Authors: Frank Kane
Hook chortled loudly. “I saw him, too. And that ain’t all you spoiled!”
T
HE CITY ROOM
at the
Dispatch
was getting its breath between editions when Johnny Liddell walked in. Scraps of paper, crumpled newspapers, typewriters of varying vintages, telephones that had lost their luster from constant handling were scattered around the room. A few men in shirt sleeves, their coats hanging on the backs of their chairs, were pecking away at typewriters doing follows on stories that were already on the press.
At other desks, men were sitting back drinking coffee out of paper containers or just staring ahead getting their thoughts organized for stories they’d just covered. Four copy men were working on the rim and two in the slot slashing copy down to size.
Johnny Liddell worked his way through the desks, headed for the office Larry Dunlop formerly occupied. He knocked on the door and walked in. The lean man looked up from behind the desk where he was checking through copies of the competitive sheets.
“Hello, Liddell,” Eddie Connolly greeted him. His inquisitive gray eyes studied the private detective’s face. “What’s new?”
“Nothing, Connolly. I just came by to pay off a debt.”
The newspaperman crumpled the paper on his desk, dumped it into a barrel-sized wastebasket at his elbow. “How’s that?”
“Well, when Larry threw in with me, I promised him an exclusive on the Brother Alfred kill. He never got the exclusive.”
Connolly shrugged. “That’s the way it goes sometimes. Lalonde did such a beautiful cover-up job on that kill, it would have been suicide for us to break that story.” He shook his head. “Don’t think it didn’t eat my guts to have to sit on it. If Larry had been alive, we might have been able to bull it through, but I don’t pack his weight.”
“Well, I’m paying off on it just the same. I’ve got that exclusive. This time there won’t be any cover-up. In a couple of hours, the F.B.I. will be ready to verify that they’ve identified Brother Alfred as a West Coast hood on the lam.”
The man behind the desk straightened up. “No kidding? Who is he?”
“His name’s Al Frederici. Wanted on a couple of counts of murder and dope peddling out there.”
“You’re sure of this?”
Liddell nodded. “You can check it with Ben Grayson at the local F.B.I. office.” He stopped Connolly’s grab for the phone with a gesture. “That’s not all. The guy in that car wasn’t Brother Alfred. He’s still alive.”
Connolly tugged a phone off its receiver, jabbed at the button on its base. “Tear her down for a page-one remake, Al,” he barked into the mouthpiece. “We’ll be feeding copy within half an hour. That’s right. Get her set up.” He deflected the bar on the phone, lifted his finger, jabbed at another button. “Ellis? Get Grayson at the F.B.I. There’s a big story out of San Vincente. The guy in that wreck wasn’t Brother Alfred, and the F.B.I. is looking for him as Al Frederici.” The receiver sputtered back at him. “I don’t give a damn how important it is. Drop that and work on the F.B.I. angle. Turn your notes on the transit commission over to Collins.” He dropped the receiver on its hook, stared up at the clock, made some lightning estimates. “I can still make the city edition with it,” he chortled.
He started rushing toward the door, remembered Liddell, stopped. “Thanks, pal. If Larry were here he’d mark it off ‘paid in full.’ I’ll stand in for him on that one. If there’s anything we can do for you ever, just yell.” He rushed through the door, and Liddell could hear him shouting instructions. The city room dropped its appearance of apathy, was galvanized into feverish activity. Copy boys who were strolling around picking up copy, went scurrying out the door to round up members of the staff.
Connolly came bustling back into his office, slammed the door. He grabbed the phone, raised the composing-room. “Set up a scarehead, Tom. Run her ninety point to say ‘Cult Leader Exposed as Felon.’ Let’s have a proof on it right away.” He dropped the receiver, seemed surprised to see Liddell was still there.
“Look, Liddell, I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but we’re bucking a deadline on this one. Can’t we get together later?”
Liddell nodded. “I just want some information.”
