Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 3, March, 1953

Payoff by Frank Kane

Tony’s men had been trying to stop the killer for five days — and all Liddell had was five minutes.

Tony Melish was scared. It showed in the little twitch under his left eye, the thin film of perspiration that glistened on his upper lip.

“They’re bluffing,” he said. “Only they picked the wrong guy to bluff.” He hit himself on the chest with the side of his hand. “They think they can muscle Tony Melish into a shake?”

The blonde looked up from her long, carefully-shellacked fingernails, smiled lazily. “From the way you’ve been acting the last four days, you sure could fool me.” She was tall. Thick, wavy blonde hair cascaded down over her shoulders in shimmering metallic waves. Her body was ripe, lush. Swelling breasts showed over the top of her low cut dress; a small waist hinted at full hips, long shapely legs concealed by the fullness of her skirt. She turned the full force of slanted, green eyes on Johnny Liddell. “He hasn’t been out of this place in four days. He says they’re not bluffing him. Look at him shaking apart.”

“Shut up, you,” the night club owner said.

Liddell looked over to where Melish stood in front of the fireplace, clenching and unclenching his hands. The years had made a lot of changes in Tony, Liddell realized. The lean wolfishness of his face was blurred by a soft overlay of fat. Flat, lustreless eyes still peered from under heavily-veined, thickened eyelids, but the soft, discolored pouches under them took away the old menace.

“How come you waited until the last minute to call me in, Tony?” Liddell asked.

The night club man shrugged. “I thought my boys could handle it. I thought they could smoke out the guys behind it.” He spat angrily into the fireplace. “They got no place. I don’t know any more now than I did five days ago.”

Liddell nodded, glanced down at the typewritten sheet he held in his lap. “They want fifty grand or you get it tonight at eleven. No mention of any snatch or anything else — the dough or the works.” He consulted the watch on his wrist, grinned humorlessly. “That leaves exactly five minutes. I can’t do much for you in five minutes if your boys couldn’t even get to first base in five days.”

“All I want from you is to stand by for a couple of hours.” The night club owner wiped the perspiration off his upper lip with the back of his hand. “It ain’t that I don’t trust my own boys, but I just like the idea of having a gun handy I can be sure of.” He stole a nervous look at the clock on the desk, compared it with his wrist watch. “They’re bluffing. They got to be.”

The blonde snorted, walked over to the big picture window, pushed back the blinds, stared down at the street ten stories below. Tony started to yell at her, checked himself. With a shrug, he walked over behind her, hands going around her, lips to her neck.

“No need of you hanging around, baby,” he told her. “Go on back to your place. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

The blonde coolly removed his hands from the front of her strapless gown. “By ouija board?” Her eyes flicked past him, ignored the rush of angry color in his face. “So long, Liddell. I hope you enjoy holding his hand.”

As she walked across the room, her round hips worked softly and smoothly against the tightly drawn fabric of her skirt. She stopped at the door, hand on knob. “Mind letting me out of this vault, Tony?”

The night club man walked to his desk, jabbed at a concealed button. The door opened, and a thin man in a heavily-padded tuxedo materialized in the opening. His hand was jammed deep in his bulging jacket pocket; his small eyes hop-scotched around the room. Finally, they came to rest hungrily on the blonde.

The fullness of her lips straightened out into an angry line. “When you get to the lower rib, it’s really a birthmark,” she said coldly.

The guard’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Tony. “What the hell’s she talking about?”

“I didn’t know you weren’t through undressing me,” the girl said. She turned to look at Tony. “You were going to do something about this jerk looking at me that way.”

“No,” Tony said. “I’m going to do something about you when they stop looking at you that way, baby.” He nodded at Mickey. “See that someone puts her in a cab.”

The blonde stamped through the doorway. The door swung shut behind her.

“That dame’s going to drive me screwy. I ain’t got enough on my mind, she’s got to get particular how a guy looks at her,” Tony said. He wiped his forehead with the flat of his hand, stared at his damp palm. “You figure like me, don’t you, Liddell? It’s a bluff?”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe? You think they’re crazy enough to think I’ll kick in that kind of dough just because they talk tough?”

