Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 5, No. 3, August 1959

Dead Wrong by Frank Kane

The jazz musician’s brother was in serious trouble. Only... it didn’t worry him any more, because he’d been picked up dead. All Johnny had to do was tell the blonde why!

It was a three story walk-up. By the time Johnny Liddell knocked on the door to 3D, he was panting heavily. It was just as well — he would have anyway the minute the door opened.

She was tall, with coppery red hair framing a heart-shaped face. A light blue dressing gown did a half-hearted job of containing a breathtaking facade. She was high-breasted and the way the sway of her torso traced designs on the dressing gown, it was apparent she wore little, if anything, underneath it. Her trim, small waist and high-set hips gave some hint of the long, shapely legs the gown did manage to cover.

“Johnny Liddell?” Her voice was low, caressing. She studied him from slanted green eyes, from under expertly tinted lids. Her lips were full, moist.

“What’s left of him.” He looked back down the stairwell. “That’s quite a defense gadget you’ve got there. More effective than a chastity belt.”

The redhead grinned again, stepped aside. “But not as permanent.” She took his hat, tossed it at a table. “Sit down, I’ll make you a drink.”

He tottered to a chair, dropped into it.

“Any preference?”

“In liquor? Scotch.”

She turned, headed for the kitchen. He watched the easy play of her hips against the clinging fabric of the gown, started to feel better. When she returned, the effect from the front was equally revitalizing. She carried a bottle, two glasses and some ice on a tray, set them down on the coffee table in front of him. The devastating dip of the front of her gown as she set the tray down completed his cure, so that the Scotch would not have been needed.

He watched while she tilted the bottle over each of the glasses, dropped in a couple of pieces of ice. She picked up his glass, swirled the liquor over the ice, handed it to him.

“Mr. Liddell—”

“Johnny.”

She smiled, shrugged. “All right — Johnny. When I called your office, did my name mean anything to you?”

Liddell pursed his. lips, considered, shook his head. “You said Horton; Sally Horton.”

She nodded, dropped down on the couch alongside him. “My husband is Bob Horton, the jazz pianist at the Nest. You’ve heard of him?”

Liddell nodded. “I’m not what you’d call an aficionado, but I’ve heard of him.”

“You dig jazz?”

“I’m an old schmaltz man from away back. Carolina moon, June, spoon. That kind of stuff.” He took a deep swallow from his glass. “Wasn’t there some kind of an accident or something? Your husband’s brother—”

The redhead turned the full power of the green eyes on him. “It wasn’t an accident. Jack was murdered.” She dropped her eyes, stared down into her glass. “Bob murdered him, Johnny.”

Liddell grunted. He dug into his pocket, came up with a battered pack of cigarettes, held it out to the girl. She took one, stuck it between her lips. He scratched a match, waited until she had filled her lungs with smoke, then flipped one into the corner of his mouth. He lit his cigarette, exhaled twin streams from his nostrils, waited for the girl to talk.

“I suppose you wonder why I called you, instead of going to the police?” She looked up at him, let the smoke dribble from between half parted lips. “They wouldn’t believe me. They think it was a hit-and-run accident.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t?”

“Bob and his brother haven’t been getting along lately. Bob’s gotten himself into debt over his head. He tried to get the money to square himself from his brother, but Jack wouldn’t bail him out. The last time it happened he said he was through.”

“It’s happened before? Where’d the money go?”

The redhead took a deep swallow from her glass, set it down on the coffee table. “Bob has a monkey on his back, Johnny. A great big one. And it costs more than he can afford to keep it. He’s been desperate for money. I heard the row the night Jack turned him down. It was pretty rugged.”

“And now?”

Sally Horton shrugged. “Bob is the sole beneficiary under an old will Jack had. And there’s plenty of insurance.” She dropped her eyes to her lap. “I guess you’re wondering why I’d be turning my own husband in like this?”

Liddell nodded. “The thought had occurred to me.”

She met his gaze. “Another thing that Bob and Jack were fighting about was me. Jack and I were planning to be married as soon as I could get a divorce from Bob.”

Liddell whistled soundlessly. “And you haven’t told this to the police?”

“I want to be sure, Johnny. It stacks up pretty bad against Bob, but if there’s just one chance in a thousand that it was an accident, I wouldn’t want it on my conscience that I set him up.”

“What do you want me to do?”

The soft lips set in a hard line. “On the other hand, if he killed Jack, I don’t want him to get away with it. I want you to find out for me. What I do will depend on what you find.”

“Where do I find your husband?”

