Джонатан Крейг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 12, December, 1953

The fat man sighed again, shook his head.

“How about his secretary? Would she know?”

“I haven’t talked to her yet. I came right here from the morgue.” He ran the damp handkerchief across his face again. “We want you to find Barney’s killer, Liddell.”

Liddell swirled the liquor around the paper cup, stared down at it. “How about the police? That’s their job.”

“I’d feel better if you worked on it, too. You know how much pull those dock racketeers have. I wouldn’t rest if we didn’t get the man who did that to him.” He licked at his full lips. “You wouldn’t, either, if you saw him on that slab, Johnny.”

Liddell nodded, tossed off his drink, threw the cup at the waste basket. “Where do I find this secretary of his?”

The fat man fumbled at his pocket, brought out a small memo book. He wet the tip of his finger, flipped through the pages, found the pencilled note he wanted. “Her name’s Lois Turner. She lives at 331 East 38th Street. Apartment 3D.” He closed the book, returned it to his pocket. “You’ll take the case?”

“I’ll take a stab at it,” Liddell nodded. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“Just one thing. Barney Shields was getting a lot of information from one of the union boys. You’ve got to keep him covered.”

“What’s his name?”

The fat man shook his head. “I don’t know if—”

“Look, I’m playing with a marked deck as it is. Don’t stack the cards as well. Who’s the fink?”

“Lulu Monti. He’s one of the organizers.”

“A meatball, eh?”

The fat man stared. “A what?”

“A meatball. A strong arm man,” Liddell growled. “Know where I can find him?”

The fat man shook his head. “Shields kept him well covered. I was the only one that knew Monti was working with us.” He looked worried. “You’ll keep him covered, Liddell?”

Liddell nodded, chewed on his thumb nail. “I’ll keep him covered.” He snapped back his sleeve, scowled at his watch. “If I’m going to get started on this thing, it might as well be now.”

“Where are you going to start?”

Liddell shrugged. “You mean I’ve got a choice? Apparently the only lead I’ve got is his secretary, and chances are she doesn’t know too much of what he’s been doing.”

“That’s the trouble,” the fat man said. “Barney always was a solo. Will you be reporting to us?” He sighed at the necessity for movement, decided it was inevitable, and pulled himself out of his chair with a lugubrious grunt.

“Not until I have something worthwhile to report,” Liddell said.

331 East 38th Street turned out to be an old-fashioned residential hotel set almost in the shadow of the Third Avenue El. It had a faded awning that showed signs of having waged a losing battle with time and strong winds. Nobody had bothered to patch the gaping rips that flapped noisily in the evening breeze.

The prim little lobby inside had the requisite number of tired rubber plants, a few chairs obviously not intended to be sat on, and a general air of decay. The impression was borne out by the shabby registration desk and the old man who presided over it. He blew his nose noisily and favored the detective with a jaundiced look.

“Miss Turner. Lois Turner.”

The old man stowed the dingy handkerchief in his hip pocket, looked at the fly-specked face of the alarm clock on his desk. “After nine, mister. We don’t allow men upstairs after nine.”

“Police business,” Liddell told him.

The old man sniffed. “How many cops have to see her?” he grumbled. “One left no more’n half hour ago.”

“Just tell her Johnny Liddell wants to see her,” he cut short the complaint.

The old man started to argue, shrugged. He shuffled to a small office set at the end of the desk, stuck his head in. “Call Turner. Tell her she’s got more company. Detective name of Liddell.” He waited in the doorway for a few moments, then shuffled back. “Says for you to go up. It’s 3D.” He stared at Liddell sadly. “Management don’t like men visitors this hour.”

“Good thing I’m not visiting the management, huh?” Liddell followed him to an open-grill elevator at the back of the lobby.

The blonde who opened the door to 3D was tall. Her hair had been clipped short, curled around her head. A blue silk gown managed to cling skin-tight to her curves under the guise of covering them. It was, Liddell noted, a figure worth clinging to, high-breasted, narrow-waisted, long-legged. Her lips were full and moist, her eyes green and slanted.

“What was it about?” The slanted eyes hop-scotched from the broad shoulders to the face approvingly. “I’ve already told the police all I know.”

“I’m not police. I’m a private op. Lee Devon asked me to take over for Barney Shields.”

She stood aside. “Come on in.” She led the way into a surprisingly well-furnished living room. “Lee didn’t lose any time, did he?”

Liddell tossed his hat at a table, walked over to the couch and sat down. “He seemed to think you could give me a hand.”

The blonde walked over to the coffee table in front of the couch, leaned over to pick a cigarette from the humidor. It had a devastating effect on the neckline, confirming Liddell’s conviction that she wore nothing under the gown. “I’d like to, if I can.” She stuck the cigarette between her lips. “Tell me what I can do.”

Liddell grinned at her. “I’ve got a hunch nobody would ever have to tell you what you can do.”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” she grinned back. She walked over to the kitchen door. Her body moved tantalizingly against the smooth fabric of the gown. When she returned a moment later with a bottle and glasses, the effect from the front was equally satisfying. She set them down on the coffee table, dropped down alongside Liddell, accepted a light for her cigarette. “But if you’re talking about Barney, I don’t think I can help much.” She took a deep drag on the cigarette, let it dribble lazily from half-parted lips.

“You talked to him today?”

The blonde nodded. “He wanted me to ask Devon to meet him in the back row of the movie at 7:30.” She took another drag on the cigarette, removed it from between her lips and studied the carmined end with distaste. “When Devon got there, Barney was already dead.”

“You don’t know what he had to report?”

Lois shook her head.

“It sounded important?”

“Very.”

Liddell scowled at the bottle on the coffee table, reached over, poured some liquor in each of the glasses, took one. “Know a guy named Monti?”

The blonde caught her full lower lip between her teeth, chewed it for a moment. “The one they call Lulu? The union goon?”

Liddell nodded. “Shields ever mention him?”

The blonde shook her head. “No more than any of the rest. I guess he was one of the gang Barney was after.”

“Guess again. He was stooling for Barney. I’ve got to get to him.”

The green eyes widened. “You sure of that?”

“Reasonably. Know any way we can catch up with him tonight? Shields never mentioned any contacts or places he hung out?” He smelled the liquor in his glass, tasted it. It tasted as good as it smelled.

The blonde took a last drag on her cigarette, crushed it out in an ashtray. She glanced at the tiny baguette on her wrist. “He might be down at the union hall. Maybe I could reach him there.” She looked up at Liddell. “Suppose I can?”

“I want to see him. Tonight.”

“Suppose he doesn’t want to see you?”

“Tell him who you are. Tell him Barney’s dead and he may be next unless he plays ball.”

The blonde shook her head uncertainly. “I’ll try it. But I’m not too sure it’ll work. That big goon doesn’t scare easily, from what I’ve heard.” She reached over, picked up her glass, took a deep swallow. “Wish me luck.”