Bare Trap (7 page)

There was a hurt sniff, then a click.

“Now that I’ve gotten rid of that pest, what’s on your mind, Liddell?”

“I want to see you about Richards. He’s skipped.”

“I heard all about it. Some flatfoot from Homicide named Macy called about a half an hour ago. I’ve got a date to tell all at headquarters at eleven-thirty.”

“I might’ve known Macy wouldn’t let any grass grow under his feet. Look, baby, I want to see you before you go downtown.”

“What for?”

“I’ll tell you when I get up there.”

She laughed in his face. “No dice, Liddell. Little Margy isn’t fouling herself up with the Department for — ”

“It might be worth your while,” he cut her off.

The girl hesitated a moment. “Then this is a business call?”

Liddell grinned. “Half business, half pleasure.”

“I don’t know, Liddell. The cops might not like it.”

“I’m only trying to help Richards. Play along with me and I guarantee you won’t lose a thing.”

“Half business, half pleasure?” she cooed at him. “Maybe I will see you at that. After all, the Police Department can’t expect to run a girl’s social life, can they?”

“Now you’re talking. I’ll be right over.”

“Give me a few minutes to get decent.”

Liddell grinned. “Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

T
HE
S
POTLIGHT
C
LUB
was an old-fashioned residential hotel set between Fifteenth and Sixteenth Streets in the shadow of the Ambassador Hotel. It had a faded awning that showed signs of having waged a losing battle with time and strong winds. Nobody had bothered to patch the gaping rips that flapped noisily in the morning breeze. The stone façade was dirty, neglected looking.

The prim little lobby inside had the requisite number of tired rubber plants, a few chairs obviously not intended to be sat on, and a general air of decay. The impression was borne out by the shabby registration desk and the old man who presided over it. He blew his nose noisily as Liddell approached and favored the private detective with a jaundiced look.

“Miss Winslow,” Liddell told him.

The old man stowed the dingy handkerchief in his hip pocket, looked at the speckled face of the alarm clock on his desk. “Kind of early to be calling, or kind of late. Depends on how you look at it,” he drawled. “She don’t usually like to — ”

Liddell waved the objection aside with a nod. “I know. But she’s expecting me.”

The old man looked him over incuriously, shrugged. “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with her. What name?”

“Liddell.”

The man behind the desk shuffled toward a small office set at the end of the desk, stuck his head in. “Call Winslow. Tell her she’s got company. Fellow says she’s expecting him. Name of Liddell.” He waited in the doorway for a few moments, then shuffled back. “Says for you to go up. It’s six twenty-five.” He stared at Liddell sadly for a second. “Management don’t like men visitors this hour.”

“Good thing I’m not visiting the management, eh?” Liddell told him. He followed the clerk to an open-grill elevator at the far end of the lobby.

The blond secretary opened the door in response to Liddell’s knock. In the slinky light-green hostess gown she wore, she looked even more so. Her eyes, which were almost the color of the gown, crinkled as the soft full lips parted welcomingly. “Fancy meeting you here. Yesterday afternoon the only address you were interested in was Devine’s.”

“That was business. This is pleasure.”

The blonde cocked her head, pursed her lips humorously. “Half business, half pleasure, I thought you said.”

“Do I come in?”

The blonde stepped aside, took his hat, dropped it on an end table, and led the way into the inner room.

“Cozy little place,” Liddell told her.

“Liar.” She grinned back over her shoulder. “It’s a dump and you know it.”

“Okay. So now we’re past the formalities.” He pulled
a bottle of cognac from his pocket. “I hope you like grape juice.”

The blonde shook her head. “Not when I’m talking business, I don’t.” She took the bottle from his hand, set it on the low coffee table fronting the couch, disappeared into the kitchen, reappeared with ice and glasses. “But don’t let that stop you.”

Liddell nodded, dropped three pieces of ice into the glass, drenched them down with cognac, swirled the liquid around the glass.

“Any word from Richards? Has he shown up yet?” the blonde asked.

Liddell shook his head. “I don’t think he will. Under his own power, at any rate.”

Margy reached for a cigarette, tapped it on the arm of the couch, fitted it carefully into a holder. “That’s just ducky for me.”

Liddell found a lighter, held it out to the girl, watched while she inhaled a lungful of smoke, blew it ceilingward. “Richards isn’t the only guy in town who could use a secretary.”

