Bare Trap (8 page)

“I was only trying to help. I spent the rest of the day trying to check what she told me.”

“And what was that?”

Liddell pinched at his nostrils, stared at the inspector.
“She told me Richards was stone broke.”

“Do tell?” Devlin leaned back in his chair, pulled out his bottom drawer, and stuck his foot into it. “And what’d you find out?”

“The same thing you probably did. Richards
was
broke.”

“So you think he was tapping the kid’s dough, eh?” Devlin chewed on his gum and nodded. “So did we.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we’ve been way ahead of you. We got a court order this morning and had a look at Richards’s books. They didn’t tell us a thing.”

“How about his lawyer?”

Devlin shook his head. “Richards handled the kid’s estate by himself. He had sole control. Think the secretary knows more about it than she’s telling?”

“About money? Hell, she can’t even type. You don’t expect she can add, do you?”

Devlin scowled at him but was interrupted by a buzz on the desk phone. He reached over, scooped it from its cradle, and held it to his ear.

Liddell walked over to the water cooler, filled a paper cup, and drank it slowly. When Devlin had dropped the phone back on its hook, Liddell crumpled the cup, tossed it at the waste basket, and returned to the desk.

“Trouble,” Devlin told him. “Just got a report on Richards.”

“And?”

“He was seen in a car with Yale Stanley and one of his boys early this morning.”

“Richards and Stanley? Together?” Liddell shook his head. “That’s a tough one to swallow, Inspector. Richards was on the Syndicate’s black list.”

“Came from a reliable source.” The inspector pounded on his gum with rapt concentration. “From the time they report the make, it could be that Stanley picked him up at the lodge while you were calling in the report.”

“You don’t mean to tell me you think Richards and Stanley were in on the kill together?”

“It’s not impossible. Suppose Richards was dipping in the kid’s money. Suppose it was a deep dip and the time was getting close for an accounting? That way he might have made it worth Yale’s while to get the kid in for a wad so he’d have a swell out for the examiners when they went over the account.”

Liddell considered it, a deep V ridging between his eyes. Finally, he shook his head. “Why would the kid have to hide out then? All he’d have to do would be to tell Richards, who’d then go through the motions of paying him off. There’d be no need to kill him.”

“Suppose the kid tumbled to the setup? Suppose he told Richards he was wise, then realized that he’d put himself on the spot?”

“Won’t wash. Why would he call Richards and tell him where he was in that case?”

Devlin snorted. “How do you know he did? We only have Richards’s word for that phone call. He could easily have found out where the kid was, knocked him off, then called you with the story about the phone call.”

Liddell shook his head. “I can’t buy it, Inspector.”

Devlin regarded him sadly. “Neither can I. Matter of fact, what I think really happened is that while you were gone Richards stumbled on something that pointed right at Yale Stanley. Yale was still around someplace or came back and found Richards.” He shook his head. “That means only one thing, Johnny.”

“What’s that?”

“You’d better look for a new client. I’m afraid your old one is pretty shopworn at this moment.”

It was almost dark by the time Johnny Liddell dropped the cab outside his hotel. The Marlowe was a pseudo-modern pile of brick, concrete, and plate glass that looked like a giant waffle standing on end. Each room had its own wall-sized picture window and a small balcony made completely private by being indented into the grill of the waffle.

The clerk behind the desk slid his key across to him,
opined that there had been no messages with a smile that had no effect on the boredom in his eyes.

Liddell rode the elevator to the fifth floor, followed the corridor to 546, and used his key to push the door open.

A thick-shouldered man in a loud-checked sports jacket sat in an armchair pulled up to the window overlooking Wilshire Boulevard. He didn’t turn around as Liddell walked in and kicked the door shut behind him.

“Looking for somebody?” Liddell wanted to know. His fingers were inches from his left lapel.

The man in the chair looked around, eyed him from beady eyes set close to the spattered bridge of his nose. His lips were puffy as if they had been bashed against his teeth once too often; his hairline seemed almost resting on bushy eyebrows that met over the bridge of his nose. “You Liddell?” he asked incuriously in a harsh, guttural voice.

Liddell nodded.

The man with the broken nose nodded. “Okay, so we’re looking for somebody. You.” He didn’t take his eyes off the private detective. “This is him, Duke. He’s got a rod in his fist.”

