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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #23. Lots of good stuff this time—highlighted by a novel from Golden Age mystery author Rufus King, Duenna for a Murder. Plus a few novellas, and lots of great short stories, a solve-it-yourself mystery from Hal Charles, and great selections from Michael Bracken (Laird Long’s “Taken for a Ride”—which qualifies as both a mysery and a fantasy story) and Barb Goffman (Michael Allan Mallory’s “Random Harvest”).
On the science fiction side, the Cynthia Ward Presents story is missing this week, but that’s only because we have a fantastic alternate-history story from Cynthia herself! Check out her “On Stony Ground.” Plus an epic disaster story from Allan Danzig, a fantasy from Unknown by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard, a space-based tale by Richard Wilson, and a miniature military SF story from Larry Tritten.
Here’s the complete lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Soul Searching,” by Laird Long [short story]
“A Fine Kettle of Fish,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Dead Wrong,” by Frank Kane [short story]
“Taken for a Ride,” by Hulbert Footner [short novel]
“Random Harvest,” by Michael Allan Mallory [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
Duenna to a Murder, by Rufus King [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“On Stony Ground,” by Cynthia Ward [short story]
“Corrigan’s Homunculi,” by Larry Tritten [short story]
“Carillon of Skulls,” by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard [short story]
“Abel Baker Camel,” by Richard Wilson [short story]
“The Great Nebraska Sea,” by Allan Danzig [short story]
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Seitenzahl: 560
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE CAT’S MEOW
TEAM BLACK CAT
SOUL SEARCHING, by Laird Long
A FINE KETTLE OF FISH, by Hal Charles
DEAD WRONG, by Frank Kane
TAKEN FOR A RIDE, by Hulbert Footner
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
RANDOM HARVEST, by Michael Allan Mallory
DUENNA TO A MURDER, by Rufus King
PROLOG
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
ON STONY GROUND, by Cynthia Ward
CORRIGAN’S HOMUNCULI, by Larry Tritten
CARILLON OF SKULLS, by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard
ABEL BAKER CAMEL, by Richard Wilson
THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA, by Allan Danzig
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.
Published by Wildside Press, LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
*
“Soul Searching” is copyright © 2007 by Laird Long. Originally published by banes-universe.com, October 2007. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A Fiine Kettle of Fish” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“Random Harvest” is copyright © 2020 by Michael Allan Mallory. Originally published in Minnesota Not So Nice. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Dead Wrong,” by Frank Kane, was originally published in 1961.
“Taken for a Ride,” by Hulbert Footner, was originally published in 1939.
Duenna for a Murder is copyright © 1950 by Rufus King, renewed 1978. This novel has appeared in serialized form in the Chicago Tribune under the title An Elopement is Arranged.
“On Stony Ground,” is copyright © 2019 by Cynthia Ward. Originally published in Analog, May-June 2019. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Carillon of Skulls,” by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard, is copyright 1941, 1969 by Lester del Rey. Originally published under the pseudonym “Philip James” in Unknown Fantasy Fiction, February 1941. Reprinted by permission of the Lester del Rey estate.
“Abel Baker Camel” is copyright © 1987 by Richard Wilson. Originally published Amazing Stories, January 1987. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“The Great Nebraska Sea,” by Allan Danzig, originally appeared in Galaxy Magazine, August 1963.
“Corrigan’s Homunculi” is copyright © 1989 by Larry Tritten. Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1989. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
THE CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #23.
Lots of good stuff this time—highlighted by a novel by Golden Age mystery author Rufus King, Duenna for a Murder. Plus a few novellas, and lots of great short stories, a solve-it-yourself mystery from Hal Charles, and great selections from Michael Bracken (Laird Long’s “Taken for a Ride”—which fits neatly into both the mystery and fantasy categories) and Barb Goffman (Michael Allan Mallory’s “Random Harvest”).
On the science fiction side, the Cynthia Ward Presents story is missing this week, but that’s only because we have a fantastic alternate-history story from Cynthia herself! Check out her “On Stony Ground.” Plus an epic disaster story from Allan Danzig, a fantasy from Unknown by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard, a space-based tale by Richard Wilson, and a miniature military SF story from Larry Tritten.
