The fire escape was empty. He pulled up the window sash, stuck his eye to the corner. In the dimness of the yard, he saw a figure heading for the alley exit. He fired at it. The slug screeched shrilly as it ricochetted off the pavement.
The figure in the yard spun. There was a vicious spit as its hand seemed to belch orange flame. It spat twice more. Once it gouged a piece of concrete from the wall close enough to Liddell’s head to sting him with its splinters. He pulled his head in. By the time he looked again, the figure had disappeared through the doorway into the alley.
Liddell scowled at the pounding on his door. He walked back, snapped on the light, tugged the door open. A white-faced manager stood in the doorway. “What’s going on?” he quavered, his eyes hop-scotching around the room, coming to rest on the.45 in Liddell’s fist.
“Sneak thief,” Liddell grunted. “No harm done.”
“That’s what you think,” the manager complained. “Half the tenants have been scared out of a week’s growth. Mrs. Maher down below had a fainting spell and—”
Liddell pushed the door closed. “Tell them it was a Civil Defense drill. Tell them the next time they hear shooting to head for the shelter.” He closed the door in the man’s face, headed for the telephone stand.
The directory gave the number of the Nest as We-6 2359. He slammed the book shut, dialled the number. After a moment, a shrill voice came through the receiver.
“The Nest. Good evening.”
“Let me talk to Bob Horton.”
There was a slight pause. “Sorry, Pops. He ain’t showed yet tonight. Ain’t heard a word from him. But we got some Gerry Mulligan biscuits that—”
Liddell depressed the bar on the phone, waited a few seconds, then dialled a number. He listened to it ring five times, then a sleepy voice growled at him. “This is Herlehy.”
“Sorry to call you at home, inspector.”
“Who is this?”
“Liddell. Now, wait a minute—” He staved off any complaint. “I wouldn’t have called if it weren’t an emergency. If you want to stop another killing, you’d better pick up Bob Horton.”
There was a slight pause. “Why?”
“Somebody just shot up my apartment. Horton hasn’t shown at the upholstered sewer he works in. By now, the fat’s in the fire. The insurance company has already served warning they’re not paying off. There’s no telling what he’ll do next.”
The sleepiness was gone from the inspector’s voice. “I’ll get the boys right on it. If you get anything, don’t try grandstanding. Get right back to me. I’ll be in my office.”
“Me, grandstand? You know me, inspector.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m warning you. No grandstanding!” There was a click as the connection was broken.
Liddell dropped his receiver on its hook. He walked into the kitchenette, brought in a bottle of Scotch, some ice and a glass. He poured himself a stiff shot, dropped in ice. Then he brought a box of cartridges out of the drawer, started reloading the.45.
He was on his third cigarette and his second Scotch when the telephone shrilled at his elbow. He scooped the receiver up, held it to his ear.
“Johnny? This is Sally Horton.” Her voice was low, breathless. “I’m in the lobby of your building. Can I come up?”
“Come ahead. I’m in room five hundred six.”
“I’ll be right up.”
Liddell frowned at the receiver, dropped it back on its hook. He walked into the kitchen, brought in another glass. He had just filled it with ice and was washing it down with Scotch when there was a knock on the door. He slid the.45 from its holster, walked over to the door, pulled it open.
It was the blonde. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the.45. He grinned at her, stuck it back into its hammock. “Don’t mind the artillery. I’ve already had a visitor this evening who antiqued my furniture with bullet holes. I wanted to make sure you were here under your own power.”
Sally Horton walked in. Her eyes took in the smashed window, the fresh scars in the wall and door where bullets had gouged out deep splinters. She turned to Liddell. “Was it Bob?”
He shrugged. “Figures. He didn’t show at the club tonight.” He led her to the table, handed her a drink. “Whoever it was waiting for me when I got home, he was a lousy shot. But I’m not planning to give him a chance to improve with practice.”
The girl took a deep swallow from the glass, set it down. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, save for a smear of lipstick. She wore a full-length camel’s hair polo coat, loafers, no stockings.
“He’s home. At my place.” She caught Liddell by the lapels. “He’s a crazy man, Johnny. I managed to lock myself in the bedroom and get out by the fire escape. He was raving and ranting about being double-crossed. I was scared.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I don’t want him to kill you, Johnny. And he will. I tell you he’s crazy.”
“Sit down and catch your breath.” He helped her out of her coat, whistled softly. Under it she wore only a pair of light blue pajamas, the trouser legs rolled up to her knees.
“I... I was ready for bed when he came. I was too scared to take time to dress. I just grabbed a coat and ran.”
Johnny fought to keep his glance at face level, lost the struggle. “I’d better get over there. You make yourself at home until—”
She caught his hand. “Don’t go now. Give him an hour or so. I know Bob. He’ll knock himself out, then pass out.” She was close to him, he could feel her breath on his face. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I’d better get it over with. I’ll be back.”
The blonde shrugged. She walked over to the end table, helped herself to a cigarette. “Suit yourself.”
When she turned and walked toward him, the sway of her torso traced patterns on the shiny silk of her pajama jacket. “Please be careful.” She walked up to him, covered his mouth with hers.
Johnny Liddell stopped outside the Horton apartment, put his ear to the door. The only sound was his own heavy breathing after the three flight walk-up. He tugged the.45 loose from its holster, reached for the knob. It turned in his hand. He pushed the door open, stepped back out of range. After a moment, he stepped into the open doorway, fumbled along the wall for the switch.
Bob Horton sat in an upholstered chair not ten feet from him, staring at him with unblinking eyes. His arm dangled over the side of the chair, almost touching the.38 that lay there. A stream of red ran from the corner of his mouth. There was a small black hole through his left temple, with a ragged rip on the side of his jaw where the slug had taken a piece of the bone with it on the way out.
Liddell closed the door, walked over and stared down at the dead man. He reached down, pulled up the sleeve on Horton’s right arm. In addition to the punctures he had seen the night before, there were several new ones, discolored, angry looking, an inch or so apart.
Liddell walked to the bedroom door, tried it. It was still locked. He took a last look around the room, walked to the telephone, dialled headquarters.
“Inspector Herlehy,” he told the operator.
“The inspector comes on in the morning. I’ll let you have—”
Liddell persuaded the man at the switchboard to try the inspector’s office, heard the grunt of surprise when Herlehy answered.
“This is Liddell, Inspector. I found Bob Horton at his place.”
“Keep him there. I’ll have some men—”
Liddell glanced over at the man slumped in the chair. “Won’t be any trouble keeping him. He’s wearing the hole from a.38 for an extra ear.” He could hear the inspector’s breath hiss through his teeth. “Gun’s right here on the floor beside him.”
“We’ll be right over.”