Ring-a-Ding-Ding E-Book

Frank Kane

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Johnny Liddell Mystery
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 244

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

She was blond, stacked, and meant business. Johnny Liddell realized she was a player, but couldn't resist, even though he knew better. Blackmail, a sultry nightclub singer, and all the dead bodies piling up around him make for one of Johnny's toughest cases.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

RING-A-DING-DING, by Frank Kane

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE JOHNNY LIDDELL BOOK SERIES

INTRODUCTION, by John Betancourt

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

RING-A-DING-DING,by Frank Kane

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Originally published in 1963.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com | blackcatweekly.com

THE JOHNNY LIDDELLBOOK SERIES

About Face (1947, aka Death About Face and The Fatal Foursome)

Green Light for Death (1949)

Slay Ride (1950)

Bullet Proof (1951)

Dead Weight (1951)

Bare Trap (1952)

Poisons Unknown (1953)

Grave Danger (1960)

Red Hot Ice (1955)

A Real Gone Guy (1956)

Johnny Liddell’s Morgue (1956, collection)

Trigger Mortis (1958)

A Short Bier (1960)

Time to Prey (1960)

Due or Die (1961)

The Mourning After (1961)

Stacked Deck (1961, collection)

Dead Rite (1962)

Crime of their Life (1962)

Ring-a-Ding-Ding (1963)

Hearse Class Male (1963)

Johnny Come Lately (1963)

Barely Seen (1964)

Final Curtain (1964)

Fatal Undertaking (1964)

The Guilt Edged Frame (1964)

Esprit De Corpse (1965)

Two to Tangle (1965)

Maid in Paris (1966)

Margin for Terror (1967)

Additionally, there are dozens of short stories, most of which were published in Manhunt magazine or Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine.

INTRODUCTION,by John Betancourt

Frank Kane (1912-1968) was an American mystery writer most famous for his Johnny Liddell series of hardboiled detective novels. He also worked in radio and television, but his contributions were less notable there, since he dealt with series characters that were not his own creations. His television work included writing for Special Agent 7, The Investigators, and Mike Hammer.

Kane was born in Brooklyn, New York. He attended law school, but quit before graduation because he was starting a family and needed to support them. Like most writers, he held a number of different jobs before settling in for his true calling: he worked as an editor, a public relations flack for the liquor industry, a columnist publicizing movie stars visiting New York, among other things. Between these jobs and his legal schooling, he had plenty of material to draw on for his publishing career.

He began by writing dramatic scripts for radio crime shows (notably for The Shadow for six years). In the 1940s, he turned his attention to fiction, and in 1947, he published his first crime novel—About Face, featuring his trademark private eye, Johnny Liddell. (About Face would later be reprinted in paperback as The Fearsome Foursome and Death About Face.)

Some 40 Johnny Liddell novels and many Liddell short stories for the pulps followed—as well as numerous non-series stories and books. Kane published frequently in leading mystery magazines of the day, most especially in Manhunt, where his hardboiled style found a welcoming home, alongside many similar authors.

Johnny Liddell has been described as an enjoyably hardboiled detective who did not age with time but rather changed with the tastes of his readers. The Thrilling Detective web site calls him “arguably the quintessential fifties private eye.”

Frank Kane died unexpectedly on November 29, 1968 at the age of 56 in Manhasset, New York.

CHAPTER 1

A cold, driving rain slanted down from the black sky, looked like buckshot hitting the puddles along the curb. A bitter wind swept 64th Street as though down a canyon of man-made stone. The few pedestrians abroad leaned against the wind, clutched their hats and coats, scurried for the shelter of their doorways.

Above the entrance to Morgan’s Cave halfway up the block a neon buzzed and spit, staining the rain-drenched canopy a murky red.

A black Cadillac swung around the corner from Fifth Avenue, rolled to a stop in front of the curb. Rocky, the uniformed club doorman, hustled from the shelter of the entrance out to the car with an umbrella, but the driver shouldered him aside, ran across the sidewalk to the short flight of stairs that led down into the club.