The redhead shrugged. “Any one of a half dozen pads in the Village. Almost every night at the Nest he cuts out with some of the real cool set and the blast goes until it’s time for him to show back at the Nest.”

She picked up her glass, drained it and held it out to him. While he was spilling Scotch over the ice cubes she said, “That won’t be until about ten.” She held her glass to her lips, studied him over the rim. “You’ll have almost four hours to kill.”

“It’s going to take me almost that long to recover from that climb.” Liddell reached over, helped himself to some more Scotch. “What’ll you be doing in the meantime?”

“Helping you to recover.”

He grinned, touched her glass with his. “That could make the collapse permanent.”

The nest was a large subterranean room that had been built by knocking out the walls of three adjoining cellars. It was lighted only by candles stuck in the necks of wine bottles, and a perpetual cloud of slowly stirring smoke swirled near the ceiling.

Mobiles dangled in the smoky air, and the customers enjoyed the proceedings from canvas chairs, while waitresses with long dank hair and dangling earrings worked their way through the chairs, their swaying hips brushing lightly against the customers.

Johnny Liddell walked down the short flight of steps from the street level, stood in the doorway looking around. He squinted into the dimness, satisfied himself that the piano on the small dais at the far end of the room was unoccupied. In another corner of the room, a tall, shaggy type in black beret and shapeless slacks and sport shirt was reading some German verse with almost comic gestures. Sitting at his feet, a bearded man was pounding unmelodiously on a pair of bongos.

Suddenly, one of the girls at a nearby table jumped to her feet, started to wave and sway in zombie-like fashion, with no expression and less grace. Nobody paid any attention.

Liddell wandered in, felt his way to a canvas chair near the wall. In a moment, one of the long-haired hostesses materialized in the dusk.

“Bob Horton going to show tonight?” he asked.

The waitress bobbed her head. “Sure thing, Pops.”

“I hear he’s pretty good.”

“Good? He’s away out. I dig him the most, man. The most. You for refreshment or just for the kicks, Pops?”

“Got any Scotch?”

The girl shook her head with no show of enthusiasm. “Chianti. Or beer.” She brushed some stray hairs from her face, “You’re too far downtown for Twenty-one, man. Which? Chianti or beer?”

“Beer.”

The girl bobbed her head, turned, worked her way through the close-set chairs. Her jeans were easily two sizes too small.

Liddell settled back, watched the gyrations of the girl dancing to the bongo beat. He became aware of a girl sitting to his left who seemed to find him interesting. Unlike most of the wild hairdos in the place, she sported a pert gamin cut, affected a cigarette holder tilted from the corner of her mouth. When he turned to return her gaze, she grinned at him.

“Slumming, Pops?”

He grinned back. “I heard about Bob Horton. They tell me he’s the swingingest. I had to hear for myself.”

The girl picked up her chair, moved it over to where Liddell sat. The man she had been sitting with gave them both a disinterested look, shrugged. He turned to the girl on his other side.

She looked at the other man as though she’d never seen him before. “I been with him since last night, man. When you’re making it with a cat, why that’s great. But you can’t stick around forever, man. You want kicks, you got to keep moving. You dig?”

“I dig.” He waited while the waitress opened a bottle of beer, set it on the floor next to his chair, shoved a folded bill at her. “You like a beer or a chianti?” he asked the girl sitting next to him.

She held up the cigarette holder. “I’m swinging. Real crazy.” She watched while he poured some beer into his glass. “You get your kicks from that? That’s real square, Pops. Try Pall Mall”, she indicated the reefer. “It’s real wild.”

A broad-shouldered man with a shock of black hair accentuating the pallor of his complexion, walked in the front door, headed toward a door set next to the dais on which the piano stood.

“There’s Horton,” the girl told him dreamily. “I dig him, Pops. I really dig him the most”

“What’s back there? Behind that door?”

The girl with the gamin cut seemed to be having trouble focusing her eyes on Liddell’s face. “He pads down there between blasts.” She eyed him curiously. “I’m beginning to think maybe I don’t dig you, Pops. You’re not here for kicks, are you?”

“Matter of fact, I came to see Horton — not to hear him.” He set his glass down by the side of his chair. “Whereabouts is this pad of his back there?”

“Look, Pops, I dig Horton. When he starts sending, man, I get so high I know everything. I mean, like I know why.” She shook her head. “But Horton can be a mean cat, Pops. Oh man, you don’t want to interfere with him with his kick. I mean, man, what a drag.”

“Real violent type, huh?”

The girl stared down at her cigarette, a glassiness was beginning to come into her eyes. “For kicks, Dad, anything. He’s away out. Away out.”