Liddell shrugged. “Maybe they don’t expect you to kick in. Maybe they figure on hitting you and using this—” he held up the typewritten sheet — “as a cover.”

The night club man’s eyes receded behind their discolored pouches. “Go on.”

“If you did get it and the cops found this note, they’d be looking for a shakedown mob.” Liddell brought a cigarette from his jacket pocket, hung it in the corner of his mouth, where it waggled when he talked. “From this, they’d never figure to look closer to home — an old partner, some of your own boys, for instance.”

Tony watched the private detective apply a match to his cigarette, exhale twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. “You mean Marty Cowan? That’s where you’re wrong. He got the same kind of warning. He called me yesterday. They gave him until the day after tomorrow. How do you figure that?”

Liddell shrugged. “Maybe the shake is on the level. Maybe they figure to use you as a horrible example for the other boys so they’ll come into line easier.” He took the cigarette from between his lips, rolled it between thumb and forefinger. “This is just conversation. You said yourself I’m not up here to find out who did it. I’m just here to keep you company.”

Tony nodded jerkily. “Yeah, that’s right.” He stole another quick look at the watch on his wrist. “Two minutes to go,” he said. “How about a drink, Liddell? I got some of that private stock you liked so much in the old days.”

“Sounds good to me.”

The night club owner walked over to his desk, jabbed at the button. The door swung open. Mickey’s dark head appeared in the opening.

“Bring up a bottle of my private stock, Mick,” Melish told him.

After the door swung shut, Tony drummed on the edge of the desk with thick fingers, stared at the closed door thoughtfully. “You were just making with the talk when you said it might be some of my boys, weren’t you, Liddell?”

“Not entirely. It’s a possibility. I don’t see how else anybody could get at you.” He looked around. “How many ways to get in here?”

“Just the stairway you came up.” Melish walked over, sat on the edge of the upholstered chair facing Liddell. “They’d need a tank to get up there. First they got to go right through the club downstairs with half a dozen of my boys sitting around. Then they got to get past Mickey, who’s staked out at the head of the stairs.” Perspiration glistened on his forehead again. “Unless Mickey is in on it.”

“It’s been known to happen.” Liddell slid his .45 from its holster, rested it between his thigh and the chair’s arm. “He’d be the ideal guy to handle the contract.”

“Why should he? The Mick’s been with me since I ran the old Variety Club down in the Village. Why should he want to see me hit?”

“Who knows? You saw the way he looked at the blonde. Maybe he figures he’ll rate if you’re not on deck. Maybe he thinks—”

Tony’s jaw sagged. He jumped up, paced the room. “You’re nuts.” He stopped in front of Liddell’s chair. “He wouldn’t pull anything like that. Just for a dame?”

“Not only the dame, Tony. No guy likes to stay Number Two boy all his life. You were Number Two boy once. Seems to me your boss met with a bad accident. His tough luck was your good luck.”

The night club man’s face clouded ominously. Some of the old menace gleamed through the slitted eyelids. “He got soft. He didn’t rate—” He broke off as the door opened, and as the bodyguard entered with a bottle, two glasses and some ice. His eyes followed the small man as he crossed the room, set the bottle and two glasses on the desk. “Pour it, Mick.” The guard dumped two pieces of ice into each glass, drenched them down with whisky from an unlabeled bottle.

“Ever try that private stock of mine, Mick?” Tony asked silkily.

The thin man looked startled, rolled his eyes upward without lifting his head. “You give us all orders to keep our hands off. The pouring whisky at the bar’s good enough for me.” He picked up the glasses, held one out to Tony, the other to Liddell. His eyes didn’t change expression as he saw the .45 Liddell cradled carelessly in his lap.

“Try it once, Mick,” the night club owner told him.

The bodyguard looked from Liddell to Tony, then down to the glass. “What’s the idea?”

“Try it!” Tony’s voice was edged, harsh.

The thin man shrugged. “Okay.” He put one glass back on the desk, raised the other to his lips, sniffed at it for a second. Then, tilting his head back, he drained the glass. His thin lips tilted upwards at the corners in what was supposed to be a grin as he reached to set the glass back on the desk.

He never made it.