Here’s the complete lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure
“Soul Searching,” by Laird Long [short story]
“A Fine Kettle of Fish,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Dead Wrong,” by Frank Kane [short story]
“Taken for a Ride,” by Hulbert Footner [short novel]
“Random Harvest,” by Michael Allan Mallory [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
Duenna to a Murder, by Rufus King [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy
“Soul Searching,” by Laird Long [short story]
“On Stony Ground,” by Cynthia Ward [short story]
“Corrigan’s Homunculi,” by Larry Tritten [short story]
“Carillon of Skulls,” by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard [short story]
“Abel Baker Camel,” by Richard Wilson [short story]
“The Great Nebraska Sea,” by Allan Danzig [short story]
Until next time, happy reading!
—John Betancourt
Editor, Black Cat Weekly
TEAM BLACK CAT
EDITOR
John Betancourt
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Barb Goffman
Michael Bracken
Darrell Schweitzer
Cynthia M. Ward
PRODUCTION
Sam Hogan
SOUL SEARCHING,by Laird Long
Dugan Growser was the last guy I wanted to see in my office, since I’d been haunting him at home for the last month.
“You gotta find somethin’ for me, McCaffrey!” he squealed, shoving the door right through me and dropping into a chair, as uninvited as demonic possession.
I cursed him like I’d been cursing him every night for the last thirty. And the effect was the usual—zip. “What’s gone missing, Growser—your will to live maybe, I hope?”
“My soul!” he bleated, not altogether correcting me. He shoved a three-fingered hand through his greasy, black hair and shuddered, his face swimming in sweat. “You gotta find my soul, McCaffrey!”
“Have you tried jazz?” I deadpanned, floating over my desk.
“No, no! I don’t mean I lost it or nuthin’. I mean someone stole it!”
“How would a guy like you even know it was missing?” I asked, watching the little runt rattle like teeth in a hockey player, enjoying myself.
Growser grinned a crooked grin, regaining some of his scummy composure. “Okay, okay, we’ve had our differences, sure, McCaffrey. But—”
“Differences!?” I shrieked (something I’d been doing a lot of lately). “You killed me, remember!? Turned me into the only dick in this town with a clear conscience—literally!”
Growser pulled a fat, green cigar out of his jacket pocket, planted it in his kisser. “That was an accident, McCaffrey. No hard feelin’s. How was I s’posed to know the slugs I pumped in Fish Manson were gonna chew through him an’ eat into you?”
“You blast away with a .44, in the middle of a crowded street, and you don’t think maybe there’s going to be some collateral damage!? Even you’re not that dumb, Growser.”
He shrugged his bony shoulders, wiped his pointy nose with a yellowed digit. “What can I say? The opportunity just sorta came up. I couldn’t let it pass. Anyway, that’s yesterday’s news. You gonna help me or not?”
“Not!” I shrieked.
Growser set fire to his stogie, puffed on it, as calm and deadly now as an oil slick. “How’d you like it if I ratted you out to the Feds—told ’em you’re turnin’ down cases?”
I clenched my fists, my fingers doubling back on themselves. The only reason I was still around, in spirit at least, still working cases and haunting Growser, was because I had a tax bill outstanding at the time of my untimely demise. And the IRS wanted what was coming, no excuses accepted. Just as surely as you can’t take it with you, you also can’t take off owing Uncle Sam.
“Okay, Growser,” I gritted, “when did you first notice that your soul was missing?”
He spat on the floor. “Yesterday mornin’. I woke up same time as usual, but I had this real, kinda, empty feelin’ inside. I just wasn’t myself, you know—no life or nuthin’.” He made a face at his cigar. “Take this Cuban, for instance—it’s got no taste to me. And food? Fuggidaboutit! I go to Mama’s Kitchen in Harlem, I can’t taste nuthin’.”
“You sure your soul didn’t just pack up and leave on its own, like your ex-wives? Like maybe it went looking for better accommodations? Or maybe... it got while the getting was good?”
“Like I’m gonna keel over any minute—that what you mean?” Growser asked, licking his thin lips, eyeing my encouraging smile. “Like the Big Man upstairs put out a hit on Growser and his body just ain’t took the message yet? Yeah, sure, I thought about that. But the thing’s been missin’ for more’n twenty-four hours now, and I’m still kickin’.”
“That is an awfully long time for a soul to be missing, even in this town,” I mused.