Liddell pulled himself out of the canvas chair, started to feel his way through the closely packed chairs toward the door in the rear. By the time he’d reached the door, the girl with the gamin cut had moved in on another man, seemed to forget Liddell had ever existed.

The other side of the door led to a damp-smelling passageway. There was a door on either side of the short passage. Liddell walked up to one, put his ear to it, listened. He could hear nothing but his own breathing. He reached down, turned the knob, pushed it open. It was stacked high with junk, appeared to be a catch-all for the buildings above whose cellar space the Nest had preempted.

He walked to the other door, knocked. After a moment, the door opened. Bob Horton was a few inches shorter than Liddell, but he made up in breadth what he lacked in height. His face, though, was sallow, had a yellowish tinge. His hair showed the effects of having been raked by his fingers. He eyed Liddell hostilely.

“Yeah?”

“My name’s Liddell, Horton. I’m investigating your brother’s death.”

The man inside the door made an attempt at a sneer, didn’t quite make it come off. “He’s dead, isn’t he? So what’s to investigate?” He started to close the door.

Liddell put his shoulder to the door, sent the other man reeling back into the room. Horton recovered with amazing speed, moved in on Liddell. He threw a high left to the head which Johnny fielded with the side of his arm, took a glancing blow to the side of the jaw. It was too high to do much damage. But Liddell didn’t get out of the way of a looping uppercut in time. He was slammed back into the wall, and slid to a sitting position on the floor.

He scrambled to his feet in time to handle the other man’s rush to end the fight. His first left caught Horton in the side of the head, spun him halfway around. As Horton tried to right himself, Liddell buried a right in his midsection, then slammed his left against the side of the pianist’s head as he jack-knifed. Horton spun around fell forward, knocked over a chair as he hit the floor. He struggled to rise, slumped back on his face.

Liddell caught him under the arms, dragged him to the unmade bed, dumped him onto it. He reached down, caught the cuff of Horton’s sleeve, rolled back the sleeve. The entire inner surface of the arm was pitted with needle scars and small ulcers.

He righted the chair, pulled it close to the bed, waited for the pianist to come to life. After a moment, Horton managed to sit up. He swung his legs off the bed, staggered to the small lavatory and retched.

When he came out of the lavatory, his eyes were watery, his hair hung dankly over his face. “I’ll kill you for that, mister.”

“You’ve done all the killing you’re going to do, Pops,” Liddell told him.

Horton’s eyes narrowed. “Who sent you here? My wife?”

“Maybe.” Liddell waited until the pianist had walked back to the bed, dropped onto it. “She thinks you killed your brother. She wants to be sure before she goes to the police.” He watched the man on the bed, got no reaction.

Finally, Horton looked up. “My brother was killed by a hit and runner. Why should I kill him?”

“For the insurance. Because your wife was getting ready to divorce you and marry him.”

Horton fumbled through his pockets, found no cigarettes, finally picked a crumpled butt out of the ashtray near the bed. “That’s crazy. Jack wouldn’t marry her. And she knows it.”

“You and your brother were on bad terms. He wouldn’t lend you any money to feed that monkey of yours.”

Horton made an involuntary motion toward his left arm, quickly dropped his hand. “Jack and I made that up. Right here in the club the night he was killed.”

He lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, emptied his lungs. “He dropped down to see me, to tell me he changed his mind. He was going to lend me the money. Enough to help kick the habit. We were friends again. He was going to help me.”

“Where were you when he was killed?”

Horton glared at him, dropped his eyes first. “Right here. Jack had left for home, I came back here. I was getting ready to cut out with some cats, and—”

“Nobody saw the car that killed your brother?”

“So?”

Liddell shrugged. He walked over to the far side of the room, pulled back a rough curtain. The window behind it had been painted black. “Where’s that go?”

Horton shrugged. “How do I know?”

Liddell grinned glumly. “Make a guess.” He unlatched the window, tugged it up. Outside was an alley. Liddell stuck his head out, looked up to the end where a short flight of steps led to the street level. He pulled his head in, closed the window.

“So what’s that prove?” Horton wanted to know. “I never even knew it was there.”

He got up walked over to the lavatory, splashed some water into his face, raked his hair back out of his face with his clenched fingers.

“Look, mister, I’ve taken all the jazz from you I’m gonna take. You bust in here, push me around—” He shook his head. “I’m not taking it. So my wife hired you to frame me, go ahead.”

He walked over to Liddell. “But you dig this, Pops. You listen real hard. The next time you break into my pad without a paper, you don’t walk away from it. And it’s all legal.”

