A Real Gone Guy, page 4
Liddell dug a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, held it out to the lieutenant, drew an icy stare. He selected one himself, lit it and settled back.
Herlehy frowned at the plainclothesman. “On an anonymous squeal, you went to a hotel room for a guy you never heard of and started shooting?”
“We knocked on the door and identified ourselves as police. The guy has nothing to hide, he opens the door and we ask a few questions. This character started shooting, so we kicked the door in and took him. Rosen caught one but I brought him down.” He looked around, his eyes hard. “So what’s wrong with that?”
“You satisfied yourself he was the one who killed Lorenzo?”
Ryan nodded. “Lorenzo’s wallet was in the room.”
“Where?”
“Under the mattress.”
“What made you look for a wallet, Ryan? Ordinarily, wouldn’t a mugger get rid of the wallet as soon as he emptied it?”
Ryan’s face screwed up into a puzzled frown. “The squeal. The guy that phoned it in tipped Rosen it was in the room.”
“Rosen?”
The plainclothesman nodded. “Rosen was catching squeals that night. He said the squealer tipped him we would catch the killer with the goods. He said the guy in 416 had Lorenzo’s wallet. Hollister had been bragging about the kill, showed him the wallet.”
Liddell snorted, drew an angry look from the inspector.
“There was no witness to the fact that you actually turned up the wallet in Hollister’s room?” Herlehy wanted to know.
The plainclothesman’s hands clenched and unclenched at his side. “I don’t like what that sounds like, Inspector. What’s it supposed to mean?”
“I don’t like what it sounds like, either, Ryan.” Herlehy tossed a malevolent glance in Liddell’s direction.
“I’m just asking the questions some wise guy reporter might ask.”
Ryan turned from the inspector to Doyle and back. “Might ask about what?”
“About how Hollister got it and why. Somebody’s trying to sell the idea that Hollister was murdered. They’re even pointing out that since Hollister is a hired gun and not a stick-up artist, the wallet might have been planted to justify the kill.”
A mirthless grin twisted the corners of Ryan’s lips upwards. The smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“They might have trouble proving that, Inspector.” He looked over at Liddell. “It might even be a good idea to let them try.”
“You haven’t answered the inspector, Ryan,” Liddell reminded him.
Ryan reached down, caught the front of Liddell’s shirt in a hamlike fist, half lifted him out of the chair. “I’m not talking to the inspector right now. I’m talking to you.” He pulled Liddell’s face close to his. “I’m pretty good at remembering faces and yours is one I’m never going to forget.”
Liddell brought his arms upward and outward, broke the detective’s grip, sent him staggering backwards. Ryan swore at him, threw a hard overhand right that Liddell picked off with his forearm. He crossed with a right to the jaw that slammed Ryan back against the partition with a force that jarred the entire office. The plainclothesman slid to the floor, his hand snaked toward the .38 in his waistband.
“Cut it out, Ryan,” the inspector roared. His face was purple with rage as he swung on Liddell. “You try another bonehead like that and I’ll let him finish what he started out to do.”
“What story will you give the papers then? That I had the Czar of Russia’s crown jewels stuck under my coat?” Liddell flared.
Doyle was helping Ryan to his feet. The big detective’s face was white with fury, a thin red line dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He stared at Liddell as though he was memorizing every feature. “There’ll be other times, peeper.”
“I told you to cut it out,” Herlehy barked at him. “There won’t be too many more times unless you can square away the Hollister job.”
Ryan turned his attention back to the inspector. “I told you they couldn’t make a bum rap like that stick, Inspector. The wallet was turned over to the lab boys and dusted. They brought out a bunch of latents. Some belonged to Lorenzo, but some belonged to Hollister.”
Herlehy stared at him, the lines of worry draining away. “Is that in your report?”
Ryan nodded, picked up a flimsy from the desk and underscored a paragraph with his thumbnail. “There’s also a supplementary filed by the lab.” He looked at Liddell for a long time. “That answers your boy here with his story that the wallet was planted. I never got close enough to Hollister before he took off over the railing to fake any prints and the precinct lieutenant took the wallet off my hands and turned it over to the lab boys as soon as he got there.”
