by Frank Kane
1.
The girl at the mike had a husky voice that did things to the spine.
She was tall, redheaded, put together in a way that flowed tantalizingly as she swayed to the rhythm of the music. Her black, decollete gown clung to her like a wet bathing suit.
At the bar, Johnny Liddell hung a cigarette between his lips, let it dangle there unlighted. He could hear the heavy breath of the bartender as it whistled through his teeth. The rumble of conversation that had filled the room a few minutes before had died down to a whisper, glasses stopped jingling as she did things to a torchy number.
Suddenly, the song was over, the house lights came up. There was a moment of silence as though the audience was catching its collective breath, then a roar of applause exploded.
Johnny Liddell swung around to the bar, discovered the unlighted cigarette between his lips, dropped it to the floor. The glass in front of him was empty, he signaled to the bartender for a refill.
“Quite a number,” Liddell grinned.
“That babe’s all woman,” the bartender wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I watch her twice a night seven nights a week and she still does it to me.” He reached to the backbar, grabbed a bottle, tilted it over a jigger. He replaced the bottle on the backbar, dumped a couple of pieces of ice into the glass, washed them down with soda.
Liddell dropped a bill on the bar. “Full house you got. She draw them like this every night?”
The bartender pursed his lips, his eyes hop scotched from table to table. “Every night. And all spenders, not a stiff in the place. All big uptown society people.” He snagged the bill, headed for the cash register.
On the floor, the redhead was still taking bows. Liddell found a fresh cigarette, lit it. He took a deep drag, blew it through his nostrils in twin streams. He swung around on his barstool, squinted through the smoke, studied the faces around the dance floor. Some he knew, some he recognized from the Sunday supplements. The bartender was right when he tagged it a top-drawer crowd.
The audience finally let the redhead go. She turned, headed for the backstage entrance. The walk was a production.
The house lights went down, a yellow spot probed through the semi-darkness, picked up the M. C. as he pranced out onto the floor. He was tall and thin, had unbelievably broad shoulders and walked with a peculiar mincing step. Even from where Liddell sat, his teeth looked too white and too even to be real. He fluttered through a couple of off-color jokes that brought a faint ripple of laughter and sang two nasal choruses of a number never destined to become popular as the result of his rendition.
The door to backstage opened and a man in a tuxedo that fitted snugly across the hips, showed signs of ample and expert padding at the shoulders circled the floor, threaded his way through the tables. He walked down the bar to where Liddell sat, stopped at his elbow.
“You’re Mr. Liddell?” The voice showed the faintest trace of an accent.
“I’m Liddell.” He dropped the cigarette to the floor, got down from the stool.
“Will you follow me?” The man in the tuxedo led the way back through the tables to the backstage door.
The glitter and the tinsel of the dining room had no counterpart backstage. There was a long, dingy corridor lined with doors. It smelled exotically of one part perspiration, compounded with three parts perfume.
They stopped in front of a door decorated with a peeling gilt star. The man in the tuxedo knocked. “It’s Charles, Mona.”
“Come in. I’m decent.”
The redhead sat on a straight-backed chair in front of a cluttered dressing table. Half a dozen snapshots and telegrams were stuck in the molding of a fly specked mirror over the table. Her thick red hair was hanging down over her shoulders, and she had changed the close fitting dress for a black silk dressing gown. Her face had been wiped clean of make-up, giving it a fresh and youthful look. Her mouth was moist and soft looking.
“Thanks, Charles,” she dismissed the man in the tuxedo with a smile, waited until he had closed the door behind him.
“I’m glad you could come, Liddell. I need your help.” She studied him frankly, seemed satisfied with what she saw. She reached over to the dressing table, picked up a long silver box, shook out a cigarette. She offered one to the private detective. He took one, smelled it, put it back.
“I prefer tobacco in mine.” He reached into his pocket, brought out one of his own cigarettes. “You’re in trouble, you say?”
The redhead leaned forward and accepted a light. “Not yet. That’s what I need you for. To see that I don’t have any trouble.” She let the murky, sweet-smelling smoke dribble from between half-parted lips. “Anybody see you come back here?”
“Just the guy you sent for me.”
“Charles? He doesn’t matter.” She got up from her chair, walked over to the door, opened it a crack and looked up and down the corridor. Satisfied that nobody was within hearing distance, she closed the door. “I have to talk to you, but this isn’t the place to do it. Can you meet me after the last show?”
“I’d like to think it’s my fatal charm, but it’s business?”
The redhead nodded. “It’ll be worth your while.”
Liddell grinned. “I’ll bet.” He pulled over a chair, reversed it and straddled it, resting his elbows on the back. “Can’t you give me some idea of what it’s all about? Maybe I can put the next couple of hours to good use.”
The redhead caught her full lower lip between her teeth, shook her head. “I want you to have the whole picture before you begin. I can’t give it to you here.” She walked over to where he sat, ran the palm of her hand up his lapel. She wet her lips with her tongue until they glistened. “In this place you never know when someone might walk in — and I get nervous with an audience.”
Liddell shrugged. “You sold me. Where and when do I meet you?”
“My place. About 3.”
Liddell grinned at her. “It may be unchivalrous to mention it, but I don’t know where your place is.”
“I thought you were a detective?” she chided. “I’m in Marlboro Towers, suite 3D.” She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. She reached into her pocket, brought up a key. “I don’t usually pass out any keys to my apartment, but you understand. This is business. Besides, I may not be there exactly at 3. You can wait inside.”
Liddell bounced the key on his palm, dropped it into his pocket. “You’ll be all right until 3?”
The redhead nodded. “You’re going to see to that.”
“I am? How?”
She walked over to the dressing table with the same strut she had used on the dance floor. From the top drawer, she took out a paper-wrapped package. “You’re going to mind this for me. Nothing will happen to me while you have that package. It’s sort of like an insurance policy.”
Liddell took the package, turned it over incuriously, dropped it into his side pocket.
“No questions?” She turned the full power of her green eyes on him.
“Not unless you want me to ask them.”
He pushed back his chair and stood up. The redhead ran her incredibly graceful fingers through her hair, stared at him thoughtfully. “You’re quite a man, Liddell. My kind of man, I think.”
“What kind’s your kind, Mona?”
She shrugged. “A man who knows there’s a time and place for everything. Who asks questions when they should be asked — and who knows when to wait for answers.”
“I’m the patient type.”
She grinned at him. “Two hours isn’t so long.” She went over to him, reached up on her toes, pressed her mouth against his. Her lips were as soft and moist as they looked. “That’ll carry you over.”