Manhunt. Volume 3, Number 2, February, 1955

“I killed Al six months ago,” the man told Liddell. “Then, yesterday, I read in the paper that he’d just died.”

1

The man in the client’s chair was old, tired. White bristles glinted on his chin. His eyes were dull, colorless, almost hidden by heavy, discolored pouches. A thin film of perspiration glistened on his forehead. He watched Johnny Liddell study the torn newspaper clipping.

“I killed him, Liddell. He ruined me. I had to kill him.” He tugged a balled-up handkerchief from his hip pocket, swabbed at his forehead.

Liddell scowled at the clipping, tossed it on his desk. “When was this, Terrell?”

The old man licked at his lips. “That’s the crazy part about it. It was six months ago. Last September.”

Liddell grunted. “He sure took his time about dying. This is Monday’s paper. Says he was just killed.”

Terrell nodded jerkily. “It’s a trap. They’re trying to trap me, Liddell.” He plucked at his lower lip with a shaking hand. “Don’t you understand? That story’s a plant.”

Liddell considered it. “Why bait a trap six months later, Terrell? Why not right after it happened?”

“How do I know?” The old man pulled himself out of the chair, paced the room. Abel Terrell had been a big man. Now his clothes hung in pathetic folds on his gaunt frame, and his expensive suit was shabby and worn. He stopped next to Liddell. “I just know it’s got to be a frame.” He jabbed at the clipping with a bony finger. “They say he was killed in a hit and run accident. I should know how he died. I pulled the trigger. I saw him die.”

“The paper says he was unidentified. What name did you know him by?”

Terrell walked back to his chair, dropped into it. “Lee. Dennis Lee.” He rubbed the palm of his hand across his eyes. “And don’t try to tell me it’s a case of mistaken identity, Liddell. I’d know his face anywhere. I’ve seen it often enough in my dreams these past six months.”

“And you’re sure it’s the same?”

“Positive.”

“Well, there’s one way to find out if it’s a trap.” The private detective reached down into his bottom drawer, pulled out a bottle and some paper cups. “You get yourself some rest and I’ll amble down to see if the John Doe they’ve got on ice is an old client of mine.” He motioned to the bottle. “A drink help?”

Terrell nodded, gnawed nervously at his thumb nail. “You don’t think they’ll suspect something? Follow you, maybe?”

Liddell grinned. “It’s been tried.” He picked up a cup, walked across the room to where a water cooler stood against the wall, humming to itself. He filled the cup, brought it back, set it on the corner of the desk. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” He pushed an empty cup and the bottle to the edge of the desk, watched while the older man poured himself a stiff drink and softened it with a touch of water. “Was there any identifying mark on Dennis Lee that would make the identification positive? In my mind, at any rate.”

“He won’t be there, I tell you. He couldn’t be. He’s been dead six months!”

“That’s just, the point,” the private detective nodded. “I don’t want them to be able to palm off a phony on me. How about it? Anything I can look for?”

Terrell took a deep swallow from the cup, wiped a vagrant drop from his chin with the side of his hand. “There was a scar. Right under the right ear. You wouldn’t notice it until he got mad. Then it turned red.” He finished his drink, crumpled the paper in his fist. “About three inches long, ran along the jawbone.”

Liddell nodded. “That ought to do it. You got a place to stay?”

The old man shook his head. “I’ve been afraid to stay in one place more than one night. I’ve been running ever since it happened.”

“Well, maybe now you can stop running.” He walked around the desk, scribbled a note on a sheet of paper. “You take this note to Ed Blesch at the Hotel Carson. He’ll know what to do.”

Terrell took the note, read it incuriously. “Hotel Carson? Where’s that?”

“47th off Sixth. It’s a fleabag, but you’ll be safe there. Stay in your room until I call you.”

“How do I register?”

“Any name but your own. Try George Tefft.”

The old man nodded, pulled himself laboriously from his chair. “You won’t be too long?” Liddell shook his head, watched the man shuffle to the door, where he stopped with his hand on the knob. “You think somebody spotted me and tipped them off? You think that’s why they set the trap?”

“If it is a trap.”

The old man thought about it, nodded his head. “It’s a trap. Lee’s been dead six months. He couldn’t have died Monday.” He opened the door, walked through to the outer office, and closed the door behind him.

Liddell picked up the clipping again, scowled at the face that stared back at him. The caption read: “Know this man? Police have announced that John Doe, victim of a hit and run accident at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 58th Street early this morning has still been unidentified at press time. He carried no identification when the body was found.”

2

The morgue was at the end of a long, silent corridor in the basement of City Hospital. There were two doors at the far end, one lettered Medical Examiner on frosted glass, the other opening into a brightly lighted room, painted a sterile white. A tall, thin bald man sat at a white enamelled desk, biting on the almost invisible nail of his left thumb while making entries in a ledger. The unshaded bulb in the ceiling caused the attendant’s bald pate to gleam shinily.

He looked up as Liddell crossed the room to where he sat, and seemed glad of an excuse to put his pen down. He fished a handkerchief from his pocket, polished the bald spot with a circular swabbing motion. “Looking for someone?” His voice was rusty, as though he didn’t get much chance to use it.

“Understand you’ve got a John Doe you’re trying to get a make on.” Liddell flipped his credentials in front of the man’s eyes.

The thin man shook his head. “Not us, mister. We got a make on all our guests.” He continued to gnaw on the macerated cuticle.