His body seemed to stiffen. He laced both hands against his midsection, stretched up on his toes. Then, slowly, his knees buckled, tumbling him to the floor.

Liddell was out of his chair in a second, kneeling beside him. Tony seemed frozen to the spot. “The rat. It was him. He tried to poison me!”

Liddell looked up, shook his head. “Not unless that stuff’s sharper than the old days. He’s bleeding.” He pointed to a rapidly-spreading dark spot on the front of the thin man’s jacket.

“Bleeding? How could that be?” Tony walked over, stared down at the body.

“Get back!” Liddell shouted.

There was a faint hum of an angry bee. Tony jerked his hands to his face. Red started to trickle through the fingers. He pitched forward, hit the floor face down. He didn’t move.

Liddell flattened himself against the floor, wormed his way toward the window. He applied a cautious eye to the corner, tried to locate the source of the shots.

Directly across the street was a hotel, a huge modern office building, and on the corner a department store. He eliminated the hotel as not being high enough and the department store as unlikely, settled for the roof of the office building. He leaned the barrel of the .45 on the window sill, watched, waited.

He didn’t have long to wait. In a matter of seconds, a dark shadow separated itself from the other shadows, headed for the edge of the roof. Finally, a man’s leg appeared over the edge, felt for the top landing of the fire escape. Then, the rest of the body came into view. The man peered over the railing to the alley below, seemed satisfied, started down the stairs.

Liddell waited until the upper portion of the man’s body sat on the front sight of his .45, and squeezed the trigger. The boom of the .45 was deafening in the close confines of the soundproofed room.

Across the street, the man on the fire escape staggered. He tried to get back to the roof, stumbled to his knees. Slowly, he managed to pull himself to his feet, stood swaying. Liddell’s .45 barked again.

The man on the fire escape stiffened, clawed at the guard rail. His knees folded under him. He toppled over the low rail, crashed headlong to the alley below.

Liddell knelt with his eye glued to the window until he was satisfied that the gunman across the way had been alone. Then, he walked back to where Tony lay, turned him over on his back. A blue-black hole that was still bubbling under his right eye made it apparent that he was beyond help.

The private detective debated the advisibility of reporting the shooting to the police, lost the decision. He had underestimated the danger a client had been in, had failed to give him the protection he had sought. Now, he reasoned, the only course left open to him was to get whoever had been responsible for the killing. He slipped a new clip into the .45, pulled Mickey’s .45 from his pocket, substituted the used magazine for the one in the gun. Then he headed for the street.

The street was cool after the closeness of Tony’s penthouse. The cross-streets were filled with heavy after-theatre traffic, but the avenue was relatively deserted. Liddell crossed the street, blended into the shadows of the tall office building. When he had satisfied himself that he was unobserved, he slipped into the alley that ran alongside it.

The man was spread-eagled over a stack of garbage cans. Lying nearby, its stock shattered by the fall, was a high-powered rifle equipped with telescopic sights and silencer. Liddell leaned over the man’s face, studied his features, failed to recognize him. Imported talent.

Quickly, efficiently, he ran through the man’s pockets, transferred the man’s wallet, a few papers, a key with a small red tag into his own pockets. Then, he retraced his steps up the alley, swung onto the avenue, headed for a cab.

Three hours later, Johnny Liddell sat at the table in his hotel apartment, scowled at the small pile in front of him. The dead sniper’s wallet had given him nothing aside from the man’s name and an address in Cleveland, neither of which meant anything to him. A few decks of heroin secreted away in an inner compartment of the wallet testified to the fact that the killer was a professional; the six one hundred dollar bills to the fact that he was a high-paid expert.

Liddell picked up a folded piece of notepaper, reread it for the third time. “Check into the Denton Arms in New York under the name of William Wellington. The enclosed $400 will pay you for your trouble. If I still need you, I’ll know where to reach you and the other $600 and your instructions will be delivered by messenger before you do the job.” It was unsigned.

Liddell pulled from his pocket the typewritten note Tony had received. He compared the typing, was satisfied both had been done on the same machine. He leaned back, raked his fingers through his hair, swore under his breath. He was at a dead end — the sniper apparently had no more idea of who had hired him than Liddell had.