“He couldn’t get it out fast enough, Maxie,” a voice from the bedroom door chimed in. The door swung slowly open and a small, dapper little man walked out. He stood something less than five five, had the narrow shoulders and small bones of a jockey. The .45 in his hand looked as big as a cannon and was pointed at a spot about an inch above Liddell’s belt buckle.

The private detective’s fingers tightened on the butt of his gun, still nestled in its shoulder holster, and estimated on his chances of getting it out and swinging to his off side to shoot. He dropped the decision.

“I think you’re right.” He nodded. He dropped his hand, empty, to his side.

“Get it, Maxie,” the little man ordered.

Broken Nose pulled himself out of his chair and shuffled over to Liddell. He pushed open his jacket, relieved him of his .45, examined it critically. “Nice piece of iron,”
he grunted, dropped it into his jacket pocket.

“How’d you know my room?” Liddell wanted to know.

“New invention called the house phone.” The man called Duke grinned. “You pick it up and ask. All the latest conveniences.”

“Ain’t science wonderful?” Liddell growled. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”

“Got a message for you.”

“From Yale Stanley?”

The little man stared at Liddell unblinkingly. “You got a bad habit of name dropping, mister,” he chided. “I figure this message don’t need a signature.”

“The kind you delivered to Shad Reilly, eh?” He looked from the man with the gun to the broken-nosed muscle man. “I been hearing things about you two hoods and your messages.”

Duke gave no indication he had heard, ignoring the angry growl from his partner. “We figured it was time you left town. Some guys don’t take as long as others to get unpopular. You just set a new track record.”

“I can’t leave until my client tells me to.”

“You haven’t got a client. Richards don’t figure he needs you any more.”

Liddell shrugged. “I’ll wait until he tells me. Besides, I’m beginning to like this town.”

“Maybe we can fix that. What do you think, Maxie? Can we fix it so’s the shamus don’t like our hospitality?”

Maxie twisted the corners of his misshapen lips upward in a gross caricature of a smile. “It’d be a pleasure. Tough guys are my meat.” He shuffled over toward where Liddell stood. “Let’s dance, sweetheart. They’re playing our song.”

He threw a beefy fist at Liddell’s head. The private detective blocked it easily, slammed his right against the side of Maxie’s jaw. The big man blinked, licked at his lips, shuffled closer. He feinted with the left again, crossed his right against Liddell’s jaw with a speed unsuspected in a man of his size. It slammed Liddell back against the door, where he slid to a sitting position. There was a dull ringing
in his ears; the floor seemed to be tilting crazily as he struggled to his feet.

He was dimly aware that Duke sat on the arm of the chair, his .45 nestled in his lap, a broad grin creasing his thin cheeks. Maxie stood over Liddell, waiting for him to get up.

Liddell shook his head, trying to clear it of the cobwebs. He got to one knee, pretended to lose his balance, but got his legs behind him and plowed into the big man, shoulder first.

Maxie let out a strangled oath as the private detective’s shoulder caught him unaware and bowled him over. There was a crash as the big man hit a chair, splintered it, and knocked the small end table and chair over with him. He lay in the debris cursing angrily.

By the time Maxie got to his feet, Liddell was waiting for him in a half crouch. The big man moved in again, seemingly impervious to Liddell’s Sunday punch as it opened an inch-long gash on his cheekbone. He threw a hamlike fist at Liddell’s face, missed, gasped as the private detective sank his left in his stomach to the cuff.

Before he could recover and lash out in return, Liddell scuttled to the left, threw him off balance. Maxie’s little eyes glared hatred as he tried to recover his earlier advantage. He took an overhand right to the mouth that smashed his lower lip to pulp in an effort to bring Liddell close enough to use his right.

Liddell kept circling, using his left in an attempt to get a clear shot at the big man’s midsection. Moving as fast as he could to keep out of the way of Maxie’s paralyzing right, Liddell stepped on the lamp wire, slipped. The big man grinned, moved in, threw the right. It landed a few inches too high to do the full job, but carried enough steam to knock Liddell flat on his back.