Liddell wondered just when Horton had taken his last shot, figured it must have been only a few minutes before he broke in and that it was now taking hold. The bigger and bigger man Horton felt himself to be, the slighter and slighter chance that he’d do any talking.

Liddell walked to the door, pulled it open. “The next time I bust in on you,” he said, “I’ll have the paper and some fuzz to serve it.”

He slammed the door to the dressing room behind him, headed back into the club.

Inspector Herlehy sat behind the oversized, varnished desk in his office at headquarters, stared across at Johnny Liddell. The inspector’s jaws were clomping methodically on the ever-present wad of gum, the color in his face was a little higher than normal.

“Now, suppose you level with me, Johnny.” He picked up a typewritten note. “Lieutenant Michaelson in Accident Investigation tells me you’ve been asking for the file^-on a recent hit and run killing.” He flipped the paper back onto the desk. “Why?”

Liddell shrugged. He removed the half-burned cigarette from the corner of his mouth, studied the glowing end. “I just wanted a look at the coroner’s report. The kind of injuries, stuff like that.”

“Why?”

Liddell replaced the cigarette in his mouth, squinted through the smoke that spiralled upward. “I’m not too sure he was killed by a hit and runner.”

Herlehy leaned back in his chair, pursed his lips. “Neither are we.” He permitted himself a grin at the drop of Liddell’s jaw. “We’re far from satisfied. But what put you on it?”

Liddell took a last drag on his cigarette, reached forward and crushed it out. “Horton’s sister-in-law. She thinks her husband killed him.”

The inspector raised his eyebrows. “Motive?”

“Jealousy and greed.”

Herlehy considered it, bobbed his head. “Good motive,” He explored the faint stubble along the side of his jaw with the tips of his fingers. “Opportunity?”

“Horton has a room behind the Nest. It opens on an alley that runs to the street. He says he left his brother in the club, went back to his room to rest.” Liddell shrugged. “The way I read it, he could have cut out that window, ran to the street, come up behind his brother and clobbered him. That’s why I wanted to see the type of injuries.”

Herlehy reached forward, pushed a button on the base of his phone. The door opened, a uniformed cop stuck his head in. “Get us a couple of coffees, will you, Ray? Regular for me, black for the shamus.”

The cop grinned at Liddell, withdrew his head.

Herlehy turned back to Liddell. “You wouldn’t be holding out, Liddell?”

“How?”

Herlehy shrugged. “You got a client on this, that I know. You implied it was the wife. It wouldn’t be the insurance company?”

Liddell shook his head. “No, but it’s an idea. Bob Horton is beneficiary. If it’s an accident, he collects double. If it was a murder—”

“The insurance company saves plenty.”

“And you think it was murder.”

Herlehy eyed him blandly. “Who said so? I said we were looking into it.” He reached into his basket, brought out a file. “When Mike told me you were snooping, I figured you might as well get it from the horse’s mouth.” He pushed the folder across the desk. “There’s the Horton file from A.I.D. Medical report, everything.”

Johnny Liddell lifted the report from the edge of the desk, flipped through it. He scowled at the medical report, looked up. “According to this, the injuries could have been sustained in a hit-and-run accident,” he said. “A depressed lineal fracture of the skull that could have been caused by contact with the curb.”

Herlehy nodded. “So, we’ve gone along with the hit-and-run verdict. Until and unless we can prove otherwise.”

The door opened, and the patrolman returned with two containers of coffee. He set them down on the desk. When he’d closed the door behind him on the way out, Herlehy leaned forward, snagged one of the containers.

“This is the black.” He pushed it across the desk, picked up the other container. “There was a car on that street that night, Johnny. A man walking his dog saw it come tearing down Sullivan Street just about the time of the accident.”

Liddell gouged the top out of his container. “You get a make?”

The inspector shook his head. “The usual. A dark sedan — could be a Ford or a Plymouth or a Chewy—”

“—or a DeSoto or any other kind,” Liddell nodded. He sipped at the coffee, burned his tongue and swore under his breath. “But there was a car? And it did come from where the body was found?”

Herlehy nodded. “There was a car.”

“So why do you even question that it was a hit-and-run killing?”

The inspector picked up a pencil, stirred the coffee in his container. “Because there was no dirt or mud where the body was found.”

Liddell stared at him, scowled.

“There’s always some dirt or mud dislodged from under the fender when a car hits somebody. Especially if it hits him hard enough to throw him against the curb to kill him.” The inspector raised his coffee to his mouth, took a deep swallow. “Nothing.”

