Green Light for Death E-Book

Frank Kane

• Herausgeber: Alien Ebooks
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Johnny Liddell
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 280

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

When private detective Johnny Liddell arrives in the resort town of Waterville, he's expecting a simple case. But the mysterious death of his client, Nancy Hayes, quickly draws him into a dangerous web of secrets. As Johnny digs deeper, he uncovers a counterfeiting ring with ties to the town's corrupt underworld. Navigating treacherous alliances and dodging attempts on his life, Johnny realizes there's more to Nancy's death than meets the eye.

With the help of the alluring singer Lorna Matthews and the town's only honest cop, Johnny must outwit ruthless mobsters and crooked officials to unravel the truth.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

GREEN LIGHT FOR DEATH, by Frank Kane

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

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

GREEN LIGHT FOR DEATH,by Frank Kane

TO MY MOTHERwith my deepest affection and gratitude

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Originally published in 1949.

Published by Black Cat Weekly.

blackcatweekly.com

*

CHAPTER 1

Johnny Liddell carefully stripped the cellophane jacket from a cigar, bit off the sealed end, spat it onto the floor. He stared unblinkingly at the girl stretched out before him. Her hair was as thick and coppery as he had remembered it. There were a few more lines crisscrossing under the eyes than there had been in the old days, but the lips were still full and inviting. As she lay there now, her lips slightly parted, she showed the perfect little teeth he had always admired. She was uncovered to the waist, her small, perfectly molded breasts bared to the searching yellow light.

“That her?” Detective Sergeant Happy Lewis sounded slightly bored with the formality.

Liddell nodded. He jammed the cigar into his mouth, clamped his teeth savagely into it. “What’s supposed to have happened to her?” he wanted to know.

The homicide man signaled to the morgue attendant. Liddell watched without comment as the attendant drew a rough canvas sheet over the girl’s face, slammed the oblong metal drawer into place with a clang that reverberated through the whole morgue.

“Don’t have to worry about disturbing the other guests.” The morgue keeper showed the yellow stumps of his teeth in a grin. “They’re real sound sleepers.” He looked from the homicide man to the private detective expectantly. When nobody gave him any encouragement, he shuffled off toward the office in the rear, muttering under his breath.

“Well?” Liddell persisted. “What’s supposed to have happened to her?”

Detective Sergeant Lewis shrugged. “What usually happens to a dame like that? She either jumped or fell off the end of the pier.” He pushed his fedora back on his head, wiped his forehead with the side of his hand. “Got enough of this?”

Liddell scraped a long wooden match on the sole of his shoe, applied it to the end of the cigar. “It was neither,” he said flatly.

“It was neither what?”

“It was neither accident nor suicide,” Liddell asserted. “Nancy Hayes had too much sense to walk off the end of a pier. She had too much guts to jump off.”

“She didn’t call herself Nancy Hayes up here,” the homicide man told him wearily. “Up here she was Nancy Martin. And she either jumped or fell.” He stared moodily at Johnny Liddell. “If you were to try to make something else out of it, I think maybe you ought to have a talk with Connors first. He’s the police chief up here. He don’t like for private dicks to come into his territory upsetting things and making trouble.”

Liddell nodded, exhaled a feathery tendril of dirty white smoke ceilingward. “That’s how Connors feels about it. How about you?”

Lewis studied the private detective’s face for a moment from under his eyelids, then dropped his eyes. “Like I said, Connors is the chief. How I feel ain’t important.”

“She was a nice kid,” Liddell indicated the metal drawer. “You would have liked her if you knew her. I’d hate to think somebody could pull a stunt like that and get away with it. Wouldn’t you?”

Detective Sergeant Happy Lewis looked unhappy. “Maybe,” he admitted cautiously. “But Connors still calls the turn around here.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about Connors. I’ve got an idea he and I are going to be good friends before this is over.” He tapped a thin film of ash off the end of the cigar. “That is, of course, unless he’s got some angle in trying to hush up this case.”

“Hush up what case?” The homicide man pinched his long thin nose between thumb and forefinger. “Maybe I forgot to tell you. There is no case. The dame either jumped or fell off the end of the pier.”