Liddell pulled the clipping from his pocket, flipped it on the man’s desk. “How about this one? Says here he was John Doe’d.”

The attendant took his thumb from his mouth, leaned over the picture, studied it. “Oh, him. Identification came up with a make on him this morning. Prints on file in Washington.” He stared up at Liddell with washed-out blue eyes. “Friend of yours?”

Liddell shrugged. “Could be. The picture wasn’t too good. Any chance of seeing him?”

The thin man nodded. “Ain’t much to look at. Bounced his head off the curb, looks like.” He got up, limped around the desk. “Come with me.”

He led the way to a heavy door set in the far wall and tugged it open. Beyond was a high-ceilinged, stone-floored, unheated room with double tiers of metal lockers. Each locker had its own stencilled number.

Liddell wrinkled his nose as the blast of carbolic-laden air enveloped them. There was no word spoken as he followed the thin man across the floor to the rear of the windowless room. The attendant stopped in front of one row of drawers, tugged on a handle. The drawer pulled out with a screech. A piece of canvas that bulged slightly covered its contents.

The attendant reached up and pulled on a high-powered light in an enamel reflector. He grabbed the corner of the canvas, pulled it back, exposing the body of a man.

The face was oyster-white, the hair dank and damp. Despite the misshapen head, it was obviously the body of the man pictured in the clipping.

“That’s your boy,” the attendant grunted. He pursed his lips, studied the dead man objectively. “Never knew what hit him. Like I said, looks like he bounced his head off the curb.”

Liddell nodded. He placed one finger against the dead man’s right cheek, rolled the head to the side. The skin was clammy and cold to his touch. He bent closer to the body, detected the three-inch scar that ran along the side of the jaw bone, grunted under his breath.

The attendant watched the performance curiously, swore when the phone in his office started pealing. “Damn thing always rings when you’re nowhere near it.” He nodded at the body. “Got enough?”

“You go ahead and answer your phone. I’ll wait.”

The thin man seemed undecided, then shrugged his shoulders. “Guess you can’t walk off with him.” He showed the yellowed stumps of his teeth in a grin. “Got one babe stashed away I wouldn’t trust nobody with, but this one ain’t that pretty.”

His bad leg clip-clopped across the floor as he hurried to answer the phone. As soon as he had disappeared through the door leading to the outer office, Liddell whipped back the canvas. There were no signs of bullet wounds or any scars of any nature with the exception of an old appendix scar. Liddell scowled at the unmarred expanse of abdomen, pulled the canvas back into place.

He was standing with his hands in his jacket pocket when the attendant limped back across the room.

“Make him?” the thin man wanted to know. He recovered the dead man’s face, slammed the drawer back into place with a clang that reverberated through the entire room.

“I’m not sure. What was the make on him?”

The attendant shook his head. “You’ll have to get that from the medical examiner’s office.” He watched with interest while Liddell’s hand disappeared into his pocket, re-appeared with a folded bill. “Although I may have it in my records,” he amended hastily.

He fell into step beside Liddell as they re-crossed the room to the office. Outside, he walked around the desk, pulled open a drawer in a small card file, flipped through it. “His name was Dennis Leeman. Mean anything to you?”

Liddell ignored the question, stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He lit it, filled his lungs with smoke and expelled it in twin streams through his nostrils in an effort to clean out the morgue smell. “Nobody claim him yet?”

The attendant dropped the card back into the file, pushed the drawer shut. “Not yet.” He sank into his chair, stared up at Liddell. “My guess is nobody’s going to claim him. Unless he’s got relatives out of state.”

Liddell nodded. “Where’s your phone?”

The thin man motioned to the instrument on his desk. “Be my guest.”

Liddell dialled the number of the Hotel Carson, asked the operator for George Tefft. “One moment, please,” the receiver rattled back.

He could hear the buzz as the switchboard rang, then, “Mr. Tefft doesn’t answer. Would you care to leave a message?”

Liddell glowered at the mouthpiece, shook his head. “No message.”

3

The Hotel Carson was an old, weather-beaten stone building that nestled anonymously in a row of similarly weather-beaten stone buildings that line the north side of 47th Street. A small plaque to the right of the door dispelled any doubts as to its identity.

A threadbare and faded carpet that ran the length of the lobby had long ago given up any pretence of serving any useful purpose. The chairs were rickety and unsafe, the artificial rubber plants grimed with dust.

Johnny Liddell waved to the watery-eyed man behind the registration desk, who raised his eyes from the scratch sheet only long enough to return the salutation. The private detective headed for the lone elevator cage in the rear. A pimpled youth with slack lips and discolored bags under his eyes nodded to him as he got in.

“Blesch take care of the old guy I sent over for cold storage?” he asked as the operator followed him into the cage, slammed the door after him.

“Yeah, but the old guy ain’t there now.” He checked the watch on his wrist. “He checks in about three and about fifteen minutes later he goes tearing out. Kind of surprised me. When he went up, he was carrying an armful of papers. I figured he was holing up for the winter.”

Liddell cursed softly. “I sent him over here to stay put.”

The pimple faced operator shrugged. “Nobody tells me he’s not supposed to go.” He eyed Liddell curiously. “Guy hot or something, you’re burying him?”

“No. I just wanted him where I could lay my hands on him for some information. He’ll be back. I’ll wait in his room.”