The telephone at his elbow started to shrill. He contemplated the advisibility of not answering it, finally scooped the receiver from its cradle.

“Liddell?” The voice was low, husky, disturbing.

“Who’s this?”

“Terry. Tony Melish’s girl. I’m downstairs in the lobby.” She paused for a moment, seemed to be taking a deep breath. “I’ve got to see you. Can I come up?”

“Come ahead. I’m in Room 462.” He dropped the receiver back on its hook, stared at it speculatively. Then he picked up the wallet, the tagged key and the two typewritten notes, dropped them into his jacket pocket and hung it in the closet. He looked around, scowled at the bright overhead light, snapped it out, put on the bridge lamp over the armchair.

Then he lifted the phone, waited until the desk clerk had answered. “See that girl who called me on the house phone, Al?”

There was a long, low whistle from the other end of the wire.

“She alone when she came in?” Liddell asked.

“All alone. She headed for the desk, asked if you were in. I hope it was okay to tell her you were.” A worried note crept into the clerk’s voice. “Hell, I didn’t think anybody would mind if she—”

“She didn’t talk to anybody after she called me?”

“There was no one else in the lobby. She walked right from the booth to the elevator. I don’t mind telling you I didn’t take my eyes off her from the minute—”

There was a knock at the door.

“Okay, Al. That’s all I wanted to know.” Liddell dropped the receiver on its hook, walked to the door, pulled it open.

She was even more breathtaking than when he had first seen her. The thick, blonde hair had been piled on top of her head. Her face was scrubbed clean of all make-up, save for a red smear of lipstick on her lips. She wore a full-length camel’s hair polo coat, no stockings, a pair of loafers.

She walked past him into the room, waited until he had closed the door behind her. “Lock it,” she said in a low voice.

Liddell snapped the lock. “What’s it all about?”

“Tony. They got him just like they said they would, didn’t they? What happened? You were there. You must have seen it.”

Liddell nodded. “They planted a sharpshooter with a reacher—”

“A reacher?”

“A silenced rifle with a telescopic lens set-up. It was like shooting sitting ducks. They got Mickey, too, you know.” He led the way to the couch. “Sit down and catch your breath.” She stood waiting.

When he helped her off with her coat, he whistled noiselessly. Under the camel’s hair coat she wore only a pair of light blue silk pajamas, the trouser legs rolled up to her knees.

“I... I was ready for bed when the call came from the club. I was too scared to take the time to dress. I just grabbed a coat and ran.” She walked closer toward him, put her hands on his chest. “I didn’t know any other place to go, Johnny.” Her full lower lip trembled. “Poor Tony. I thought he was just cracking up, seeing bogey men in the shadows. Don’t let them get me the way they got him, Johnny.”

“Why should they want to kill you?” Liddell fought to keep his glance at face level, lost the struggle.

“I was pretty close to Tony. They probably think I know who ordered the killing.”

“Do you?”

The girl’s face went a shade whiter. She wet her lips with the tip of a pink tongue. “Marty Cowan. He used to be Tony’s partner.”

Liddell nodded thoughtfully. “I know Marty. But why should he shake Tony down for money? He has all he’ll ever need.”

“He didn’t want money. He figured Tony would scare and run out. Then Marty could step in and take over everything. Me included.” She dropped her arms, walked to the window, looked out. “It was no secret that Tony was getting soft. Back in the old days when he was really tough, he drove Marty out of the partnership. Marty never forgave him.” She swung around. “Tony didn’t scare, so Marty had to do it the hard way.” As she walked back toward him, the sway of her breasts traced designs on the shiny silk of her pajama jacket. “Marty knows that I know.”

“Why don’t you tell the police?”

She shrugged. “Knowing it and proving it are two different things. They’d have to let him go for lack of evidence and then he’d come looking for me.” She shuddered, massaged the backs of her arms with her palms. “Got a drink handy?”

Liddell nodded, walked into the kitchenette, came back with a bottle and two glasses. He spilled some liquor into each of the glasses, passed one to the girl.

“When you spoke to the club, did they tell you whether they’d found the guy who picked off Tony?”

The girl took a deep swallow from her glass, shook her head. “He was probably a hired gun. They’ll never find him.”