* * * *

Chief Connors sat behind an oversized, varnished desk and eyed Johnny Liddell with no sign of enthusiasm. He reached out for a pack of cigarettes on the corner of the desk, selected one on the basis that it was less rumpled than the rest, hung it from his lips.

“So you’re a private detective, eh?” His eyes dropped from Liddell to the credentials on his desk. He riffled through them, snorted, shoved them back across the desk. “Anything on your mind?”

Liddell picked up his papers, rearranged them, shoved them into his breast pocket. “Thought I’d check in with you before I went to work.”

“We don’t like peepers up here in Waterville, Liddell.” The chief’s deep voice didn’t belong to his thin frame and washed-out eyes. “I understand that you came up here to do a job for the Martin dame.”

Liddell nodded.

“Well, whatever kind of a caper she was setting up, it fell through.” Connors scratched a paper match across the strip on the box, applied it to his cigarette. His colorless eyes never left the private detective’s face. “So I suppose you’ll be catching the next train back to town. I’ve got one of the boys arranging your reservations. Like that you won’t be delayed.”

Liddell grinned, dropped into an old armchair, draped his leg over the arm. “There’s no hurry, Chief. I was figuring on staying around until you broke the case.”

Chief Connors’ eyes flicked from the private detective to Detective Sergeant Lewis and back. “Maybe you ain’t heard. There is no case. It was an accident or a suicide.”

“So I’ve been told. But it wasn’t either. Nancy was murdered.” Johnny Liddell rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “If you’re not going to break the case, I intend to.”

“Maybe there’s more to this than I know, Liddell.” The chief’s deep voice grew dangerously soft. “Maybe you know some things that we ought to. You’re so sure it was murder, suppose you break down and let us in on it.”

Liddell grinned, shrugged. “Just guessing, Chief.” He indicated the homicide man with a toss of his head. “If you’ve got any ideas about tying me into it, your boy here can tell you that I was on the train when Nancy got it.”

“Nobody said you were in on it, Liddell,” Connors growled. “But seeing as how she was your client, maybe she told you something. Maybe she was getting you up here to put the shake on somebody, eh?”

“I haven’t seen or talked to the kid in years,” Liddell told him. “Last time I saw her she was hoofing in an upholstered sewer on 47th Street.” He took the cigar from his mouth, studied the wet end, pasted a loose leaf back with the tip of his tongue. “I’ve been working out of the Coast office for Acme for years. I kind of lost touch with her.”

“She was your client.”

“Technically. Day before yesterday she called the Acme home office. Spoke to the boss down there. Guy named Steve Baron. Asked him where she could get in touch with me. Said it was very important.” He stuck the cigar back in his mouth. “You can check all that.”

“We already have.” Chief Connors leaned his elbows on the desk. “Go on. What’d she want? What was so urgent?”

Liddell shrugged. “I don’t know—yet. I didn’t get to talk to her. Whatever she had to tell me, somebody arranged that she didn’t get around to it.”

Chief Connors snorted cynically, leaned back in his chair. He stared at the private detective through a thin veil of cigarette smoke. There was a faint wrinkle between his eyes that could have been either disappointment or relief. “Who’ve you seen since you got into town?”

“You ought to know,” Liddell grunted. “I arrived at a fleabag this town laughingly calls a hotel about two hours ago, gave my name to the clerk, and for all the action I got you’d think I yelled Bingo.” He rolled the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “For guys who are so sure the kid either jumped or fell, you’re wasting the time of a lot of homicide men.”

The expression in the chief’s washed-out eyes remained unchanged. “Just routine. Regular check on the deceased’s friends and relatives. Found a telegram from your office saying you’d arrive at the hotel tonight. Thought you might give us some reason why she did it so’s we could close the case.”

The private detective grinned. “Now that goes to show you how suspicious some people are. Here I was thinking you were just keeping me on ice so’s I couldn’t get to talk to anybody.”

Chief Connors looked hurt. His eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. “Now why should we want to do a thing like that?”