The doorman folded the umbrella, slid into the driver’s seat and drove to a vacant space at the curb a few doors beyond the club. He cut the motor, doused the lights, checked the rear-view mirror to make certain the owner of the car was nowhere in sight.

Then he brought a small square of wax from his pocket and pressed the ignition key into it until he had a clear impression. He turned the wax over, repeated the process with the other key on the ring. In the reflected light of the street lamp, he examined the impression, grunted his satisfaction. He wiped the key carefully on his coat, got out of the car, shuffled back to his post.

Inside the Cave, it was close after the cold and wet of the street. Smoke stirred lazily around the ceiling like an early morning mist. Andrew Reeves grinned at the hatcheck girl as he handed her his hat. He waited to enjoy the effect on the loose peasant blouse and skimpy shorts as the girl reached up to put his hat on the top shelf. It was a ritual by now. She never disappointed him and he never failed to express his appreciation with a big tip.

Andrew Reeves had the bulk of a one-time athlete whose muscles had run to fat. His jaw, still strong and heavy, was making a last-ditch effort to keep from being engulfed by his jowls. The high color of his face testified to a diet of beef and bourbon supplemented by frequent massage. But it was a losing battle. Already a fine network of broken veins was visible along the sides of his nose.

When the hatcheck girl had finished making a production of checking his hat, Reeves walked over to the man in the midnight-blue tuxedo who stood at the doorway to the supper room.

“Hello, Tony.” Reeves’ eyes hopscotched around the room, noted the number of empty tables. “Pretty slow tonight, huh?”

The man in the tuxedo shrugged narrow shoulders. “The weather, Mr. Reeves.”

Reeves chuckled. “Month before last it was Lent. Last month it was income taxes coming due. Now it’s the weather. Always something, eh, Tony?”

The headwaiter shrugged again. “Maybe people don’t go out like they used to. Nobody lives in the city any more. And it’s a long haul to the suburbs. It’s easier to stay home and turn on the idiot box.”

Reeves bobbed his head. “New York’s not a late town any more, that’s for sure.” He checked his watch. “Maybe Marta could go on a little early tonight? That way we could make an early break. You think?”

The headwaiter considered, nodded. “Why not? I’ll send word back to her.” He covered the hand Reeves extended to him with a damp grip. When Reeves took his hand back, the folded bill that had been in it had changed ownership.

Reeves walked into the supper room, threaded his way through the half-empty tables, selected one at ringside. A waiter materialized; he ordered a scotch and settled back. He was on his second drink when the house lights went down. He checked his watch, grunted his satisfaction. The last show was starting a half hour early.

An expectant hush descended on the room as a baby spot picked out the center of the rhinestone curtain. A tall blonde stood speared by the spotlight.

Marta Shane was stacked like an 85¢ sundae. Her gold-blond hair had a metallic sheen as it cascaded down over her shoulders. Her skin was a nutlike color, a hangover from a three weeks’ stand at the Oasis in Las Vegas, augmented by an occasional sun lamp. The gold lame gown was skin tight, complemented the color of her hair, emphasized the color of her skin. Standing there, she looked as if she had been sculptured from milk chocolate, wrapped in gold foil.

Her walk, as she proceeded to the center of the stage, was a production. She reached the piano as her accompanist finished the introduction. Then, as the rest of the orchestra proceeded to blend in smoothly, she started to sing in a low, husky voice.

The silence in the room grew. The waiters stopped their endless prowling; the soft murmur of conversation became muted.

Suddenly, the number was over. The scattered groups around the room released their collective breaths, then the applause rolled toward her in waves.

The blonde smiled her thanks. When she bowed, the neck-line of her gown sagged, giving ample evidence that she needed no artificial assists in the magnificence of her façade. The applause continued.

Finally, Marta held up her hands, waited for the noise to die down. She nodded to her accompanist and started to sing again. Her shoulders swayed gracefully in time to the rhythm. The bodice of her gown seemed inadequate to contain the fullness of her breasts as she swayed in rhythm to the stepped-up tempo.

The drummer, his face gleaming with sweat, his lips moving spasmodically, was beating out a primitive rhythm that set the hair on the audience’s neck on end. Behind him, the trumpet was nailing down the beat while the sax started to roam.

