Makes sense.” He nodded to the girl who was making an effort to keep her eyes averted from the dead man. “Why don’t you and Emily wait in the outside office? I’m afraid you’ll have to stay around until the police get here.”
Judge Adair nodded. He got up, took the girl by the elbow. They gingerly circled around the body to the door to the outer office. The Judge closed the door behind them.
Liddell picked up the phone, dialed Homicide West. “Inspector Herlehy,” he told the man on the board.
“Herlehy,” a familiar voice came through.
“Liddell, Inspector. I’ve got Al Madden for you. In my office.”
“Good,” the receiver told him. “Keep him there. I’ll have a couple of men — ”
Liddell grinned glumly. “There won’t be any trouble keeping him here, Inspector. He’s got a couple of slugs in his belly to anchor him down.”
In New York, in the homicide bureau of the district attorney’s office, there is an assistant d.a. ready twenty-four hours a day to roll upon the notification that a homicide has been committed. He takes with him a man from the stenographic unit, arrives at almost the same time as the men from Homicide, questions witnesses on the spot.
Mark Jacobs, representing the district attorney’s office as an assistant attached to the homicide bureau, was prepared to treat Judge Adair gently. He paced the small outer office of Johnny Liddell’s suite, rubbed the heel of his hand along his chin.
In the private office, Inspector Herlehy was supervising the removal of Al Madden’s body, and Jacobs wanted the inspector present when he started questioning the Adairs. He was weighing all the implications. The Judge could be a powerful ally or a powerful enemy. The chances were that the newspapers would hail him as a hero and his renomination and election would be a foregone conclusion.
Jacobs stopped pacing, admired the blonde sitting next to her father on the customer’s bench that lined the wall. With all the dramatic elements, and the girl to give the story some usable art, this killing would get full press coverage. Already the lobby of the building was filled with reporters and cameramen clamoring for admission to the scene. Mark Jacobs had already decided that he had no desire to antagonize Judge Adair or Tammany Hall.
Herlehy walked out of the inner office, followed by Liddell. “Okay, Mark. We can’t hold those reporters forever.”
Mark Jacobs stopped in front of Judge Adair. “You understand, of course, that this is a mere formality, Judge.” He smiled expansively at Emily Adair, was rewarded with a wan smile in return. “It’s quite obviously a case of justifiable homicide.” He turned to Herlehy. “Wouldn’t you say so, Inspector?”
“Al Madden needed killing. That’s for sure,” Herlehy agreed.
Jacobs turned to Liddell who was perched on Pinky’s chair behind the desk. “Liddell saw the entire thing. I don’t think there’s any question about the verdict.” He turned back to Adair. “Personally, sir, I think you deserve a medal.”
Judge Adair managed to look properly modest. “I acted entirely through instinct, I’m afraid. If I had considered the possible consequences, I’m sure I never would have had the courage.”
“Just the same, I think it goes without saying that the voters will show their admiration for your courage by putting you back on the bench for a long time.”
Johnny Liddell stirred uneasily on his uncomfortable perch. “Bench? Don’t you mean the chair?”
The assistant d.a. looked uncomfortable. “I’m sure that if that was intended to be humorous — ”
“It wasn’t,” Liddell told him. “Judge Adair killed Al Madden in cold blood. He killed him because Madden knew the judge was the one who killed Margot Stanton, and Madden wasn’t going to stand still to take the rap.”
Emily Adair jumped to her feet. “Tell him he’s crazy, Father,” she urged. “Don’t let him say things like that.”
“Sorry, baby,” Liddell told her. “But it’s the truth. Margot Stanton would never have opened the door for Al Madden, then turn her back on him. She wasn’t afraid of your father. She didn’t think he’d have the nerve.”
“Why would the judge kill Margot Stanton?” Herlehy wanted to know.
“Because she was going to blow the whistle, expose the fact that he was trading his daughter for a chance at re-election. It would have ruined his career, ruined his daughter. Right, Judge?”
Judge Adair seemed to have shrunken into his frame. When he looked up, his eyes were lifeless, his color waxen. “I didn’t mean to kill the girl. I only meant to reason with her, plead with her. She infuriated me. I — I guess I lost my head. I grabbed at her. When I came to my senses, she was dead.”