“Then whoever was in that car could have witnessed the killing?” Liddell considered it, his scowl deepening. “Then why haven’t they come forward? They wouldn’t have to worry about getting tagged for a hit-and-run—”

Herlehy shook his head. “All they’d have to do would be to submit their car for an examination. No dents, no smashed, headlights, no paint knocked off, they’d be in the clear.” He took another swallow from the container. “But nobody’s come forward.”

“But why haven’t you—?”

Herlehy cut him off with a glance. “Done something about it? We have. We’ve alerted the insurance company not to pay the policy off.”

“I get it. The next move is up to the dead man’s brother.”

The inspector nodded. “And if that insurance is the motive for the murder, I don’t think we’ll have long to wait. And the faster the killer makes the next move, the more chance there is he’ll make a mistake. That’s what we’re counting on. That the killer’ll be stampeded into making a mistake.”

Liddell nodded. “Maybe I can help stampede him.”

Herlehy pursed his lips. “Some such thought had occurred to me.”

The redhead in Liddell’s outer office made no attempt to disguise her annoyance as he walked in.

“Don’t tell me where to reach you, maestro. That might take some of the suspense out of this job.” She tore a piece of paper out of the carriage of her typewriter, crumpled it into a ball and threw it at the waste basket.

“Something?” Liddell asked her mildly.

“Just a madman prowling the place for an hour or so, positive you were hiding under a desk. That is, from what little I could understand of what he was saying.”

“Name of Horton?”

Pinky shrugged. “We didn’t get that confidential. He just barged in here, busted into your office and went through the closets like he was going to give you an estimate on your old clothes.”

She pushed a loose tendril of hair into place with the tip of one finger. “When I asked him what it was all about, he talked like a character out of Allen Ginsberg.” She stared at Liddell. “Was he for real?”

Liddell nodded. “He plays a hot piano down at the Nest in the Village. Away out. Crazy, chick, real wild.”

The redhead groaned. “Not you, too? This keeps up, we’re going to need an interpreter in here. What’s with him and you?”

“He thinks I convinced the police that he killed his brother. He’s apparently annoyed. The police have told the insurance company to hold off paying on his brother’s accidental death policy and Horton probably has it all spent already.”

“That could be annoying,” Pinky agreed. “And if he—”

The door burst open, Sally Horton came in. Her eyes jumped from Liddell to the redhead and back. “Thank God you’re all right, Johnny. My husband—”

“He’s already been here,” Liddell told her. He took her by the arm, led her to the private office. “We don’t want to be disturbed, Pink,” he told the girl behind the typewriter.

Pinky’s eyes took inventory of the blonde’s assets. “Figures,” she bobbed her head. “You should have been a C.P.A.”

Liddell scowled at her, closed the private office door behind him. He guided the blonde to the chair opposite the desk, walked over to where a water cooler stood against the wall humming to itself. He filled a cup full of water, brought two extra paper cups to the desk. From his bottom drawer, he brought out a half-empty bottle of Dewar’s. He spilled some Scotch into the two empty cups, softened it with water, held one out to the woman.

“Try this.”

Sally Horton drained the cup, leaned her head back against the back of the chair. “It was real nigged. I’ve seen him in a rage before, but never like this. He went completely crazy.”

“When did he find out about it?”

The green, slanted eyes studied him from under thick lashes. “You. knew about it? About the insurance company refusing to pay off until an investigation could be made?”

Liddell spilled more Scotch into each of the cups. “I just heard about it from the police.” He held out the cup, waited while the blonde took a swallow. “How come he didn’t know it last night when I saw him at the Nest?”

Sally Horton shrugged. “It’s like I told you. He sometimes doesn’t come home for days. There was a letter there for him, but I didn’t open it. This morning, he started worrying about what you said and he called the insurance company. They told him he’d already been notified they were withholding payment.”

“He flipped?”

She nodded, rubbed the backs of her arms with the flat of her hands. “I’ve never seen him in such a rage. He went tearing out, yelling at the top of his voice.”

“How’d you know he was coming here?”

“I didn’t. From the state he was in, I knew he’d go looking for a fix. I’ve been hitting all the shooting galleries I ever heard of him using. A half hour ago, I bumped into a friend of his on Sixth Avenue. He said Bob was raving about getting even with you.”

She got up from her chair, walked over to where he stood. “I came as soon as I could. If anything happened to you—” She slid her arms around his neck, pressed against him. “I couldn’t stand it, knowing I got you into it.”

The door to the outer office swung open, Pinky breezed in. She stood at the doorway, smiled brightly. “Pardon me.” She started out again.