“I thought maybe you might be afraid I’d frighten off the murderer before your boys had a chance to collar him,” Liddell told him blandly.

Chief Connors’ eyes stopped taking census of the flyspecks on the ceiling. “We don’t look for murderers in a suicide, Liddell.” He looked over at Detective Sergeant Happy Lewis with what approached distaste. “Just to prove to you how co-operative we really are, I’ll let you in on something. We know it wasn’t an accident.”

Detective Sergeant Lewis looked uncomfortable. He rubbed the heel of his hand over the faint stubble on his chin, squirmed.

“It seems we have a real honest-to-god detective on the force,” Connors continued bitterly. “Go ahead, Lewis. Tell Liddell how you discovered it was suicide. Maybe he can arrange for you to get a job peeping through keyholes.”

A faint flush crept up from the homicide man’s collar. He turned to Liddell. “I didn’t think it could be an accident,” he said defiantly. “I told the coroner why and he agreed with me.”

The chief dropped his cigarette to the floor, stamped it out. He applauded sarcastically. “Go ahead, Sherlock. Tell him the rest and save him the price of a correspondence course.”

“I was there when we fished her out of the drink,” Lewis continued without looking in the chief’s direction. “She was naked. All her clothes were piled on the pier.”

“And the m.e. was willing to consider it an accident?”

“He didn’t see the body until it was in the morgue,” the sergeant explained. “I guess he took for granted it was fully dressed when we fished it out.”

Liddell nodded thoughtfully. He transferred his gaze to the police chief. “But your office was willing to write it off as an accident anyhow, eh Chief?”

“Why not?” Connors growled. “What’s the sense of branding the girl a suicide? Call it an accident and let the poor girl rest in peace. Besides, what’s the use of looking for any scandal?”

Liddell failed to be impressed. “Just like it wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t suicide.” He tossed the soggy butt of his cigar in the general direction of the wastebasket. “It was murder.” He ignored the chief’s angry growl, continued, “No doll who’s worked herself up to the state where she’s going to knock herself off takes the trouble to call in a private eye the day before she does the job.”

“Look, Liddell,” Connors’ voice was low, loaded with menace. “I tried to reason with you. You’re stubborn. Okay, I’ll put it on the line.” He pulled himself out of his chair, walked around the desk, and stood facing the private detective. “This is my town. I don’t want any private peepers coming up here fouling things up. We got enough on our hands right now without any phony murder cases. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

Liddell nodded. “That’s good advice, Chief. Anything I start I’ll make sure to finish.”

“It could be you’ll find Waterville’s a very bad town to start stirring things up in, Liddell,” Chief Connors told him.

The private detective slid his leg off the arm of the chair, let the chair slam back on all fours with a suddenness that made Connors jump to get his toes out of the way. “Thanks for the advice, Chief.” He took his time about getting up, stood facing Connors. “Of course, if you were to make it impossible for me to look after the interests of my client, I might have to go higher.”

Connors bared his teeth in a smile that fell far short of his eyes. “I wouldn’t make it impossible for you to do anything, Liddell,” he purred. “But there might be some people in this town who wouldn’t give a damn for your higher authority.”

Liddell thought it over for a moment. “You’re telling me there might be someone in town who might try to stop me from proving Nancy Hayes was murdered?”

The chief shrugged, the phony smile frozen on his face. “That’s not all they might try to stop you from doing.”

“What else could they stop me from doing, Chief?” Liddell seemed unimpressed.

“Breathing.”

CHAPTER 2

The damp dank air of the morgue seemed to permeate through the walls to the medical examiner’s office. A thick, yellowish cloud floated around a dirty unshaded bulb set in the middle of the flyspecked ceiling.

The medical examiner, Doc Herley, was in his late thirties, and the rolls of fat under his chin testified to his lack of interest in motion of any kind. He was sitting in his big swivel chair behind his desk, his pudgy hands clasped comfortably on his paunch when Johnny Liddell walked into his office.

“I’m looking for Doc Herley,” Liddell greeted him. “That you?”

