Johnny Liddell's Morgue, page 9
He consulted his watch, frowned at the time. Almost seven! He reached for the telephone, dialed the Hotel Carson, verified the fact that his client hadn’t returned.
He had just hung up the receiver when the phone started to shrill. He let it ring twice, picked up the receiver.
“Liddell?” The voice was familiar, but not the old man’s.
“Yeah.”
“This is Mike Flannery, Inspector Herlehy’s driver. He wants to see you. Can you get down to Perry and Ninth in the Village?”
Liddell frowned at the receiver. “I guess so, but — ”
“The inspector says to hurry.” The line went dead.
The cab made the distance from midtown to the Village in a record time. Liddell pushed a bill through the front window to the driver, walked across the street to where Inspector Herlehy’s black limousine stood against the curb in front of a large excavation.
The driver nodded to him. “He’s down in the ditch with a friend of your’s,” Flannery told him. “He thought you might want in on this.”
Abel Terrell was sprawled out on his back, staring up at the small circle of men around him unblinkingly. His heavily knuckled hands were clasped across his midsection as though in a last desperate effort to stem the red tide that had seeped through the laced fingers and had spread in an ugly dark stain on his jacket.
He was dead.
Johnny Liddell looked from the body to Inspector Herlehy. “When did it happen, Inspector?”
The inspector pushed his sheriff-style fedora on the back of his head, chomped heavily on the ever-present wad of gum. “Can’t tell for sure until the medical examiner gets here. We got the report twenty minutes ago.” He took a leather notebook from the man next to him, flipped through the pages. “Couple of kids discovered the body, phoned it in.” He snapped the notebook shut, handed it back to his aide. “My guess is he hasn’t been dead much over an hour. Ninety minutes at the outside.”
Liddell pulled out a pack of cigarettes, held it up for approval, drew a nod. He hung one in his mouth where it waggled when he talked. “How come you called me?” He touched a match to the cigarette, drew a deep drag.
“You tell me what your connection with him was.” Herlehy clasped his hands behind his back, rocked on the balls of his feet.
“You’re sure there is a connection?”
“Your name and address were written on a slip of paper in his pocket.” The inspector reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a folded note. “You gave him a note to Ed Blesch at the Carson telling him to sign the guy in. Why?”
Liddell shrugged. “He was a client. I wanted him on ice until I could get some information he needed.”
Some place in the distance, a siren wailed shrilly.
“Come on, Liddell. Don’t make me pick it out of you. Who is this guy and what was the beef?” He squinted at a penciled memo. “He registered into the hotel as Tefft. That his name?”
“No. His name’s Terrell. He came into my office this morning. Said he killed a man six months ago.”
Herelehy scowled. “So you buried him instead of turning him in?”
“It wasn’t that simple,” Liddell argued. “The man he thought he killed six months ago, turns up dead in a hit-and-run accident on Monday. He thought it was a trap to bring him into the open. It wasn’t.”
The inspector spit out a wad of gum, pulled a fresh stick from his pocket, started to denude it. “Guy pulled through, eh?”
Liddell grinned glumly. “That’s the funny part of it, Inspector. I looked the body over very carefully. There wasn’t a sign of a bullet wound on it.”
Outside a siren reached for a high note, faded away as the ambulance skidded to a stop at the curb. Two men from the medical examiner’s office walked into the excavation, tossed an incurious glance at the body.
“Too bad we’ve got to move him. After he made it so nice and convenient. Just cover him with dirt and he’s set,” one of them grinned. “Your boys through with him?”
The inspector nodded. “Where you fellows been?”
“You’re not the only division giving us business, you know,” the newcomer grinned. He waited until his companion had finished a cursory examination of the body. “Okay to take him?”
“Be my guest.” The inspector nodded. He initialed a form, handed it back to the M.E.’s man, watched while a stretcher was brought in and the body loaded onto it. “Let’s have a report as soon as you can.”
