He looked past her to where two policemen stood scribbling in their report books. One held Liddell’s .45 wrapped in a handkerchief.
“He’s alive,” someone in the crowd murmured morbidly. They crowded closer for a better look.
One of the cops strolled over, pushed the crowd back. “Give ’im air,” he ordered. He bent over Liddell. “How you feel, Bud?”
Liddell attempted to nod his head, regretted the impulse. The black cloud threatened to move in on him again. He closed his eyes, fought it off.
“Can’t you leave him alone until the ambulance gets here?” he heard Lois say. “I told you everything you have to know. They tried to kill him from a car and then they sent a man with an icepick to finish the job. You have enough witnesses. Ask them. Any of them. They all saw it.”
“Look, lady,” the cop explained patiently. “No matter how many people saw it, a couple of guys turn my beat into a shooting gallery, I got to have some answers when my boss starts asking questions. Now—”
He broke off as the ambulance skidded to a stop at the curb, disgorged a white-coated interne. He shouldered his way through the crowd, walked over to the cop. “Save any for me?”
The cop pointed to Liddell with a pencil. “He’s all yours, doc.”
The interne nodded, knelt at Liddell’s side. He tore open Liddell’s bloody shirt, swabbed the chest dry with gauze, grunted. He looked up at the cop. “What’s supposed to have happened to this guy, Mac?”
The cop shrugged. “Stopped a couple. Some guys in a car—”
“Not this guy.” The interne flipped back Liddell’s jacket, examined the heavy leather holster. “Take a look at this. This took the slug, deflected it.” he scratched at his head. “But where the hell did all the blood come from?”
“You ought to see the other guy,” the cop grunted. He leaned over, stared at Liddell. “He ain’t punctured at all?”
The interne shook his head. “His chest’ll be sore where that slug kicked him, but the worst he’s got’s maybe a cracked rib. Where’s the other guy?”
The cop led the way to another form covered with newspapers. The interne leaned over, took a look, drew the breath in through his teeth. “What’d he try to do? Swallow a cannon?” He dropped the newspapers back over the dead man’s face. “We’re not dirtying up our nice clean ambulance with that. I’ll give you a DOA on him and you can have the meat wagon pick him up.” He pulled the printed form from his pocket, scribbled on it, handed it back to the policeman.
“You’re sure he’s all right, doctor?” Lois wanted to know.
The interne nodded. “Might pay to have some X-rays taken.” He leaned over Liddell. “How’s about coming in with us and getting checked over?”
Liddell shook his head. “I’ll be all right, doc.”
“I’ll take him up to my place. I live right here,” Lois volunteered.
The interne shrugged. “You’re the boss, mister.” He ran his eyes appreciatively over the contours revealed by the blonde’s tight dress. “But,” he said, grinning, “I wouldn’t try anything strenuous for a while, if I were you.”
Johnny Liddell opened his eyes slowly and looked around. The blinds in the room had been drawn, making it dim and cool. He tried to sit up, groaned at the sharp pain that shot through his chest, slumped back on the couch.
“Take it easy, Johnny.” The blonde got up from an armchair across the room, walked over to the couch, sat on the edge of it. “How you feeling?”
“I’ll live.” He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, pulled himself up. “How long’ve I been sleeping?”
Lois consulted her watch. “A couple of hours. It’s a little before four.” She reached across him, snapped on a light. “That better?”
Liddell grinned crookedly. “All I need now is a transfusion.”
“Bourbon?”
“Bourbon.”
She got up, headed for the kitchen. She had changed from the tight-fitting blue dress to the gown she had been wearing when he first came to the apartment. When she returned with the glasses and ice, the light of the lamp revealed a fine network of lines under her eyes, a tired droop at the corners of her mouth.
She set the glasses down, tried a grin that almost made it. “I sure didn’t think I’d be having a drink with you tonight when I saw you sprawled out on the sidewalk.”
Liddell watched her put the ice in the glasses, fill them half way with bourbon. “Disappointed?”
She stopped pouring, looked up at him through her lashes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The detective struggled up on one elbow. “You can’t bat 1.000 all the time, baby. You’re doing all right with two out of three.”
The blonde set the glass down, straightened up. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you should have let them take you to the hospital. You’re delirious.”
“That’s the trouble with killing. You’ve got to keep it up.” He reached over, snagged a cigarette, stuck it in the corner of his mouth where it waggled when he talked. “Was what they paid you worth it, baby?” He didn’t take his eyes off her suddenly white face. “Or did you start thinking that maybe they can’t stop until they get rid of everybody that can put the finger on them — including you?”
She backed away from the couch, her make-up garish blobs against the pallor of her skin. She said nothing.
Liddell touched a match to his cigarette, tried to take a deep drag, grunted with pain. “The police will start putting two and two together, too, baby. You’ve made a lot of mistakes.” He leaned back, blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “See if I’m right. Barney Shields turned up some important evidence. He managed to get it into your hands to turn over to Devon. Instead, you sold it out to the mob he was investigating, didn’t you?”
The blonde backed up until the table at the far side of the room caught her in the back. She reached down, pulled open a drawer, took out a snub-nosed .38. “Go on.”
Liddell took another drag on the cigarette, rolled his eyes to where the girl stood. “You won’t use that. You might be able to set a man up for a kill, but you haven’t got the nerve to do your own killing.”
“I didn’t know they were going to do that to him,” she protested. “I... I was scared. I realized he’d know I didn’t give the report to Devon. He might even call Devon.”
“So you set up a meet in the back row of the movie. Only you told Barney that Devon wanted to meet him at 7. The guy with the pick kept the date. You had Devon show up a half hour later. Who killed Barney, Lois?”
“The man you killed downstairs. I don’t even know who he is. Just that his name is Denver.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know they’d want to kill you, Liddell. I thought they’d be satisfied with Monti.”
Liddell managed to prop himself up on his elbow. “I sure pulled a bonehead on that one, baby. But so did you. The minute the mob killed Monti I knew it had to be you that tipped them off. When? When you pretended to call Monti?”
The blonde licked at her lips. “I called Denver. He told me to stall you until midnight. I thought it was supposed to scare you off and that’s as far as it would go.”
“Nice stalling,” Liddell grinned humorlessly. “Who were you working for? Who bought the report?”
“I don’t know. The night I got it, I read it. It mentioned Denver. I called him at the union hall and read it to him. He called back and made an offer. No names. Just an exchange of packages. Mine was the report. Theirs was money. Lots of money.” She stared at him. “Why shouldn’t I? Why should I keep on living in this rat trap, scratching for pennies when I could get all that money? Just for one report! Why not?”
“Because it meant men had to die.”
“So what? Shields was on his own. We’re all on our own.” The hand with the gun started to shake. “You think they’ll kill me, don’t you? Well, they won’t. They’ll give me a lot of money for telling them about Monti. They’ll give me a lot.”