Herlehy transferred his gaze from Ryan to Liddell. “I think you’d better get out of here—and stay out of here, Liddell.”
CHAPTER SIX
Muggsy Kiely answered the door in response to his knock. She was wearing a blue silk dressing gown that clung to a figure well worth the clinging. Her thick red hair cascaded down over her shoulders in a coppery stream, her face was clear of any make-up save for a crimson slash of lipstick. She stood in the doorway uncompromisingly.
“Better late than never, I always say.” She sniffed. “Change your brand of toilet water? Smells more like Old Forester than Charbert.”
Liddell caught her around the waist, lifted her out of the way and walked in. She closed the door after him, and followed him into the living room.
“Correct me if I’m wrong. The note you left in my typewriter said you’d pick me up for dinner.”
Liddell nodded, tossed his hat on the end table, dropped morosely on the couch. “Don’t you start in on me, too, Muggs. I’ve had my share of getting chewed out tonight.”
Muggsy sniffed unsympathetically. She crossed to the other side of the room, perched on the arm of a chair. “Who got first on line?”
“The whole damn Police Department.” He leaned back, his head against the top of the couch, stared at the sand finished ceiling. “It seems I’m no longer popular in Center Street.”
“I don’t know about Center Street, but it’s a lead pipe cinch you’re not winning any contests around here. What’d you do to them?”
“I hinted that maybe one of their pet trophy winners had shot a sitting duck and planted a wallet to make it look good.”
Muggsy wrinkled her nose. “You what?”
“Remember the Hollister business? He was supposed to have mugged Tommy Lorenzo and when the cops caught up with him, he tried to shoot it out?”
“The guy that killed Barney Rosen when they closed in?”
Liddell nodded unhappily. “The thing didn’t look kosher to me so I started asking embarrassing questions.” He looked down from the ceiling to the girl, grinned sheepishly. “Imagine my embarrassment when they trotted out the right answers.”
“How to make friends and influence people. Lesson number ten.” The redhead shook her head, walked toward the kitchen. “I suppose it would only be charity to get you a drink instead of telling you what I’ve been rehearsing for your shell-like ear for the past hour.”
Johnny Liddell picked a cigarette from the box on the table, had it lit by the time Muggsy reappeared carrying a bottle, two glasses and some ice. She set them down on the coffee table in front of him, stood for a moment, hands on hips, studying him.
“What got you off on that kick?”
Liddell winced. “A client. She claimed she knew Hollister was murdered. Going through the files I found out the cops shot it out with him when they went to pick him up for a stick-up killing. According to his record, stick-ups were out of his line.”
The redhead took the cigarette from between his fingers, took a deep drag and handed it back to him. “Didn’t they find Lorenzo’s wallet in his room or something?” The smoke dribbled lazily from between her half-parted lips.
“I had it figured that maybe Ryan planted the wallet there to justify the kill.”
“Oh, fine.” She clapped the palm of her hand against her forehead. “And I suppose you also had it figured out that Ryan killed his partner Barney Rosen so he couldn’t give the plot away. Look, Sherlock, Ryan may not be the most sporting character that ever wore a badge, but he and Rosen were mighty close.” She held up her index finger with the second finger draped around it. “That close.”
“Now she tells me,” Liddell groaned. He reached over, dropped three ice cubes into each glass, spilled bourbon down over them. He took a last drag on the cigarette, crushed it out. Then he leaned back, glass in hand. “I know I’m asking for a couple of men in white coats to come gather me up, but I still can’t help feeling there’s something fishy about it.”
Muggsy considered it for a moment, speared a minute crumb of tobacco from the tip of her tongue with her fingernail. Finally, she shook her head. “I can’t buy your version either, Johnny.”
“That makes it practically unanimous,” he growled.