The m.e. grinned, waved him in. “You must be Liddell, the private copper. Heard you were on your way over. Glad to see you.”

“I’m Liddell all right,” Johnny told him. “Been warned by the chief that I’m a bad boy, I suppose?”

The medical examiner chuckled, disturbing the rolls of fat. “He warned me that you’re a trouble maker, hell-bent on fouling up a perfectly simple suicide.” He leaned back in his chair and with much grunting managed to hook his heel into a well-worn notch on the corner of his desk. “I don’t mind trouble, so long’s it’s not mine.”

Liddell nodded. “Fair enough.” He leaned against the side of the desk, fumbled through his pockets, came up with a pack of cigarettes. He held it out to the fat man, waited until he’d helped himself, then stuck one in his own mouth. “Nancy Hayes was a client of mine—and a friend,” he explained. “Mind if I ask you a couple of questions about her death, doc?”

“Go right ahead.” The medical examiner lit his cigarette, tossed the matches over to Liddell.

“When I got into town they gave me a song and dance about it being either accident or suicide. Now it’s narrowed down to suicide. I think it’s murder.”

The fat man shook his head ponderously. “Can’t buy that, Liddell. When I first saw the body I didn’t know she’d peeled before she dived so I marked the slip accident or suicide. When Happy told me her clothes were left on the pier I changed it to suicide. But murder is out.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Look, Liddell. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. If you think I’ve got an angle in covering up anything you’re nuts,” the man behind the desk told him. “I’m not the most conscientious guy in the world, but I’m not that bad that I couldn’t spot signs of violence if there were any. There weren’t.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Positive,” the medical examiner asserted. “I did a complete check of the body. No signs of violence any place. Water in her lungs to show she was alive when she went in. Everything as it should be.”

Johnny Liddell puffed on his cigarette, added blue white streams to the murkiness of the room. “No bruises or bumps beyond the hair line? No needle marks in her arms or legs? Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure make it tough, doc,” Liddell complained. He straightened up, ambled aimlessly around the room, stopped by a large metal cabinet in the corner. “Any chance of seeing her stuff?”

Doc Herley considered the request for a second, shrugged. “Don’t see why not.” He sighed as he contemplated the necessity for pulling himself to his feet. Then, as though reaching the decision that movement was inevitable, he dropped his feet from the desk, pulled himself from his chair. “Know her very well?” he asked conversationally, as he waddled across the room to the locker.

“Used to. Knew her when she was hoofing in a night club,” Liddell told him. “Hadn’t seen her in a couple of years.”

The medical examiner pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, selected one, fitted it into the lock on the cabinet. “Quite a dish she must have been.” The door creaked complainingly as he tugged it open. “She’s still not bad. Have to keep an eye on that morgue attendant. Catch him sneaking out there every so often to pay her a visit.”

Johnny Liddell grinned bleakly. “Maybe it keeps her from getting lonely. Besides, what’s she got to lose?” He peered over the m.e.’s shoulder into the locker.

“Well, there’s what she had with her.” He indicated a neatly pressed dress, a pair of shoes, some stockings and underpants. “Help yourself. Not that I see how you’re going to make anything out of that.”

“Neither do I,” the private detective admitted. He studied each article carefully, replaced it. He seemed particularly interested in the dress.

“Find anything?” Doc Herley asked.

Johnny Liddell nodded. “Proof that it was murder.” He held up the dress.

The medical examiner stared at the dress curiously. “From that? How?”

“Take a good look at it, doc,” Johnny invited. He held the dress out for the fat man’s inspection. “All nice and freshly pressed, eh?”

“A little wrinkled from being rolled up, but so what?”

“It’s not wrinkled in the right places. Last night was plenty hot. Right?”

“Plenty hot.”

Liddell nodded. “This pier she’s supposed to have jumped off, it ran about three hundred feet out into the water I understand?”

The coroner nodded. “I still don’t get it.”

“You will. How far is this pier from where Nancy lived?”

Doc Herley frowned, then waddled over to his filing cabinet. He riffled through a bunch of cards, came up with one. “She lived in the 200 block on Locust.” He considered for a moment. “I’d say offhand it was at least a mile. Maybe more.”