“What’d you want?” Liddell growled. He disengaged himself from the blonde’s clutches, walked around the desk. “Barging in here like that!”

“I wanted to know who to bill on this case.” She looked over to where Sally Horton was inspecting her make-up in a compact mirror. “I didn’t know you were discussing terms.”

“When I’m ready to send the bill, I’ll let you know,” Liddell snapped. “And from now on, knock.”

“Yes, sir.” She turned to the door, then as an afterthought turned back, grinned at him. “But I don’t think it would have done any good—”

“What wouldn’t have done any good?”

“My knocking. I don’t think you would have heard me if I pounded.” She smiled sweetly in the direction of the blonde, made a production of closing the door after her.

“Quite a character.” Sally Horton snapped the compact shut, dropped it into her bag. “I suppose you keep her around for atmosphere.”

Liddell grunted. He dropped into the desk chair, picked up a pack of cigarettes from the desk, held it up to the girl. She shook her head, he stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

“Your husband got a gun?”

A frown corrugated the blonde’s forehead. “He didn’t have when he left the apartment. He might have gotten once since. I... I don’t think he’d try to tackle you without one.”

Liddell touched a match to the cigarette, blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “How about you? If he gets the idea that you sicced me onto him—”

The blonde caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I think I can handle him. He usually listens to me no matter how high he’s riding.”

Liddell nodded. He pulled over his desk pad, scribbled an address on it. “Here’s my home address and phone number. If he does show up and you can’t handle him, don’t hesitate to call.”

Sally Horton took the paper, folded it, stuck it into her purse. “Does the same thing go if I get too lonely waiting?” She headed for the door, stopped with her hand on the knob. “It’d have at least one advantage. The doors probably lock on the inside.” She opened the door, walked out.

After a moment, he heard the door to the corridor open and slam shut. Pinky walked to the door of the private office, leaned against the frame.

“How about it, boss? Do we bill her or charge it off to experience?” She grinned at the scowl on his face. “It may be fun, but you can’t discount it at the bank.”

It was almost midnight when Johnny Liddell dropped the cab in front of his apartment hotel. He rode the creaking elevator to the fifth floor, crossed to 506.

He fitted the key to the lock, pushed the door open. He reached in, snapped on the light.

There was a smash of glass, then two shots came so close together they sounded like one. Liddell saw them chew bits out of the door jamb at his head. He snapped off the light, threw himself forward on the floor, tugging at the.45 in his shoulder holster. Two more shots came from the window, whined over his head to smack dully into the far wall.

Cautiously, he squirmed toward the window, his automatic poked out in front of him. He thought he saw a figure silhouetted on the outside, squeezed his trigger twice. The.45 sounded like a cannon in the confined space. He threw two more quick shots as a cover, pulled himself to his feet, ran to the window.

The fire escape was empty. He pulled up the window sash, stuck his eye to the corner. In the dimness of the yard, he saw a figure heading for the alley exit. He fired at it. The slug screeched shrilly as it ricochetted off the pavement.

The figure in the yard spun. There was a vicious spit as its hand seemed to belch orange flame. It spat twice more. Once it gouged a piece of concrete from the wall close enough to Liddell’s head to sting him with its splinters. He pulled his head in. By the time he looked again, the figure had disappeared through the doorway into the alley.

Liddell scowled at the pounding on his door. He walked back, snapped on the light, tugged the door open. A white-faced manager stood in the doorway. “What’s going on?” he quavered, his eyes hop-scotching around the room, coming to rest on the.45 in Liddell’s fist.

“Sneak thief,” Liddell grunted. “No harm done.”

“That’s what you think,” the manager complained. “Half the tenants have been scared out of a week’s growth. Mrs. Maher down below had a fainting spell and—”

Liddell pushed the door closed. “Tell them it was a Civil Defense drill. Tell them the next time they hear shooting to head for the shelter.” He closed the door in the man’s face, headed for the telephone stand.

The directory gave the number of the Nest as We-6 2359. He slammed the book shut, dialled the number. After a moment, a shrill voice came through the receiver.

“The Nest. Good evening.”

“Let me talk to Bob Horton.”

There was a slight pause. “Sorry, Pops. He ain’t showed yet tonight. Ain’t heard a word from him. But we got some Gerry Mulligan biscuits that—”

Liddell depressed the bar on the phone, waited a few seconds, then dialled a number. He listened to it ring five times, then a sleepy voice growled at him. “This is Herlehy.”

“Sorry to call you at home, inspector.”

“Who is this?”