Muggsy picked up her glass, walked over to a big armchair, sank into it. She sipped at her drink, looked curiously over the rim. “Who is this client of yours?”
Liddell shrugged irritably. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her.”
“Break that down for me?”
“You heard me the first time. I’ve never seen her. She set the job up over the phone.”
Muggsy stared openmouthed. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding. Why should I be kidding?”
“Don’t be so thick. Can’t you see you’re being had by some practical joker? Somebody’s sitting in a corner getting a big yok out of you going up against the Department’s home-grown hero.”
“Practical jokers who get up five hundred for their yoks should come around more often.” He took a deep swallow from his glass, set it down. “This is no rib, baby. Somebody really believes Hollister was murdered. Somebody who knows a helluva lot more about it than any of us.”
“But you’re satisfied the wallet wasn’t planted?”
Liddell grunted. “You mean I’ve got a choice? Hollister’s prints were all over it. If it had been a plant, they couldn’t have been.” He picked up his glass, swirled the liquor around the sides. “Hollister had that wallet all right. And I guess the only way he could have gotten it would be to knock Lorenzo off and take it from him.”
“So what’s it all prove?”
“It proves the M.O. system isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. It proves a guy can be a hired gun all his life and still take a flyer into stick-ups and—” He broke off, stared at his glass with furrowed forehead.
“And what?”
Liddell raked his fingers through his hair, set down his glass.
Muggsy watched him curiously. “What’s with you?”
“Just an idea, a screwy idea,” Liddell grunted. He continued to stare into space for a moment. “Hollister was wanted for a kill. Right?”
“Right. So?”
“This guy he killed, this Lorenzo. Know him?”
Muggsy shrugged. “He wasn’t what I’d call a bosom buddy. I knew him from seeing him around.”
“What kind of a guy was he?”
The redhead screwed up her face in a moue of distaste. “A creep.” She took a drink, washed away the look of distaste. “Not that he couldn’t be charming when he had to turn it on. He could make people like him, but he only did it so he could use them later on. If he put half the effort into being legitimate that he put into scalping people, he would have been twice as rich. But he wouldn’t have had any fun.”
“I know the type.”
“He got his biggest kick out of keeping everybody else at a disadvantage, whether it was in a deal or in social life. And there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to get that edge. That’s the way he got his kicks.”
Liddell grunted. “Brother, am I thick!” He got up, walked over to the window, stared down at the moving dots in Central Park twenty stories below. “I should have known better than to let myself get sidetracked.”
“Meaning what?”
Liddell raised his hand, cut her off. He frowned in deep concentration, snapped his fingers. “Brother, am I thick!”
“Now what?”
“Look, the M.O. system has been proven a million times. A guy who makes a living by hiring out his gun doesn’t stoop to stick-ups. This time the facts show that a hired gun does pull a stick-up. So what’s it prove?”
“It proves you can’t hardly trust nobody no more.”
“It proves that the facts are wrong,” Liddell ignored her. “Hollister was murdered in cold blood, just as my client said.”
“Oh, brother. You keep making with noises like that and Center Street is going to take you apart like a fifty cent watch. We’re sure going to miss that license of yours around here.”
Liddell paid no attention to the interruption. “Look, millions of cases have proven that the M.O. system works. So along comes a case where it looks as if it doesn’t work, so we’re ready to forget about it. That’s crazy. If it holds true in the other million cases, it holds true in this one.” He drained his glass, set it down. “Hollister was a hired killer. Right? He was a specialist and an expert in his line. So is a guy with a background like that going to stoop to a lousy holdup?”
“Knocking Tommy Lorenzo over isn’t exactly like cracking a piggy bank. He always went around with a roll big enough to choke a horse. It was as much a part of his make-up as his pants and he’d be just as naked without it.”
Liddell waved her objection aside. “Assuming that the M.O. system is still infallible, let’s see how the picture shapes up. Hollister is a hired killer and he kills somebody. Who? Tommy Lorenzo. So instead of us having Hollister kill Lorenzo for his dough, it turns out that someone wanted to buy the Big One for Lorenzo and hired Hollister to punch his ticket. How does that sound? Make sense?”