Liddell grinned glumly. “Don’t bet on it, baby. They can’t miss him.”

She stopped with her glass halfway to her lips. “What do you mean?”

“I picked him off the roof with a .45. He’s spilled all over the alley across the street.” He dropped onto the couch at her side. “He was outside talent. Brought in from Cleveland especially for this job.”

Her mouth was an “o” of amazement. “You went up against him with a .45, and him using a rifle with telescopic sights?” She moved closer. “No wonder Tony went running to you when he got in too deep. I’m glad I came.”

“I didn’t do Tony too much good. He’s dead.”

“But you got the guy who did it.” She leaned hack against the couch, strained her high, tip-tilted breasts against the fragile pajama fabric, stared at him in wide-eyed admiration. “Just like that. You picked him off the roof with a .45.” Her eyelids half-veiled the green of her eyes; she studied him through the long lashes. “I could never pay you what you’re worth to protect me, Johnny, but I’d like to try to make it worth your while.” She leaned close to him, her breath warm, fragrant on his cheek. “Let me stay here tonight, Johnny. I’m afraid to go home.”

“Okay, baby. Make yourself at home.” He leaned over, found her lips with his. They clung for a moment, then she put the flat of her hands against his chest, pushed him away.

“Do we need all that light?” She pulled herself to her feet, walked to the lamp.

“I wasn’t kidding poor Mickey,” she said. “I do have a birthmark on my bottom rib.” She pulled the blouse of her pajamas high enough to reveal a strawberry shaped blemish on the whiteness of her body. She dropped the blouse, fumbled with the zipper on the pajamas, snapped off the light.

From where he sat, Liddell could hear the soft rustle of the silk as she slid out of the pajamas. Then, she straightened up. The whiteness of her body gleamed in the reflected light. Her legs were long, sensuously shaped. Full, rounded thighs swelled into high set hips, converged into the narrow waist he had admired earlier in the evening. Her breasts were full and high, their pink tips straining upward.

As she stood there, she raised her hands slowly from her sides and loosened the pile of hair on top of her head, letting it cascade down over her shoulders. It glittered in the faint light.

She padded across the room, stood proudly in front of Liddell.

The luminous hands of the clock set next to the couch pointed to 4:10. The blonde stirred uneasily, opened her eyes, stared around in the unfamiliar darkness. Suddenly, she sprang to wide-eyed wakefulness, sat up, pulled the blanket around her. “Liddell! Liddell! Where are you?” she said.

The door to the bathroom beyond opened, spilling a triangle of yellow light into the darkened living room. Liddell walked in, drying his still damp hair. He was dressed except for his shirt and tie. “Shower wake you, Baby? Sorry. You go on back to sleep.”

“You’re not going to leave me here alone?”

“I’ve got something I’ve got to do. You’ll be all right here. Just don’t answer any telephone calls or open the door. I have my key.”

“But where are you going?”

Liddell balled the damp towel, tossed it at the open bathroom door. “To have a little talk with Marty Cowan before the police find out he’s mixed up in this. There are a couple of things I want to ask him.”

The blonde dropped the blanket, stood up. “Let the police do it, Johnny. Why should you stick your neck out any further?”

He pecked at her cheek, took his shirt from the back of a chair, shrugged into it. “Tony wasn’t much of a guy, Baby, but he was my client. He didn’t get much of a shake out of this deal, so I intend to give him his money’s worth from here on in. He’s going to get the full treatment.”

She shook her head helplessly. “Don’t. Please don’t go.”

“I won’t be long, Baby,” he promised. He lifted his shoulder holster from a peg in the closet, adjusted it, covered it with his jacket. “Marty Cowan still got that place on Twelfth Street?”

The blonde dropped her eyes, nodded. “I’ve never been up there. He kept asking me, but I never went.” She looked up at him. “I want you to believe that.”

Liddell nodded. “Don’t forget what I said. Don’t answer the phone or open the door for anybody at all.”

She nodded, slid her arms around his neck, pressed her body close to his.

Marty Cowan lived in an old, high-stooped brownstone house on Twelfth Street in the Village. It was one of a whole block of identical brownstones which had been converted into expensive flats.

