Bare Trap (15 page)

“It turns out that the kid is up to his dirty little neck in debt to a rough character who has him worked over a couple of days before he gets it in a place where he’s holed out. My client claims the rough character had found out where the kid was hiding. Sounds simple.”

“It was until you started fouling things up. We’ve got a call out for Yale and his muscle men. One of them we found, thanks to somebody who could use a forty-five better than he did. We’ll find the other one, and when we do, we’ll wash up the Shad Reilly kill.” Devlin leaned forward. “It’s that simple. That’s why I can’t figure what the hell you’re stirring up so much of a mess about.”

“I tell you it’s not that simple, Inspector.” Liddell slapped the desk with his open hand. “It’s like an iceberg. That part of it’s only a small piece of what’s going on. The
biggest part is still under cover.” He looked up as a uniformed man came in, set two containers of coffee on the desk, waited until he had left. “Yale Stanley figures in this and so does that goon of his. Maybe Eddie Richards does, too. But there’s more to it than just that.”

“Such as?”

Liddell shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think there’s a blackmail ring operating in this town that’ll turn your hair gray” — he glanced at the white shock on the inspector’s head, grinned — ”or maybe in your case it’ll turn it black.”

Devlin reached for a container, gouged out the top. “That the angle you’ve been working on?”

“Part of it. And I’m beginning to get somewhere.”

“What’ve you got that’s concrete?”

Liddell took the cigarette from between his lips, scowled at it, snapped the thin collar of ash off with his middle finger. “Nothing concrete. Just a hunch.”

“Hunches aren’t admissible in a court of law,” Devlin growled. “In the meantime, I’m not standing still for a lot of gunplay and killing in my district.” He sipped at his coffee, glared at Liddell over the rim of the container. “Another thing, Liddell. There’s a lot of important money tied up in some of the people in this town, investments that can be wiped out overnight by scandal. Don’t start something you can’t handle.”

“You mean you’re telling me to lay off the shakedown angle?”

“You know damn well that’s not what I’m telling you,” Devlin roared. “You trying to imply that I’m covering for it?”

Liddell reached for his container, snapped off the cover. “What are you getting so excited about?” he asked mildly. “After all, you’ve just accused me of being a murderer and a half a dozen other things. If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize.”

A dull flush stained the inspector’s neck. He started to say something, checked himself. “Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe this isn’t just a welsh killing. You prove it to me and I’ll apologize.”

“Mighty white of you.”

“Provided you’re not in the can with a murder indictment on you,” he amended.

“I won’t be,” Liddell assured him. He took a swallow of the coffee, set the container back on the desk, grinned shamefacedly. “Look, Inspector, we’re acting like a couple of jerks. I know damn well you’re not covering for anybody. And you know I’m not gun happy.”

“That remains to be seen.” The inspector refused to be mollified. He finished his coffee, dropped the container in the waste basket.

“If Ballistics gives me a clean bill, still friends?” Liddell grinned.

Some of the anger drained out of the older man’s face. “Until you go too far.” He pounded on the corner of the desk with his clenched fist. “Why the hell do you have to play a lone hand? Why can’t you tell us what you’ve got and let us work with you? That is,” he snorted, “if you’ve got anything.”

Liddell shrugged. “There are some things a private op can handle better than the authorities. Like you just said, there’s a lot of money tied up in this town and that money swings a lot of weight. Me they can’t hurt. You they can.” He sipped at his coffee. “Besides, as I told you, I still don’t have anything definite. At least not enough to — ”

The phone on the desk buzzed. Devlin swept it to his ear, nodded. “Okay, send him in.” He dropped the receiver back on its hook. “Ballistics has identified your gun, Johnny,” he grunted. “You’re in trouble.”

“But they couldn’t. I tell you I didn’t — ”

“Save it, Liddell.” Devlin waved him to silence with a shake of his head. He got out of his chair, walked to the window. “I was half hoping you were leveling with me.” He turned his back, stared morosely out the window. He was still looking out the window when the knock came on the door. “Come in,” he called over his shoulder.

The door opened; a lab man walked in. In his hand he carried a sheaf of papers. “Lyons from Ballistics, Inspector,”
he announced himself.

Devlin walked back to his desk, didn’t look at Liddell. “Macy tells me you found something, Lyons?”