“Okay, let’s say a mile. Now, she walks a mile on a hot, sticky night, then walks three hundred feet out on a pier, and the dress doesn’t get mussed up at all. No signs of perspiration, no creasing, no nothing.”

The medical examiner was impressed. A faint line appeared between his eyes as he considered where the private detective was leading. “Maybe she rode over. In a cab or got a lift.”

Liddell shook his head. “Makes no difference. If she rode in a cab or got any kind of a ride, on a hot night like last night the seat would show signs of creasing or wrinkling.” He dismissed the half-hearted argument with a toss of his head. “The answer is that she never had that dress on last night. For some reason somebody took the dress she was wearing and substituted this one.”

Doc Herley took the dress from the hand of the private detective, walked back to the light with it. He studied it carefully for a moment.

“You’re beginning to sell me, Liddell,” he admitted. He went back to his desk, dropped into his chair. “If you’re right about her not having this dress on last night, then it was murder.” He worried his lower lip with his teeth for a moment, then made a production of bending down to get a bottle and two glasses out of his lower drawer. “But why would anybody want to do that? What could there be about the dress she had on that would make it necessary for the killer to switch dresses?”

Liddell watched him fill each of the glasses half full, replace the bottle in the lower drawer. “When we know that, doc, we’ll know who killed Nancy—and how.”

* * * *

An hour later, Johnny Liddell leaned on the bar of the dim, cool lounge of the Hotel Waterville with the ease born of long experience. He watched glumly while the bartender went through the complicated motions necessary to mix some exotic hangover builder for a couple of obvious tourists at the far end of the bar. He finally caught the barman’s eye, signaled him down.

“Let’s have a refill, Jack,” he told him. “Might as well be unconscious as the way I am.”

The bartender nodded, poured a red-brown liquid right to the brim of his glass, wiped off a drop that threatened to trickle down the neck of the bottle, and replaced it on the back bar, all in one motion.

Liddell was engrossed in making concentric circles on the bar with the wet bottom of his glass when Detective Sergeant Happy Lewis finally showed up.

“Got your call, Liddell,” Lewis told him, sliding onto the barstool at his side. “You said it was important?”

The private detective nodded. He looked significantly at the bartender who had shuffled down, stood waiting expectantly.

The detective sergeant bent over, sniffed at Liddell’s glass. “Give me some of what he’s drinking and bring him more of the same.”

The man behind the stick put up two clean glasses, filled them to the brim, then scurried down to the other end of the bar to answer impatient calls from his other customers.

“How important would you say it was?” Lewis wanted to know as soon as the bartender was out of earshot.

“Suppose I tell you I can prove Nancy was murdered,” Liddell told him. “Would that be important?”

Lewis wrinkled his long, thin nose, pinched at it. “Depends on how good the proof is.” He sniffed at his cognac appreciatively. “You know, you’re making yourself awful unpopular around here awful fast. You can’t afford to make any mistakes.”

“Never mind about that. Suppose I can prove to your satisfaction that she was murdered. Would you be willing to help me to do something about it?”

“I’m willing to listen. But it better be good. I’ve got a date at 9:38 that I’m figuring on keeping.” He peered through the eddying blue smoke to the clock on the wall. “That only leaves time for two fast ones and some fast talking.”

Liddell nodded. “It won’t take that long. Either you’re in or you’re out.” He found a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth. “Stop me if I’m wrong. I got the idea back there in the chief’s office that maybe you and he don’t see eye to eye on how a police department should be run.”

“You’re doing the talking.” The homicide man made no attempt to answer the implied question.

“Okay,” Liddell continued. “I also got the feeling that Chief Connors would be just as well pleased if nobody were to prove that Nancy Hayes was murdered. How do you stand?”

Lewis watched the smoke cascade down Liddell’s nostrils. “I don’t know how Connors feels about it, but as for me, if you can prove that kid was murdered, I’ll play on your team.” He took a sip of the brandy, appeared to be making up his mind about something, put his glass down deliberately. “I’ll go further than that. You’re right. I don’t like the way the department is being run in this town and I don’t like the people that are running it.”