Muggsy stared at him with pursed lips, set her glass down on the floor next to her chair. “Go on. But don’t forget he did steal Lorenzo’s wallet. Hired guns don’t usually wait to roll the victim.”
“I’m coming to that. You buy it so far?”
Muggsy gave a cautious half-nod. “It could be. Go on.”
“Okay. So the guy importing Hollister wants proof that he did the job. So he tells Hollister he gets his pay-off when he turns over the wallet. Maybe he even tells him the reason he wants Lorenzo chilled is in that wallet. It makes no difference to Hollister, so he goes along. Follow me?”
Muggsy nodded.
“Good,” Liddell grunted. “We’ve explained away the wallet being in Hollister’s room. Now, who would know he had that wallet? The guy who hired him to kill Lorenzo, of course.”
Muggsy leaned back in her chair, caught her lower lip between her teeth, shook her head. “Now you’re back to Mike Ryan again. I tell you, Johnny, you’re digging a dry well. He wouldn’t have—”
“I didn’t say Ryan was the killer.”
“You don’t have to. Ballistics has said so, Ryan admits it. There’s no argument. Nobody’s denying Ryan killed him.”
“He may have pulled the trigger. But somebody else set it up so well that the New York Police Department did his killing for him.”
“Come again.”
“The guy who hired Hollister to kill Lorenzo in the first place. He’s the one who really killed Hollister, regardless of who pulled the trigger.”
Muggsy groaned. “I got lost on the first turn. Give it to me again. Real slow.”
Liddell rubbed his hands gleefully, then reached over, poured some fresh liquor into his glass. “It’s so beautifully simple.” He hit his forehead with the flat of his hand. “How could I have missed it? Look, here’s the whole picture. I want Tommy Lorenzo out of the way for some reason—any reason. I’m no killer, so I hire one of the best guns in the business.”
“Hollister.” Muggsy nodded her comprehension.
“Right. Now I’m in a tough position. I’m at the mercy of a hired killer and he can bleed me white. I’ve got to get rid of him, but how?”
Muggsy’s face cleared. “I’m beginning to see the picture.”
“Right. I con him into taking Lorenzo’s wallet to his hotel room. I know Mike Ryan’s reputation. He’s a hair-trigger guy who’d rather bring his prisoners in feet first than on their feet. He’s also a guy who collects departmental citations.”
“Okay, so you don’t like Ryan. Get to the point.”
“That’s it. I’ve got Hollister in his room with the proof that he knocked off Lorenzo. So I phone in a tip to Mike Ryan where he can find the killer with the proof and cop himself some glory.”
Muggsy chewed on her thumbnail, nodded. “It could be.”
“It’s got to be. But I’m still not through. I plant myself someplace close to the hotel and wait for Ryan to show. When he does, I call my hired boy, Hollister, and tell him the cops are after him, with orders to shoot to kill. Ryan pounds on his door, calls out that he’s the police. Hollister tries to shoot it out and doesn’t make it, and I’m in the clear. I’ve gotten rid of Lorenzo and the police have conveniently wiped out the only one who can tie me to the job.”
Muggsy considered it, nodded again. “The only one with the exception of your client. It looks as if the only way to really crack it open is to find her.”
Liddell shook his head. “That’s not the answer. It she knew anything, she would have dumped it into the Department’s lap. All she’s got are suspicions.”
“Then it looks as if all you have is a very pretty theory. Fits all the facts, but there’s not a chance of proving it.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“How could you?” Muggsy wanted to know. “All the leads are sealed off. Ryan isn’t going to help you, even if he could, and neither is the Department. They’d sure look pretty silly if word got out that their top dick is being used by somebody to get rid of unwanted employees.” She shook her head, reached down for her glass. “Looks to me as if everybody’s been euchred into a dead end.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Muggs. For the first time tonight I’ve got a lead. For the first time I know where I’m going.”