Mark Jacobs looked from the judge to Liddell and back with an open mouth. “You’ll make a statement to that effect, Judge?” he finally managed to stammer.
The old man nodded his head. “I’m glad it’s over.” He patted the girl’s hand. “I tried to keep them from hurting you.”
“Trading her to Madden for renomination. That wasn’t hurting her?” Liddell snorted.
The blonde tossed her head. “I knew all about it. Don’t worry. If he made me go through with it, Madden would have gotten more than he bargained for. Maybe he could buy me, but I wasn’t about to stay bought.”
Herlehy walked to the door, signaled to a uniformed patrolman. “Take the judge down and book him. Mr. Jacobs will be down later for a statement.” He pulled the officer aside, whispered to him.
The judge pulled himself to his feet, made a pathetic effort to draw himself to his full height.
“I’m sorry about the girl. I’m not sorry about Madden. When I went to him for help, he said I was on my own. That he wouldn’t help me. I told him I was coming to you to tell you how he arranged that accident to that prize fighter. I wanted him to come after me. I was waiting for him.” He nodded to Liddell. “I underestimated you, Mr. Liddell.” He managed a wry smile. “But then, so did Madden. And he had much more experience in these things.”
The white-haired man walked through the door, followed by his daughter. The officer closed the door after them.
Mark Jacobs sank into the bench. “I follow how you guessed Madden hadn’t killed the Stanton woman. But what made you pick on the judge?”
“It had to be someone she wasn’t afraid of. Someone who had a lot to lose if she spilled. That spelled Adair.” He scribbled on Pinky’s desk pad with a pencil. “I went to their house from Stanton’s apartment. He said he had been in bed for hours — but his hair was combed and his pajamas were freshly pressed. No signs of mussing.”
“You figured on this shoot-out with Madden?”
Liddell shook his head. “No. I figured he might try to dump Madden, turn him in. Get Madden on the run and take the credit.”
“But if Madden came to kill him — ”
“He didn’t. The judge told Madden he was going to sing, Madden came here to straighten him out with what he knew. The judge never gave him a chance, started shooting the minute Madden appeared in the doorway. It was like shooting a sitting duck.” Liddell tossed the pencil on the desk top, stood up. “It was a desperate try to give the cops a fall guy who couldn’t defend himself and at the same time make himself a hero to the voters.”
“It almost worked,” Mark Jacobs marveled. “Nice work, Johnny.”
“I wish my client would think so.” “Why not? You come out of this one smelling like roses,” Herlehy pointed out.
“The hell I do. I got hired to nail the guy who killed Larry Jensen. Just when I’m getting ready to close in on him, the judge shoots him out from under me. Jim Kiely is going to be sore as hell about this.”
“Al Madden doesn’t like it either,” Herlehy reminded him. “They’re going to bury him about Thursday.” He looked from Mark Jacobs to Liddell and back. “Besides, the boys from the other papers are still waiting in the lobby. All we’re going to give them is the fact that Larry Jensen came in second in a shooting match. Right, Mark?”
The assistant d.a. nodded.
“It will be hours before they’re done taking the judge’s statement, or before we even release the news that the judge is being questioned. The boys took him down the freight elevator.” He grinned at Liddell. “Give you any ideas?”
“Just one,” Liddell grinned. He grabbed for the phone, started dialing. “Get me Jim Kiely. Hurry, baby. This is important….”
If you liked A Short Bier check out:
Dead Weight
Chapter 1
JOHNNY LIDDELL LEANED BACK in his desk chair, watched the shadow on the corridor side of the frosted-glass door that proclaimed: Johnny Liddell — Private Investigations — Entrance Room 825.
It was a man’s shadow. A small man’s. It stood undecided for a moment, then headed down the corridor in the direction of Entrance, Room 825.
Liddell sighed, crumpled the paper drinking-cup, tossed it at the wastebasket. It hit the rim, bounced off, rolled on the floor. Liddell stared at it glumly, mentally debated the necessity for keeping the place clean, won the decision, stayed where he was. He replaced the fifth of bourbon in the bottom drawer of the new desk, pulled a pile of old correspondence in front of himself, and was apparently ears-deep in work when the redhead from the front office stamped in.