“The rest want one who can type, too,” she countered. “You don’t think I stayed around that fat slob because I wanted to?”

Liddell picked up a cigarette, leaned over, lit it from the one the girl held. His eyes took significant inventory of her assets. “Don’t tell me you had to play house with a slob like him. Not with that equipment.”

“A dime a dozen in this town, Liddell.” She leaned back, blew smoke at the ceiling. “You know, ten years ago when I hit this town I figured to have the world by the tail in twelve months. It worked out pretty nearly vice versa.” She grinned at him ruefully. “You don’t know it, but you’re sitting with Miss Chenango County of 1940.”

“I’m impressed,” Liddell told her.

“You should be. So was I.”

Liddell snagged his glass, took a sip. “You sure you won’t have just a touch?”

“Well, okay. Just a touch.” She watched while he filled the other glass with ice and tilted the bottle over. “Hey, hold it! That’s a heavy touch you got, mister.”

“How’d you come to tie up with Richards?”

The girl shrugged. “The usual story. Things didn’t break so hot, I got sick. He put up the dough, helped me get back on my feet. But by then the old fight was pretty nearly kicked out of me.” She took a deep slug out of the glass. “When Richards put the proposition up to me that he’d take on the bills from here in it sounded like the answer to a prayer.”

“And now?”

The blonde shrugged. “You tell me. I’ve known all along that someday I’d have a situation like this staring me in the face. It’s no prettier close up.”

“It’s not quite that bad.”

“No?” The blonde stared at him for a moment, got up from the couch, and disappeared into the bedroom. After a moment she was back with an official-looking paper in her hand. “Take a look at this.”

Johnny Liddell glanced at the paper, whistled softly. “A marriage license. You and the kid?”

Margy nodded. “Richards’s idea.”

“Kind of robbing the cradle, wasn’t it?”

“You think I liked the idea? He was a little creep. The only reason I went through with it was because Richards said it would protect the kid. He knew all about the markers Shad had written at Yale Stanley’s.” She reached over, picked Liddell’s cigarette from between his lips, took a deep drag, replaced it. “He was afraid Yale would force Shad to marry that little black-haired tart.”

“Terry Devine?”

Margy nodded. “You knew they worked Shad over about a week ago?”

Liddell nodded.

“They were trying to make him agree to go through with the marriage. Like that, Yale was sure of getting his money.”

“And he married you because Richards told him to?”

“He wasn’t much of a man, Liddell. He was scared to death of Richards.”

“But you married him, anyway.”

The blonde dropped her eyes. “It didn’t make much difference.” She shrugged. “There aren’t many real men out here. He was no worse than the rest, and I thought I was helping him.”

Liddell drained his glass, set it on the table. “He doesn’t need any help now.”

“You’ve got to find out who did it, Liddell.”

“Why should I? My job was to find the kid. I’ve found him. As soon as I find Richards I’m bowing out of this mess.”

“Look, Liddell. I know you think I’m pretty cheap. Maybe I am. Or maybe it’s just that I didn’t care any more.” She put her hand on his knee. “Maybe now that I’ve met you and remember that there are men like you, maybe it makes a difference.”

“Does it?”

“I’ll be around. We can talk about it then.”

“Okay. If you really want me to work on it, there are a couple of things I’ve got to know. You say Richards knew the kid was in to Yale Stanley for a bundle?”

The blonde nodded.

“Why didn’t he bail him out instead of going through this whole rigamarole of getting you married off to him?”

“He didn’t want Stanley to have the satisfaction of getting the money. Richards was barred from every spot in town because years ago he welshed on a gambling debt in one of the Syndicate spots. They persuaded him to pay and he’s never forgiven them. Stanley in particular.”

“Why didn’t he pay before they persuaded him?”

The blonde laughed humorlessly. “He was broke.”

“Richards broke?”

“Flat. He’s been living on his nerve for years.” She looked around the mean little apartment with a grimace. “You think we’ve been holing up in this because we like
slumming?”

“Where’d he get the dough to square his own paper?”

Margy shrugged.

“He been tapping the kid’s estate?” Liddell demanded.