“Liddell. Now, wait a minute—” He staved off any complaint. “I wouldn’t have called if it weren’t an emergency. If you want to stop another killing, you’d better pick up Bob Horton.”

There was a slight pause. “Why?”

“Somebody just shot up my apartment. Horton hasn’t shown at the upholstered sewer he works in. By now, the fat’s in the fire. The insurance company has already served warning they’re not paying off. There’s no telling what he’ll do next.”

The sleepiness was gone from the inspector’s voice. “I’ll get the boys right on it. If you get anything, don’t try grandstanding. Get right back to me. I’ll be in my office.”

“Me, grandstand? You know me, inspector.”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m warning you. No grandstanding!” There was a click as the connection was broken.

Liddell dropped his receiver on its hook. He walked into the kitchenette, brought in a bottle of Scotch, some ice and a glass. He poured himself a stiff shot, dropped in ice. Then he brought a box of cartridges out of the drawer, started reloading the.45.

He was on his third cigarette and his second Scotch when the telephone shrilled at his elbow. He scooped the receiver up, held it to his ear.

“Johnny? This is Sally Horton.” Her voice was low, breathless. “I’m in the lobby of your building. Can I come up?”

“Come ahead. I’m in room five hundred six.”

“I’ll be right up.”

Liddell frowned at the receiver, dropped it back on its hook. He walked into the kitchen, brought in another glass. He had just filled it with ice and was washing it down with Scotch when there was a knock on the door. He slid the.45 from its holster, walked over to the door, pulled it open.

It was the blonde. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the.45. He grinned at her, stuck it back into its hammock. “Don’t mind the artillery. I’ve already had a visitor this evening who antiqued my furniture with bullet holes. I wanted to make sure you were here under your own power.”

Sally Horton walked in. Her eyes took in the smashed window, the fresh scars in the wall and door where bullets had gouged out deep splinters. She turned to Liddell. “Was it Bob?”

He shrugged. “Figures. He didn’t show at the club tonight.” He led her to the table, handed her a drink. “Whoever it was waiting for me when I got home, he was a lousy shot. But I’m not planning to give him a chance to improve with practice.”

The girl took a deep swallow from the glass, set it down. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, save for a smear of lipstick. She wore a full-length camel’s hair polo coat, loafers, no stockings.

“He’s home. At my place.” She caught Liddell by the lapels. “He’s a crazy man, Johnny. I managed to lock myself in the bedroom and get out by the fire escape. He was raving and ranting about being double-crossed. I was scared.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t want him to kill you, Johnny. And he will. I tell you he’s crazy.”

“Sit down and catch your breath.” He helped her out of her coat, whistled softly. Under it she wore only a pair of light blue pajamas, the trouser legs rolled up to her knees.

“I... I was ready for bed when he came. I was too scared to take time to dress. I just grabbed a coat and ran.”

Johnny fought to keep his glance at face level, lost the struggle. “I’d better get over there. You make yourself at home until—”

She caught his hand. “Don’t go now. Give him an hour or so. I know Bob. He’ll knock himself out, then pass out.” She was close to him, he could feel her breath on his face. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I’d better get it over with. I’ll be back.”

The blonde shrugged. She walked over to the end table, helped herself to a cigarette. “Suit yourself.”

When she turned and walked toward him, the sway of her torso traced patterns on the shiny silk of her pajama jacket. “Please be careful.” She walked up to him, covered his mouth with hers.

Johnny Liddell stopped outside the Horton apartment, put his ear to the door. The only sound was his own heavy breathing after the three flight walk-up. He tugged the.45 loose from its holster, reached for the knob. It turned in his hand. He pushed the door open, stepped back out of range. After a moment, he stepped into the open doorway, fumbled along the wall for the switch.

Bob Horton sat in an upholstered chair not ten feet from him, staring at him with unblinking eyes. His arm dangled over the side of the chair, almost touching the.38 that lay there. A stream of red ran from the corner of his mouth. There was a small black hole through his left temple, with a ragged rip on the side of his jaw where the slug had taken a piece of the bone with it on the way out.

Liddell closed the door, walked over and stared down at the dead man. He reached down, pulled up the sleeve on Horton’s right arm. In addition to the punctures he had seen the night before, there were several new ones, discolored, angry looking, an inch or so apart.

Liddell walked to the bedroom door, tried it. It was still locked. He took a last look around the room, walked to the telephone, dialled headquarters.

“Inspector Herlehy,” he told the operator.

“The inspector comes on in the morning. I’ll let you have—”

Liddell persuaded the man at the switchboard to try the inspector’s office, heard the grunt of surprise when Herlehy answered.

