He lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, emptied his lungs. “He dropped down to see me, to tell me he changed his mind. He was going to lend me the money. Enough to help kick the habit. We were friends again. He was going to help me.”
“Where were you when he was killed?”
Horton glared at him, dropped his eyes first. “Right here. Jack had left for home, I came back here. I was getting ready to cut out with some cats, and—”
“Nobody saw the car that killed your brother?”
“So?”
Liddell shrugged. He walked over to the far side of the room, pulled back a rough curtain. The window behind it had been painted black. “Where’s that go?”
Horton shrugged. “How do I know?”
Liddell grinned glumly. “Make a guess.” He unlatched the window, tugged it up. Outside was an alley. Liddell stuck his head out, looked up to the end where a short flight of steps led to the street level. He pulled his head in, closed the window.
“So what’s that prove?” Horton wanted to know. “I never even knew it was there.”
He got up walked over to the lavatory, splashed some water into his face, raked his hair back out of his face with his clenched fingers.
“Look, mister, I’ve taken all the jazz from you I’m gonna take. You bust in here, push me around—” He shook his head. “I’m not taking it. So my wife hired you to frame me, go ahead.”
He walked over to Liddell. “But you dig this, Pops. You listen real hard. The next time you break into my pad without a paper, you don’t walk away from it. And it’s all legal.”
Liddell wondered just when Horton had taken his last shot, figured it must have been only a few minutes before he broke in and that it was now taking hold. The bigger and bigger man Horton felt himself to be, the slighter and slighter chance that he’d do any talking.
Liddell walked to the door, pulled it open. “The next time I bust in on you,” he said, “I’ll have the paper and some fuzz to serve it.”
He slammed the door to the dressing room behind him, headed back into the club.
Inspector Herlehy sat behind the oversized, varnished desk in his office at headquarters, stared across at Johnny Liddell. The inspector’s jaws were clomping methodically on the ever-present wad of gum, the color in his face was a little higher than normal.
“Now, suppose you level with me, Johnny.” He picked up a typewritten note. “Lieutenant Michaelson in Accident Investigation tells me you’ve been asking for the file-on a recent hit and run killing.” He flipped the paper back onto the desk. “Why?”
Liddell shrugged. He removed the half-burned cigarette from the corner of his mouth, studied the glowing end. “I just wanted a look at the coroner’s report. The kind of injuries, stuff like that.”
“Why?”
Liddell replaced the cigarette in his mouth, squinted through the smoke that spiralled upward. “I’m not too sure he was killed by a hit and runner.”
Herlehy leaned back in his chair, pursed his lips. “Neither are we.” He permitted himself a grin at the drop of Liddell’s jaw. “We’re far from satisfied. But what put you on it?”
Liddell took a last drag on his cigarette, reached forward and crushed it out. “Horton’s sister-in-law. She thinks her husband killed him.”
The inspector raised his eyebrows. “Motive?”
“Jealousy and greed.”
Herlehy considered it, bobbed his head. “Good motive,” He explored the faint stubble along the side of his jaw with the tips of his fingers. “Opportunity?”
“Horton has a room behind the Nest. It opens on an alley that runs to the street. He says he left his brother in the club, went back to his room to rest.” Liddell shrugged. “The way I read it, he could have cut out that window, ran to the street, come up behind his brother and clobbered him. That’s why I wanted to see the type of injuries.”
Herlehy reached forward, pushed a button on the base of his phone. The door opened, a uniformed cop stuck his head in. “Get us a couple of coffees, will you, Ray? Regular for me, black for the shamus.”
The cop grinned at Liddell, withdrew his head.
Herlehy turned back to Liddell. “You wouldn’t be holding out, Liddell?”
“How?”
Herlehy shrugged. “You got a client on this, that I know. You implied it was the wife. It wouldn’t be the insurance company?”
Liddell shook his head. “No, but it’s an idea. Bob Horton is beneficiary. If it’s an accident, he collects double. If it was a murder—”
“The insurance company saves plenty.”
“And you think it was murder.”
Herlehy eyed him blandly. “Who said so? I said we were looking into it.” He reached into his basket, brought out a file. “When Mike told me you were snooping, I figured you might as well get it from the horse’s mouth.” He pushed the folder across the desk. “There’s the Horton file from A.I.D. Medical report, everything.”
Johnny Liddell lifted the report from the edge of the desk, flipped through it. He scowled at the medical report, looked up. “According to this, the injuries could have been sustained in a hit-and-run accident,” he said. “A depressed lineal fracture of the skull that could have been caused by contact with the curb.”
Herlehy nodded. “So, we’ve gone along with the hit-and-run verdict. Until and unless we can prove otherwise.”
The door opened, and the patrolman returned with two containers of coffee. He set them down on the desk. When he’d closed the door behind him on the way out, Herlehy leaned forward, snagged one of the containers.
“This is the black.” He pushed it across the desk, picked up the other container. “There was a car on that street that night, Johnny. A man walking his dog saw it come tearing down Sullivan Street just about the time of the accident.”
Liddell gouged the top out of his container. “You get a make?”
The inspector shook his head. “The usual. A dark sedan — could be a Ford or a Plymouth or a Chewy—”
“—or a DeSoto or any other kind,” Liddell nodded. He sipped at the coffee, burned his tongue and swore under his breath. “But there was a car? And it did come from where the body was found?”
Herlehy nodded. “There was a car.”
“So why do you even question that it was a hit-and-run killing?”
The inspector picked up a pencil, stirred the coffee in his container. “Because there was no dirt or mud where the body was found.”
Liddell stared at him, scowled.
“There’s always some dirt or mud dislodged from under the fender when a car hits somebody. Especially if it hits him hard enough to throw him against the curb to kill him.” The inspector raised his coffee to his mouth, took a deep swallow. “Nothing.”
“Then whoever was in that car could have witnessed the killing?” Liddell considered it, his scowl deepening. “Then why haven’t they come forward? They wouldn’t have to worry about getting tagged for a hit-and-run—”
Herlehy shook his head. “All they’d have to do would be to submit their car for an examination. No dents, no smashed, headlights, no paint knocked off, they’d be in the clear.” He took another swallow from the container. “But nobody’s come forward.”
“But why haven’t you—?”
Herlehy cut him off with a glance. “Done something about it? We have. We’ve alerted the insurance company not to pay the policy off.”
“I get it. The next move is up to the dead man’s brother.”
The inspector nodded. “And if that insurance is the motive for the murder, I don’t think we’ll have long to wait. And the faster the killer makes the next move, the more chance there is he’ll make a mistake. That’s what we’re counting on. That the killer’ll be stampeded into making a mistake.”