The elevator stopped at the fourth floor with a spine-jarring jerk. The operator slammed open the grill doors, propped them open. “I got a pass key here. I’ll let you in.” He led the way down the corridor to 412, pushed the door open. He stuck his head in, looked around curiously. “Gone all right.”

Liddell slipped him a folded bill, walked into the room, closed the door behind him. Both the bedroom and bathroom were empty. A light had been left burning in a bridge lamp next to the room’s only chair. Dumped alongside the chair was a stack of rumpled newspapers.

Liddell walked over, picked up a sheet that had been crumpled into a ball, smoothed it out. The item was a small one at the bottom of a column. It merely stated that the victim of Monday night’s hit and run accident had been identified as Dennis Leeman, address unknown.

He stared at the item for a moment, crumpled the paper back into a ball, threw it in the direction of the waste basket. The telephone was on a cigarette-scarred night table next to the bed. He picked up the instrument, asked for the manager’s office.

“Blesch speaking,” a tired, gruff voice informed him.

“Ed, this is Liddell. I’m in 412. My boy’s gone. Any idea where or when?”

Blesch sighed audibly. “You just asked me to check him in, pally. You didn’t say anything about watchdogging him. All I know’s he made a couple of calls just before he went out. I had the operator keep an eye on the room.” A worried note crept into his voice. “No trouble?”

“No trouble,” Liddell assured him. “I’ve got some good news for the guy and I want to pass it along.”

“One of the calls was to your office, the other to Stanton 7-6770. He didn’t get an answer on the Stanton number and went tearing out.”

“Got any idea who has that Stanton number?”

“Look, pally. You’re the detective. Me, I got other things on my mind. Running a riding academy like this ain’t the best way to grow old gracefully.” There was a click as he dropped the receiver back on its hook.

Liddell hung up his receiver, stared at it for a moment. He debated the advisability of waiting until Terrell returned, voted it down. He dropped by the front desk on his way out, left word for the old man to call him as soon as he came in.

4

Johnny Liddell sat with his desk chair tilted back, staring out the window at Bryant Park twelve stories below. He helped himself to a slug of bourbon from the bottle in the bottom drawer, emptied the paper cup, tossed it at the waste basket.

He consulted his watch, frowned at the time. Almost seven! He reached for the telephone, dialled the Hotel Carson, verified the fact that his client hadn’t returned.

He had just hung up the receiver when the phone started to shrill. He let it ring twice, picked up the receiver.

“Liddell?” The voice was familiar, but not the old man’s.

“Yeah.”

“This is Mike Flannery, Inspector Herlehy’s driver. He wants to see you. Can you get down to Perry and Ninth in the Village?”

Liddell frowned at the receiver. “I guess so, but—”

“The inspector says to hurry.” The line went dead.

The cab made the distance from midtown to the Village in a record time. Liddell pushed a bill through the front window to the driver, walked across the street to where Inspector Herlehy’s black limousine stood against the curb in front of a large excavation.

The driver nodded to him. “He’s down in the ditch with a friend of yours,” Flannery told him. “He thought you might want in on this.”

Abel Terrell was sprawled out on his back, staring up at the small circle of men around him unblinkingly. His heavily knuckled hands were clasped across his midsection as though in a last desperate effort to stem the red tide that had seeped through the laced fingers and had spread in an ugly dark stain on his jacket.

He was dead.

Johnny Liddell looked from the body to Inspector Herlehy. “When did it happen, inspector?”

The inspector pushed his sheriff-style fedora on the back of his head, chomped heavily on the ever-present wad of gum. “Can’t tell for sure until the medical examiner gets here. We got the report twenty minutes ago.” He took a leather notebook from the man next to him, flipped through the pages. “Couple of kids discovered the body, phoned it in.” He snapped the notebook shut, handed it back to his aide. “My guess is he hasn’t been dead much over an hour. Ninety minutes at the outside.”

Liddell pulled out a pack of cigarettes, held it up for approval, drew a nod. He hung one in his mouth where it waggled when he talked. “How come you called me?” He touched a match to the cigarette, drew a deep drag.

“You tell me what your connection with him was.” Herlehy clasped his hands behind his back, rocked on the balls of his feet.

“You’re sure there is a connection?”

“Your name and address were written on a slip of paper in his pocket.” The inspector reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a folded note. “You gave him a note to Ed Blesch at the Carson telling him to sign the guy in. Why?”

Liddell shrugged. “He was a client. I wanted him on ice until I could get some information he needed.”

Someplace in the distance, a siren wailed shrilly.

“Come on, Liddell. Don’t make me pick it out of you. Who is this guy and what was the beef?” He squinted at a pencilled memo. “He registered into the hotel as Tefft. That his name?”

“No. His name’s Terrell. He came into my office this morning. Said he killed a man six months ago.”

Herlehy scowled. “So you buried him instead of turning him in?”

“It wasn’t that simple,” Liddell argued. “The man he thought he killed six months ago, turns up dead in a hit and run accident on Monday. He thought it was a trap to bring him into the open. It wasn’t.”

The inspector spit out a wad of gum, pulled a fresh stick from his pocket, started to denude it. “Guy pulled through, eh?”

Liddell grinned glumly. “That’s the funny part of it, inspector. I looked the body over very carefully. There wasn’t a sign of a bullet wound on it.”

Outside a siren reached for a high note, faded away as the ambulance skidded to a stop at the curb. Two men from the medical examiner’s office walked into the excavation, tossed an incurious glance at the body.