The girl’s body started to twist and squirm. Her breasts were like something alive, swaying and flowing in an attempt to break loose from the halfhearted restraint of the loose bodice of her gown. She stood there, in the center of the floor, the audience in the palm of her hand.

As she undulated, her hands started at the sides of her thighs, came up slowly, palms smoothing the flesh over her hips, and slid over her stomach, up under her breasts, cupping them. Slowly, sensuously, she ran her palms over her cheeks, raked her fingers into the cascading hair, sent it flying outward as she ended the number with a little scream.

There was a momentary silence. The faces of the ring-siders gleamed whitely in the reflected light. The women stared, then whispered. The men stared, wet their lips.

Marta followed the rhythm number with another blues chant, her voice playing on the spinal column of the audience like a xylophone. This time, when she finished, she shook her head firmly to pleas for an encore, turned and headed back toward the rhinestone curtain. Her hips worked slowly, tantalizingly, under the soft fabric of the gown. The view from the flip side alone was worth the price of admission.

She was replaced on the floor by a dance team that swirled and scampered frenetically in its version of a cha-cha. The audience went back to its chattering, the waiters to their roaming and dish-rattling.

Andrew Reeves flagged down his waiter, signaled for a check. The waiter flat-footed it over to the table, scribbling some figures on the check en route. He slid the tab onto the table, face down.

“That Marta’s some woman,” he commented, shaking his head. “I get to see that act every night and she still does it to me.”

Reeves bobbed his head in agreement. “She’s all woman.” He turned the tab over, added a generous tip, scribbled his signature across the face of it.

“Tell Marta I’ll be waiting in the car for her.” Reeves handed the waiter the check. “Tell her to hurry.”

The waiter eyed the size of the tip approvingly. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He could sympathize with the big man’s impatience.

* * * *

It was dark in the bedroom, even though it was almost noon. On the night table, the telephone was shrilling loudly.

Andrew Reeves grunted, tried to bury his head in the pillow. His eyes were sticky, his head throbbed, his mouth felt as if it were filled with cotton. As he turned over, he collided with another body. Marta Shane mumbled in her sleep.

Finally, when it became evident that the phone wouldn’t stop its pealing, Reeves reached out and lifted the instrument from its hook.

“Who is this?” he growled.

“A guy who figures to do you a big favor, mister.”

“Do me a real big favor and get lost—”

“Is that the way to talk to a guy who wants to keep you out of jail?”

A chill finger of apprehension traced its way up the big man’s back. “Out of jail? You crazy?”

“No, but you would be if you didn’t listen to me. But suit yourself. You prefer I go to the police—”

Reeves blinked, tried to focus his eyes. “Go to the police? About what?”

“You didn’t know there was a witness, did you, mister?” the voice on the other end told him. “Well, there was. Me. I saw the whole thing.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The guy you hit. I saw the whole thing. I saw you run him down and then keep going. Okay, it’s no skin off my nose. I just thought you might be grateful. But as long as you’re not—”

A note of desperation crept into Reeves’ voice. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This morning around five. You hit and killed an old man. So okay, he was just an old bum. But the police still get narrow-minded about drunks who kill and run. Even if it is just an old bum.”

“How did you get this number?” Reeves demanded.

“Easy. I took down your license plate. I got contacts. They ran you down for me. But I guess I just wasted my time; I guess the police will be more interested than you are.”

“You’re not bluffing me, whoever you are. I wasn’t alone. I have a witness who—”

The voice at the other end chuckled. “A tip from me to the cops and one look at the front end of your car would make that witness look pretty silly. I’m going to give you a break. I’ll wait until five this afternoon before I do anything about the police. I’ll give you a ring then. Be near the phone.”

There was a click as the connection was broken at the far end. Reeves took the receiver from his ear, stared at it as if he had never seen it before, then dropped it on its hook. He reached over, turned on the light on the night table.

He tried to reach into his subconscious, dredge out some recollection of what had happened the night before. He drew pretty much of a blank.

The blonde stirred uneasily, opened her eyes. She sat up, pulled the sheet up to her throat, smiled at him tentatively. “How do you feel, lover?”