The man in white thought about it for a moment, nodded. “Maybe this will hold you over for awhile. From the looks of the hole in his belly, I’d say it was a pretty safe bet he didn’t die of high blood pressure.” He followed the covered stretcher out to the ambulance at the curb.
“Very funny fellow,” Liddell opined.
“No funnier than the story you’re telling, Liddell.” The inspector caught him by the arm, led him out to the sidewalk where his limousine sat waiting. “This guy shot a guy, only the guy dies six months later from an auto accident. He knows he pumped the bullets into him, only there’s no signs of gunshot scars.” He stopped on the sidewalk, oblivious to the crowd of morbidly curious that had gathered. “That’s supposed to make sense?” he growled. “Did he at least tell you why he was supposed to have killed this character?”
Liddell considered it for a moment, shook his head. “Not exactly. He just said Lee had ruined him. That he had to kill him.”
“Now I suppose you’re going to tell me this character he was supposed to have killed but didn’t isn’t really dead and got up off the slab in the morgue to kill him?”
“That would be a switch,” Liddell conceded, “but the last I saw of Lee, he wasn’t in any condition to do any traveling. Look, Inspector, I’d like a crack at breaking this one. I can, too, if you’ll give me a break.”
“Meaning?”
“Don’t mention the fact that Terrell took me on. Just give out the story that a vagrant was found shot to death in a foundation excavation in the Village. Let me take it from there.”
Herlehy scowled at him. “On one condition. I’m checking the files on this murder he’s supposed to have committed. If there’s one on the books, no deal. If he was just dreaming the whole thing, you’re welcome to it.”
“It’s a deal. He was supposed to have knocked off this Lee character six months ago. In September. If there’s an open file, I keep hands off and let the department handle it. If there isn’t, I get first crack at it.”
Stanton 7-6770 turned out to be the telephone number of a little night club called the Club Canopy on Perry Street, two blocks south of where Abel Terrell’s body had been found. It was 10:30 by the time Johnny Liddell arrived there. He stood across the street, studied the outside of the club.
A neon that sputtered fitfully and dyed the façade a dull red spelled out the name Club Canopy. The door was three steps up from the sidewalk, and opened into a small vestibule.
Liddell crossed the street, entered the club. The vestibule had been converted into a check room. Beyond lay the main dining-room and bar, a huge room that had been constructed by knocking out all the walls on the floor.
He stood at the door and peered into the smoky opaqueness of the interior. Small tables, jammed with parties of four, were packed side by side in a small space bordering on the tiny square reserved for dancing. A thick pall of smoke hung over the entire room, swirling slowly and lazily in the draft from the opened door. The bar itself was long, well-filled. Liddell elbowed himself a place at the bar, turned to survey the room.
The bartender shuffled up, wiped the bar with a damp cloth that left oily circles.
“Bourbon and water,” Liddell told him.
The bartender made a production of selecting a bottle from the back bar, reaching under the bar for a glass and some ice. He poured about an ounce of the brown liquid into the glass, reached for the water.
“Better hit that again,” Liddell told him.
He made the drink a double, softened it with a touch of water.
Liddell shoved a five at him. “Keep the change.”
The bartender took a look at the corner of the bill, raised his eyebrows. “If you figure this buys you anything but liquor in this joint, you’re making a mistake.”
Liddell tasted the bourbon, approved. “I’m looking for a friend of mine.” Quickly he described Abel Terrell, waited while the bartender screwed his mouth up in concentration. “Have you seen him or his friend lately?”
The bartender blew out his lips, shook his head. “He don’t register. He’s no regular around here.” He squinted into the dimness of the room. “Maybe Ed Carter can help you. He’s the maître d'. He gets to know a lot of people I don’t ever see.” He looked longingly at the bill. “Still go?”
Liddell nodded, watched the bartender shuffle off to the cash register. He happily dumped some silver and a few bills into the glass on the back bar, nodded his thanks to Liddell.
After a moment, a heavy man in a blue suit stopped alongside Liddell. “Can I help you, sir? Mike tells me you’re waiting for someone.”