The managing editor’s eyes crept up to the face of the clock on the wall. He nodded. “Shoot.”
“Ever hear of a man named Ramón Jorges?”
“Jorges, Jorges!” The man behind the desk tasted the word, shook his head. “He a local?”
“A Puerto Rican.”
“I never heard of him, but I have a boy who might be able to help you. Wally Paine.” His eyes crept back to the clock. “He used to work for INS out of Havana. He’s sort of our expert on Caribbean affairs.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Around about now he’s over at Murphy’s Annex across the way. If he’s not there, Al the bartender can probably tell you where to find him.” He scowled at the clock. “Don’t take too much of his time, will you, fellow? I’ve got a paper to get out.” The managing editor started pushing buttons, shouting instructions into the intercom. He had forgotten Johnny Liddell completely—didn’t even look up as the door slammed.
• • •
Murphy’s Annex was an auxiliary city room for the
Dispatch
staff. As Johnny Liddell walked in, the copy boys were herding together the rewrite and feature men who had been leaning against the bar. Liddell walked in, found himself a place at the bar.
“Bourbon and water,” he told the bartender.
The bartender filled a jigger, slid it across the bar, and slid a glass with ice and water alongside it. He picked up the bill Liddell dropped, rang it up, and dumped some change on the bar.
“Wally Paine in the place, Al?” Liddell asked.
The bartender stared at him and failed to give any sign of recognition.
“Why?”
Liddell grinned. “I’m not a process server or installment collector. Connolly, his M.E., told me I could find him here.”
The bartender thought it over, bought it. He glanced toward the far end of the bar. “The guy with the checked jacket down there.” He nodded at a tall, sandy-haired man drinking alone.
Liddell took a swallow from his glass, walked down the bar to where the sandy-haired man stood. “Paine? My name’s Liddell. Eddie Connolly over at your shop told me to look you up.”
The reporter turned, looked Liddell over. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to run down some information on a guy named Ramón Jorges. He’s a Puerto Rican. Ever hear of him?”
“Jorges?” Paine scowled, reached back to the filing-cabinet that was his memory. “He’s no Riqueno.”
“You know him?” Liddell asked eagerly.
Paine rubbed his hand across his face, concentrated. “If it’s the same Jorges. What’s this guy’s racket?”
Liddell shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know he’s been in Puerto Rico lately.”
“He wear thick black-rimmed glasses? Fairly short little gent. Speaks with a Spanish accent?”
“That sounds like him.”
Paine grinned, dumped a cigarette from the pack in front of him, got it lighted. “Don’t tell me he’s running around loose again?”
“He’s been around,” Liddell hedged.
“Does he still have that Caribbean legion setup?”
Liddell selected a cigarette, took a light from Paine’s. “I never heard of it.”
“Quite a gimmick,” Paine told him. “You know, that little man came damn near creating a real international incident right in our back yard with that Cox’s Army of his? Some of them were damn good fighting men, too.”
Liddell took a deep drag on his cigarette, added to the slow-moving fog that swirled slowly near the ceiling. “When was this?”
Paine stared up at the ceiling, pursed his lips. “Must have been in ‘47. I was running the INS bureau in Havana in ‘47 and ‘48. The story broke about the third month I was down there.” He took a swallow from his glass and tapped it on the bar to catch Al’s attention. “You don’t remember the story?”
Liddell shook his head.
“Well, this Caribbean legion had headquarters at Cayo Confites in Cuba. Everybody thought they were a bunch of crackpots. Drilled every day, all that kind of thing. All of a sudden word got out that they were planning an invasion on the Dominican Republic. They were all set to overthrow Trujillo and set this Jorges up as head man.”
“What happened?”
Paine shrugged. “The Cuban Government moved in. They confiscated the legion’s invasion fleet, a surplus U.S. landing craft.” He grinned. “That was the end of the invasion.”