“Too bad we’ve got to move him. After he made it so nice and convenient. Just cover him with dirt and he’s set,” one of them grinned. “Your boys through with him?”

The inspector nodded. “Where you fellows been?”

“You’re not the only division giving us business, you know,” the newcomer grinned. He waited until his companion had finished a cursory examination of the body. “Okay to take him?”

“Be my guest,” the inspector nodded. He initialled a form, handed it back to the m.e.’s man, watched while a stretcher was brought in and the body loaded onto it. “Let’s have a report as soon as you can.”

The man in white thought about it for a moment, nodded. “Maybe this will hold you over for awhile. From the looks of the hole in his belly, I’d say it was a pretty safe bet he didn’t die of high blood pressure.” He followed the covered stretcher out to the ambulance at the curb.

“Very funny fellow,” Liddell opined.

“No funnier than the story you’re telling, Liddell.” The inspector caught him by the arm, led him out to the sidewalk where his limousine sat waiting. “This guy shot a guy, only the guy dies six months later from an auto accident. He knows he pumped the bullets into him, only there’s no signs of gunshot scars.” He stopped on the sidewalk, oblivious to the crowd of morbidly curious that had gathered. “That’s supposed to make sense?” he growled. “Did-he at least tell you why he was supposed to have killed this character?”

Liddell considered it for a moment, shook his head. “Not exactly. He just said Lee had ruined him. That he had to kill him.”

“Now I suppose you’re going to tell me this character he was supposed to have killed but didn’t isn’t really dead and got up off the slab in the morgue to kill him?”

“That would be a switch,” Liddell conceded, “but the last I saw of Lee, he wasn’t in any condition to do any traveling. Look, Inspector, I’d like a crack at breaking this one. I can, too, if you’ll give me a break.”

“Meaning?”

“Don’t mention the fact that Terrell took me on. Just give out the story that a vagrant was found shot to death in a foundation excavation in the Village. Let me take it from there.”

Herlehy scowled at him. “On one condition. I’m checking the files on this murder he’s supposed to have committed. If there’s one on the books, no deal. If he was just dreaming the whole thing, you’re welcome to it.”

“It’s a deal. He was supposed to have knocked off this Lee character six months ago. In September. If there’s an open file, I keep hands off and let the department handle it. If there isn’t, I get first crack at it.”

5

Stanton 7-6770 turned out to be the telephone number of a little night club called the Club Canopy on Perry Street, two blocks south of where Abel Terrell’s body had been found. It was 10:30 by the time Johnny Liddell arrived there. He stood across the street, studied the outside of the club.

A neon that sputtered fitfully and dyed the facade a dull red spelled out the name Club Canopy. The door was three steps up from the sidewalk, and opened into a small vestibule.

Liddell crossed the street, entered the club. The vestibule had been converted into a check room. Beyond lay the main dining room and bar, a huge room that had been constructed by knocking out all the walls on the floor.

He stood at the door and peered into the smoky opaqueness of the interior. Small tables, jammed with parties of four, were packed side by side in a small space bordering on the tiny square reserved for dancing. A thick pall of smoke hung over the entire room, swirling slowly and lazily in the draft from the opened door. The bar itself was long, well-filled. Liddell elbowed himself a place at the bar, turned to survey the room.

The bartender shuffled up, wiped the bar with a damp cloth that left oily circles.

“Bourbon and water,” Liddell told him.

The bartender made a production of selecting a bottle from the back-bar, reaching under the bar for a glass and some ice. He poured about an ounce of the brown liquid into the glass, reached for the water.

“Better hit that again,” Liddell told him.

He made the drink a double, softened it with a touch of water.

Liddell shoved a five at him. “Keep the change.”

The bartender took a look at the corner of the bill, raised his eyebrows. “If you figure this buys you anything but liquor in this joint, you’re making a mistake.”

Liddell tasted the bourbon, approved. “I’m looking for a friend of mine.” Quickly he described Abel Terrell, waited while the bartender screwed his mouth up in concentration. “Have you seen him or his friend lately?”

The bartender blew out his lips, shook his head. “He don’t register. He’s no regular around here.” He squinted into the dimness of the room. “Maybe Ed Carter can help you. He’s the maitre d’. He gets to know a lot of people I don’t ever see.” He looked longingly at the bill. “Still go?”

Liddell nodded, watched the bartender shuffle off to the cash register. He happily dumped some silver and a few bills into the glass on the back bar, nodded his thanks to Liddell.

After a moment, a heavy man in a blue suit stopped alongside Liddell. “Can I help you, sir? Mike tells me you’re waiting for someone.”

Liddell swung around, studied the newcomer. His face was heavy, his lips wet and pouting. His hair was almost white, combed in a three-quarter part. His eyes were expressionless black discs almost hidden in the shadow of fierce white eyebrows. In his lapel he wore a carnation.

“I expected to meet a friend of mine here. His name’s Abel Terrell.” Liddell fancied he caught a flicker in the eyes, but there was no other change of expression in the fat man’s face. “Do you know him?”

The fat man pursed his lips. Little bubbles formed in the middle of them. He shook his head, waggling the heavy jowls that hung over his collar. “I can’t say I do. Could you describe him for me?”

Liddell tried to paint a word picture of the dead man as he might have appeared before he lost weight.