Liddell swung around, studied the newcomer. His face was heavy, his lips wet and pouting. His hair was almost white, combed in a three-quarter part. His eyes were expressionless black disks almost hidden in the shadow of fierce white eyebrows. In his lapel he wore a carnation.
“I expected to meet a friend of mine here. His name’s Abel Terrell.” Liddell fancied he caught a flicker in the eyes, but there was no other change of expression in the fat man’s face. “Do you know him?”
The fat man pursed his lips. Little bubbles formed in the middle of them. He shook his head, waggling the heavy jowls that hung over his collar. “I can’t say I do. Could you describe him for me?”
Liddell tried to paint a word picture of the dead man as he might have appeared before he lost weight.
The fat man nodded slowly as Liddell finished his description. “I believe I do know your friend by sight.” His head continued to bob in agreement. “He was a great admirer of our Miss Patti. You’ve heard Miss Patti, of course?”
Liddell shook his head. “I don’t get around much.”
The fat lips were wreathed in a smile that did nothing to change the expression in the man’s eyes. “Then you have a treat in store. Miss Patti comes on in a few minutes. I’m sure, she’ll be glad to see you in her dressing-room after the show.”
He nodded to Liddell, moved down the bar. Several times, he stopped for a brief visit with one of his older customers. Finally, he reached the end of the bar, disappeared into the dimness beyond.
Liddell was on his second double bourbon when the floor lights went down. The band struggled hopelessly with a fanfare, a spotlight cut the gloom of the room, picked out the wasp-waisted figure of the master of ceremonies as he fluttered across the floor to the microphone. He told a few off-color jokes, sang two choruses of an old song in a nasal whine, held his hands up to stem the nonexistent applause.
“And now what you’ve all been waiting for — the sweetheart of Greenwich Village, Miss Patti!”
The bartender shuffled down to where Liddell sat, took up his station behind him. “This gal is all woman. An awful waste in a joint like this, but she really packs a message,” he whispered.
On the floor two men were wheeling out a baby grand. A pasty faced man with aggressively curly hair and a wet smear for a mouth materialized from nowhere and took his place at the piano. His fingers jumped from key to key until the first bars of a torchy tune became recognizable. The backdrop curtains parted and a blonde stepped out into the spotlight.
She was tall. Thick, metallic golden hair cascaded down over her shoulders in shimmering waves. Her body was ripe, lush. A small waist hinted at the full rounded hips and long shapely legs concealed by the fullness of the gown.
The rumble of conversation died down to a whisper, glasses stopped jangling and waiters froze as she leaned back against the piano. Her voice was husky, the kind that raised the small hairs on the back of. Liddell’s neck.
At the end of two numbers, she bowed to a burst of applause, permitted herself to be coaxed into one encore. At the end of that number, she refused to be persuaded to do more, turned and went to the backstage door.
Liddell drained his glass, set it back on the bar. An adagio team was just making its appearance on the floor when he reached the end of the bar. He reached the backstage door, started to pull it open when a hand caught him by the arm.
“You’re going in the wrong direction, mister,” a heavy voice told him. “The men’s room’s at the other end.” The owner of the hand and voice was heavy-shouldered, and the twisted nose and scar tissue over the eyes identified him as a bouncer.
“That’s all right, Stanley.” The fat figure of Carter, the manager, materialized in the gloom. “The gentleman’s a friend of Miss Patti.”
“You told me nobody gets in there,” the big man grumbled. “I don’t like nobody bothering Patti.” He glowered at Liddell: “I’m looking after her. Nobody gets fresh with her. You follow me, friend?”
“Nobody’s going to bother Miss Patti, Stanley,” the fat man told him firmly. “This gentleman is a friend. Miss Patti will be glad to see him.”
The bouncer shuffled his feet uncertainly for a moment, then turned and shuffled off.
“A very difficult man, Stanley.” Carter smelled at the carnation in his buttonhole. “Entirely devoted to Miss Patti. A doglike devotion, you might say.” The flat eyes studied Liddell over the carnation.