“Make it two, and put it on my check, Al,” Liddell told the bartender. He waited until the drinks were poured and Al got busy elsewhere. “What happened to Jorges?”
“This is the first I’ve heard of him since then,” Paine told him. “I guess the confiscation of his LSC just about broke him.” He stroked his jaw. “If he’s in New Orleans, you don’t figure he’s cooking up another revolution, do you?”
“What would he be doing here?”
“Hell, there’ve been more Central American revolutions cooked up at the old Cosmopolitan on Royal Street than anywhere else in the place. Besides, if the legion is being reactivated, he’s going to need guns and ammo and maybe even another LSC.”
“Here?”
Paine nodded. “Here in the Quarter you can outfit a whole revolution from professional soldiers to an airplane carrier. It’s the same as in the old days, but today it takes more money.”
“Sounds a little bit like Richard Harding Davis, doesn’t it? In the old days, a successful revolution paid off plenty in concessions. What would the winners of a revolution get today?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s just a case of Latin politics boiling over again. They have to let off steam every so often.” Paine took a deep swallow from his glass, shrugged. “Then, again, some of those Caribbean republics would give a potential enemy a wonderful base of operations within striking distance of all our big cities and the Canal.”
Liddell tugged at his earlobe, shook his head. “Maybe our Central Intelligence makes some mistakes, but they’d never let anything slide that close to home.”
“I don’t think so either.” Paine drained his glass and declined a refill. “I’ve got to get back to the office, or Connolly’ll be sending a squad over to get me.” He clapped Liddell on the shoulder. “Good to know you, Liddell. If you get to see Jorges, give him my best.”
Liddell finished his drink, ordered a refill. He puzzled over what Paine had told him, but the pieces refused to fall into place. Jorges had a half-million dollars of the syndicate’s money, presumably to buy supplies for a revolution. He kicked the presumption around in his mind but rejected it. Certainly, the syndicate wasn’t underwriting a revolution to provide a base for the Communists or anybody else to—
It hit him suddenly. He snapped his fingers, grinned tightly.
The phone was in the back of the Annex. He walked back, fished a coin from his pocket, dropped it in the slot, and dialed Marty Kirk’s number. After a moment, Kirk came to the phone.
“I been trying to reach you, Liddell,” Kirk complained. “I want you to be here about nine-thirty.”
“Anything important?”
“Plenty. I heard from Frederici.” Kirk’s voice seemed to break. “He wants my half of the stub by ten tonight or I get hit.”
“You’re not giving it to him?”
Kirk laughed dryly. “You crazy? If I got to have somebody on my tail, I’ll take Frederici anytime instead of the syndicate’s troops.” He cleared his throat nervously. “You’ll be here?”
“I’ll be there. But answer me a question first. Where’s Lucky DeLucchio right now?”
The line seemed to go dead. Kirk’s voice was husky when he answered. “What kind of a question’s that to ask?”
“Where is he, Kirk? This is important.”
“In Sicily. He was deported ten years ago. He can’t come back.”
Liddell nodded. “But he’s still top man?”
“Sure he’s top man. The board has to report to him on everything. What the hell’s that got to do with me?”
“A lot,” Liddell assured him. “I just found out what the deal was that Jorges was cooking.”
The sound of Kirk’s indrawn breath came across the wire. “What?”
“Jorges has a private army all set up. The syndicate was backing him to guns and ammo to pull a revolution in some Caribbean island.”
“You gone nuts?” the receiver demanded. “What the hell would they shoot a half a million on that for?”
“Because Lucky’s getting pretty tired of sitting it out alone in Sicily, Marty. Awful tired.”
“So?”
“So they back this joker on a revolution. If he wins, it’s like the old days when the mob took over Cicero outside of Chi. They make their own laws, elect their own officials. Lucky would be allowed to live there, come and go as he pleased a few hours from the United States.”