The fat man nodded slowly as Liddell finished his description. “I believe I do know your friend by sight.” His head continued to bob in agreement. “He was a great admirer of our Miss Patti. You’ve heard Miss Patti, of course?”

Liddell shook his head. “I don’t get around much.”

The fat lips were wreathed in a smile that did nothing to change the expression in the man’s eyes. “Then you have a treat in store. Miss Patti comes on in a few minutes. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you in her dressing room after the show.”

He nodded to Liddell, moved down the bar. Several times, he stopped for a brief visit with one of his older customers. Finally, he reached the end of the bar, disappeared into the dimness beyond.

Liddell was on his second double bourbon when the floor lights went down. The band struggled hopelessly with a fanfare, a spotlight cut the gloom of the room, picked out the wasp-waisted figure of the master of ceremonies as he fluttered across the floor to the microphone. He told a few off-color jokes, sang two choruses of an old song in a nasal whine, held his hands up to stem the non-existent applause.

“And now what you’ve all been waiting for — the sweetheart of Greenwich Village, Miss Patti!”

The bartender shuffled down to where Liddell sat, took up his station behind him. “This gal is all woman. An awful waste in a joint like this, but she really packs a message,” he whispered.

On the floor two men were wheeling out a baby grand. A pasty-faced man with aggressively curly hair and a wet smear for a mouth materialized from nowhere and took his place at the piano. His fingers jumped from key to key until the first bars of a torchy tune became recognizable. The backdrop curtains parted and a blonde stepped out into the spotlight.

She was tall. Thick, metallic golden hair cascaded down over her shoulders in shimmering waves. Her body was ripe, lush. A small waist hinted at the full rounded hips and long shapely legs concealed by the fullness of the gown.

The rumble of conversation died down to a whisper, glasses stopped jangling and waiters froze as she leaned back against the piano. Her voice was husky, the kind that raised the small hairs on the back of Liddell’s neck.

The lyrics of her song were blue and off color, but she managed to retain an expression of untroubled innocence. At the end of two numbers, she bowed to a burst of applause, permitted herself to be coaxed into one encore. At the end of that number, she refused to be persuaded to do more, turned and went to the backstage door.

Liddell drained his glass, set it back on the bar. An adagio team was just making its appearance on the floor when he reached the end of the bar. He reached the backstage door, started to pull it open when a hand caught him by the arm.

“You’re going in the wrong direction, mister,” a heavy voice told him. “The men’s room’s at the other end.” The owner of the hand and voice was heavy-shouldered, and the twisted nose and scar tissue over the eyes identified him as a bouncer.

“That’s all right, Stanley.” The fat figure of Carter, the manager, materialized in the gloom. “The gentleman’s a friend of Miss Patti.”

“You told me nobody gets in there,” the big man grumbled. “I don’t like nobody bothering Patti.” He glowered at Liddell. “I’m looking after her. Nobody gets fresh with her. You follow me, friend?”

“Nobody’s going to bother Miss Patti, Stanley,” the fat man told him firmly. “This gentleman is a friend. Miss Patti will be glad to see him.”

The bouncer shuffled his feet uncertainly for a moment, then turned and shuffled off.

“A very difficult man, Stanley.” Carter smelled at the carnation in his buttonhole. “Entirely devoted to Miss Patti. A dog-like devotion, you might say.” The flat eyes studied Liddell over the carnation.

Stepping through the door to backstage was like stepping into a new world. The tinsel and glamor of the Club Canopy frontside wasn’t duplicated backstage. There was nothing but a long, bare, semi-dark corridor with a row of closed doors, an odor compounded of equal parts of perspiration and perfume.

He stopped in front of a door on which had been stencilled Miss Patti and knocked. A throaty voice invited him in.

The blonde sat on a straight-backed chair in front of a littered make-up table. Her thick blonde hair had been pushed back from her face, caught with a blue ribbon and allowed to cascade down her back. She wore a matching light blue dressing gown.

She looked up as Liddell walked in. Her eyes were the bluest he had ever seen, her mouth soft and moist. She looked him over, made no attempt to disguise her approval of the heavyset shoulders, the thick hair spiked with grey and the humorous half-grin.

“Well, who are you?” Her speaking voice was husky, intimate.

“A friend of Abel Terrell’s. He asked me to meet him here tonight.” He checked the watch on his wrist. “He’s late. I thought maybe you might know where he was.”

The blonde pursed her lips, shook her head. “I haven’t seen Abel in months.” She lowered her voice. “He had some kind of trouble and had to go away.” She turned the full impact of her eyes on him. “Is it safe for him to show his face around? I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”

Liddell found two cigarettes, lighted both, passed one to her. “When he called me, he said he had everything straightened out. He wanted me to bring him some money.”

The blonde took a deep drag of the cigarette, let the smoke drift from between half-parted lips. “I’m glad for him if everything is all right.” She studied Liddell’s face through the eddying smoke. “Didn’t he say what he wanted the money for?”

“I didn’t ask.” He rolled his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “He did mention it had something to do with a man named Lee. Do you know anybody named Lee that was connected with Abel?”

The soft lips framed the name, after a moment the girl shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve never heard Abel mention the name to the best of my recollection.”

Liddell nodded, raked his fingers through his hair. “I had the feeling the money was for Lee. Abel was very secretive about it, wouldn’t even tell me where he’d been for the past few months.”

