Bare Trap (22 page)

“Maybe you didn’t kill the kid,” Liddell conceded. “But you’ll have a tough time proving it if you’re wearing a forty-five slug for a belt buckle.” He watched the big man inch carefully toward him. “You’ll never make it, Maxie. And don’t think I won’t shoot. Ask Duke.”

Maxie stopped, blinked at him with bloodshot, angry little eyes. “You’re trying to frame me,” he repeated dully. “I never killed the kid.”

“Okay, okay. I take your word for it,” Liddell assured him. “Behave yourself and maybe you can convince Inspector Devlin.” He nodded toward a chair. “Sit down and relax.”

Indecision ridged the ex-pug’s forehead.

Liddell indicated Richards and Yale Stanley with a toss of his head. “These two aren’t going to give me any trouble. You decide for yourself whether you’re going to be on your feet or like them when the cops get here.”

The piglike eyes looked down at the unwavering muzzle of the .45. “You brought the cops?”

Liddell nodded. “They were tipped off a half hour after I left. Even if you did get to me and walk away from it, you’d never get out that door.”

Maxie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shuffled to the chair, sank into it. “You talked me into it, peeper.”

Johnny Liddell parked the convertible outside headquarters, ran up the steps. He asked the sleepy sergeant on the desk for Inspector Devlin. The sergeant yawned noisily, stared up at the clock. “Have a heart, Mac. The inspector’s been going night and day. He’s grabbing a little shut eye in his office.” He scratched at his head, grunted. “Be a good guy and come back in a couple of hours.”

“Suit yourself. I just wanted to tell him I’ve got a couple of guys in the tank on the other side of town that he’s been dying to meet. But if you prefer to have him read it in the paper — ”

Some of the sleepiness was gone from the sergeant’s eyes, replaced by watchfulness. “What guys?”

“Yale Stanley for one.”

“You talked me into it.” He nodded. He plugged in the intercom, spoke into it, pulled the plug. “Go on up.”

Devlin was sitting on the side of the old leather couch in his office, running stubby fingers through his hair. He was yawning when Liddell walked in.

“What’s this about Yale Stanley?” he demanded before Liddell had got the door closed.

“On ice over in Beverly Hills.” Liddell nodded. “I’ve got Maxie Seymour and Richards, too.”

“Richards alive?”

Liddell shrugged. “Just about. He’s in the prison hospital. They gave him a hard time.”

Devlin got to his feet. He punched the button on the base of his phone and shouted orders into it. He dropped the receiver on its hook, walked over to the sink in the corner, slapped water on his face.

Liddell dropped wearily into the chair on the far side of the desk, watched the inspector dry his face with a towel, hang it back on the hook behind the sink. He was running a comb through his hair when the desk phone rang. He walked over, snagged it.

“Devlin. Las Caminas Homicide. Hear you got a couple of goons I been looking for.” He listened to the chatter of the receiver, his face cleared. “Good. I’ll send a couple of
boys over for them. Take good care of them for me. Thanks.” He hung up the phone, nodded to Liddell. “Nice work, Johnny.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Toss them into the tank and give them the damnedest grilling you ever saw.” He dropped into the swivel chair behind the desk, selected a cigar from the humidor. “We’ll get enough out of them to wash this thing up.”

There was a knock on the door, a uniformed officer came in, dropped a typewritten flimsy on Inspector Devlin’s desk. He read through it, grunted, nodded to the officer, who withdrew.

“What do you know about a dame named Glennon, Johnny?” he asked.

Liddell suddenly found his fingernails fascinating. “What should I know about her?”

“She’s dead.”

Liddell started, looked up. “How?”

Devlin bit the end off his cigar, spat it at the waste basket.

“Gas pipe. Report just came in.” He waved at the flimsy.

Liddell cursed under his breath. “Where?”

Devlin reached over, consulted the flimsy. “She had a beach house down in Laguna. No details yet. Just a flash from the car that found her.” He flipped the report in the out-basket. “Nice and simple. Just turned on the gas and went out.”

“Too nice and simple maybe.”

“Meaning?”

Liddell shrugged. “Sure it was suicide?”

Devlin stuck his cigar between his teeth, chewed on the end for a moment. “Pretty sure. There was a pickup order out for her on grand larceny. Did you know that?”

Liddell nodded. “Lulu Barry.”

