Liddell drained his glass, set it back on the bar. An adagio team was just making its appearance on the floor when he reached the end of the bar. He reached the backstage door, started to pull it open when a hand caught him by the arm.
“You’re going in the wrong direction, mister,” a heavy voice told him. “The men’s room’s at the other end.” The owner of the hand and voice was heavy-shouldered, and the twisted nose and scar tissue over the eyes identified him as a bouncer.
“That’s all right, Stanley.” The fat figure of Carter, the manager, materialized in the gloom. “The gentleman’s a friend of Miss Patti.”
“You told me nobody gets in there,” the big man grumbled. “I don’t like nobody bothering Patti.” He glowered at Liddell. “I’m looking after her. Nobody gets fresh with her. You follow me, friend?”
“Nobody’s going to bother Miss Patti, Stanley,” the fat man told him firmly. “This gentleman is a friend. Miss Patti will be glad to see him.”
The bouncer shuffled his feet uncertainly for a moment, then turned and shuffled off.
“A very difficult man, Stanley.” Carter smelled at the carnation in his buttonhole. “Entirely devoted to Miss Patti. A dog-like devotion, you might say.” The flat eyes studied Liddell over the carnation.
Stepping through the door to backstage was like stepping into a new world. The tinsel and glamor of the Club Canopy frontside wasn’t duplicated backstage. There was nothing but a long, bare, semi-dark corridor with a row of closed doors, an odor compounded of equal parts of perspiration and perfume.
He stopped in front of a door on which had been stencilled Miss Patti and knocked. A throaty voice invited him in.
The blonde sat on a straight-backed chair in front of a littered make-up table. Her thick blonde hair had been pushed back from her face, caught with a blue ribbon and allowed to cascade down her back. She wore a matching light blue dressing gown.
She looked up as Liddell walked in. Her eyes were the bluest he had ever seen, her mouth soft and moist. She looked him over, made no attempt to disguise her approval of the heavyset shoulders, the thick hair spiked with grey and the humorous half-grin.
“Well, who are you?” Her speaking voice was husky, intimate.
“A friend of Abel Terrell’s. He asked me to meet him here tonight.” He checked the watch on his wrist. “He’s late. I thought maybe you might know where he was.”
The blonde pursed her lips, shook her head. “I haven’t seen Abel in months.” She lowered her voice. “He had some kind of trouble and had to go away.” She turned the full impact of her eyes on him. “Is it safe for him to show his face around? I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”
Liddell found two cigarettes, lighted both, passed one to her. “When he called me, he said he had everything straightened out. He wanted me to bring him some money.”
The blonde took a deep drag of the cigarette, let the smoke drift from between half-parted lips. “I’m glad for him if everything is all right.” She studied Liddell’s face through the eddying smoke. “Didn’t he say what he wanted the money for?”
“I didn’t ask.” He rolled his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “He did mention it had something to do with a man named Lee. Do you know anybody named Lee that was connected with Abel?”
The soft lips framed the name, after a moment the girl shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve never heard Abel mention the name to the best of my recollection.”
Liddell nodded, raked his fingers through his hair. “I had the feeling the money was for Lee. Abel was very secretive about it, wouldn’t even tell me where he’d been for the past few months.”
The girl held her finger against her lips, cocked her head prettily. Then she got up, opened the dressing room door a crack. There was no one in the corridor. “We can’t talk here. These walls are like paper.” She walked back, stood close to Liddell. “Maybe Abel saw someone or something that frightened him away.”
“Well, how am I going to contact him to let him know I have the money?” He studied the girl’s lace. “Do you know where to reach him?”
She turned, walked to the dressing table, picked up a comb, ran it through her hair. “I wouldn’t do anything that might hurt Abel.”
“But you do know how to contact him?”
She dropped the comb, swung around, leaned back on the table. “How do I know that Abel really wants to see you? How do I know that you’re not the man he’s hiding from?”
Liddell grinned. “A good question. Ask him.”
“And who are you?”
“He’ll know. Just tell him Johnny.”
“Just Johnny?” The blonde pursed her lips humorously. “Don’t I get to know the full name?”
“After you’ve checked with Abel and satisfied yourself that I’m a right guy, maybe we’ll get to know each other well enough that the only name you’ll need will be Johnny.”
The blue eyes swept him from head to feet and back. “Could be.”
“How long will it take you to reach him?”
“I don’t know. But I’m through here at 2:30. I’m sure I’ll be able to reach him by then. Why can’t we meet then.”
Liddell nodded. “I’ll pick you up here at 2:30.”
“We can’t talk here. Make it at my place at three. Apartment 2A, 28 Dyson Street — just about four blocks from here. Do you know where it is?”
Liddell shook his head. “I’ll find it. I’ll be there at three on the dot.”
6
The clerk in the outside office at headquarters told Johnny Liddell that Inspector Herlehy couldn’t be disturbed. He let himself be talked into checking with the inspector himself, plugged in the interoffice phone, muttered into it. He nodded, flipped off the switch.
“I guess he’ll see you.” He sounded impressed.
Herlehy was sitting on the side of the leather couch in his office, running his fingers through his hair. He was yawning when Liddell walked in.
“You keep the damnedest hours,” he complained. “I thought you’d be home in bed by now.” He got up, walked over to the sink in the corner, slapped cold water into his face.
“How about it? Find a homicide for September in the name of Lee?”
The inspector dried his face on a towel, hung it on a nail next to the sink. “Nope. But we did find that Terrell did a run-out just about that time. Dug up his old secretary. He gave her three months’ salary, told her to close the office. She hasn’t heard from him since.”
Liddell dropped into a chair. “The only way she’s likely to now is if she uses an ouija board.” He watched the inspector run a comb through his thick white hair. “How about the guy in the morgue?”
Herlehy grunted, stamped back to his desk. “Dennis Leeman. Did time in Chicago for extortion, wanted in L.A. on the same charge.” He punched the button on the base of his phone. “Coffee?”
“Black,” Liddell nodded.
A uniformed cop stuck his head in the doorway.
“Two coffees, one black, Ray,” Herlehy told him. He waited until the cop had withdrawn his head. “Makes it screwier than ever. Suppose this Lee or Leeman was shaking Terrell for something. Okay, so Terrell knocks him off. That fits. Only trouble is Terrell didn’t knock him off.”
“Terrell thought he did. He held the rod right against Lee’s chest. Saw the blood running from his mouth, he says.”
Herlehy drummed on the edge of his desk with his fingers. “You saw the body. Not a mark of a bullet wound.” He explored the stubble along his chin with the tips of his fingers. “You don’t think this Terrell guy was off his rocker?”
Liddell shrugged. “It could be.”
The door opened, the uniformed cop walked in with two containers of coffee, deposited them on the desk. “The black’s got a pencilled X on the cap,” he told them.