Quickly, efficiently, he ran through the man’s pockets, transferred the man’s wallet, a few papers, a key with a small red tag into his own pockets. Then, he retraced his steps up the alley, swung onto the avenue, headed for a cab.
Three hours later, Johnny Liddell sat at the table in his hotel apartment, scowled at the small pile in front of him. The dead sniper’s wallet had given him nothing aside from the man’s name and an address in Cleveland, neither of which meant anything to him. A few decks of heroin secreted away in an inner compartment of the wallet testified to the fact that the killer was a professional; the six one hundred dollar bills to the fact that he was a high-paid expert.
Liddell picked up a folded piece of notepaper, reread it for the third time. “Check into the Denton Arms in New York under the name of William Wellington. The enclosed $400 will pay you for your trouble. If I still need you, I’ll know where to reach you and the other $600 and your instructions will be delivered by messenger before you do the job.” It was unsigned.
Liddell pulled from his pocket the typewritten note Tony had received. He compared the typing, was satisfied both had been done on the same machine. He leaned back, raked his fingers through his hair, swore under his breath. He was at a dead end — the sniper apparently had no more idea of who had hired him than Liddell had.
The telephone at his elbow started to shrill. He contemplated the advisibility of not answering it, finally scooped the receiver from its cradle.
“Liddell?” The voice was low, husky, disturbing.
“Who’s this?”
“Terry. Tony Melish’s girl. I’m downstairs in the lobby.” She paused for a moment, seemed to be taking a deep breath. “I’ve got to see you. Can I come up?”
“Come ahead. I’m in Room 462.” He dropped the receiver back on its hook, stared at it speculatively. Then he picked up the wallet, the tagged key and the two typewritten notes, dropped them into his jacket pocket and hung it in the closet. He looked around, scowled at the bright overhead light, snapped it out, put on the bridge lamp over the armchair.
Then he lifted the phone, waited until the desk clerk had answered. “See that girl who called me on the house phone, Al?”
There was a long, low whistle from the other end of the wire.
“She alone when she came in?” Liddell asked.
“All alone. She headed for the desk, asked if you were in. I hope it was okay to tell her you were.” A worried note crept into the clerk’s voice. “Hell, I didn’t think anybody would mind if she—”
“She didn’t talk to anybody after she called me?”
“There was no one else in the lobby. She walked right from the booth to the elevator. I don’t mind telling you I didn’t take my eyes off her from the minute—”
There was a knock at the door.
“Okay, Al. That’s all I wanted to know.” Liddell dropped the receiver on its hook, walked to the door, pulled it open.
She was even more breathtaking than when he had first seen her. The thick, blonde hair had been piled on top of her head. Her face was scrubbed clean of all make-up, save for a red smear of lipstick on her lips. She wore a full-length camel’s hair polo coat, no stockings, a pair of loafers.
She walked past him into the room, waited until he had closed the door behind her. “Lock it,” she said in a low voice.
Liddell snapped the lock. “What’s it all about?”
“Tony. They got him just like they said they would, didn’t they? What happened? You were there. You must have seen it.”
Liddell nodded. “They planted a sharpshooter with a reacher—”
“A reacher?”
“A silenced rifle with a telescopic lens set-up. It was like shooting sitting ducks. They got Mickey, too, you know.” He led the way to the couch. “Sit down and catch your breath.” She stood waiting.
When he helped her off with her coat, he whistled noiselessly. Under the camel’s hair coat she wore only a pair of light blue silk pajamas, the trouser legs rolled up to her knees.
“I... I was ready for bed when the call came from the club. I was too scared to take the time to dress. I just grabbed a coat and ran.” She walked closer toward him, put her hands on his chest. “I didn’t know any other place to go, Johnny.” Her full lower lip trembled. “Poor Tony. I thought he was just cracking up, seeing bogey men in the shadows. Don’t let them get me the way they got him, Johnny.”
“Why should they want to kill you?” Liddell fought to keep his glance at face level, lost the struggle.
“I was pretty close to Tony. They probably think I know who ordered the killing.”
“Do you?”
The girl’s face went a shade whiter. She wet her lips with the tip of a pink tongue. “Marty Cowan. He used to be Tony’s partner.”
Liddell nodded thoughtfully. “I know Marty. But why should he shake Tony down for money? He has all he’ll ever need.”
“He didn’t want money. He figured Tony would scare and run out. Then Marty could step in and take over everything. Me included.” She dropped her arms, walked to the window, looked out. “It was no secret that Tony was getting soft. Back in the old days when he was really tough, he drove Marty out of the partnership. Marty never forgave him.” She swung around. “Tony didn’t scare, so Marty had to do it the hard way.” As she walked back toward him, the sway of her breasts traced designs on the shiny silk of her pajama jacket. “Marty knows that I know.”
“Why don’t you tell the police?”
She shrugged. “Knowing it and proving it are two different things. They’d have to let him go for lack of evidence and then he’d come looking for me.” She shuddered, massaged the backs of her arms with her palms. “Got a drink handy?”
Liddell nodded, walked into the kitchenette, came back with a bottle and two glasses. He spilled some liquor into each of the glasses, passed one to the girl.
“When you spoke to the club, did they tell you whether they’d found the guy who picked off Tony?”
The girl took a deep swallow from her glass, shook her head. “He was probably a hired gun. They’ll never find him.”
Liddell grinned glumly. “Don’t bet on it, baby. They can’t miss him.”
She stopped with her glass halfway to her lips. “What do you mean?”
“I picked him off the roof with a .45. He’s spilled all over the alley across the street.” He dropped onto the couch at her side. “He was outside talent. Brought in from Cleveland especially for this job.”
Her mouth was an “o” of amazement. “You went up against him with a .45, and him using a rifle with telescopic sights?” She moved closer. “No wonder Tony went running to you when he got in too deep. I’m glad I came.”
“I didn’t do Tony too much good. He’s dead.”
“But you got the guy who did it.” She leaned hack against the couch, strained her high, tip-tilted breasts against the fragile pajama fabric, stared at him in wide-eyed admiration. “Just like that. You picked him off the roof with a .45.” Her eyelids half-veiled the green of her eyes; she studied him through the long lashes. “I could never pay you what you’re worth to protect me, Johnny, but I’d like to try to make it worth your while.” She leaned close to him, her breath warm, fragrant on his cheek. “Let me stay here tonight, Johnny. I’m afraid to go home.”
“Okay, baby. Make yourself at home.” He leaned over, found her lips with his. They clung for a moment, then she put the flat of her hands against his chest, pushed him away.
“Do we need all that light?” She pulled herself to her feet, walked to the lamp.
“I wasn’t kidding poor Mickey,” she said. “I do have a birthmark on my bottom rib.” She pulled the blouse of her pajamas high enough to reveal a strawberry shaped blemish on the whiteness of her body. She dropped the blouse, fumbled with the zipper on the pajamas, snapped off the light.