“Yes, sir.” He spread the photographs on the desk. “This is the rolled photograph of sample bullets from the gun in question wired out from New York this morning.” He indicated a large flat photograph showing the grooves left on a bullet by the rifling of the barrel. Above that he laid a similar photograph, pointed to it with the tip of his pencil. “You can see that they match perfectly.”

Liddell got up from his chair, looked over the lab man’s shoulder. “But that’s impossible.”

The lab man shook his head. “It’s a positive identification. I’d stake my job on the fact that the gun was the same one that fired the bullets on file in New York.”

Devlin scowled at the photographs, looked up. “That does it, Johnny. Ballistics doesn’t lie. Your gun killed that guy, and — ”

The lab man looked puzzled. “These bullets didn’t come out of the dead man, Inspector,” he interrupted.

“What do you mean they didn’t come out of the dead man? Where did they come from?” Devlin roared.

“From the wall in the kitchen and from the door jamb. These bullets were fired from the dead man’s gun. I did a recheck with the weapon itself. They match perfectly.”

Liddell sank back into his chair with a sigh, wiped the thin film of perspiration off his upper lip with the side of his hand.

“What about the bullets in the dead guy?” Devlin demanded.

“No match at all.” He slid another photograph on top of the others. “You can see for yourself.” He pointed with his pencil to the differences in the grooving. “I didn’t know what you wanted. Sergeant Macy just told me that you wanted to prove the gun used in the shooting was the same one that fired the bullets New York had on file.”

“You’re sure you didn’t get them mixed up?”

The lab man snorted indignantly. “Of course not. I
checked it back against the gun they took out of the stiff’s hand.”

‘Okay, okay. That’s all, Lyons. Thanks.”

The lab man picked up his photographs, stalked indignantly out of the room. He slammed the door behind him.

“Well, Inspector?”

Devlin cursed under his breath, ignored him.

“Looks like Duke liked my rod better than his.” Liddell got up. “Now do you believe they took my rod when they busted into my place?”

Devlin leaned back, looked tired. “Okay, Johnny. You’ve got an apology coming. Looks like I was wrong.” He got up, extended his hand. “No hard feelings?”

Liddell shook his hand. “Just one thing, Inspector. I feel kind of naked without my gun. Any chance of my getting it back?”

Devlin sighed, raked at his hair. “It should be kept as evidence, but — oh, what the hell.” He pulled a pad over and scribbled on it. “Show this and your license to the property clerk. He’ll give it to you.”

Liddell nodded his thanks, folded the authorization, stowed it in his wallet. “Thanks, Inspector. I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I have something to tell you.”

“Do that.” Devlin nodded. “In the meantime, I’ve got something to tell you. Keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble. Jerry Macy doesn’t like you even a little bit and the first time he can tag you with something he can make stick, he’s going to ram it into you and break it off.”

T
HERE WAS NO ANSWER
to the phone in Muggsy Kiely’s apartment. Johnny Liddell dropped the receiver back on
its hook, scooped his coin from the return slot, and stepped out of the booth. He slid onto a stool at the lunch counter and ordered ham and eggs and coffee. When he had finished, he stepped back into the booth, re-dialed Muggsy’s number, but drew another blank. The clock on the wall over the counter showed eleven forty-five.

He walked out, signaled a cab. A man was leaning against a building a few stores away, reading a newspaper. Liddell noticed the black sedan parked at the curb in a restricted area, gave no sign that he saw it.

“Farmer’s Market,” he told the cabby. “And step on it. I’ve got a lunch date.”

The cabby, unimpressed, merely nodded.

Liddell sank onto the back cushion, twisted around so he could see out the rear window. As the cab pulled away from the curb, the man on the sidewalk leisurely folded his newspaper, walked over to the black sedan. It melted into the string of cars behind the cab.

At Farmer’s Market, a sprawling colony of booths, restaurants, and stores on the south side of Los Angeles, Liddell pushed a bill up at the cabby, jumped out, and ran into the teeming mob of tourists that overflowed from one booth to another. He heard the screaming skid as the black sedan braked to a stop outside, burrowed in among the crowd. He walked in through the open meat booths, the exotic groceries, elbowed his way through the crowd that gathered around the Mexican and Guatemalan novelties in the International display, came out half a block north of where the black sedan stood parked at the curb. He hailed a cruising taxi, gave the address of Eddie Richards’s office. The black sedan was still at the curb down the street as his cab swung west toward Hollywood.