Reeves raked his fingers through his hair. “What do you remember about last night, Marta?”

The blonde considered, smiled vaguely, shook her head. “Not too much. Why?”

“We get into any trouble?”

Marta brushed her long blond hair out of her face with the side of her hand. “You couldn’t prove anything by me.”

“Think hard. It’s important.”

The blonde pursed her lips, considered. “Last thing I remember is when they put us out of the key club. Next thing I remember is right now.” She eyed him solicitously. “Something happen?”

“I just got a telephone call. Some guy claims we were involved in a hit-and-run accident last night.”

Marta started violently. The sheet fell away as she sat up, baring her to the waist. Her breasts were full, tip tilted. The brown, nut color of her body was crossed by the contrasting white streak that outlined the thin wisp of brassière she wore with her bikini.

“A hit-and-run accident?”

Reeves nodded.

“How bad?” Marta wanted to know.

The big man licked at his lips. “Real bad. He claims I killed the guy I hit and ran for it.” He caught the girl by the arm. “Think hard! Do you remember us hitting anybody?”

The blonde stared at him, oblivious to the fact that she was uncovered from the waist up. She shook her head. “I can’t remember a thing.” She winced as he increased his pressure. “You’re hurting my arm.”

He released his grip, got to his feet and paced the room. She followed him with anxious eyes.

“But if it’s just his word against yours—” she started to say.

Reeves stopped pacing. “He said something about the front of my car.” He rushed over to the chair where his clothes were piled. He could tell at a glance the condition he was in when he went to bed. If his clothes were neatly folded on the chair, he was in pretty good shape. If they were just tossed across the back of the chair, he had been feeling no pain. But if they were all rolled into a ball and thrown at the chair, to hit or miss, he had been stoned. The ball that was his jacket had hit the chair, his pants had missed it, lay rolled up in the corner. He started to dress.

“What are you going to do?” Marta wanted to know.

“Take a look at my car. He’s bluffing. He’s got to be bluffing.” He stuffed his legs into his pants, shrugged into his jacket. “I’ll be right back.”

After Reeves had rushed out of the room, Marta Shane headed for the shower. She was walking out of the bathroom, toweling her hair vigorously, fifteen minutes later, when the door to the bedroom slammed open. An ashen-faced Andrew Reeves tottered into the room, dropped into a chair.

“What’s wrong?” Marta wanted to know. She stood there, totally unself-conscious of her nakedness. Her legs were long, sensuously shaped. Full, rounded thighs swelled into high-set hips and converged into a narrow waist. But Reeves had no eyes for her just then. He stared fixedly at the floor.

“The front fender. It’s folded like an accordion. The headlight’s smashed to bits.” He held his hand out in front of him, stared at the bright stain, wiped it off on the side of the chair. He rolled his eyes up to the girl’s face. “The front of the car’s smeared with blood.” The blonde gnawed at her knuckle. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What do you think I’m going to do about it? You think I’ve got a choice? A man in my position involved in a hit-and-run accident?” He suddenly looked old. “I’m going to pay. I’m going to pay whatever he asks, God help me.”

CHAPTER 2

It was raining again the following Thursday night when a damp and bedraggled Johnny Liddell wandered into Mike’s Deadline Café. He headed for the bar, signaled for a drink.

Mike shuffled down to where Liddell stood, reached to the backbar for a bottle of scotch. He slid it in front of Johnny, brought a glass and some ice up from the well.

“Your secretary reach you, Johnny? She called here a couple of times around eight. Said it was important.”

Liddell grunted, looked up at the clock on the wall, saw it was after twelve. “It can probably wait until morning.”

Mike shrugged. “Suit yourself. All I know is she kept calling and said it was important. She said to tell you to call her whatever time you dropped by.” He tilted the scotch bottle over the glass, filled it to the rim. He reached for the water pitcher tentatively.

“No water. I’ve seen all the water I want to see. Out there. It’s been pouring all night.”

Mike replaced the bottle on the backbar. “Like I said, it’s your business. But that girl of yours sounded real insistent.”