Liddell climbed the high stone stoop, tried the vestibule door. It pushed open easily. On the hall door there was a neatly printed sign urging, “For your own comfort, please be sure this door is closed after you.” The last one in apparently didn’t believe in signs.

Liddell pushed the door open, obediently made sure it was closed behind him. There was no elevator; a flight of expensively carpeted stairs led to the upper stories.

Cowan’s apartment, 2D, turned out to be second floor rear. Liddell knocked softly, applied his ear to the door. There was no indication of anyone being at home. After a moment, he repeated his knock. There was still no answer.

He tried the doorknob, found it locked, brought out a handful of keys. The third one he tried opened the door. He stepped in, closed the door behind him. He yanked his .45 from its holster, transferred it to his left hand.

He had the eerie, uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t alone in the room. He squinted into the darkness, strained his ears for some sound that would betray the presence of someone else. There was no sound.

After a moment, Liddell slid his hand cautiously along the wall until he felt the light switch. He pressed the switch, throwing the room into sudden, blinding light. Simultaneously, he dropped to his knee, his .45 ready.

Marty Cowan, Tony’s ex-partner, sat in an overstuffed library chair not ten feet from him, staring at him with unblinking eyes. His holster, with a snub-nosed automatic nestling in it, hung over the back of his chair, the butt less than a foot from his hand.

Liddell got up, walked over to where Marty sat. He bent over him, examined the three dark little holes that had ripped through the back of his head, spilled a cascade of red down his shirt.

From the dead man’s lap, Liddell picked up a sheet of notepaper, typed on the already familiar machine, threatening death unless Cowan paid the unknown sender $20,000. It was phrased almost identically with the note that Tony had received.

Liddell scowled, straightened up, looked around. On the table at the dead man’s elbow there was a bowl of melted ice, two glasses half full of brown liquid.

He put his fingers inside one of the glasses, spread them out until he could lift the glass without defacing any of the prints on the outside. Then he breathed on the outside of the glass.

There was no sign of a print.

He repeated the procedure with the other glass, found a full set of over-large prints.

“That’s a big help,” he said. “Killer wore gloves.” He was about to set the glass back on the table when he caught the wail of a siren from somewhere close. Quickly, he went to the door and light switch and wiped off any possible fingerprints with his handkerchief.

From below, he could hear the stamp of heavy footsteps. He bolted the hall door, made for the bedroom. Inside, he closed the door after him, headed for the window, opened it.

It was a relatively short drop from the ladder to the square below.

Above, he could hear sounds of mounting commotion in the apartment he had just left. A light flashed on in the bedroom window and a hoarse voice shouted. Liddell made his way cautiously across the courtyard to a door leading to an alleyway beyond.

He had barely reached the courtyard door when a figure was silhouetted in the window above. Liddell kept going, reached the door, tugged it open and slammed it shut behind him. There was a series of sharp snaps and ugly, jagged holes ripped through the planking of the door.

Liddell kept going.

At the far end of the alley, he came into the street. A late cruising cab stopped at his hail. Liddell gave the address of his hotel, settled back in the cushions. From close by came the wails and shrieks of police sirens.

“Nice quiet neighborhood,” Liddell said.

“Happens all the time down here, mister,” the cabbie said. “Couple of queens probably got into a fight over a truck driver and started marcelling each other’s hair with a flat iron. Happens all the time.”

The blonde started, looked up wide-eyed as Liddell let himself into his apartment. He ignored the questions in her eyes, headed for the end table, poured himself a drink from the bottle.

“What’s happened? Marty isn’t—”

Liddell repeated his prescription, nodded. “Dead. Shot through the back of his head.”

He set the glass down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Had a note in his lap threatening to get him unless he paid up. Just like Tony.”

“I don’t get it.” The blonde shook her head. “All the time I thought it was Marty. I thought he was behind it.”

Liddell shucked his jacket, slid out of his shoulder holster, dropped it on the couch. “Looks like it’s all a neat package now. Cowan’s dead, Tony’s dead, the sniper’s dead, and Tony’s bodyguard has a half emptied magazine in his gun to prove he died protecting his boss.”

He walked over to the window, stared out. “All nice and neat and nobody benefits — or do you, Baby?”

