Tony watched the private detective apply a match to his cigarette, exhale twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. “You mean Marty Cowan? That’s where you’re wrong. He got the same kind of warning. He called me yesterday. They gave him until the day after tomorrow. How do you figure that?”
Liddell shrugged. “Maybe the shake is on the level. Maybe they figure to use you as a horrible example for the other boys so they’ll come into line easier.” He took the cigarette from between his lips, rolled it between thumb and forefinger. “This is just conversation. You said yourself I’m not up here to find out who did it. I’m just here to keep you company.”
Tony nodded jerkily. “Yeah, that’s right.” He stole another quick look at the watch on his wrist. “Two minutes to go,” he said. “How about a drink, Liddell? I got some of that private stock you liked so much in the old days.”
“Sounds good to me.”
The night club owner walked over to his desk, jabbed at the button. The door swung open. Mickey’s dark head appeared in the opening.
“Bring up a bottle of my private stock, Mick,” Melish told him.
After the door swung shut, Tony drummed on the edge of the desk with thick fingers, stared at the closed door thoughtfully. “You were just making with the talk when you said it might be some of my boys, weren’t you, Liddell?”
“Not entirely. It’s a possibility. I don’t see how else anybody could get at you.” He looked around. “How many ways to get in here?”
“Just the stairway you came up.” Melish walked over, sat on the edge of the upholstered chair facing Liddell. “They’d need a tank to get up there. First they got to go right through the club downstairs with half a dozen of my boys sitting around. Then they got to get past Mickey, who’s staked out at the head of the stairs.” Perspiration glistened on his forehead again. “Unless Mickey is in on it.”
“It’s been known to happen.” Liddell slid his .45 from its holster, rested it between his thigh and the chair’s arm. “He’d be the ideal guy to handle the contract.”
“Why should he? The Mick’s been with me since I ran the old Variety Club down in the Village. Why should he want to see me hit?”
“Who knows? You saw the way he looked at the blonde. Maybe he figures he’ll rate if you’re not on deck. Maybe he thinks—”
Tony’s jaw sagged. He jumped up, paced the room. “You’re nuts.” He stopped in front of Liddell’s chair. “He wouldn’t pull anything like that. Just for a dame?”
“Not only the dame, Tony. No guy likes to stay Number Two boy all his life. You were Number Two boy once. Seems to me your boss met with a bad accident. His tough luck was your good luck.”
The night club man’s face clouded ominously. Some of the old menace gleamed through the slitted eyelids. “He got soft. He didn’t rate—” He broke off as the door opened, and as the bodyguard entered with a bottle, two glasses and some ice. His eyes followed the small man as he crossed the room, set the bottle and two glasses on the desk. “Pour it, Mick.” The guard dumped two pieces of ice into each glass, drenched them down with whisky from an unlabeled bottle.
“Ever try that private stock of mine, Mick?” Tony asked silkily.
The thin man looked startled, rolled his eyes upward without lifting his head. “You give us all orders to keep our hands off. The pouring whisky at the bar’s good enough for me.” He picked up the glasses, held one out to Tony, the other to Liddell. His eyes didn’t change expression as he saw the .45 Liddell cradled carelessly in his lap.
“Try it once, Mick,” the night club owner told him.
The bodyguard looked from Liddell to Tony, then down to the glass. “What’s the idea?”
“Try it!” Tony’s voice was edged, harsh.
The thin man shrugged. “Okay.” He put one glass back on the desk, raised the other to his lips, sniffed at it for a second. Then, tilting his head back, he drained the glass. His thin lips tilted upwards at the corners in what was supposed to be a grin as he reached to set the glass back on the desk.
He never made it.
His body seemed to stiffen. He laced both hands against his midsection, stretched up on his toes. Then, slowly, his knees buckled, tumbling him to the floor.
Liddell was out of his chair in a second, kneeling beside him. Tony seemed frozen to the spot. “The rat. It was him. He tried to poison me!”
Liddell looked up, shook his head. “Not unless that stuff’s sharper than the old days. He’s bleeding.” He pointed to a rapidly-spreading dark spot on the front of the thin man’s jacket.
“Bleeding? How could that be?” Tony walked over, stared down at the body.
“Get back!” Liddell shouted.
There was a faint hum of an angry bee. Tony jerked his hands to his face. Red started to trickle through the fingers. He pitched forward, hit the floor face down. He didn’t move.
Liddell flattened himself against the floor, wormed his way toward the window. He applied a cautious eye to the corner, tried to locate the source of the shots.
Directly across the street was a hotel, a huge modern office building, and on the corner a department store. He eliminated the hotel as not being high enough and the department store as unlikely, settled for the roof of the office building. He leaned the barrel of the .45 on the window sill, watched, waited.
He didn’t have long to wait. In a matter of seconds, a dark shadow separated itself from the other shadows, headed for the edge of the roof. Finally, a man’s leg appeared over the edge, felt for the top landing of the fire escape. Then, the rest of the body came into view. The man peered over the railing to the alley below, seemed satisfied, started down the stairs.
Liddell waited until the upper portion of the man’s body sat on the front sight of his .45, and squeezed the trigger. The boom of the .45 was deafening in the close confines of the soundproofed room.
Across the street, the man on the fire escape staggered. He tried to get back to the roof, stumbled to his knees. Slowly, he managed to pull himself to his feet, stood swaying. Liddell’s .45 barked again.
The man on the fire escape stiffened, clawed at the guard rail. His knees folded under him. He toppled over the low rail, crashed headlong to the alley below.
Liddell knelt with his eye glued to the window until he was satisfied that the gunman across the way had been alone. Then, he walked back to where Tony lay, turned him over on his back. A blue-black hole that was still bubbling under his right eye made it apparent that he was beyond help.
The private detective debated the advisibility of reporting the shooting to the police, lost the decision. He had underestimated the danger a client had been in, had failed to give him the protection he had sought. Now, he reasoned, the only course left open to him was to get whoever had been responsible for the killing. He slipped a new clip into the .45, pulled Mickey’s .45 from his pocket, substituted the used magazine for the one in the gun. Then he headed for the street.
The street was cool after the closeness of Tony’s penthouse. The cross-streets were filled with heavy after-theatre traffic, but the avenue was relatively deserted. Liddell crossed the street, blended into the shadows of the tall office building. When he had satisfied himself that he was unobserved, he slipped into the alley that ran alongside it.
The man was spread-eagled over a stack of garbage cans. Lying nearby, its stock shattered by the fall, was a high-powered rifle equipped with telescopic sights and silencer. Liddell leaned over the man’s face, studied his features, failed to recognize him. Imported talent.