“So you know. Well, Glennon probably figured the jig was up.” He scratched a match, applied it to the end of the cigar, drew in a mouthful of smoke. “You got some ideas?”

Liddell tugged at his nose, shrugged. “It’s probably
screwy, but it sure is a good break for Lulu that Glennon did the Dutch.”

Devlin watched the gray-white smoke spiral ceilingward. “Why?”

“Puts the lid on a juicy scandal for one thing. Glennon was supposed to be working a shake racket with Yale Stanley. They used Lulu’s column to put the squeeze on the suckers.”

“So?”

Liddell shrugged. “So suppose it wasn’t Glennon after all? Just for the sake of argument, suppose it was Lulu that was working with Yale?”

“It would be a good break for her if Glennon did bow out.” Devlin nodded. “But on the other hand, Lulu wouldn’t be likely to put a call out for her if she didn’t want her to be found.”

Liddell looked at the older man searchingly. “I was there when she put the call out, Inspector. She never mentioned the beach place.”

“Funny.” Devlin tapped loose a thin collar of white ash from the end of his cigar. “Lulu knew Glennon always spent the day after the broadcast at the beach. She had the next day off.”

“Yet she gave Lieutenant Dana her address here in town, and — ”

Devlin shrugged. “Maybe it’s better this way, Johnny. Maybe Glennon couldn’t stand up under a long rap.” He jammed the cigar between his teeth savagely. “Maybe it’s better all around like this.”

L
ATER THAT AFTERNOON,
Johnny Liddell sat in the inspector’s office again. He drank listlessly from the paper container
of coffee Devlin had provided. “You look a lot happier than the last time I saw you, Inspector,” he said.

“Why not? We’ve got Yale Stanley and his muscle man in the tank. Some of the boys have been talking it over with them all afternoon. Should be a break pretty soon and we can shake this one out of our hair.”

“You think you got the kid’s killer, eh?”

Devlin shrugged. “You say it’s not the guardian and I buy that. Then it’s either Yale or Maxie. Either way it’s washed up.”

Liddell finished the coffee, tossed the cardboard container at the waste basket. “I’m not so sure, Inspector,” he grunted. “I got a funny feeling about this one. Neither Yale nor Maxie taste right to me.”

Devlin leaned back, grinned. “Stop trying to poke holes in it, Johnny. It’s all wrapped up.”

“I don’t have to poke holes in it,” the private detective retorted. “There’s one in it someplace that you can drive a truck through.”

“Not from where I sit.”

“You’re wrong, Inspector. There’s a piece that doesn’t fit and I can’t put my finger on it. Something that keeps eluding me.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I have the feeling I should know what it is, but I can’t make it stand still long enough.”

“Well, here’s the folder on the case. All ready for the D.A. as soon as the boys bring in the statements. It fits like one of Lana Turner’s sweaters.” He shoved a Manila folder across the desk to Liddell. “If you can find a hole in it, you’re welcome to it.”

Liddell reached over, snagged the folder. He ran through pages of typewritten notes, glanced at the pictures and prints taken by Macy and the lab men at the death scene. Suddenly he frowned, shuffled back to the picture.

“Wait a minute,” he growled. “I think I got it.”

He laid a picture of the sprawled body of the victim on the desk in front of the inspector. “Take a look at that shot,
Inspector. Notice how the kid’s lying — on his face, head away from the door, plugged in the back.”

Devlin snorted. “Is that a great discovery? Hell, you were there. You found him.” Suddenly, he frowned. “You mean the body was moved?”

Liddell shook his head. “No, it was there all the time.” He turned the picture around, studied it. “That’s how we found him all right and that’s what’s been bothering me all through this case.” He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk, nodded. “I got the whole picture now, Inspector. I know who killed Shad Reilly.”

“So do we. One of those hoods we got in the tank,” Devlin countered, but there was an uncertain note in his voice. “One of them did it. It’s just a question of time until they break.”

“Call the sitting-room,” Johnny challenged. “See if they’re showing any signs of breaking. I’ll give you odds that your boys are the ones that are getting tired.”

Inspector Devlin scowled, dialed the number of the interrogation room on the interoffice communicator, mumbled and muttered into the mouthpiece, then glumly tossed it back on its prongs. He shook his head. “No sign of a break yet. They’re old-timers at this game, don’t forget. They’ll break in time.”

Liddell shook his head. “Yale Stanley will never break, Inspector,” he said. “That kind of a hood has to be slapped in the face with facts, not some detective’s fists.”