“Yeah. Anyway, I come here ’cause I figure a guy like you’s got connections—you know, on the other side. And, face it, you need the bread, and I got the dough.”
He had me there. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll scout around, see what I can dig up.”
“Good.” Growser jumped to his feet, threw down his cigar with a look of disgust and crushed it out with his heel. “You find whoever stole my soul, McCaffrey, ’cause no one steals nuthin’ from Dugan Growser!” he barked, punching the air with a bony finger, like he was issuing a warning to the underworld, both above and below ground.
* * * *
There’d been plenty of cases of gung-ho angels, fallen and otherwise, snatching souls before their rightful owners had truly given up the ghost, I was well aware. Not to mention flesh-and-blood Christ crusaders, devil worshippers, and Board decertified voodoo/witch doctors trying to save or subvert souls while the flesh was still willing, but the spirit weak. So, the logical starting point in my investigation was Hyram Kruk, biggest middleman in the entire East Coast soul chain. If anyone had their ear to the ground in the soul racket, it was him.
He was a squat, surly sonuvagun who had run a string of discount pawnshops during his days of living and breathing. He’d been killed when the stolen gun he’d pointed at an unarmed burglar had accidentally blown up in his hand, killing him and the burglar. And it’d turned out that the first-time burglar had only been trying to get his hocked plumbing tools back, so he could take a job, get his family off welfare. It was quite the moral conundrum for the boys upstairs and down. And the convoluted terminus, coupled with his equally checkered past, had left Kruk in limbo longer than a calypso band conductor, two years and counting.
But while the higher and lower powers that be were debating Kruk’s fate for all eternity, they’d at least agreed to put the guy’s skills to good use, making him head receiver/shipper for the largest soul storage facility on the northeastern seaboard. Kruk bagged ’em, tagged ’em, and stacked ’em, before eventually shipping them on their way. And he wasn’t above doing a little fencing on the side, both to stay sharp and to score brownie points with the boys in the great beyond, on either side of the divide.
“How’s business, soul man?” I greeted him, as I slipped into his warehouse beneath the most populated cemetery on the Jersey shore.
“Eh, it’s got its ups and downs,” Kruk responded, ziplocking a baggie, flinging it onto a shelf. “What’d you want now?”
“Just passing through,” I cracked, casually browsing around for anyone I knew.
“Yeah, and me, I’m the ghost of Christmas past,” he responded, in Hebrew. He always could see right through me.
“Well... I was kind of wondering if you’d seen Dugan Growser’s soul around—say, in the last twenty-four hours or so?”
“That bum finally get plugged?”
“No such luck,” I replied, liking his analogy nonetheless. “He’s still in the upright and cocky position, but he claims his soul’s been stolen. Thought you might know something about it?”
Kruk gave me a ghastly grin, and waited.
“You set up any deals lately? Maybe some brimstone-breather couldn’t wait to get his mitts on a fresh one?”
Kruk waited some more.
I stared at his shadowy form, then smiled. “I’m not bribing you, Kruk. I’ve got no money to call my own, and you’ve got about as much use for money as a rich man has for the eye of a needle.”
Kruk’s shoulders drooped. “Oh, yeah. Old habits die hard, eh?” He pulled an imaginary pipe out of the corner of his mouth. “Nah, just like everyone else, I ain’t seen Growser’s soul. I woulda remembered that one—probably need a pair of oven mitts just to handle it. But I do got some information might interest you.”
We both waited some more.
“Damn!” Kruk grunted eventually. “Okay, so I hear on the ghostvine that some phony souls been turnin’ up at some of the West Coast warehouses.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. Nuthin’ here yet, but a guy in California tells me they’ve had a coupla cases of soul doping already.”
“Soul doping?”
“Yeah. Someone switching their dirty, rotten soul for a nice, clean one—you know, trying to hitch a ride to the stars, instead of getting the shaft. They caught a politician and a trial lawyer already.”
“How’s that possible? I mean, where’re the whitewashed souls coming from? And how are they making the switch? You’re not selling salvation on the side again, are you, Kruk?”
He gave me a dirty look. “C’mon, I wouldn’t pull that kinda stuff! I don’t know from nuthin’ about transplanting souls. Besides, my case is in arbitration right now—you think I’d jeopardize that?”