Stepping through the door to backstage was like stepping into a new world. The tinsel and glamor of the Club Canopy frontside wasn’t duplicated backstage. There was nothing but a long, bare, semidark corridor with a row of closed doors, and odor compounded of equal parts of perspiration and perfume.
He stopped in front of a door on which had been stenciled Miss Patti and knocked. A throaty voice invited him in.
The blonde sat on a straight-backed chair in front of a littered makeup table. Her thick blond hair had been pushed back from her face, caught with a blue ribbon and allowed to cascade down her back. She wore a matching light blue dressing gown.
She looked up as Liddell walked in. Her eyes were the bluest he had ever seen, her mouth soft and moist. She looked him over, made no attempt to disguise her approval of the heavy-set shoulders, the thick hair spiked with gray and the humorous half-grin. “Well, who are you?” Her speaking voice was husky, intimate.
“A friend of Abel Terrell’s. He asked me to meet him here tonight.” He checked the watch on his wrist. “He’s late. I thought maybe you might know where he was.”
The blonde pursed her lips, shook her head. “I haven’t seen Abel in months.” She lowered her voice. “He had some kind of trouble and had to go away.” She turned the full impact of her eyes on him. “Is it safe for him to show his face around? I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”
Liddell found two cigarettes, lighted both, passed one to her. “When he called me, he said he had everything straightened out. He wanted me to bring him some money.”
The blonde took a deep drag of the cigarette, let the smoke drift from between half-parted lips. “I’m glad for him if everything is all right.” She studied Liddell’s face through the smoke. “Didn’t he say what he wanted the money for?”
“I didn’t ask.” He rolled his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “He did mention it had something to do with a man named Lee. Do you know anybody named Lee that was connected with Abel?”
The soft lips framed the name, after a moment the girl shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve never heard Abel mention the name to the best of my recollection.”
Liddell nodded, raked his fingers through his hair. “I had the feeling the money was for Lee. Abel was very secretive about it, wouldn’t even tell me where he’d been for the past few months.”
The girl held her finger against her lips, cocked her head prettily. Then she got up, opened the dressing-room door a crack. There was no one in the corridor. “We can’t talk here. These walls are like paper.” She walked back, stood close to Liddell. “Maybe Abel saw someone or something that frightened him away.”
“Well, how am I going to contact him to let him know I have the money?” He studied the girl’s face. “Do you know where to reach him?”
She turned, walked to the dressing-table, picked up a comb, ran it through her hair. “I wouldn’t do anything that might hurt Abel.”
“But you do know how to contact him?”
She dropped the comb, swung around, leaned back on the table. “How do I know that Abel really wants to see you?” How do I know that you’re not the man he’s hiding from?”
Liddell grinned. “A good question. Ask him.”
“And who are you?”
“He’ll know. Just tell him Johnny.”
“Just Johnny?” The blonde pursed her lips humorously. “Don’t I get to know the full name?”
“After you’ve checked with Abel and satisfied yourself that I’m a right guy, maybe we’ll get to know each other well enough that the only name you’ll need will be Johnny.”
The blue eyes swept him from head to feet and back. “Could be.”
“How long will it take you to reach him?”
“I don’t know. But I’m through here at 2:30. I’m sure I’ll be able to reach him by then. Why can’t we meet then?”
Liddell nodded. “I’ll pick you up here at 2:30.”
“We can’t talk here. Make it at my place at three. Apartment 2A, 28 Dyson Street — just about four blocks from here. Do you know where it is?”
Liddell shook his head. “I’ll find it. I’ll be there at three on the dot.”
The clerk in the outside office at headquarters told Johnny Liddell that Inspector Herlehy couldn’t be disturbed. He let himself be talked into checking with the inspector himself, plugged in the interoffice phone, muttered into it. He nodded, flipped off the switch.
“I guess he’ll see you.” He sounded impressed.
Herlehy was sitting on the side of the leather couch in his office, running his fingers through his hair. He was yawning when Liddell walked in.