“This is Liddell, Inspector. I found Bob Horton at his place.”

“Keep him there. I’ll have some men—”

Liddell glanced over at the man slumped in the chair. “Won’t be any trouble keeping him. He’s wearing the hole from a.38 for an extra ear.” He could hear the inspector’s breath hiss through his teeth. “Gun’s right here on the floor beside him.”

“We’ll be right over.”

Johnny Liddell slouched in the big chair, watched the blonde bustling around his kitchen. The smell of coffee was strong and promising. Sally Horton still wore the flimsy pajamas, rolled to the knees, a shirt of Liddell’s draped over her shoulders, the tails flapping ludicrously as she walked.

Even the loose shirt couldn’t disguise the fluidity of her movement as she walked toward him, balancing a cup of coffee on a saucer. She made it without spilling a drop, pushed it at him triumphantly. She grinned as he tasted it, burned his tongue.

“That’s an old trick,” Liddell complained. “Burn my tongue so I can’t taste that the toast is burned.” He set the cup back on the saucer. “You’d better be thinking about going back to your place, hadn’t you?”

The smile dimmed. “Must I?”

Liddell shrugged. “Herlehy will probably want to be talking to you. After the coroner’s done with the autopsy.”

The smile went blank, some of the color drained from the girl’s face. “Autopsy? But he shot himself. You don’t need an autopsy for that. You said yourself—”

“He had a bullet hole in his head. It came out through his jaw.” He watched the muscles form little knots at the sides of her jaw. “A suicide rarely holds the gun so high the bullet comes out lower than at the place of entry.”

She backed away from him. “Then you killed him?”

Liddell grinned glumly. “No. You did.”

He took a swallow of the coffee, put cup and saucer on the floor alongside his chair. “And in a little while, Inspector Herlehy’ll be able to prove it.”

“You’re crazy,” she told him in shocked certainty. “Why should I kill my husband?”

“For one thing, because you’re tired of him. You might have stuck if he could hold onto his brother’s insurance. At least until you figured a way to get it away from him.”

“But I hired you. I was the one who told you he killed Jack. If it hadn’t been for me—”

Liddell shook his head. “The police weren’t fooled. When you opened that letter from the insurance company saying they were withholding payment, you knew you had to find a patsy. And your husband was made to order.”

She shook her head wordlessly, backed away. “You’re wrong. Bob killed his brother. You said so yourself.”

“I said that he could have. That was all part of your plan. You waited outside in the car. When Jack came out, you clouted him with something — a tire iron probably. Then you took off.” He watched the girl’s face. “The police have a witness to the fact that a car was in that alley when Jack was killed.”

“You can’t pin that on me.”

Liddell sighed. “The worst part of it was that it was all for nothing. Even if the police write your husband’s death off as suicide, you can’t collect the money.”

The color flooded back into her face. “I do. I’m his only heir. As his wife—”

“You get what he had. But if the police buy the story that he killed his brother, he can’t collect either the insurance or the estate. There’s a little clause in the law that says a murderer can’t benefit from the fruits of his crime.”

The color started to drain away again. She stared at him. “I... I killed him for nothing? I... I couldn’t collect anyhow?” Her eyes began to glaze as she started to laugh. Her laughter hit a high peak, she began to shake uncontrollably.

Liddell got out of his chair, shook her. She continued to shrill. He hit her with the flat of his hand; the laughter broke off on a high note. She stared at him.

“I hated him but I would have stayed for the money. Now I get neither.” She looked up at Liddell. “What do I do, Johnny?”

He shook his head. “That’s up to you, chickie. But whatever you decide to do, you’d better do it fast.” He consulted his watch. “That autopsy ought to be over in an hour and they’ll have all the proof they need that Horton had been fed a skin full of junk and then shot.”

The blonde stared at him. “How could you know?”

“There were two real fresh punctures on his arm. One was enough to send him out of this world — the other to keep him there. And the autopsy will show it.” He watched while she walked over, shrugged into her coat. “Where are you going?”

“To give myself up.” She smiled at him wanly. “I can’t wait to see whether I killed him in a moment of temporary insanity or in self-defense. Watch the papers.” She walked to the door, left.

Liddell reached down, picked up the cup and saucer. He stared glumly at the coffee, pulled himself out of the chair and spilled the coffee into the sink. He lifted the Scotch bottle from the closet, spilled three fingers into a glass.

“What a waste of good material,” he groaned.

He lifted the glass to his lips, drained it, shook his head sadly. “What a waste!”