Liddell examined his glass, discovered it was empty, signalled for a refill. The man behind the stick made a production of dropping a couple of ice cubes into a glass, drenching them down with bourbon. He separated a quarter and a half from the pile of silver in front of Liddell on the bar, shuffled off to answer a phone that had started shrilling somewhere.
Liddell took a sip of the bourbon, softened it with a touch from the water pitcher.
“It’s for you, Liddell,” the bartender called from the end of the bar.
Liddell picked up his glass, walked back to the phone.
It was the redhead in his office. She sounded upset.
“You’d better get right up here, Johnny. Lee Devon of Seaway Indemnity is on his way over.” She dropped her voice. “Barney Shields, the head of their investigation bureau, was knocked off tonight.”
Liddell whistled softly. “How?”
“I don’t know. Devon was down at the morgue. He couldn’t talk much, I guess.”
Liddell nodded. “I’ll be right up, Pinky.”
Lee Devon looked as though he had been jammed into the armchair across the desk from Johnny Liddell. He was fat and soft looking, and kept swabbing off his forehead with a balled handkerchief. His eyes were two startlingly blue marbles that were almost lost behind the puffy pouches that buttressed them.
“Pretty rugged, eh?” Liddell sympathized.
The fat man nodded, his jowls swinging in agreement. “Plenty.” He jabbed at the damp sides of his cheeks with the handkerchief. “You wouldn’t have a drink handy? I could use one.”
Liddell opened the bottom drawer of his desk, brought out a bottle and two paper cups. He tilted the bottle over both, held one out to Devon. “What was Barney working on, Devon?”
“The piers. We’ve been taking a pretty bad lacing on maritime risks lately. Most of it right here on the docks.” He took a swallow from his cup, coughed. “Barney’s been trying to run it down.”
“He keep you up to date on his progress?”
The fat man leaned back in his chair, sighed. “He hadn’t made much. When he had something to report, he telephoned in and I’d meet him in the back row of a movie.”
“He called in today?”
“His girl did. He’d stumbled on something important, he thought. Set the date for 7:30.” Devon drained his cup, crumpled it between his fingers. “When I got there, he was dead.”
Liddell pursed his lips, nodded. “How did he give the reports? In writing or verbally?”
“Verbally. In case they got suspicious and picked him up. He didn’t want anything on him to give him away.”
“Then you don’t know what he had for you tonight?”
The fat man sighed again, shook his head.
“How about his secretary? Would she know?”
“I haven’t talked to her yet. I came right here from the morgue.” He ran the damp handkerchief across his face again. “We want you to find Barney’s killer, Liddell.”
Liddell swirled the liquor around the paper cup, stared down at it. “How about the police? That’s their job.”
“I’d feel better if you worked on it, too. You know how much pull those dock racketeers have. I wouldn’t rest if we didn’t get the man who did that to him.” He licked at his full lips. “You wouldn’t, either, if you saw him on that slab, Johnny.”
Liddell nodded, tossed off his drink, threw the cup at the waste basket. “Where do I find this secretary of his?”
The fat man fumbled at his pocket, brought out a small memo book. He wet the tip of his finger, flipped through the pages, found the pencilled note he wanted. “Her name’s Lois Turner. She lives at 331 East 38th Street. Apartment 3D.” He closed the book, returned it to his pocket. “You’ll take the case?”
“I’ll take a stab at it,” Liddell nodded. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“Just one thing. Barney Shields was getting a lot of information from one of the union boys. You’ve got to keep him covered.”
“What’s his name?”
The fat man shook his head. “I don’t know if—”
“Look, I’m playing with a marked deck as it is. Don’t stack the cards as well. Who’s the fink?”
“Lulu Monti. He’s one of the organizers.”
“A meatball, eh?”
The fat man stared. “A what?”
“A meatball. A strong arm man,” Liddell growled. “Know where I can find him?”
The fat man shook his head. “Shields kept him well covered. I was the only one that knew Monti was working with us.” He looked worried. “You’ll keep him covered, Liddell?”
Liddell nodded, chewed on his thumb nail. “I’ll keep him covered.” He snapped back his sleeve, scowled at his watch. “If I’m going to get started on this thing, it might as well be now.”
“Where are you going to start?”
Liddell shrugged. “You mean I’ve got a choice? Apparently the only lead I’ve got is his secretary, and chances are she doesn’t know too much of what he’s been doing.”
“That’s the trouble,” the fat man said. “Barney always was a solo. Will you be reporting to us?” He sighed at the necessity for movement, decided it was inevitable, and pulled himself out of his chair with a lugubrious grunt.
“Not until I have something worthwhile to report,” Liddell said.
331 East 38th Street turned out to be an old-fashioned residential hotel set almost in the shadow of the Third Avenue El. It had a faded awning that showed signs of having waged a losing battle with time and strong winds. Nobody had bothered to patch the gaping rips that flapped noisily in the evening breeze.
The prim little lobby inside had the requisite number of tired rubber plants, a few chairs obviously not intended to be sat on, and a general air of decay. The impression was borne out by the shabby registration desk and the old man who presided over it. He blew his nose noisily and favored the detective with a jaundiced look.
“Miss Turner. Lois Turner.”
The old man stowed the dingy handkerchief in his hip pocket, looked at the fly-specked face of the alarm clock on his desk. “After nine, mister. We don’t allow men upstairs after nine.”
“Police business,” Liddell told him.
The old man sniffed. “How many cops have to see her?” he grumbled. “One left no more’n half hour ago.”
“Just tell her Johnny Liddell wants to see her,” he cut short the complaint.
The old man started to argue, shrugged. He shuffled to a small office set at the end of the desk, stuck his head in. “Call Turner. Tell her she’s got more company. Detective name of Liddell.” He waited in the doorway for a few moments, then shuffled back. “Says for you to go up. It’s 3D.” He stared at Liddell sadly. “Management don’t like men visitors this hour.”
“Good thing I’m not visiting the management, huh?” Liddell followed him to an open-grill elevator at the back of the lobby.
The blonde who opened the door to 3D was tall. Her hair had been clipped short, curled around her head. A blue silk gown managed to cling skin-tight to her curves under the guise of covering them. It was, Liddell noted, a figure worth clinging to, high-breasted, narrow-waisted, long-legged. Her lips were full and moist, her eyes green and slanted.
“What was it about?” The slanted eyes hop-scotched from the broad shoulders to the face approvingly. “I’ve already told the police all I know.”
“I’m not police. I’m a private op. Lee Devon asked me to take over for Barney Shields.”
She stood aside. “Come on in.” She led the way into a surprisingly well-furnished living room. “Lee didn’t lose any time, did he?”
Liddell tossed his hat at a table, walked over to the couch and sat down. “He seemed to think you could give me a hand.”