As he pushed open the frosted glass door to Eddie Richards’s office, the blonde at the typewriter looked up, frowningly. The frown melted down into a smile as she recognized the private detective.

“Well, if it isn’t Liddell,” she greeted him. “I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”

“Not a chance, baby.” Liddell shook his head. “I just had some business I had to get out of the way.”

“Monkey business, I’ll bet.” The blonde nodded. “Making any progress?”

“Not so’s you could notice.” He nodded at the inner office. “No word from him, I suppose?”

Margy Winslow shook her head. “The police have been here a couple of times looking for him. Do you suppose something’s happened to him?”

Liddell shrugged. “Nothing fatal. Hiding a body like his would be a trick. As soon as anything does happen, you’ll read about it.”

“They think Yale Stanley’s got him, don’t they?”

“I guess he has. Some stoolie reported seeing Richards in a car with Yale right after the kid’s body was found.” He sat on the corner of the desk, stared down at her. “They seem to think maybe Richards and Yale were in it together.”

“That’s crazy, Johnny. I told you Richards hated Yale. They gave the boss a bad time a couple of years ago when Richards owed some money he didn’t want to pay.”

“Did you know Richards then, Marge?”

The blonde nodded. “As I told you, I’ve been around a long time. Miss Chenango County of 1940. Remember?”

Liddell nodded absently. “I remember. About when was that?”

Margy wrinkled her brow in concentration. “I couldn’t say exactly, but I’d make a guess at about five, six years ago.” She bit on the end of a long, lacquered nail, shook her head. “I couldn’t make it any closer than that.”

“That’s good enough,” Liddell nodded. “You know this Terry Devine? The one Shad was chasing?”

Margy Winslow made a
moue
of distaste. “Of course I know her. I know a lot of undesirable characters.”

“Think back. Was she around at the time Richards was having trouble with Yale Stanley?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Never mind. Was she?”

The blonde stared at him, shrugged. “I don’t know. I could probably find out if it’s important.”

“It could be.”

The blonde got up, straightened the folds out of her tightly fitted skirt, walked over to the filing-cabinet. She pulled open one drawer, didn’t find what she wanted, then tried another. She pulled out a Manila folder and leafed through it.

“She could have been here.” She nodded. “She started working for the studio back in ‘46.” She checked off an item with her thumbnail. “Claimed she was sixteen, but a gal like that is forty the day she learns how to talk.” She ran through several other papers in the file. “Did some bits for Richards in ‘47 and the early part of ‘48. We dropped her option in March ‘48.” She replaced the papers in the file, shut the drawer. “That what you wanted?” She walked back to the desk slowly, stopped in front of Liddell, pushed some stray hairs into place with the tips of her fingers. “Don’t tell me the divine Terry has her hooks into you, too?”

Liddell shook his head. “This Shad character must have started chasing young. He’s not twenty-one yet and this is ‘52. That means he was only fifteen or sixteen when Richards tossed Terry off the lot for playing house with him?”

The blonde ridged her forehead. “Come again?”

“That’s what Richards told me. He ruled Terry off the lot because she got tough with him when he told her to lay off his kid.”

“That’s ridiculous. If anybody was playing games with her it was Richards himself. Ask her, why don’t you?”

“I would. Only she’s among the missing, too.”

Margy’s eyes widened. “She is? Since when?”

“Last night, apparently. You’ll read all about it in the afternoon papers. There was a gunfight in her apartment and one guy decided to wait around to greet the coroner. No sign of Terry or the other guy.”

The blonde pursed her lips, whistled noiselessly. “Richards?”
she asked.

Liddell shrugged. “Could be, I suppose. Only, I can’t quite see the fat boy standing up to a professional gunman and burning him down.” He reached out, rested his hands on the girl’s hips, drew her closer. “Still want me to find who killed Shad?”

“If you promise to be careful doing it,” she told him softly. “I don’t like the way they’re playing, Johnny.” She ran her fingers through his hair, patted up the wave. “Yale Stanley has nothing to lose now by killing you. Don’t give him a chance to.”