Then it hit me. “You mean someone’s dealing in souls topside, without a spiritual connection? A flesh and blood for-real person?”
“That’s the way I peg it, yeah. Someone’s figured out how to catch souls without a license. And he’s cutting deals with the damned, to try ’n make their final journey a whole lot more uplifting, if you know what I mean.” Kruk’s thick, bloodless lips framed a melancholy smile. “I wish I’d’ve lived long enough to see a scam like that.”
* * * *
I went back to my office, did some thinking on the case. If soul doping was the angle, then why would anyone in their right mind pinch Dugan Growser’s charred essence? That thing was a ticket to Hell just waiting to be punched.
I couldn’t figure it—till Growser incarnate blew into my office with a gobful of profanity and a clip n’ paste note in his mitt. “One hundred large, in small, for the return of your soul,” the note read.
It was a stiff price for a badly-damaged piece of merchandise, and Growser was more than unwilling to pay it. “I don’t pay nobody no ransoms!” he spat.
“You want to find out who stole your soul, don’t you?” I argued, glad I didn’t have the senses left to smell the reek of the rat, taste his spittle.
“Yeah, sure! But—”
I held up a hand, halting him. Then I eased the little man’s indignation by promising to get both his soul and his hundred grand back, and finger the soulnapper. I wasn’t going to do it just for Growser, either—he could take a hike in a cow pasture minus the soles on his shoes, for all I cared—but for mankind, as well. There were bigger issues at stake here than just one wiseguy’s scabby soul. A living being with the ability to snatch and switch souls could really do some damage, maybe even tilt the precarious balance between good and evil in the wrong direction.
I didn’t bother explaining any of that to Growser, though. I didn’t fully understand all of the implications myself. I just promised the hood revenge, and he agreed that was worth paying for.
* * * *
The phone call came later that night: “Put the money in a garbage bag, leave the bag next to the bench under the clock tower in Hill Street Park, two a.m.” Whoever it was must’ve known that Growser trusted banks like they trusted him, because my client grudgingly admitted that he could exhume a hundred grand from the pickle jars he had growing in his backyard, have it bagged by two.
By midnight, I was making with the leaves of a big, old oak tree that looked down on the bench in question, and Growser was performing what to him was true sacrilege—stuffing gelt into a garbage bag. Nevertheless, he slipped into the park at the appointed hour, looking as casual as a straitjacket, glancing around like he’d never seen nightfall before.
He drifted over to the lighted clock tower and reluctantly deposited his garbage next to the bench, after a couple of false starts. Then he was just dumb enough to stare up my tree, trying to spot me. I did a bad hoot-owl imitation to get rid of him, make his actions look less suspicious, wishing I was a bat out of Hell and he a throbbing vein in the neck.
Eventually, he sidled away, casting wistful glances back over his shoulder at the lonely bag of cash. And ten minutes after Growser’d made his tearful departure, a man in a hooded jacket rode up on a bike, grabbed the garbage bag, and rode away.
I was flying the friendly skies, so I had no trouble keeping up with the bicycling bagman. He pedaled his ass all over town, twisting his head around every now and then to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He finally biked it on down to the waterfront, skidded to a stop in front of a small, abandoned-looking warehouse. He parked his two-wheeler up against the graffiti-stained wall of the building, then buzzed a series of buzzes on an intercom next to a red, metal door. The door responded, and he went inside.
I followed him through the brick wall, face-first, and wasn’t altogether surprised to see that the warehouse was anything but abandoned. In fact, the place was crammed full of enough electronic equipment to stock every Radio Shack east of the Rockies, with a couple of geeks’ basements left over. And there were enough bubbling test tubes, boiling beakers, and steaming flasks to create a thousand Mr. Hydes.
The hooded bagman carefully made his way through the flashing lights and gurgling liquids and humming machines, as I hung ten in the rafters. He knocked a series of knocks on the steel door of a small office pushed into one corner of the building, and the door opened up and he disappeared from view again.
I waited, and eventually the garbageman came back out of the office, less his garbage. I watched him leave the warehouse, then watched the office door again; I wasn’t interested in flunkies, I wanted the heart and soul of the operation. And I soon found him, when the steel door reopened and Dr. Francesco Franks shuffled out, clutching that morning’s trash.