The girl held her finger against her lips, cocked her head prettily. Then she got up, opened the dressing room door a crack. There was no one in the corridor. “We can’t talk here. These walls are like paper.” She walked back, stood close to Liddell. “Maybe Abel saw someone or something that frightened him away.”

“Well, how am I going to contact him to let him know I have the money?” He studied the girl’s lace. “Do you know where to reach him?”

She turned, walked to the dressing table, picked up a comb, ran it through her hair. “I wouldn’t do anything that might hurt Abel.”

“But you do know how to contact him?”

She dropped the comb, swung around, leaned back on the table. “How do I know that Abel really wants to see you? How do I know that you’re not the man he’s hiding from?”

Liddell grinned. “A good question. Ask him.”

“And who are you?”

“He’ll know. Just tell him Johnny.”

“Just Johnny?” The blonde pursed her lips humorously. “Don’t I get to know the full name?”

“After you’ve checked with Abel and satisfied yourself that I’m a right guy, maybe we’ll get to know each other well enough that the only name you’ll need will be Johnny.”

The blue eyes swept him from head to feet and back. “Could be.”

“How long will it take you to reach him?”

“I don’t know. But I’m through here at 2:30. I’m sure I’ll be able to reach him by then. Why can’t we meet then.”

Liddell nodded. “I’ll pick you up here at 2:30.”

“We can’t talk here. Make it at my place at three. Apartment 2A, 28 Dyson Street — just about four blocks from here. Do you know where it is?”

Liddell shook his head. “I’ll find it. I’ll be there at three on the dot.”

6

The clerk in the outside office at headquarters told Johnny Liddell that Inspector Herlehy couldn’t be disturbed. He let himself be talked into checking with the inspector himself, plugged in the interoffice phone, muttered into it. He nodded, flipped off the switch.

“I guess he’ll see you.” He sounded impressed.

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

“You keep the damnedest hours,” he complained. “I thought you’d be home in bed by now.” He got up, walked over to the sink in the corner, slapped cold water into his face.

“How about it? Find a homicide for September in the name of Lee?”

The inspector dried his face on a towel, hung it on a nail next to the sink. “Nope. But we did find that Terrell did a run-out just about that time. Dug up his old secretary. He gave her three months’ salary, told her to close the office. She hasn’t heard from him since.”

Liddell dropped into a chair. “The only way she’s likely to now is if she uses an ouija board.” He watched the inspector run a comb through his thick white hair. “How about the guy in the morgue?”

Herlehy grunted, stamped back to his desk. “Dennis Leeman. Did time in Chicago for extortion, wanted in L.A. on the same charge.” He punched the button on the base of his phone. “Coffee?”

“Black,” Liddell nodded.

A uniformed cop stuck his head in the doorway.

“Two coffees, one black, Ray,” Herlehy told him. He waited until the cop had withdrawn his head. “Makes it screwier than ever. Suppose this Lee or Leeman was shaking Terrell for something. Okay, so Terrell knocks him off. That fits. Only trouble is Terrell didn’t knock him off.”

“Terrell thought he did. He held the rod right against Lee’s chest. Saw the blood running from his mouth, he says.”

Herlehy drummed on the edge of his desk with his fingers. “You saw the body. Not a mark of a bullet wound.” He explored the stubble along his chin with the tips of his fingers. “You don’t think this Terrell guy was off his rocker?”

Liddell shrugged. “It could be.”

The door opened, the uniformed cop walked in with two containers of coffee, deposited them on the desk. “The black’s got a pencilled X on the cap,” he told them.

Liddell snagged the container, waited until the cop had closed the door after him. “One thing’s for sure. Terrell got an awful jolt when he saw Lee’s picture in the paper. He got another one when he read the item about the body being identified.” He gouged the top out of the container, tested the coffee, burned his tongue and swore at it. “He made two calls. One was to me, the other to a night club in the Village called the Canopy.”

An ugly red flush started up from the inspector’s collar. “Then you were holding out on me—”

Liddell shook his head. “He didn’t reach anybody there. He called about three and the joint doesn’t open until eight. I caught the early show in there tonight. Terrell was mixed up in some way with a girl singer named Patti. I’ve got a date with her at three at her place.”

Herlehy carefully removed the top from his coffee, stirred it with his finger. “What do you expect to find out?”

Liddell rolled the warm container between his palms. “I don’t know. But it’s a cinch the solution to Terrell’s murder is down there someplace. He was killed on Perry Street, the Club Canopy’s on Perry Street and the girl has an apartment right across from the north end of the excavation where he was killed.”

A tight look creased a V between the inspector’s brows. He sipped at his coffee, made concentric circles on his blotter with the wet bottom of the container. “I don’t know if I have the right to let you go this alone, Liddell,” he said finally. “This is homicide and it’s a matter for the department. Suppose you turn in everything you have on it—”

“That ain’t cricket, inspector. We made a deal.”

Herlehy nodded. “I know. But what you said sounded so screwy I never figured it would stand up.”

He took another deep swallow out of the container. “I’m going to have to go back on my word, Liddell. I never had the authority to make any deal like that.”

“Give me until morning,” Liddell urged. “You can’t get the ball rolling until then, anyway. Just give me until morning, then throw the whole thing into the homicide hopper.”

Herlehy hesitated, nodded. “Okay. You’ve got until Lt. Gleason comes on at eight. After that, you’d better keep out of his way. He doesn’t like amateurs messing around on his preserves.”

