The blonde walked over to the coffee table in front of the couch, leaned over to pick a cigarette from the humidor. It had a devastating effect on the neckline, confirming Liddell’s conviction that she wore nothing under the gown. “I’d like to, if I can.” She stuck the cigarette between her lips. “Tell me what I can do.”
Liddell grinned at her. “I’ve got a hunch nobody would ever have to tell you what you can do.”
“I’ve never had any complaints,” she grinned back. She walked over to the kitchen door. Her body moved tantalizingly against the smooth fabric of the gown. When she returned a moment later with a bottle and glasses, the effect from the front was equally satisfying. She set them down on the coffee table, dropped down alongside Liddell, accepted a light for her cigarette. “But if you’re talking about Barney, I don’t think I can help much.” She took a deep drag on the cigarette, let it dribble lazily from half-parted lips.
“You talked to him today?”
The blonde nodded. “He wanted me to ask Devon to meet him in the back row of the movie at 7:30.” She took another drag on the cigarette, removed it from between her lips and studied the carmined end with distaste. “When Devon got there, Barney was already dead.”
“You don’t know what he had to report?”
Lois shook her head.
“It sounded important?”
“Very.”
Liddell scowled at the bottle on the coffee table, reached over, poured some liquor in each of the glasses, took one. “Know a guy named Monti?”
The blonde caught her full lower lip between her teeth, chewed it for a moment. “The one they call Lulu? The union goon?”
Liddell nodded. “Shields ever mention him?”
The blonde shook her head. “No more than any of the rest. I guess he was one of the gang Barney was after.”
“Guess again. He was stooling for Barney. I’ve got to get to him.”
The green eyes widened. “You sure of that?”
“Reasonably. Know any way we can catch up with him tonight? Shields never mentioned any contacts or places he hung out?” He smelled the liquor in his glass, tasted it. It tasted as good as it smelled.
The blonde took a last drag on her cigarette, crushed it out in an ashtray. She glanced at the tiny baguette on her wrist. “He might be down at the union hall. Maybe I could reach him there.” She looked up at Liddell. “Suppose I can?”
“I want to see him. Tonight.”
“Suppose he doesn’t want to see you?”
“Tell him who you are. Tell him Barney’s dead and he may be next unless he plays ball.”
The blonde shook her head uncertainly. “I’ll try it. But I’m not too sure it’ll work. That big goon doesn’t scare easily, from what I’ve heard.” She reached over, picked up her glass, took a deep swallow. “Wish me luck.”
She walked across the room, disappeared in the bedroom. Liddell leaned back on the couch, lit a cigarette. After a few moments, the blonde re-appeared in the bedroom door. “Jackpot! He was there.”
Liddell pulled himself out of his seat. “How fast can you get dressed?”
The blonde grinned at him. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how fast you want me to get dressed.” She raised her hand to her neck, fumbled with the zipper. With a quick motion, she unzipped the front of the gown. Her full, tip-tilted breasts spilled out. “There’s really no hurry. Monti can’t get away until midnight. He’ll meet us then.”
Liddell walked closer to her. He could smell the faint perfume of her body. He slipped his arm around her waist, covered her mouth with his. Her body melted against his, almost unbearably hot.
After a moment, she put the flat of her hands against his chest, pushed herself free. She slid the gown back off her shoulders, stepped out of it. Her legs were long, softly curved. Shapely calves became rounded thighs above the knee. Her high-set hips converged into a narrow waist and a stomach as flat as an athlete’s. She stood in front of him proud, assured of the impact of her loveliness.
Liddell dropped back on the couch, caught her wrist, pulled her down into his lap. She reached up, buried her fingers in his hair, pulled his mouth down to hers. Her lips were soft, eager.
After a moment, he pulled back, breathed hard. “I’m glad there’s no hurry, baby.”
She smiled at him. “We only have two hours,” she told him. She caught his tie, loosened it, unbuttoned his collar. She pulled his face down again.
Several hours later, Johnny Liddell slid the big convertible through the midnight Park Avenue traffic as easily as though it were a baby carriage. Alongside him, the blonde sat quietly, her tight curls ruffled by the breeze. At 93rd Street, he skidded to a screeching stop, drummed impatiently on the wheel, glared at the red light that stared back imperturbably with one eye.
“Do you think Monti will talk, Johnny?” She asked.
“One way or another.”
The light blinked green. The convertible shot forward.
Liddell concentrated on his driving, pushed the car as fast as the traffic would permit. Slowly, the character of the neighborhood changed. Huge, flashy apartment houses gave way to less pretentious apartments, then to tenements. There were fewer chauffeur-driven cars, more jalopies and trucks.
“116th Street, eh?” Liddell glanced at the street signs whizzing by. “Only a few more blocks now.”
A minute later, he swung the car in a skidding turn off Park Avenue toward Fifth, screeched it to a stop at the curb halfway down the block. He studied the house numbers, compared them to a pencilled notation and pointed to one across the street.
“That’s the number.” He pushed open the car door, stepped out. “You wait here. I think he may talk, if there’s just the two of us.”
He crossed the street, climbed the three stone steps that led to the vestibule, stood there for a moment looking around. An odor compounded of equal parts of Spanish cooking, unwashed bodies and inadequate sanitary facilities assailed his nostrils. He walked through to the inner hall, started up the badly lighted stairs to the second floor.
He struck a match, found a small card alongside the door to the front apartment with the name “Monti” scribbled on it in pencil. He blew out the match, put his ear to the door. There was no sound from the other side. He knocked softly, reached inside his jacket, loosened the .45 in its holster. There was no response from inside the room.
He reached out, rapped his knuckles against the door again. This time when he got no answer, he tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand. He pushed it open, waited. There was a rush of stale air spiced with a smoky, unpleasant smell. Nothing else.
The room itself was in complete darkness. He tugged the .45 from its hammock, transferred it to his left hand. Slowly he walked in, right hand groping along the wall for a switch. He strained his eyes against the wall of darkness, listened for any. sound that might betray the presence of another. The only sound in the room was that of his own heavy breathing.
Suddenly, his fingers hit the switch. He snapped it, spilled sudden yellow brilliance into the hallway. At the same moment, he dropped to his knee, brought the .45 into firing position.
A man stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his arms above his head, his thick fingers curled like claws. A gag clenched between his bared teeth cut ridges in the side of his face, his eyes were blank and staring. Two thin wires attached each of his thumbs to opposite corners of the door frame. A dozen or more cigarette burns and the number of small, ugly-looking icepick wounds on his bare chest were evidence that his death had been neither quick nor merciful.
Johnny Liddell walked over to where the dead man hung, put his hand against the side of his arm. It was still warm.
He squeezed past into the kitchen, checked the other rooms, satisfied himself that the killer had left. He walked back to the dead man, was staring at the number of wounds when a voice rang out.