“What would you suggest?” Devlin growled.

“I’ve got a fourteen-karat hunch on this one. It’ll take me a couple
Oí
hours to check my facts.” He looked at his watch. “Give me until nine tonight to get what I’m looking for, then you can turn your whole wrecking crew loose on Yale and Maxie.”

Devlin ran his stubby fingers through his Hair, pondered. “What’s going on behind that dead pan of yours?”

“I’m not too sure myself. I’m riding a sudden hunch. But I’ll tell you this much. I’d like to have access to Eddie Richards’s personal office and apartment for a couple of
hours.”

“What for?”

Liddell shrugged. “The less you know about it, the less your conscience will hurt. But if I find that Eddie Richards was lying about one point, or if I find he was telling the truth, I can give you your killer all wrapped up and tied in pink ribbons.”

“I don’t like it, Johnny. It’s neat enough to suit me now, and — ”

“Don’t kid yourself, Inspector. A smart lawyer could punch holes in your case against Yale the way it stands right now. But if I find what I think I’ll find, I’ll give you a case that’s bombproof.” He detected signs of weakening in the man behind the desk and pushed his point. “Richards still out?”

Devlin nodded. “Hospital says he’ll probably pull through, but right now he’s in pretty tough shape.”

Liddell raised his hands, palms up. “Then there’s no danger of being walked in on. What do you say, Inspector, play with me on this one?”

The inspector struggled with his official conscience, weighed the chances of conviction with the evidence at hand, lost. “Suppose I say okay? What then?”

“Then you and I will have a little party with Yale and Maxie and I’ll guarantee to wind it up for you then.”

Inspector Devlin stared at Liddell, pondered, then nodded. “Okay. A few hours more or less won’t make that much difference.” He leaned forward, rested his arms on the table, glowered at the private detective. “But it better be a rabbit you pull out of that hat and not a lemon!”

• • •

It was almost ten after nine when Johnny Liddell walked into the interrogation room at headquarters. As he walked in, Inspector Devlin slammed down the phone he held to his ear. “We were just getting set to call off this party,” he growled. “I was calling your hotel to see whether you’d gotten dredged up somewhere.”

Johnny Liddell grinned. “It took a little longer than I
thought.”

“Get what you want?”

The private detective nodded. “Let’s have in the guests of honor.”

Devlin stared at him, shrugged. “Okay, Liddell. It’s your party. For both our sakes I hope it’s a good one. Yale’s lawyer has been breaking the doors down all evening in an attempt to get at his client.”

“You haven’t had him twenty-four hours yet. What’s he booked on?”

“Material witness. But we’d better get a break soon, or one of the Syndicate’s bright boys will pop him out of here and we’ll never lay hands on him again.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

They both turned to watch Yale Stanley and Maxie being pushed into the room by a couple of burly plain-clothes men. The gambler sneered at him, swaggered over to an armchair in the center of the room, dropped into it. “What are you doing, Inspector, charging admission?” He nodded his head at Liddell. “You want to look out for that shamus. He’ll talk you out of your tin badge.”

“Shut up,” Devlin warned him. “You’ll get your chance to talk. And you’ll talk plenty.” He turned to the two detectives with Maxie. “Put that ape in a chair so we can get this started.” He waited while the man with the splattered face shuffled over, sat down. “Okay, Liddell. This is your party. Start cutting the cake.”

Liddell nodded, walked over to the desk against the wall, and hoisted one hip on it. “Reason I asked to see you, Yale, is because some new evidence has shown up that changes the whole picture.”

“The picture may be changed but the frame’s the same.”

One of the detectives standing alongside Stanley’s chair tapped him none too gently on the shoulder. The gambler flashed him a murderous look, lapsed into sullen silence.

“You heard Eddie Richards tell me that Shad Reilly didn’t have a cent coming to him, Stanley. If that was true, then Eddie Richards had no reason to kill the kid.”

Yale Stanley tried to struggle out of his chair, got slammed back by the detective at his side. “I wouldn’t knock him off, him owing me a bundle. You said so yourself.”

“Shut up, you,” Devlin ordered. “What about Richards, Johnny? Was he leveling? The kid had no dough coming to him?”

Liddell nodded. “Not a dime. His old man blew every dime he had, except a couple of thousand in insurance. He didn’t miss that turn, Inspector. He drove off that cliff.”