“That’s all I wanted to know,” Liddell nodded. He signaled the bartender for a refill. “I think maybe we understand each other.”

The barkeep appeared, poured the drinks. Liddell dumped a handful of silver on the bar that seemed to satisfy the man behind the stick. He scooped it up, scurried back to the cash register.

“Okay, then we understand each other,” Lewis nodded. “Now suppose we get down to cases and stop sparring around.”

“After I left you and Connors this afternoon, I dropped by the medical examiner’s office. I had a long talk with Doc Herley. He sounded okay. Know anything about him?”

The homicide man shrugged, played with his glass. “Not much. He keeps his nose clean and minds his own business. All’s I know about him is that he got his appointment through politics.”

“I think he’s okay,” Liddell said. “He’s willing to go along. He’s holding up the certificate. He’s satisfied it’s murder.”

The detective sergeant grunted, drained his glass, shoved it back on the bar. A faint line of perspiration was beginning to bead his lip.

“You’re going to have to prove that, you know. Connors won’t take it laying down. He’s chief in this town and he throws around a lot of weight. A lot of weight.”

“It’s not too late for you to pull out,” Liddell told him. He looked back at the clock. “It’s not quite 9:30. You can still make that 9:38 appointment and forget you were ever here.”

“What, and die wondering? As long as I’m in this deep I might just as well get wet all the way. You say you can prove the dame was murdered. Okay, prove it. Prove it, and you’ve got yourself a boy.”

“So far it’s mostly a hunch,” Liddell admitted. The homicide man groaned, pushed his hat on the back of his head, started to protest. “Wait a minute,” Liddell cut him off. “I said mostly a hunch. After all, I’ve got enough facts to satisfy the m.e. it was murder. That ought to be good enough, shouldn’t it?”

Lewis tossed off the rest of his cognac, wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand. “Let’s have it.”

“Nancy’s supposed to have fallen in or jumped. Right?”

Detective Sergeant Lewis merely stared, made no comment.

“Okay,” Johnny continued. “That means she got from her house to the pier by herself. Now, we know she didn’t fall because she had taken her clothes off and tossed herself in. Anyway, that’s the way Connors would like the story to go, isn’t it?”

The homicide man continued to stare impassively. “I know all about Conners’ story. You tell me yours.”

Liddell nodded. “Okay. My story is that it couldn’t have happened that way. Not unless Nancy walked from her house to that pier with nothing on but a pair of panties. She couldn’t have worn the dress you found on the pier on a hot night like that without getting it perspiry or wrinkled.” He saw a protest forming on Lewis’ lips. “And she didn’t ride there either,” he headed off the objection. “There’s no sign of a crease or a wrinkle in the seat, under the arms, or around the belt. And if she wore that dress last night long enough to get from her house to the end of that pier there’d be plenty!”

Lewis considered the theory, liked the taste of it. “You’re sure about that, Liddell? The wrinkles, I mean. There were no wrinkles at all?”

“Positive. So that blows the suicide theory sky high. Somebody must have been with her. Somebody who tossed her into the drink. Somebody who was worried about something on the dress she was wearing and went to all the trouble to go home and get another one to leave on the pier for the police to find.”

The homicide man made no effort to disguise his interest. “The dress was switched, eh? That could mean the one she had on was full of blood, or—” He broke off, the interest started to drain from his face. “Wait a minute, Liddell. We’re overlooking one very important thing. The coroner found no signs of violence.” He scowled, pounded the bar with the heel of his hand. “That kicks the whole thing right in the head. That would mean that this babe would have to let the killer strip her, toss her in the drink without putting up any fight or resistance.”

Liddell crushed out his cigarette against the end of the bar. “I know. But let’s take one thing at a time. We’re sure the dress was switched. It had to be. Let’s find out why—and then go on from there.”

“And how would you suggest we go about that?”