“I don’t know. All I do know is that he went through his own money, and he’s in hock up to his neck.” The sea-green eyes clouded with anger. “Hell, he’s even a month behind on the rent for this flea trap.”

Liddell dragged a worn wallet from his breast pocket, counted out fifty in small bills. “This help, baby?” He laid the bills on the coffee table next to the girl’s glass.

“You don’t have to do that, Liddell,” she told him. “It’ll work out.” She pushed the bills back regretfully.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not out of my pocket. It’ll show up on the bill. Expenses, you know.” He left the bills on the table, picked up his drink. “Somebody’ll pay the tab. If it isn’t Richards, it’ll be the kid’s estate. Take it.”

The blonde looked at the bills with furrowed brows and caught her lower lip between her teeth. Finally, she reached out, picked up the bills. “Okay, Santa Claus. We’ll consider it a loan.” She leaned back, studied Liddell from half-closed eyes. “Richards, Shad, Yale Stanley, Terry Devine — all heels. How come you’re so nice, Liddell?”

“I owe it all to Dale Carnegie. Then again, maybe I have a soft spot in my heart toward Chenango County.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe you figured I could give you more for your fifty bucks? Maybe even tell you where Richards is.”

“Can you?”

She shook her head.

“I didn’t think you could. Besides, you’re a suspicious little character.”

Margy caught her glass, swirled the cognac over the ice. “You said you were coming here half for business, half for pleasure. Is the business half over?”

Liddell nodded.

“Good. I hate business.” The blonde sighed.

Liddell moved to the edge of the couch so she could put
her feet up. She looked at her watch, made a face. “Have to be getting in to work pretty soon.” She looked up at him.

“Wouldn’t it pay you to be a little late today, baby?”

She considered, pursed her lips humorously. “It might.”

L
ATE THAT AFTERNOON
Johnny Liddell walked into Police Headquarters at Las Caminas and told the uniformed sergeant behind the desk that he wanted to see Inspector Devlin in Homicide. The sergeant countered with the probability that Devlin was too busy to be disturbed, tried to make Liddell settle for Sergeant Macy, but ended up by letting himself get talked into checking with Devlin himself.

He plugged in the intercom, grunted into it, looked up at Liddell, and scratched at his head.

“He says he’ll see you himself.” The sergeant seemed duly impressed. “Know where his office is?”

Liddell shook his head.

“Second floor front. You can’t miss it. It’s got his name on it.”

“In that case, I’ll probably find it,” Liddell agreed gravely.

Inspector Devlin was sitting in an old swivel chair behind a battered oak desk. He was tall, heavy-set, his sun-leathered face topped by a shock of white hair that showed signs of having been raked recently by his stubby fingers.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Liddell.” He got up from his chair, held out a powerful hand, pulverized Liddell’s with his grip. “Seems that every time you get in town there’s trouble, eh?”

Liddell hastily withdrew his hand, massaging the knuckles. “It doesn’t seem to be ageing you.” He grinned. He looked around the unprepossessing office with its old leather sofa, two straight-backed chairs, a depressing green carpet that showed obvious signs of wear, a water cooler humming to itself in the corner, and some paint-chipped filing-cabinets. “I see they never did get around to redecorating your office.”

Devlin dropped into his swivel chair, looked around, grunted. “Not very observant, I’d say. Hell, that’s a brand-new calendar.”

Liddell grinned and pulled one of the straight-backed chairs close to the desk. “Just the same it’s good to see you, Inspector.”

The white-haired man behind the desk nodded. “You must be psychic, Liddell. As a matter of fact I’ve been wanting to see you. Tried to reach you at that rabbit warren where you’re registered. You don’t seem to be getting much mileage out of that room of yours.”

“I’ve been pretty busy,” Liddell agreed.

“Sightseeing?” The inspector opened his top drawer, selected a fresh piece of gum from a package, and stuck it between his teeth. “After all, there’s nothing more for you to be doing on the Reilly case. Or is there?”

“What’d you want to see me about?” Liddell sidestepped.

“Margy Winslow. I hear you had a little session with her this morning.”

Liddell nodded. “I dropped by for a talk.”

Devlin rolled the paper from the gum into a ball, tossed it at the waste basket. “Suppose you leave the questioning of witnesses in a homicide to us. The citizens of Las Caminas are laboring under the delusion that that’s what we get paid for.”