“Hold it, Buffalo Bill.”
Liddell froze.
“Drop the artillery and turn around real slow.”
Liddell let the .45 hit the floor with a thud, turned around. Two uniformed policemen stood in the doorway. The younger cop held a riot gun in his hand, its muzzle pointed at Liddell’s belt buckle. The older covered him with a .38 special.
“Kick the iron over this way,” the older cop ordered. When Liddell complied, he looked past him at the body. “Been having yourself a ball, eh?”
“I just got here,” Liddell grunted.
“Be our guest. Stay awhile. I got a hunch Homicide’s going to want to have a long talk with you.”
“Act your age. This guy’s been stabbed. They’re not making .45’s with pointed ends this season.”
The older cop bent over, picked up the .45, hefted it in his palm. “What’s this for? You wear it just to make your coat hang straight?”
“It’s licensed. I’m a private cop on an investigation for Seaway Indemnity. I’ve got papers in here that say so.” He motioned at his breast pocket.
The two cops exchanged glances; the older walked over to Liddell, stuck his hand into his breast pocket, pulled out his wallet. He riffled through Liddell’s credentials, copied down a few notations in the worn leather notebook he carried in his hip pocket. “I guess he’s okay, Vince,” he told his younger partner. He handed the wallet back to Liddell, scratched the back of his neck. “Know who he is?”
Liddell shook his head. “I was supposed to meet a guy here. A guy named Monti. Lulu Monti. I never saw him, so I don’t know if this is the guy.”
“Looks like it.” The older cop walked over to the body, pointed a thick forefinger at a tattoo on the inside of the arm. “The initials are L. M.” He stared at Liddell curiously. “You didn’t know the guy but you had to see him in the middle of the night. What about?”
“A squeal. He was supposed to finger the guys who were looting cargoes Seaway insured. The company was getting hit too hard and too often.”
“A stoolie, huh?” The cop grinned. “Not a pleasant way to grow old gracefully.” There was a screeching of brakes in the street below. The cop walked to the window, looked down. “Here’s Homicide. It’s their baby now.”
The man who led the Homicide detail didn’t fit the usual pattern of Homicide detectives. He looked more like a fugitive from a Varsity football squad, with his broad shoulders and bristly, crew-cut hair. As he walked in, he was chewing on the stem of a bulldog briar. He nodded to the two uniformed men, flicked a brief glance at Liddell.
“You call in?” he asked.
Liddell shook his head.
“He’s a private cop, Lieutenant. Came here to keep a date with the dead guy. He was here when we got here,” the older cop volunteered.
The homicide man walked over to the body, studied the wounds with a practiced eye. Then he nodded to the specialists with him to take over. He walked over to the two prowl car men, muttered a few words, studied the notes the cop had made in his leather notebook. After a moment, he handed the book back, walked over to Liddell.
“Your name’s Liddell?”
The private detective nodded.
“I’m Roddy. Lieutenant in Homicide.” He rattled the juice in the stem of the briar. “I’ve heard the inspector speak of you.” He took the pipe from between his teeth, knocked out a dottle of tobacco. “Want to tell me what this is all about?”
Liddell dug into his pocket, came up with a cigarette. “I’m doing a job for Seaway Indemnity. Trying to bust up a pilfering mob that’s costing the company important money.”
Roddy pulled a pouch from his pocket, dipped the bowl of the pipe into it, started packing it with the tip of his index finger. He nodded for Liddell to continue.
“I was supposed to see this character tonight around midnight. He was stooling for us.” He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, lit it. “This is the way I found him.”
“Barney Shields used to work for Seaway.” Roddy’s colorless eyes rolled from Liddell to the icepick wounds on the dead man. “He got his with an icepick, too.” The eyes returned to Liddell’s face. “Any connection?”
“Monti was Shields’ stool. I was trying to pick up the threads.” He waited until the homicide man had initialled the DOA form for the medical examiner’s man. “He was practically my only lead.”
Roddy scratched an old-fashioned wooden match with his thumb nail, held it to his pipe. “Too bad you didn’t tell us about Monti earlier. He mightn’t be there now.”
Liddell shrugged. “You’ll have to take that up with Seaway. I just came on the job.” He blew a stream of smoke through his nostrils. “Need me for anything else, lieutenant?”
The homicide man considered it, shook his head. “Not right now. Drop by the office in the morning. The inspector might want to have a little talk with you.”
Liddell nodded. “Okay if I take my gun along with me?”
The older of the two prowl car cops looked to the lieutenant, drew a nod, handed the gun over.
“Don’t forget, Liddell,” Roddy told him. “We’ll expect to be seeing you in the morning.”
Johnny Liddell swerved the convertible to the curb outside Lois Turner’s apartment hotel, turned off the motor, swung around in his seat, stared up the avenue.
“What’s the matter, Liddell? You’ve been looking over your shoulder all the way downtown.”
“Force of habit, I guess.” He reached across her, pushed open the door. “Head for the lobby fast and keep going.”
“Why?” The blonde looked back, saw the black sedan as it swung around the corner a block away. “You think someone is—”
“Maybe I’m buck shy, baby,” Liddell growled, “but I think that heap’s been following us. Do like I say.” He pushed the girl out, started to follow her to the lobby.
The black sedan put on a burst of speed, pulled up abreast of the entrance. There was a dull glint of metal in the car’s back window; then it started to belch flame. Liddell had his .45 in his hand, squeezing the trigger as he started to fall away.
Heavy calibre bullets gouged trenches in the concrete near his head. He brought the .45 up, sat the back window on its front sight. Suddenly a heavy slug hit him in the chest, slamming him back against the ground. The heavy boom of the gun in the car’s back seat could still be heard above the roar of the motor as the car pulled away from the curb, gathered speed.
Liddell lay on his back, was dimly aware of a crowd gathering, of the numbness in his chest, of the re-assuring coldness of the butt of the .45 against the heat of his palm. He tried to get up, fell back weakly.
From somewhere an authoritative voice impressed itself on his consciousness. “Let me through. If that man’s hurt, I can help. I’m a doctor.”
Liddell had a blurred impression of a wedge-shaped face bending over him, white teeth bared in a fixed grin. He caught the movement as the man’s hand dipped under his jacket, came out with the icepick.
Liddell laboriously raised the .45, squeezed the trigger. The dark face dissolved in a flood of red; the icepick clattered to the ground.
Somewhere a woman screamed shrilly as the icepick artist’s body fell across Liddell. A dark cloud moved in, squeezed consciousness from the detective’s mind. He closed his eyes, was swirled into the middle of the blackness.
When Johnny Liddell opened his eyes, a white-faced Lois Turner was bending over him. He tried to move, had the sensation of being nailed to the sidewalk.
“Don’t move, Johnny,” the blonde whispered. “An ambulance is on its way.”