“They wouldn’t go to all that trouble just to—”
“It’s even juicier than that, Marty. They’d have a base within handy distance of all our big cities and the Canal to shove their narcotics. And it’s close enough to Miami, New Orleans, New York, and Chi to set up a gambling-casino that would make Monte Carlo look like a penny arcade. And it could operate wide open, Marty.”
Marty’s voice sounded low. “You’re sure of that, Liddell?”
Liddell said yes. “That means that Lucky and the boys are going to be awful upset when they find someone pulled the plug out on their plans by killing Jorges, Marty.”
Kirk’s voice was almost inaudible. “Yeah. Awful mad.”
M
ARTY
K
IRK
was scared.
It showed in the little twitch under his left eye, the thin film of perspiration that glistened on his upper lip.
“He’s bluffing,” he said. “Only he picked the wrong guy to bluff.” He hit himself on the chest with the side of his hand. “Frederici’s crazy to think he can muscle Marty Kirk into a shake.”
Wanda looked up from her carefully shellacked fingernails, smiling lazily. “From the way you’ve been acting the past couple of days you sure could fool me.” Tonight her thick wavy black hair cascaded down over her shoulders in shimmering jet waves. Her body was ripe, lush. Swelling breasts showed over the top of her low-cut dress; a small waist hinted at the full hips, long shapely legs concealed by the fullness of her skirt. She turned the full force of the slanted green eyes on Liddell. “He hasn’t been out of this place in days. He says Alfred’s not bluffing him. Look at him shaking apart.”
“Shut up, you!” Kirk snarled at her.
Liddell looked over to where his client stood in front of the fireplace, clenching and unclenching his hands.
“How come you didn’t tell me before now that somebody’s been trying to shake you loose from your half o’ the stub?” he wanted to know. “Why wait until the last minute?”
Kirk shrugged. “I thought my boys could handle it. I thought it was Jorges, and we could smoke him out into the open.” He spat angrily into the fireplace. “They got no place.”
Liddell nodded, looked down at the typewritten sheet he held in his lap. “He wants the stub or you get it by ten tonight.” He consulted the watch on his wrist, grinned humorlessly. “That leaves exactly five minutes. I can’t do much for you in five minutes if your boys couldn’t even get to first base in five days.”
“I don’t want you to do anything. All I want you to do is stand by for a couple of hours.” Kirk wiped the perspiration off his upper lip with the back of his hand. “It ain’t that I don’t trust my boys, but I like the idea of having a gun handy I can be sure of.” He stole a nervous look at the clock on the desk, compared it with the watch on his wrist. “He’s bluffing. He’s got to be.”
The girl snorted, walked over to the big picture window, pushed back the blinds, stared down into the street ten stories below. Kirk started to yell at her, checked himself. With a shrug, he walked over behind her, hands going around her, lips to her neck.
“No need for you hanging around, baby,” he told her. “Go on back to your place. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Wanda coolly removed his hands from the front of her strapless gown. “By Ouija board?” Her eyes flickered past him, ignored the rush of angry color in his face. “So long, Liddell. I hope you enjoy holding his hand. I’m getting tired of it.”
She walked across the room and stopped with her hand on the knob. “Mind letting me out of this vault, Marty?”
Kirk walked to his desk and jabbed at a concealed button. The door opened, and Hook materialized in the opening. His hand was jammed deep in his bulging pocket, his eyes hopscotched around the room. Finally, they came to rest hungrily on the brunette.
The fullness of her lips straightened out into an angry line. “When you get to the lower rib, Hook, it’s really a birthmark.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell’s she talking about?”
“I didn’t know you weren’t done undressing me,” Wanda snapped at him. She turned to look at Marty. “I thought you were going to do something about this jerk looking at me that way.”
“No,” Kirk told her. “I’m going to do something about you when they stop looking at you that way, baby.” He nodded at Hook. “See that somebody puts her in a cab.”
The girl stamped through the doorway. The door swung shut behind her.