Thinking the detective was helpless, Maxie moved in for the kill. As soon as he was within range, Liddell lashed out with his heels, sank them in the big man’s groin. Maxie’s eyes rolled back, saliva drooling down his chin.
Liddell struggled to his feet, put everything he had behind a right smash to the big man’s ear. He hit the floor like a felled ox.

Liddell stood swaying over him and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I have an idea Maxie isn’t going to like you, Liddell,” Duke told him. He walked over to where Maxie lay, stirred him with the tip of a small, pointed toe. The big man groaned, opened bloodshot eyes, stared up blankly. He shook his head, wiped the red smear that was his mouth with the side of his hand, and stared at the blood on his hand dazedly. He tried to pull himself to his feet, gasped at the pain in his groin, and tumbled over on his face with a moan.

The little man stared down at him coldly, stirred him again with his toe, got a groan for his trouble. Without taking his gun off Liddell, he walked over to the chest of drawers, picked up the water carafe, walked back to the man on the floor, emptied its contents over his head.

Liddell waited for the little man’s attention to be diverted, had almost given up hope when a sharp rapping on the corridor door made Duke’s attention wander for a moment.

Liddell had no time to weigh the consequences. He threw his entire 186 pounds at the small man in a desperate flying tackle.

He never even saw the blow that floored him. The barrel of the .45 couldn’t have moved more than six inches when it caught him a vicious chop across the temple that sent white-hot flashes through his skull. He managed to wrap his arms around a pair of legs but had no power to hold them. There was another chop, and a new stream of white-hot pain went through his head.

The pounding on the door was thunderous. He tried to push himself to his knees. The floor tilted sickeningly. Liddell slid forward on his face, relaxed, and was content to slide into a black void that erased the white-hot flashes and searing pain from his skull.

J
OHNNY
L
IDDELL GROANED AUDIBLY
as consciousness seared its way back into his brain. He tried to open his eyes, regretted the impulse. A pain that shot through his head, lighting up the dark corners of his skull with blinding brilliance, discouraged too much movement. After a second unsuccessful try, he managed to get the eyes open, but experienced new difficulty in keeping them from rolling back into his head.

A man was bending over him, gun in hand. Liddell tried to struggle to his feet, but the man pushed him back gently. “Take it easy, Mr. Liddell. You’ll be all right in a minute.”

Liddell shook off the man’s restraining hand. “Who’re you?” he managed to croak. His voice seemed to rise and fall in volume, setting the sensitive nerves jangling again.

“House officer. We had complaints from the room below. Came up to check. I got no answer to my knocks so I sent for the key.” He looked around the room. “What happened here?”

“Nobody here when you came in?”

“Just you on the floor. Who was it?”

Liddell felt the side of his head gingerly and winced. “Sneak thieves, I guess. I walked in on them, and one of them dropped me before I could get a good look.”

The houseman frowned his doubts, stared at the damage. “I guess I put up a bit of a fight,” Liddell added. “I don’t remember much after he hit me the first time.”

“Did they get anything?”

Liddell shook his head, regretted the impulse. He felt for his gun, swore under his breath. “They walked off with my gun,” he growled. “The big guy stuck it in his pocket
when they frisked me.”

The house detective yanked a dog-eared notebook from his hip pocket. “Got the number on it?”

Liddell went through his papers, handed over his license for the gun, and watched while the houseman copied the information into his notebook. “I guess we’ll have to make a report to the police,” the house detective told him unhappily. “That is, unless you’d prefer we don’t?”

Liddell took back his gun permit, stowed it in his pocket. “No need to drag the police into it. It wouldn’t do the hotel any good for word to get around that sneak thieves are working the place, and it wouldn’t do me any good for word to get around that I’m open for dates as a punching bag. Better let it go. I’ll handle it myself.”

The houseman nodded, returned his notebook to his pocket. “Maybe you’re right.” He considered carefully Lid-dell’s invitation to have a shot of cognac, but, recalling regretfully the new manager’s ability to spot alcohol on an employee’s breath at ninety paces, he refused.

Liddell waited until the door had closed behind the houseman, dug a cognac bottle out of his bag, and took it to the phone. He instructed the operator to get Lulu Barry, broke the seal on the bottle, and tilted it over his lips. He was on the second slug when the operator finally rang back.