I recognized the not-so-good doctor from his numerous appearances on TV, and in the Tabloids. He’d been a world-renowned neurosurgeon at the Good Samaritan Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Hospital, before going gynecological on a couple of female patients and getting the unceremonious heave-ho. His syndicated self-help/game show, Brainiacs, had quickly followed him down the tubes.
I descended from the heavens, as Franks placed the bag of cabbage on a workbench. “On-call tonight, eh, Doc?” I said from a shadowy corner of the building.
He spun around, his Einsteinian hair a split-second behind. “Who are you!?” he yelled, pushing back a pair of black-rimmed glasses on his cowcatcher nose. The lenses in the vintage frames were thick enough to grace the Palomar Observatory.
“I’m your worst nightmare,” I replied sardonically, my back up against and partially-through the brick wall. “Is all the loot there?”
Franks shook his enormous braincase, the wrinkles on his mug etch-a-sketching into an expression of anger. “No!” he fumed. “There’s only ten thousand dollars here!”
That figured.
Franks forgot his money troubles long enough to jerk a snub-nose .38 out of his labcoat. “Now, who are you!?” he demanded.
“Bain McCaffrey,” I responded in a quavery voice, acting scared. The longer Dr. Franks thought I was the real deal, the longer he’d believe I could actually do him some physical harm, and visa versa. “The guy Dugan Growser hired to give him some soul satisfaction.”
“Like hell you will!” Franks hollered, blasting away.
Hot lead smashed into the wall behind me, sending stone shrapnel rocketing in all directions. Franks emptied his gun into the wall, then charged me. Either he didn’t believe in ghosts, or the dim lighting and his appalling eyesight had worked in my favor, because the wayward genius hit the bricks headfirst and hard, little realizing that I was as solid as salesman’s handshake. He staggered backwards, slammed up against a workbench, windmilled his arms, knocking test tubes and beakers and Bunsen burners flying and crashing and bursting into flame, setting his lab ablaze.
Then he slowly slumped to the floor, life leaking out of a fissure in his forehead, explosions flaring up behind him. I zipped to his side. “How’d you get Growser’s soul!?” I yelled.
He looked up at me, through me, orange flames flashing in his shattered, Coke-bottle lenses. “It was all a mistake!” he gasped. “They took the wrong soul!”
“You wanted a clean one, right!? For soul doping! But-but you’d thought you’d cash in anyway—with some ransom money!?”
Franks nodded, blood sluicing down his ancient, grey face. “I needed more money... to fund my experiments... to perfect my soul-searing device... make the transplantation undetectable. You see, I wanted to... ”
He didn’t get the chance to fully explain himself, not in his lifetime, anyway. I left his corpse and frantically scoured the lab, desperately trying to save some souls anyway I could. But the leaping flames and billowing smoke made identification impossible, and I never did find Growser’s soul, or anybody else’s. What I did briefly spot was a small, black machine that looked like a cross between a dustbuster and a pocket fisherman. It was labeled Soul Snatcher 3000, in silver letters on its side, and it, too, was consumed in the inferno. Along with Dr. Francesco Frank’s ultimate plans for it.
* * * *
“You didn’t get my dough back, huh?” Growser whined, when I roused him off his toilet, explained all that had happened after he’d taken out the trash.
“It burned with the warehouse,” I told him again. “And I thought you might be worried about losing your soul?”
Growser sat back down on his throne, doing me at least that one small favor. “Nah, that’s no big deal. In my line of work, I’m probably better off without it. ’Sides, it got what was comin’ to it, right?”
I couldn’t argue with that.
He grinned, pointed a finger through me. “And so did the thief—this Dr. Franks or whatever!” He scratched his blue-shaded chin. “I just wish that ten grand hadn’t gone up in smoke, is all. See, part of that money was your fee, McCaffrey.”
“That kind of double-cross is going to come back to haunt you!” I shrieked.
Growser shrugged. “Yeah, same time, next night, huh, McCaffrey?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Laird Long pounds out fiction in all genres; over 2,000 stories and counting. Big guy, sense of humor. Writing credits include the magazines, e-zines and anthologies Hardboiled, Bullet, Albedo One, Baen’s Universe, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Pulp Literature, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, The Mammoth Book of New Comic Fantasy, and New Canadian Noir; and the standalone book No Accounting For Danger. “Soul Searching” first appeared in www.baens-universe, October 2007.