“That dame’s going to drive me screwy. I ain’t got enough on my mind, she’s got to get particular how a guy looks at her.” He wiped his forehead with the flat of his hand, stared at the dampness of his palm. “You figure like me, don’t you, Liddell? It’s a bluff?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe? You think he’s crazy enough to think I’ll stick my neck in a noose with the big boys just because he talks tough?”
Liddell shrugged. “Maybe whoever wrote that doesn’t expect you to kick in. Maybe he’s planning on hitting you and using this,” he held up the typewritten note, “as a cover.”
Kirk’s eyes receded behind their discolored pouches. “Go on.”
“If you did get it and the mob found this note, they’d be looking for Jorges, figuring like you did that he was behind it.” Liddell brought a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, stuck one in the corner of his mouth. “Frederici doesn’t know yet that we know who’s in that box. Or maybe it isn’t Frederici at all.”
“What do you mean? Who would it be?”
“Some of your own boys, maybe. Could even be some of your organization who don’t like the way things are going—Camden and the temple getting knocked over, things getting out of hand.”
Marty watched the private detective apply a match to his cigarette, exhale twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. “That’s crazy. They know better than that.”
Liddell shrugged. “Then maybe the letter is on the level. Maybe Frederici is putting his whole pile on the line for a winner-take-all roll.” He took the cigarette from between his lips, rolled it between thumb and forefinger. “This is just conversation. You said yourself I’m not here to crack this thing in five minutes. I’m just up here to keep you company.”
Marty nodded jerkily. “Yeah, that’s right.” He stole another quick look at the watch on his wrist. “Two minutes to go,” he said. “How about a drink, Liddell? I got some of that private stock you like.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Kirk walked over to his desk and jabbed at the button. The door swung open. Hook’s dark head appeared in the opening.
“Bring in a bottle of my private stock, Hook,” Kirk told him.
After the door swung shut, Marty drummed on the edge of the desk with thick fingers, stared at the closed door thoughtfully. “You were just making with the talk when you said it might be some of my boys, weren’t you, Liddell?”
“Not entirely. It’s a possibility. I don’t see how anybody else could hope to get at you.” He looked around. “How many ways to get in here?”
“Just that door. The way you came.” Kirk walked over, sat on the edge of an upholstered chair facing Liddell. “They’d need a tank to get through there. First they’ve got to go through the lobby, get past Tim and half a dozen of my boys I got planted around. Then they got to get past Hook, who’s planted out front of the door here.” Perspiration glistened on his forehead. “Unless Hook’s in on it.”
“It’s been known to happen.” Liddell checked his watch, slid his .45 from its holster, rested it between his thigh and the arm of his chair. “He’d be the ideal guy to handle the contract.”
“Why should he? The Hook’s been with me since I ran the old Variety Club over in the Quarter. That’s twenty years ago. Why should he want to see me hit?”
“Who knows? You saw the way he looked at the babe. Maybe he figures he’ll rate if you’re not in the way. Maybe he figures—”
Marty’s jaw sagged. He jumped up, paced the room. “You’re nuts.” He stopped in front of Liddell’s chair. “He wouldn’t pull anything like that. Just for a dame!”
“Not only for the dame, Marty. No guy likes to stay Number Two boy all his life. You were Number Two boy in this town once. Seems to me your boss met with a bad accident. His tough luck was your good luck.”
Kirk’s face clouded ominously. Some of the old menace gleamed through the slitted eyelids. “He got soft. He didn’t rate—” He broke off as the door opened and the bodyguard entered with a bottle, two glasses, and some ice. Kirk’s eyes followed the small man as he crossed the room, set down the tray. “Pour it, Hook.”
The guard dropped two pieces of ice into each glass, drenched them down with whisky from an unlabeled bottle.
“Ever try that private stock of mine, Hook?” Kirk asked silkily.