“One way would be to get into Nancy’s apartment and have a look through her clothes. Maybe the dress is there. If it isn’t, we can get some idea of what dress is missing and see if we can’t turn it up.”

Detective Sergeant Lewis was unenthusiastic. “That ain’t going to be easy,” he mumbled. “She lived with another dame, a redhead named Lorna Matthews.”

“So what?”

“So this. The Matthews babe is allergic to cops. And you can’t push her around. She works for Mike Lane, and he’s a big enough wheel in this town to slap you down if you get out of turn.”

“Let me worry about that,” Liddell suggested. “Will we have any trouble getting into the place? From your boys, I mean.”

“No. There’s a cop on duty out in the hall, but I can take care of him.”

Liddell nodded. “Good. You take care of the cop. I’ll take care of the redhead.”

Lewis picked up the rest of the change from the bar, pocketed his cigarettes. “You’ll take care of the redhead?” he inquired gently. Liddell nodded. “Let’s get going then.” Lewis indulged in a rare grin. “This I have definitely got to see.”

CHAPTER 3

The young patrolman on duty outside the dead girl’s apartment straightened up and sprang to a smart salute when Detective Sergeant Happy Lewis and Johnny Liddell stepped off the elevator. He didn’t quite succeed in wiping the boredom out of his eyes.

“Hello, Turk. Anything new?” Lewis greeted him.

The patrolman relaxed, shook his head. “Not a thing, Sarge. The Matthews dame is still bitching about my being here. Says it plays hell with her social life.” He looked curiously at Liddell.

“Don’t let her worry you,” Lewis grinned. “Feel like a cup of coffee?”

The patrolman grinned. “Wouldn’t mind it a bit.”

“Okay. Run along. I’ll be here for a half hour or so. Take your time.”

As soon as the patrolman’s back had disappeared around the turn in the stairs, Lewis turned to Liddell. “Okay, Johnny. There’s the door and it’s your ball.” He folded his arms, leaned against the wall.

Liddell grinned, rapped on the door, waited. When it became apparent that no one was paying any attention to the rap, he rapped again. This time he got results. They heard a key turn in the lock, the door opened.

A tall redhead, about twenty-eight, looked through the opening with unfriendly eyes. “More cops? Don’t you guys have a home?”

Detective Sergeant Lewis tipped his hat politely, indicated Liddell. “He wants to see you. Has a few questions to ask.”

The girl looked Liddell over coldly. “Go away, boys. I’m not in the mood for guessing games. Blow.”

Liddell grinned. “Don’t be so hard to get along with, Red. Why don’t you break down and ask a guy in?”

She took another look that took in his broad shoulders, the friendly grin, the unruly brown hair spiked with gray. “I’m old-fashioned, junior. My mother always told me never to invite strange men into my apartment unless they’ve got search warrants. And that goes double for cops.”

“Your mammy must have been a suspicious old gal. Besides, I’m no cop. I’m private,” he told her. “Name’s Liddell. Nancy sent for me day before yesterday.”

The hostile look left the girl’s eyes. “Johnny Liddell?”

“That’s me.”

The door closed a few inches, there was the sound of a chain being removed, then the door swung wide open.

“Come on in,” the redhead invited. When the homicide man made a move to follow Liddell inside, the girl held her hand against his chest, pushed him out. “Not you, copper. This is a private party. I get self-conscious when there are spectators.”

Lewis screwed his face up into an unfamiliar grin. “I can take a hint,” he wrinkled. “I’ll lay chickee.”

The door slammed in his face.

Inside, the redhead looked Liddell over with new interest. “So you’re the guy Nancy did all the raving about. To hear her go on, you’re a cross between Sam Spade and Ellery Queen with a little Superman thrown in on the side.”

“Are they in the business, too?” Liddell asked politely.

The girl giggled, led the way into a cluttered living room. A pile of papers was scattered on the floor near a comfortable looking couch. The redhead bent down, picked them up, deposited them on an armchair.

“Poor Nancy’s last press notices,” she explained.

She dropped onto the couch, patted the cushion beside her. “Make yourself comfortable,” she invited. Liddell plopped down beside her.