Liddell grunted. “Okay, okay. So I’ll call her.” He picked up his glass, shuffled toward the bank of telephones in the rear. He took a deep swallow from the glass, located a dime and dialed his secretary’s home number.

Pinky’s voice sounded sleepy when she answered on the third ring. Liddell could picture the rumpled, curly red hair, the sleepy eyes, the moist lips and the musky smell of her.

“Johnny?” the redhead wanted to know. “What time is it?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier for you to get an alarm clock than to have me calling you in the middle of the night to tell you what time it is?” he growled.

Pinky giggled. “My, we are grouchy tonight, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know about you. But standing in the rain for two hours to check on how long it takes that fat dame’s husband to score isn’t my idea of a reason to keep smiling. I don’t care how broke we are, this is the last divorce case we take—”

“Of course,” the redhead told him sweetly. “Matter of fact I’ve already called Acme and asked them if they could spare a man to take this one off our hands.”

Liddell scowled suspiciously. “What is this? First, you bulldoze me into taking the case because we’re going to be evicted. Now, you decide it’s okay to scratch it.”

“I persuaded you to take the case. But that was before we got this new client.” She giggled. “You sound waterlogged.”

“Half drowned. Instead of finding it so damn funny, why don’t you invite me to come to your place and get into something warm?”

“You weren’t listening. I told you we have a new client.”

“So, okay. We’ve got a new client. That’s tomorrow. Tonight, we could—”

“Uh-uh. Our new client wants action right away. Said she wants to see you tonight.”

Liddell groaned. “Have a heart, will you? It’s after midnight. I’m soaked to the skin and I’m dead on my feet,” he complained. “Besides, you don’t go barging in on people at this hour—”

“You’ve got plenty of time to go home and get in some dry clothes. This is just the middle of the afternoon for our new client. She’s the hat-chick at Morgan’s Cave.”

Liddell took a deep swallow from his glass, appreciated the warm glow it set up in the pit of his stomach. “Well—”

“Got a real sexy voice. The kind that gives your goose pimples goose pimples. She’ll be expecting you any time after two. That’s the time she usually gets home.”

“The hatcheck girl at Morgan’s Cave?” Liddell furrowed his brow in concentration. “Her name’s Debbie something, isn’t it?”

“Debbie Rains. I might have known you’d know her.”

Liddell conjured up a picture of the peasant blouse stacked with goodies, the tight skimpy shorts and the long, well-shaped legs. Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite so tired any more. “I remember her. She’s just a kid.”

“Sounded like it. Seventeen going on twenty-nine, like.”

“Maybe I should drop by. Can’t tell what kind of trouble the kid’s in.”

Pinky giggled. “That’s what I like about you, Johnny. You’d never let a girl down—especially not at two in the morning and never when her voice sounds like the sound track from a stag movie. Besides, she sounded like she’s the type who might not wait until tomorrow.”

“We never sleep. Service with a smile, that’s our motto.”

“From here it sounds more like a leer than a smile. Got a pencil? You’ll probably need her address. A good detective you may be, but not that good.” She paused, then read, “426 West 54th Street, Apartment 2B.”

Liddell copied the information on the back of an envelope. “Some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed,” he complained.

“Depends on who’s in it with you,” the redhead told him as she hung up.

* * * *

Pinky had told him that the girl’s voice would give his goose pimples goose pimples. Looking down at her, stretched out on the couch in front of him, he had to admit that the rest of her belonged to the voice.

She lay there, one arm stretched over her head, the loosely tied dressing gown gaping sufficiently to reveal the deep hollow between her breasts that served to accentuate their prominence and roundness.

Her hair was the color of burnished copper, cut close to her head, curved softly. Her eyes, showing under carefully tinted, half-closed lids were blue, slanted. Her lips were full, soft looking; her teeth small and white.

She was redheaded. She was stacked. She was also very dead.

The thin red stream that ran from the corner of her mouth matched the large darkening stain on the side of her dressing gown.

Johnny Liddell tore his eyes away from the dead girl, looked around the apartment. There was no sign of a struggle, no indication that the girl had any warning or any opportunity to fight off her killer. The only thing amiss was the half-opened door when he arrived. He had knocked twice, and when no one answered, he had pushed it open and walked in. It was understandable that the killer, in his haste to leave, might have neglected to shut the door.