7

Dyson Court was a square block away from Perry Street in the Village. 28 fronted on the back end of the excavation where Terrell’s body had been found. The cab dropped Liddell in front of a brownstone building, he ran up the short flight of steps from the street and pushed his way through the vestibule door. A row of mail boxes in the vestibule contributed the information that Patti Marks occupied Apartment 2A.

The hallway was dark, smelled of ancient cooking and old age. He felt his way along the wall to the stairs, climbed slowly to the second floor. Apartment 2A was second floor front. He knocked softly, waited for some sound from within. He checked his watch, noticed it was only 2:45, knocked again. There was still no answer.

He tried the doorknob, found the door locked. The lock yielded with a minimum of struggle to the strip of celluloid he carried in his pocket. He stepped in, closed the door behind him. The room was in darkness. He stood still, waited until his eyes were accustomed to the dark. There was no sound in the apartment other than his own breathing.

He felt his way across the room, lit the lamp on the table next to the couch, sank onto it. His watch said 2:48.

It was almost three when he heard the sound of a key in the lock. The door swung open, the blonde stood framed in the doorway. Behind her loomed the broad shoulders of the ex-pug bodyguard, Stanley.

Stanley pushed the girl aside. His eyes were small, mean. “What are you doing here?” he growled deep in his chest. “I told you I wouldn’t let anyone bother Miss Patti.”

He shuffled toward Liddell flat-footedly. When he reached the chair, he caught the detective by the lapels, pulled him to his feet. Liddell broke the hold with an upward and outward swing of his arms and smashed his toe into the big man’s instep. The bodyguard grunted with pain, dropped his guard. Liddell sunk his right into the big man’s middle, chopped down against the side of his neck with his right. The bodyguard hit the floor face first and didn’t move.

The blonde stood frozen, tried to swallow her fist. She looked from Liddell to the unconscious man and back. She closed the door, leaned against it. “You were wonderful. I’ve never seen anybody take Stanley before.” She walked over, knelt next to the prizefighter. “He means well. He’s the most devoted friend I’ve ever had.” She looked up at Liddell. “I didn’t know you were here or I wouldn’t have brought him up. He feels better when he brings me right to the door and since it looked as though you hadn’t arrived—”

Liddell nodded. “I understand.” He looked down at the unconscious man. “He’s gotten soft from tossing helpless drunks out of the club, I guess.”

Patti was staring at him with a puzzled frown. “By the way, how did you get in here?”

“The door was open. I thought you left it that way for me, so I came in and got comfortable.”

The blonde walked over to the door, pulled it open, examined the latch. “Funny. I guess it didn’t catch.” Her eyes went down to the man on the floor. “What do we do about him?”

“He’ll be all right in a minute. I’ll take care of him.” He caught the big man under the arms, dragged him to an armchair, dumped him into it. “It might help if you had some smelling salts.”

Patti nodded, headed for the bedroom. As soon as the door had closed behind her, Liddell fanned the unconscious man, found him unarmed. He wiped the perspiration from his upper lip with the back of his hand, waited for the girl’s return.

After minutes, the door to the bedroom opened. The blonde had changed from her street dress to a pale blue negligee. The blonde hair had been loosened, permitted to cascade down over her shoulders. “I made myself more comfortable,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Stanley started to cough and gag his way back to consciousness. At first his head rolled uncontrollably, he seemed to have difficulty in focussing his eyes. After a moment, he was able to hold his head up, fix Liddell with a malevolent glare. A thin stream of saliva glistened from the corner of his mouth down his chin.

“He hit me when I wasn’t ready.” His voice was thick, strangled. He tried weakly to struggle to his feet, let the blonde push him back into the chair.

“You don’t understand, Stanley. He’s a friend of mine. He isn’t bothering me. I asked him to meet me here.” She explained it patiently, as though to a child. “He’s my friend. He won’t hurt me. Do you understand?”

The big man tried to nod. He struggled to his feet with the help of the blonde. She led him to the door, through to the stairway.

When she came back, Liddell was on the couch, a cigarette between his lips. “You’re quite a man, mister.” She leaned against the door, studied him speculatively. “Who are you, really?”

“A friend of Abel’s. Didn’t he tell you?”

The blonde walked over to where he sat, lifted the cigarette from between his fingers, took a deep drag. “I couldn’t reach him. You don’t mind waiting?”

Liddell grinned at her. “I’ll struggle through it.”

The blonde returned his cigarette, walked over to a curtained alcove that hid the kitchenette, brought back a bottle and some ice. “We may as well be comfortable.” She set the ice and brandy down on a small end table, dropped onto the couch beside him. “I’m surprised I haven’t heard from Abel by now,” she pouted. “It must be that he’s afraid of Lou.”

Liddell reached past her, dropped ice into each of the glasses, drenched it down with brandy. “Who’s Lou?”

The girl accepted a glass, swirled the liquid around the side. “My husband.” She made a face, took a swallow of the brandy. “He’s crazy. That’s one of the reasons I have Stanley with me all the time. Lou would kill me, if he could lay his hands on me.” She turned the full power of her eyes on Liddell over the rim of her glass. “Aren’t you worried?”

“Why should I be? In the first place, I didn’t know you were married. I’m here on business.”

