“Very funny fellow,” Liddell opined.
“No funnier than the story you’re telling, Liddell.” The inspector caught him by the arm, led him out to the sidewalk where his limousine sat waiting. “This guy shot a guy, only the guy dies six months later from an auto accident. He knows he pumped the bullets into him, only there’s no signs of gunshot scars.” He stopped on the sidewalk, oblivious to the crowd of morbidly curious that had gathered. “That’s supposed to make sense?” he growled. “Did-he at least tell you why he was supposed to have killed this character?”
Liddell considered it for a moment, shook his head. “Not exactly. He just said Lee had ruined him. That he had to kill him.”
“Now I suppose you’re going to tell me this character he was supposed to have killed but didn’t isn’t really dead and got up off the slab in the morgue to kill him?”
“That would be a switch,” Liddell conceded, “but the last I saw of Lee, he wasn’t in any condition to do any traveling. Look, Inspector, I’d like a crack at breaking this one. I can, too, if you’ll give me a break.”
“Meaning?”
“Don’t mention the fact that Terrell took me on. Just give out the story that a vagrant was found shot to death in a foundation excavation in the Village. Let me take it from there.”
Herlehy scowled at him. “On one condition. I’m checking the files on this murder he’s supposed to have committed. If there’s one on the books, no deal. If he was just dreaming the whole thing, you’re welcome to it.”
“It’s a deal. He was supposed to have knocked off this Lee character six months ago. In September. If there’s an open file, I keep hands off and let the department handle it. If there isn’t, I get first crack at it.”
5
Stanton 7-6770 turned out to be the telephone number of a little night club called the Club Canopy on Perry Street, two blocks south of where Abel Terrell’s body had been found. It was 10:30 by the time Johnny Liddell arrived there. He stood across the street, studied the outside of the club.
A neon that sputtered fitfully and dyed the facade a dull red spelled out the name Club Canopy. The door was three steps up from the sidewalk, and opened into a small vestibule.
Liddell crossed the street, entered the club. The vestibule had been converted into a check room. Beyond lay the main dining room and bar, a huge room that had been constructed by knocking out all the walls on the floor.
He stood at the door and peered into the smoky opaqueness of the interior. Small tables, jammed with parties of four, were packed side by side in a small space bordering on the tiny square reserved for dancing. A thick pall of smoke hung over the entire room, swirling slowly and lazily in the draft from the opened door. The bar itself was long, well-filled. Liddell elbowed himself a place at the bar, turned to survey the room.
The bartender shuffled up, wiped the bar with a damp cloth that left oily circles.
“Bourbon and water,” Liddell told him.
The bartender made a production of selecting a bottle from the back-bar, reaching under the bar for a glass and some ice. He poured about an ounce of the brown liquid into the glass, reached for the water.
“Better hit that again,” Liddell told him.
He made the drink a double, softened it with a touch of water.
Liddell shoved a five at him. “Keep the change.”
The bartender took a look at the corner of the bill, raised his eyebrows. “If you figure this buys you anything but liquor in this joint, you’re making a mistake.”
Liddell tasted the bourbon, approved. “I’m looking for a friend of mine.” Quickly he described Abel Terrell, waited while the bartender screwed his mouth up in concentration. “Have you seen him or his friend lately?”
The bartender blew out his lips, shook his head. “He don’t register. He’s no regular around here.” He squinted into the dimness of the room. “Maybe Ed Carter can help you. He’s the maitre d’. He gets to know a lot of people I don’t ever see.” He looked longingly at the bill. “Still go?”
Liddell nodded, watched the bartender shuffle off to the cash register. He happily dumped some silver and a few bills into the glass on the back bar, nodded his thanks to Liddell.
After a moment, a heavy man in a blue suit stopped alongside Liddell. “Can I help you, sir? Mike tells me you’re waiting for someone.”
Liddell swung around, studied the newcomer. His face was heavy, his lips wet and pouting. His hair was almost white, combed in a three-quarter part. His eyes were expressionless black discs almost hidden in the shadow of fierce white eyebrows. In his lapel he wore a carnation.
“I expected to meet a friend of mine here. His name’s Abel Terrell.” Liddell fancied he caught a flicker in the eyes, but there was no other change of expression in the fat man’s face. “Do you know him?”
The fat man pursed his lips. Little bubbles formed in the middle of them. He shook his head, waggling the heavy jowls that hung over his collar. “I can’t say I do. Could you describe him for me?”
Liddell tried to paint a word picture of the dead man as he might have appeared before he lost weight.
The fat man nodded slowly as Liddell finished his description. “I believe I do know your friend by sight.” His head continued to bob in agreement. “He was a great admirer of our Miss Patti. You’ve heard Miss Patti, of course?”
Liddell shook his head. “I don’t get around much.”
The fat lips were wreathed in a smile that did nothing to change the expression in the man’s eyes. “Then you have a treat in store. Miss Patti comes on in a few minutes. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you in her dressing room after the show.”
He nodded to Liddell, moved down the bar. Several times, he stopped for a brief visit with one of his older customers. Finally, he reached the end of the bar, disappeared into the dimness beyond.
Liddell was on his second double bourbon when the floor lights went down. The band struggled hopelessly with a fanfare, a spotlight cut the gloom of the room, picked out the wasp-waisted figure of the master of ceremonies as he fluttered across the floor to the microphone. He told a few off-color jokes, sang two choruses of an old song in a nasal whine, held his hands up to stem the non-existent applause.
“And now what you’ve all been waiting for — the sweetheart of Greenwich Village, Miss Patti!”
The bartender shuffled down to where Liddell sat, took up his station behind him. “This gal is all woman. An awful waste in a joint like this, but she really packs a message,” he whispered.
On the floor two men were wheeling out a baby grand. A pasty-faced man with aggressively curly hair and a wet smear for a mouth materialized from nowhere and took his place at the piano. His fingers jumped from key to key until the first bars of a torchy tune became recognizable. The backdrop curtains parted and a blonde stepped out into the spotlight.
She was tall. Thick, metallic golden hair cascaded down over her shoulders in shimmering waves. Her body was ripe, lush. A small waist hinted at the full rounded hips and long shapely legs concealed by the fullness of the gown.
The rumble of conversation died down to a whisper, glasses stopped jangling and waiters froze as she leaned back against the piano. Her voice was husky, the kind that raised the small hairs on the back of Liddell’s neck.
The lyrics of her song were blue and off color, but she managed to retain an expression of untroubled innocence. At the end of two numbers, she bowed to a burst of applause, permitted herself to be coaxed into one encore. At the end of that number, she refused to be persuaded to do more, turned and went to the backstage door.