Liddell snagged the container, waited until the cop had closed the door after him. “One thing’s for sure. Terrell got an awful jolt when he saw Lee’s picture in the paper. He got another one when he read the item about the body being identified.” He gouged the top out of the container, tested the coffee, burned his tongue and swore at it. “He made two calls. One was to me, the other to a night club in the Village called the Canopy.”
An ugly red flush started up from the inspector’s collar. “Then you were holding out on me—”
Liddell shook his head. “He didn’t reach anybody there. He called about three and the joint doesn’t open until eight. I caught the early show in there tonight. Terrell was mixed up in some way with a girl singer named Patti. I’ve got a date with her at three at her place.”
Herlehy carefully removed the top from his coffee, stirred it with his finger. “What do you expect to find out?”
Liddell rolled the warm container between his palms. “I don’t know. But it’s a cinch the solution to Terrell’s murder is down there someplace. He was killed on Perry Street, the Club Canopy’s on Perry Street and the girl has an apartment right across from the north end of the excavation where he was killed.”
A tight look creased a V between the inspector’s brows. He sipped at his coffee, made concentric circles on his blotter with the wet bottom of the container. “I don’t know if I have the right to let you go this alone, Liddell,” he said finally. “This is homicide and it’s a matter for the department. Suppose you turn in everything you have on it—”
“That ain’t cricket, inspector. We made a deal.”
Herlehy nodded. “I know. But what you said sounded so screwy I never figured it would stand up.”
He took another deep swallow out of the container. “I’m going to have to go back on my word, Liddell. I never had the authority to make any deal like that.”
“Give me until morning,” Liddell urged. “You can’t get the ball rolling until then, anyway. Just give me until morning, then throw the whole thing into the homicide hopper.”
Herlehy hesitated, nodded. “Okay. You’ve got until Lt. Gleason comes on at eight. After that, you’d better keep out of his way. He doesn’t like amateurs messing around on his preserves.”
7
Dyson Court was a square block away from Perry Street in the Village. 28 fronted on the back end of the excavation where Terrell’s body had been found. The cab dropped Liddell in front of a brownstone building, he ran up the short flight of steps from the street and pushed his way through the vestibule door. A row of mail boxes in the vestibule contributed the information that Patti Marks occupied Apartment 2A.
The hallway was dark, smelled of ancient cooking and old age. He felt his way along the wall to the stairs, climbed slowly to the second floor. Apartment 2A was second floor front. He knocked softly, waited for some sound from within. He checked his watch, noticed it was only 2:45, knocked again. There was still no answer.
He tried the doorknob, found the door locked. The lock yielded with a minimum of struggle to the strip of celluloid he carried in his pocket. He stepped in, closed the door behind him. The room was in darkness. He stood still, waited until his eyes were accustomed to the dark. There was no sound in the apartment other than his own breathing.
He felt his way across the room, lit the lamp on the table next to the couch, sank onto it. His watch said 2:48.
It was almost three when he heard the sound of a key in the lock. The door swung open, the blonde stood framed in the doorway. Behind her loomed the broad shoulders of the ex-pug bodyguard, Stanley.
Stanley pushed the girl aside. His eyes were small, mean. “What are you doing here?” he growled deep in his chest. “I told you I wouldn’t let anyone bother Miss Patti.”
He shuffled toward Liddell flat-footedly. When he reached the chair, he caught the detective by the lapels, pulled him to his feet. Liddell broke the hold with an upward and outward swing of his arms and smashed his toe into the big man’s instep. The bodyguard grunted with pain, dropped his guard. Liddell sunk his right into the big man’s middle, chopped down against the side of his neck with his right. The bodyguard hit the floor face first and didn’t move.
The blonde stood frozen, tried to swallow her fist. She looked from Liddell to the unconscious man and back. She closed the door, leaned against it. “You were wonderful. I’ve never seen anybody take Stanley before.” She walked over, knelt next to the prizefighter. “He means well. He’s the most devoted friend I’ve ever had.” She looked up at Liddell. “I didn’t know you were here or I wouldn’t have brought him up. He feels better when he brings me right to the door and since it looked as though you hadn’t arrived—”
Liddell nodded. “I understand.” He looked down at the unconscious man. “He’s gotten soft from tossing helpless drunks out of the club, I guess.”
Patti was staring at him with a puzzled frown. “By the way, how did you get in here?”
“The door was open. I thought you left it that way for me, so I came in and got comfortable.”
The blonde walked over to the door, pulled it open, examined the latch. “Funny. I guess it didn’t catch.” Her eyes went down to the man on the floor. “What do we do about him?”
“He’ll be all right in a minute. I’ll take care of him.” He caught the big man under the arms, dragged him to an armchair, dumped him into it. “It might help if you had some smelling salts.”
Patti nodded, headed for the bedroom. As soon as the door had closed behind her, Liddell fanned the unconscious man, found him unarmed. He wiped the perspiration from his upper lip with the back of his hand, waited for the girl’s return.
After minutes, the door to the bedroom opened. The blonde had changed from her street dress to a pale blue negligee. The blonde hair had been loosened, permitted to cascade down over her shoulders. “I made myself more comfortable,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Stanley started to cough and gag his way back to consciousness. At first his head rolled uncontrollably, he seemed to have difficulty in focussing his eyes. After a moment, he was able to hold his head up, fix Liddell with a malevolent glare. A thin stream of saliva glistened from the corner of his mouth down his chin.
“He hit me when I wasn’t ready.” His voice was thick, strangled. He tried weakly to struggle to his feet, let the blonde push him back into the chair.
“You don’t understand, Stanley. He’s a friend of mine. He isn’t bothering me. I asked him to meet me here.” She explained it patiently, as though to a child. “He’s my friend. He won’t hurt me. Do you understand?”
The big man tried to nod. He struggled to his feet with the help of the blonde. She led him to the door, through to the stairway.
When she came back, Liddell was on the couch, a cigarette between his lips. “You’re quite a man, mister.” She leaned against the door, studied him speculatively. “Who are you, really?”
“A friend of Abel’s. Didn’t he tell you?”
The blonde walked over to where he sat, lifted the cigarette from between his fingers, took a deep drag. “I couldn’t reach him. You don’t mind waiting?”
Liddell grinned at her. “I’ll struggle through it.”
The blonde returned his cigarette, walked over to a curtained alcove that hid the kitchenette, brought back a bottle and some ice. “We may as well be comfortable.” She set the ice and brandy down on a small end table, dropped onto the couch beside him. “I’m surprised I haven’t heard from Abel by now,” she pouted. “It must be that he’s afraid of Lou.”