3.
It was almost four o’clock when Johnny Liddell left the elevator at the third floor in Marlboro Towers, walked down to the redhead’s door. He tried the knob, found it unlocked pushed the door open. A uniformed cop, standing near the window, looked at him with no sign of enthusiasm as he walked in.
“Inspector Herlehy here? I’m Johnny Liddell.”
The cop pointed to a closed door. “He’s expecting you.”
A bed lamp was burning, throwing a pale amber light over the bed. Mona Varden lay on the pink coverlet of the bed. One arm dangled to the floor; the other was thrown across her face, as though to ward off a blow. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear, and a pool of blood had formed on the rug next to the bed.
Inspector Herlehy of Homicide stood at the far side of the bed, chomping on the ever-present wad of gum. “Your tip came too late, Liddell,” he grunted. He nodded to the bed. “She was like this when the boys got here.”
Liddell nodded. “No trace of who did it?”
The inspector shrugged. “The lab boys are working at it.” He pulled a fresh slice of gum from his pocket, denuded it of wrapper, folded it and stuck it between his teeth. “We thought you might be able to help.”
A white-coated representative of the medical examiner’s office walked over, stared down at the body and shook his head. “That was a pretty nifty dish until somebody decided to make hash out of it,” he said. He handed Herlehy a receipt to sign, waited until it was initialled. “Thanks, Inspector. We’ll take her along if you don’t need her any more.”
Herlehy nodded. He walked over to a window, stared down into the street below. Liddell walked around the bed, watched grimly while two men transferred the body from the bed to a stretcher, covered it with a sheet and walked out. When the door had closed behind them, Herlehy swung around. “Okay, Liddell, suppose you start talking.”
“Let’s go outside.” He led the way into the living room, dropped into an easy chair, fumbled for a cigarette.
“What’s your connection with the redhead?” Herlehy wanted to know.
“I never spoke to her before tonight. She contacted the office about six, wanted me to meet her at the club after the twelve o’clock show.”
Herlehy pushed his broad-brimmed sheriff-type hat on the back of his head. “That can all be checked.”
“Pinky, my secretary, will verify.” He took a deep drag on the cigarette, took it from between his lips, lifted a crumb of tobacco from the tip of his tongue. “She wanted help on something. She wouldn’t talk there, asked me to meet her here.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Herlehy growled. “Why didn’t she have you meet her before she went to the club — or even here after the show? Why drag you in to that upholstered sewer only to tell you to meet her here?”
“I don’t know, she just—” He broke off, snapped his fingers. “Maybe I do at that. Maybe she just wanted to give me the package to hold. That’s what it was, the package!”
Herlehy growled. “That clears everything up. What package?”
“It was about so big by so long.” Liddell described it with his hands. “She said it was insurance that she’d be able to meet me.”
“Where is it?”
Liddell crushed out the cigarette. “I stuck it down behind the cushions in the car they were using to take me for a ride. It’s—”
“It’s gone,” Herlehy groaned. “They’ve got that car stashed away someplace, and—”
“No. It wasn’t their car. They socked it just to take me for a ride. Chance is Hook dumped it as soon as he got to town.”
Herlehy motioned the uniformed cop over. “Take this down and phone it right in. I want it out on the wires immediately.” He turned to Liddell. “Give him the details.”
Liddell scowled in concentration. “It was a dark one — black or dark blue. Looked like a 1953 Lincoln to me. Chances are it has a couple of bullet holes in the back. I emptied a gun at it.” He looked at Herlehy. “You get a make from the local cops on the driver?”
Herlehy shook his head. “Not yet. We will. Now, about this guy Hook. You make him?”
“It seems to me I know him from somewhere, but I can’t put my finger on it. Give me a couple of hours with the nickname file and I’ll make him. I never forget a face, inspector, and in his case it’s going to be double in spades.”
The uniformed patrolman answered a knock at the door. A tall, carefully tailored man stood in the hallway, a grey Stetson in his hand. He looked around curiously at the sight of the uniformed cop, raised his eyebrows at the presence of the other two.
“I’m Lee Morton of the Dispatch,” he told no one in particular. “I have an appointment with Mona Varden.”
Herlehy tugged at his earlobe. “Lee Morton, eh? The gossip columnist?”
Morton nodded. His bright little eyes hopscotched around the room, missed nothing. “Mona Varden called me, said she’d have a real story for me tonight.”
“Know what the story was about?” Herlehy wanted to know.
The columnist pursed his lips, shook his head. “She didn’t like to talk over the phone. She often had good items for me and I’d pick them up here.”
“Why? You were at the club tonight,” Liddell told him. “I saw you there.”
Morton grinned humorlessly. “I’m there almost every night. It’s part of my job. But if Mona were seen talking to me, she’d be blamed for everything I printed.” He looked Liddell over dispassionately. “You’re Johnny Liddell, aren’t you?”
Liddell nodded.
The columnist turned back to the homicide man. “I don’t like to appear curious, Inspector, but perhaps it’s not too much to ask what’s going on? After all, it’s not usual to keep a date with a night club singer to find the police force and the town’s best-known private eye playing chaperone. Where’s Mona?”
Liddell cocked an eye as if he were figuring. “Just about now they’re loading her onto a slab at the city morgue.”
The grey hat fell from Morton’s fingers, rolled on the floor. He picked it up, dusted it off mechanically with the palm of his hand. “Is that on the level?” he turned to Herlehy.
The homicide man nodded.
“Who did it?” the columnist demanded.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Morton,” Herlehy growled. “Right at the moment we’ve got it narrowed down to nine million people, but by tomorrow maybe we’ll be able to eliminate some of them.”
4.
Inspector Herlehy slumped in an armchair at police headquarters, watched Johnny Liddell leafing patiently through book after book of pictures. A door opened and a uniformed lieutenant walked in.
“Got something?” Herlehy wanted to know.
“I don’t know, Inspector. We ran the nickname cards through, then we ran only the cards of short men. That cut it down to sixteen. From the m.o. file we ran through the known guns who use .45s and we cut it down to three. One’s dead, the other’s in Quentin.” He tapped a card on his thumb nail. “This one doesn’t sound like it.”
Liddell looked up from the mug book. “Why not?”
“Never went in for killing. He’s been up several times for jewel jobs and stickups. Never used the gun.” He looked at the card. “Name’s Lou Eastman, nickname’s Hook.”
Liddell swore softly, snapped his fingers. “I said he looked familiar, inspector. Our agency was on the VanDeventer jewel job about seven years ago, remember? Eastman was up for the job, wiggled free.” He walked down the row of cabinets, pulled out a drawer, flipped through the pictures, stopped at one and scowled at it. “That’s the guy, inspector. Hook Eastman.”