The thin man looked startled, rolled his eyes upward without raising his head. “You give us all orders to keep our hands off. Regular whisky’s good enough for me.” He picked up the glasses, held one out to Liddell, the other to Kirk. His eyes didn’t change expression as he saw the .45 Liddell cradled carelessly in his lap.
“Try it once, Hook,” Kirk told him.
The bodyguard looked from Marty to Liddell and back. “What’s the idea, boss?”
“Try it.” Kirk’s voice was edged, harsh.
The thin man shrugged. “Okay.” He put one glass back on the desk, raised the other to his lips. He sniffed at it for a second, then, tilting his head back, he drained the glass. His thin lips tilted upward at the corners in what he intended as a smile as he reached to set the glass back on the desk.
He never made it.
His body seemed to stiffen. He laced both hands against his midsection, stretched up on his toes. Then slowly his knees buckled, tumbling him to the floor.
Liddell was out of his chair in a second, kneeling beside the fallen man. Marty seemed frozen to the spot. “The rat! It was him. He tried to poison me!”
Liddell looked up, shook his head. “Not unless that stuff’s sharper than it was in the old days. He’s bleeding.” He pointed to a rapidly spreading dark spot on the front of Hook’s jacket.
“Bleeding? How the hell can that be?” Marty walked over, stared down at the body.
“Get back!” Liddell shouted.
There was a faint hum of an angry bee. Marty jerked his hands to his face. Red started to trickle through the fingers. He pitched forward and hit the floor face down. He didn’t move.
Liddell flattened himself against the floor, tugged the .45 from Hook’s pocket, wormed his way to the window. He applied a cautious eye to the corner and tried to locate the source of the shots.
Directly across the street were a hotel, a huge modern office building, and on the corner a department store. He eliminated the hotel as not being high enough and the department store as unlikely, settled for the office building. He leaned the barrel of the .45 on the window sill, watched, waited.
He didn’t have long to wait. In a matter of seconds, a dark shadow separated itself from the other shadows, headed for the edge of the roof. Finally, a man’s leg appeared over the edge and felt for the top landing of the fire escape. Then the rest of the body came into view. The man peered over the railing to the alley below, seemed satisfied, started down the stairs.
Liddell waited until the upper portion of the man’s body sat on the front sight of his .45, then squeezed the trigger. The boom of the .45 was deafening in the close confines of the soundproofed room.
Across the street, the man on the fire escape staggered. He tried to get back to the roof, stumbled to his knees. Slowly, he managed to pull himself to his feet, stood swaying. Liddell’s .45 barked again.
The man on the fire escape stiffened, clawed at the guard rail. His knees folded under him. He toppled over the low rail, crashed headlong to the alley below.
Liddell knelt with his eyes glued to the window until he was satisfied that the gunman across the way had been alone. Then he walked back to where Marty lay, turned him over on his back. A blue-black hole that was still bubbling under his right eye made it apparent that he was beyond help.
The private detective debated the advisability of reporting the shooting to the police, lost the decision. He was too close to the end of the twisting trail to be detoured by police procedure. He wiped Hook’s .45 clean and dropped it alongside the dead bodyguard’s body. He picked his up from his chair and stuck it in its holster. Then he headed for the street.
The street was cool after the closeness of Marty’s penthouse. The cross streets were filled with heavy after-dinner traffic, but the square was relatively deserted. Liddell crossed the street and blended into the shadows of the tall office building. When he had satisfied himself that he was unobserved, he slipped into the alley that ran alongside it.
The man was spread-eagled over a stack of garbage cans. Lying near by, its stock shattered by the fall, was a high-powered rifle equipped with telescopic sights and silencer. Liddell leaned over the man’s face, studied his features, failed to recognize him. Imported talent.
Quickly, efficiently, he ran through the man’s pockets and transferred the wallet, a few papers, and a key with a small red tag into his own pockets.
Then he retraced his steps up the alley, swung onto the avenue, and headed for a cab.