There was a pink flush of annoyance on her face. “There’s a Mr. Liddell to see you, Mr. Liddell. A Mr. Johnny Liddell.”
Liddell considered the announcement, shrugged. “Let’s have a look at him, Pinky.”
“Mr. Liddell will see you now, Mr. Liddell,” the redhead snapped over her shoulder. She glared as the little man sidled into the room, flounced past him, and slammed the door after her.
The shadow hadn’t lied. Its owner was a small man. Small and old. He seemed lost in the folds of the shapeless overcoat he wore, and only the protrusion of his ears kept his battered fedora from sliding down over his eyes. It was an old face, the skin like transparent parchment, but the eyes were alert, glistening like black beads from behind the folds of his eyelids. He was Chinese.
“You are Johnny Liddell?” The voice was harsh, sibilant, softened only by the smile that accompanied it. “The Johnny Liddell who worked in California nine or ten years ago?”
Liddell nodded. “That’s me. Which one are you?”
The old man chuckled. He pulled the fedora off his head, baring a high, hairless dome. “I hope you don’t mind my borrowing your name. It was the first one to come to mind.” He placed a paper-wrapped package on the corner of the desk, covered it with the fedora. “Not quite so insulting, I think, as John Smith or John Doe, eh?”
Liddell shrugged. “Forget it. I never took out a copyright on the name. What’s on your mind?”
The old man pulled a chair close to the desk, dropped wearily into it. “I want you to keep something for me.” He indicated the package on the corner of the desk.
Liddell sighed. He found a pack of cigarettes in his top drawer, held it out to the old man, waited until he had selected one, then hung one from the corner of his own mouth, where it waggled when he talked.
“Why not a safe deposit or a checkroom?”
The old man lit his cigarette, held it to his lips between thumb and index finger, squinted at Liddell through the smoke. “It will be safer here than in a public checkroom, and it will be available at any time, not just during banking-hours.”
“Okay. So you want me to keep a package for you. What else?”
“Nothing else.” The old man reached into his pocket, dragged out a worn leather wallet, fumbled through it nearsightedly, came up with two fifties. “This will be sufficient?”
Liddell glanced at the bills, raised his eyebrows. “A hundred just to board a package?” He reached over for the package and weighed it in his hand. “What’s the gimmick?”
The old man smoked placidly. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. Why should you want to pay me a hundred dollars just to drop this thing into my safe for a couple of weeks or even a month?”
“I thought I had explained,” the old man told him patiently. “It is worth much to me much more than this,” he waved a hand at the bills on the desk, “to know that this package is safe and that I can pick it up at a moment’s notice.” He pulled himself out of the chair and stood at the far side of the desk. The cigarette hung precariously in the exact center of his mouth. “There is nothing more?”
Liddell shook his head. “On your way out, the red head will give you a receipt. Leave your name and address with her in case I have to get in touch with you.”
A benign grin wrinkled the parchment of the yellow face. “I do not need a receipt. I trust you.” He picked up the battered fedora, jammed it down over the shining pate until it came to rest on his ears. “It is not important for you to know where to find me, as long as I know where to find you.” He nodded, turned, and walked to the door with a queer, shuffling motion.
Liddell watched the reception-room door close behind the narrow shoulders of his visitor. A few seconds later the thin shadow reappeared on the frosted-glass door briefly, headed in the direction of the elevator bank. Liddell picked up the desk phone, pushed down a button on its base. The redhead’s voice came through.
“Call Joe down in the cigar stand in the lobby, Pinky. Give him a good description of the guy who just left here,” Liddell told her. “If he takes a cab, I want to know who the cabby was. If he walks, I want him tailed. And if he has a car, I want the license-plate number.”
“Will do,” the receiver chirped back.
Liddell dropped the receiver back on its hook, picked up the package, turned it over in his hands curiously. It was wrapped in a heavy brown paper, its edges sealed with a red wax imprinted with a peculiar seal. It measured about four inches wide by about nine long, and was no more than a quarter of an inch thick. He was still puzzling over it when the door opened and the redhead came in.
“Joe says he’ll take care of that, Johnny.” She dropped into the chair the little Chinese had used. “Thought he was pretty cute, didn’t he? Using your name! What was the idea?”