“What do you mean, Johnny?”

Liddell didn’t turn around. “Tony was through with you, wasn’t he, Terry? He was getting set to throw you out and you didn’t like it. He must have been, or he wouldn’t have let that little gunsel of his look you over like a piece of beef. When Tony’s through with you, there isn’t much you can do about it, is there, Baby?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “You were determined not to stand still for it, that it, Terry?”

The blonde shook her head, couldn’t seem to frame words with her lips.

“You don’t have to tell me. I know you were in it up to your neck. You went to Marty with an idea.”

“I didn’t, Johnny. You’re wrong, I—”

“It had to be someone close enough to Tony to know how soft he really was. It wasn’t Mickey, or he wouldn’t have stood there and taken that one in his belly. It had to be you.”

The blonde caught her lower lip between her teeth, chewed it.

“All right,” she said, “I did go to Marty. You knew Tony — he was fixing to swing me into that stable of hustlers of his, shipping me around the country like I was cattle or something. I told Marty how easy it would be to scare Tony. But that’s all I intended. Just to scare him. I didn’t know about the guy with the rifle.”

She walked over to the couch, helped herself to a drink. “The first I heard about him was when they told me Tony was dead. I rushed over to see Marty and he was dead in his apartment.”

“You’re a liar, Terry. You knew all about the guy on the roof. You set Tony up for the kill by opening the curtains and giving the signal.”

“You can’t prove that, Liddell.”

“I don’t have to. They can only burn you once — for killing Marty Cowan. And they’ll have no trouble proving you did that.”

“What do you mean?”

Liddell shrugged. “You signed that one, Baby. Marty was drinking with whoever killed him, but the killer was wearing gloves. It’s a cinch it was a woman.”

“Why?”

“Because a gun smart hood like Cowan, going up against a killer like Tony, even a softened-up Tony, would never let anyone but a woman get that close to him without grabbing for his gun. You probably even wore the gloves home, left them there to be found with the powder stains on them.”

“Who else knows this, Johnny?”

Liddell shrugged. “No one — yet.”

“You wouldn’t turn me in, Johnny. Not now — not after we’ve—”

“Turn it off, Terry. You set me up for the kill when you set Tony up. You signaled your boy with the reacher to take two, Tony and me. You couldn’t have known that Mickey would come into the room just at eleven. Your boy took care of two, thought that was all, started to leave. That’s when I got him.”

The girl sobbed deep in her throat. “Even if that were true, I didn’t know you then. I didn’t know—”

“Is that why you just tried to frame me for Marty Cowan’s kill — by tipping the police off to the fact there was a killing and I was there?”

“I didn’t!”

“It had to be you, Terry. You were the only one who knew I was there. Only the person who killed Cowan could have known enough to tip the cops. I checked the switchboard on the way in. You made a call while I was gone.” He took a deep breath. “That wasn’t smart, Baby.”

“Maybe I didn’t think you were coming back, Johnny,” she told him softly. “Maybe you’re not too smart, either. Turn around.”

He turned around slowly, looked into the muzzle of his own .45 in the blonde’s hands. “I guess it’s like they say — if you want a thing done right, do it yourself.”

“Then it’s all true?”

“Sure. I told Marty that Tony was soft, ready for picking, that we could scare him out and take over. When Tony didn’t go for the shake and didn’t take off, Marty started to get scared. I had to kill him to keep him from backing out.”

Her finger whitened on the trigger.

“Tony had it coming. He was getting ready to throw me over. Only I wasn’t standing still for it. I’m not standing still for anything from anybody any more. Not even you, Liddell.” She clenched her teeth, squeezed the trigger.

The .45 clicked metallically.

“It shoots better with bullets in it,” Liddell said.

She stared down at the empty gun, offered no resistance when he walked over, wrenched it from her hand.

“I didn’t intend to do it, Johnny,” she said. “Honest. I didn’t—”

He stood there looking at the pure beauty of her face, counted off the men whose deaths already lay at her door.

He raised his hand, hit her across the cheek with the flat of his palm, knocked her sprawling. She lay there quietly, a thin trickle of blood on her chin, while he phoned the police.