A FINE KETTLE OF FISH,by Hal Charles
When Ellen opened the front door of her Aunt Cora’s bungalow, she heard a loud shriek from inside.
“No, Mr. Pepper!” yelled the grey-haired woman as she grabbed the large, white Persian cat racing toward the doorway. “You’ll get filthy outside. I’d better put you in the bedroom before our guests arrive.”
“You and Mr. Pepper are quite a team,” said Ellen, closing the door.
“I do love him so,” said Cora, “but I’m afraid as he grows older, he’s getting grumpier. Seems like your little sister is the only person he tolerates these days other than me. He wouldn’t stay out of her lap earlier today.”
They laughed as Cora headed for the bedroom and Ellen walked toward the kitchen. Ellen would be getting married that weekend, and her favorite aunt wanted to host what she called a “Bachelorette Party” in her honor. No hunky firemen gyrating to loud rock music; just a few close friends for punch and finger food.
Ellen had arrived a little early, and only a handful of people were there. Entering the cozy kitchen, she was greeted first by her best friend, Amanda, who had volunteered to help Cora put things together. “The official countdown has begun, girl,” said the tall redhead. “Enjoy your freedom while you can.”
Ellen was happy that Amanda had given her blessing to the marriage. Her friend had dated Allen first, and Ellen had feared that she would have a hard time accepting the match. But Amanda seemed as excited about the upcoming wedding as she was.
“Our guests should be arriving any minute now,” said Cora as she rushed into the kitchen. “I hope I haven’t forgotten anything.”
“Cora, you’re such a perfectionist,” said a short, heavyset blonde standing near the stove. “I was afraid we were going to lose you earlier when you realized you needed more sour cream for the veggie dip and bolted out the door for the market.”
Shrugging her shoulders, Cora smiled apologetically. “What can I say? I want everything to be just right for my darling. And, of course, I want to make a good impression on the groom’s family.”
Allen’s sister, Rebecca, winked dramatically. “So far, so good.”
Rebecca had always been friendly enough, but Ellen worried that, as his older sibling, she was a bit over-protective. Nothing definite, just a word here or a glance there.
Ellen felt a slight tug on her arm and looked to the left to see her little sister, Maggie, who, only 14, stood almost eye-to-eye with big sister. “Where have you been hiding?” said Ellen.
“I was getting some extra chairs from the back porch. Aunt Cora invited half the town I think.”
“I hear some people at the door,” said Cora. “It’s show time, ladies. Let’s uncover things and get them out to the dining room.”
“We can get the punch bowl,” Ellen said, motioning for Maggie to follow her. The two had been inseparable since Maggie was old enough to tag along with Ellen on their farm. Whether it was fishing in one of the family’s ponds or hiking up the mountain to catch a sunrise, Ellen could count on looking around to see Maggie’s beaming smile.
When the two reached the huge bowl, Ellen pulled back the cover. Glancing down, she saw an obviously dead fish floating atop the pink liquid.
“Oh my,” gasped Cora from behind the sisters. “Why would . . . who could . . .”
Cora closed the kitchen door, and the trio moved to the dining room where Ellen spent the rest of the afternoon wrestling with why someone would want to ruin the party. Then as she watched Cora, Mr. Pepper in her arms, say goodbye to her guests, Ellen remembered something her aunt had said earlier. She didn’t know the why, but she had good idea of who had tossed the fish in the punch.
Solution
Ellen remembered Cora’s comment about Mr. Pepper’s attraction to Maggie and reasoned that the cat must have smelled the fish Maggie handled. Confronted, Maggie admitted that she was angry at losing her big sister to Allen. When Ellen promised she would never break their special bond, Maggie apologized with a big hug.
DEAD WRONG,by Frank Kane
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 façade. 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 weave 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 pre-empted.
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 on 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 jackknifed. 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 ash tray 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 spiraled 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, run 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 got a make?”
The inspector shook his head. “The usual. A dark sedan—could be a Ford or a Plymouth or a Chevy—”
“—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 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 carrot top’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 woman 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 rugged. 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 redhead 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 Sally’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 redhead, 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 woman’s forehead. “He didn’t have when he left the apartment. He might have gotten one 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 sicked me onto him—”
The redhead 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 ricocheted 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 hopscotching 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, dialed 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 dialed 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.”