The girl stiffened, her eyes grew wide at the sound of a key in the lock. The door pushed open and a tall, thin man stood in the doorway, his hand sunk deep in his jacket pocket. When he grinned, it consisted merely of the peeling of his lips back from his discolored teeth. “I told you I’d catch you at it some night, baby,” his voice was low, lethal. “I saw that punchdrunk bodyguard of yours leave. I’ve been waiting for you.”

The blonde seemed to shrink back against the cushions. “Get out of here. You have no right in here, Lou.”

The cold grin was back. “No right in my wife’s apartment?” The eyes hop-scotched from the girl to Liddell and back. “No jury would blame me for what I’m going to do.”

The blonde licked at her lips. “You’re crazy, Lou. You couldn’t get away with it.” She watched wide-eyed as the man shuffled closer.

“Before I do, I’ve got something for you.” He stopped in front of the girl, slashed the back of his left hand across her cheek.

She moved with lightning speed. Her hand darted under a cushion, re-appeared with an ugly short-snouted .38. Lou swung his hand in an arc, knocked her head to her right shoulder, back handed it into position.

The gun bounced out of her hand, fell to the floor at Liddell’s feet.

“Stop him, Johnny, stop him. I can’t take any more beatings. Kill him!”

Lou moved clumsily toward the gun, stopped as the private detective scooped it up, held it in his fist.

“Quick! Before he kills us both,” the girl screamed.

“Anything to accommodate a lady.” Liddell squeezed the trigger five times. The gun jumped in his hands as it belched flame. The other man seemed to stagger under the impact of the slugs. His mouth fell open, blood spurted from between his teeth, ran down his chin onto his shirt. He grabbed at his midsection with bloodstained hands, fell forward.

8

The blonde got up, tried to turn him over. She sank her hand into his pocket, looked up with stunned eyes. “He had no gun, Johnny. He was unarmed. It... it was murder.”

Liddell stepped toward her. The blonde straightened up, backed away. “No, no don’t touch me.” She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shook.

“You wanted him dead, didn’t you?”

The girl dropped her hands from her face. “But don’t you understand? It’s murder.” She kept her eyes averted from the man on the floor. “The shots! The police will be here.” She ran to the window, pulled back the curtain, looked out. “You’d better get out. Get out of town someplace where I can meet you.” When he didn’t move, she ran to him, caught his lapels, shook him. “Didn’t you hear me? You’ve got to get out of here.”

“What about him?”

The girl caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Stanley will take care of him. He’s devoted to me, he’ll do anything I say. But he hates you after what you did to him. You’d better not be here.” She started pushing him to the door, stopped as if in an afterthought. “But I don’t have any money—”

Liddell stuck his hand into his breast pocket, pulled out some bills. “Here. Here’s a thousand. There’s lots more where that came from.”

The blonde wadded it, stuck it down the neck of her negligee. “Hurry. The police will be here!”

Liddell grinned at her. “You’re psychic, baby. The police are here.” He pulled open the door. Inspector Herlehy walked in. “Pretty good, eh, inspector?”

The color drained slowly from the girl’s face. “What is this?”

Liddell ceremoniously turned over the gun to the inspector. “I shot that character on the floor five times at close range.” He walked over to where the man lay, stirred him with his foot. “On your feet, Buster. It’s time for the curtain call.”

Lou struggled to his feet, glared at the girl. “I knew you’d pull it once too often,” he growled. He was a macabre sight, his face and shirt stained blood-red.

“You’d better sit down,” the inspector told him. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.” He looked at Liddell, nodded. “You had the gimmick pegged. I haven’t seen it used in years.”

“Okay, so you made a fair pinch,” the blonde turned her back, walked over to the end table, poured herself a drink, downed it neat. “I suppose the money was marked so you’ve got an attempted extortion rap.” She looked at Liddell. “You still haven’t told me who you are, mister.”

“Johnny. Johnny Liddell. I’m the private eye Terrell hired this morning to help him out of this mess.”

“A lot of good you did him,” she snapped.

“Whose idea was the cackle bladder for shakedowns? Yours or Leeman’s?”

“Come again?”

Liddell grinned at her. “That gimmick was old when you were in rompers, baby. The old-time con men used to use it to cool down a mark who started to yell copper. The inside man would provide a gun loaded with blanks, the con man would have the thin rubber bladder filled with chicken blood between his teeth. When he bit the bladder it gave the effect of hemorrhaging from the mouth.”

“Okay, so you’re real smart. It still only adds up to a year if you get the conviction.”

“That’s right. A year, and then they electrocute you, baby.”

The blonde started. “What are you pulling?”

“How’d you know Terrell was dead?”

“I — the radio. You ought to listen to it once in a while. The midnight news, wise guy.”

Liddell shook his head. “Terrell’s identity wasn’t given out to the papers. Only the killer could have known who he was.” He looked to Herlehy. “Right, inspector?”

Herlehy nodded.

“No. You got it wrong. I didn’t kill him. Stanley did. He—”

“Stanley might have strangled him or beaten him to death. He would never have used a gun. Besides, it had to be someone Terrell trusted to get him to go down into that dark foundation. He was too scared to go down there with anyone but you.”

“Why me?”

“He thought you had been taken in by Leeman, too. He was going to tell you about how Leeman hadn’t died six months ago. Then he got wise, didn’t he, that Leeman was only your stooge, that you were head of the shake racket.”

The blonde sneered at him. “Okay, Rover boy, let’s go. I want to find out whether it was a fit of temporary insanity or whether I was defending my honor.”