Liddell was about to investigate the two doors leading off the room when there was a heavy clatter of feet on the stairs outside. He went for the .45 in his holster as the door crashed open, froze with the tips of his fingers brushing the gun butt. Two uniformed patrolmen stood in the doorway, service revolvers in hand. The gun in the hand of the first cop was aimed at a spot a few inches above Liddell’s belt buckle.

“Don’t move, mister,” the cop advised. All things considered, Liddell thought it was good advice.

The cop stepped to the side so his partner could enter the room, circle over to get a better look at the body on the couch. His eyes took in the salient points, he rolled them up from the body to Liddell’s face with reluctance. He motioned with the snout of his gun for Liddell to turn around.

“Okay, mister. Face the wall, spread your feet and lean the flat of your hands against the wall. Keep backing up until I tell you to stop.”

Liddell obeyed. When he was completely off balance, with most of his weight on his hands, the patrolman walked over behind him.

“Not that it’ll ever blossom into a friendship, mister,” the cop told him, “but I’ll give you a friendly tip. Don’t go trying anything fancy. A guy I’m fanning once tried to waltz with me. I had to kick him in the side of the knee. He don’t do much dancing any more. He’s lucky if he can walk. You know?”

“I read you.”

The policeman checked Liddell between the shoulder blades down to his waist, along the waist up under the coat to the armpit. He tugged Liddell’s .45 from its holster. Then he checked the right trouser leg, moved to the other side and repeated the procedure. When he was satisfied Liddell had no other gun, he joined his partner who was standing alongside the couch, staring down at the girl.

“Quite a dish,” the older of the two cops commented.

“If you like cold turkey,” his partner grunted. “Me, I like mine walking and talking.”

“Wait’ll you’ve been married thirty years,” the older man prophesied. “Maybe then the quiet ones will appeal to you more.”

“If you guys are finished discussing your sex lives, is it okay if I straighten up?” Liddell asked.

“What’s the matter, son? You’re not getting tired, are you?” the older cop asked. He turned, saw the beaded perspiration that was starting to glisten along the side of Liddell’s jaw. “I saw a picture once. This real tough guy could take twenty minutes of that.”

“Maybe you don’t have to be tough to kill women,” his partner said.

“I didn’t kill her,” Liddell growled. “She was that way when I got here.”

The older cop hefted the .45 on the flat of his hand. “You always go calling on young chicks this time of day with a .45?”

“I’m a private detective. I’ve got a license for that gun.”

“A hunting license?” The younger cop’s eyes flickered back to the dead girl. “Nobody ever tell you there’s a closed season on doe? That’s a real waste of good material, mister. There was plenty of good mileage left in that chassis.” He rolled his eyes up to Liddell. “Let’s let him straighten up, Vince. Maybe he’ll get some ideas. I sure would like to see how tough a guy has to be to kill a girl.”

Homicide heralded its arrival by the wail of the siren in the street below.

“That’s Homicide. Tell them your story, mister,” the older of the uniformed cops advised. “Make it real good. Sergeant Ryan’s a good listener.”

They waited until a plainclothesman came rushing up. A red-faced sergeant followed him into the room, looked around. The plainclothesman took the older cop off to the far side of the room, started copying some information the cop read to him from his notebook.

“I’m Ryan, sergeant in Homicide. Who’s this man?” the red-faced man asked the younger cop.

“Says he’s a private detective. We found him in here with the body when we got here.” He nodded to the .45 on the table. “He was armed, says he has a license for it.”

The sergeant turned back to Liddell. “Suppose you tell me.”

Johnny shrugged. “It’s like he says. I’m a private detective. Name’s Liddell. I have a license for the gun.”

Ryan scowled at him. “So he said. What he didn’t say is what you were doing here. You tell me.”

“I had a call from Miss Rains.” He indicated the bundle on the couch. “She wanted to see me. I got here, found her like that. Before I had a chance to look around, Tweedledee and Tweedledum walked in on me.”