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

“You call in?” he asked.

Liddell shook his head.

“He’s a private cop, Lieutenant. Came here to keep a date with the dead guy. He was here when we got here,” the older cop volunteered.

The homicide man walked over to the body, studied the wounds with a practiced eye. Then he nodded to the specialists with him to take over. He walked over to the two prowl car men, muttered a few words, studied the notes the cop had made in his leather notebook. After a moment, he handed the book back, walked over to Liddell.

“Your name’s Liddell?”

The private detective nodded.

“I’m Roddy. Lieutenant in Homicide.” He rattled the juice in the stem of the briar. “I’ve heard the inspector speak of you.” He took the pipe from between his teeth, knocked out a dottle of tobacco. “Want to tell me what this is all about?”

Liddell dug into his pocket, came up with a cigarette. “I’m doing a job for Seaway Indemnity. Trying to bust up a pilfering mob that’s costing the company important money.”

Roddy pulled a pouch from his pocket, dipped the bowl of the pipe into it, started packing it with the tip of his index finger. He nodded for Liddell to continue.

“I was supposed to see this character tonight around midnight. He was stooling for us.” He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, lit it. “This is the way I found him.”

“Barney Shields used to work for Seaway.” Roddy’s colorless eyes rolled from Liddell to the icepick wounds on the dead man. “He got his with an icepick, too.” The eyes returned to Liddell’s face. “Any connection?”

“Monti was Shields’ stool. I was trying to pick up the threads.” He waited until the homicide man had initialled the DOA form for the medical examiner’s man. “He was practically my only lead.”

Roddy scratched an old-fashioned wooden match with his thumb nail, held it to his pipe. “Too bad you didn’t tell us about Monti earlier. He mightn’t be there now.”

Liddell shrugged. “You’ll have to take that up with Seaway. I just came on the job.” He blew a stream of smoke through his nostrils. “Need me for anything else, lieutenant?”

The homicide man considered it, shook his head. “Not right now. Drop by the office in the morning. The inspector might want to have a little talk with you.”

Liddell nodded. “Okay if I take my gun along with me?”

The older of the two prowl car cops looked to the lieutenant, drew a nod, handed the gun over.

“Don’t forget, Liddell,” Roddy told him. “We’ll expect to be seeing you in the morning.”

Johnny Liddell swerved the convertible to the curb outside Lois Turner’s apartment hotel, turned off the motor, swung around in his seat, stared up the avenue.

“What’s the matter, Liddell? You’ve been looking over your shoulder all the way downtown.”

“Force of habit, I guess.” He reached across her, pushed open the door. “Head for the lobby fast and keep going.”

“Why?” The blonde looked back, saw the black sedan as it swung around the corner a block away. “You think someone is—”

“Maybe I’m buck shy, baby,” Liddell growled, “but I think that heap’s been following us. Do like I say.” He pushed the girl out, started to follow her to the lobby.

The black sedan put on a burst of speed, pulled up abreast of the entrance. There was a dull glint of metal in the car’s back window; then it started to belch flame. Liddell had his .45 in his hand, squeezing the trigger as he started to fall away.

Heavy calibre bullets gouged trenches in the concrete near his head. He brought the .45 up, sat the back window on its front sight. Suddenly a heavy slug hit him in the chest, slamming him back against the ground. The heavy boom of the gun in the car’s back seat could still be heard above the roar of the motor as the car pulled away from the curb, gathered speed.

Liddell lay on his back, was dimly aware of a crowd gathering, of the numbness in his chest, of the re-assuring coldness of the butt of the .45 against the heat of his palm. He tried to get up, fell back weakly.

From somewhere an authoritative voice impressed itself on his consciousness. “Let me through. If that man’s hurt, I can help. I’m a doctor.”

Liddell had a blurred impression of a wedge-shaped face bending over him, white teeth bared in a fixed grin. He caught the movement as the man’s hand dipped under his jacket, came out with the icepick.

Liddell laboriously raised the .45, squeezed the trigger. The dark face dissolved in a flood of red; the icepick clattered to the ground.

Somewhere a woman screamed shrilly as the icepick artist’s body fell across Liddell. A dark cloud moved in, squeezed consciousness from the detective’s mind. He closed his eyes, was swirled into the middle of the blackness.

When Johnny Liddell opened his eyes, a white-faced Lois Turner was bending over him. He tried to move, had the sensation of being nailed to the sidewalk.

“Don’t move, Johnny,” the blonde whispered. “An ambulance is on its way.”

He looked past her to where two policemen stood scribbling in their report books. One held Liddell’s .45 wrapped in a handkerchief.

“He’s alive,” someone in the crowd murmured morbidly. They crowded closer for a better look.

One of the cops strolled over, pushed the crowd back. “Give ’im air,” he ordered. He bent over Liddell. “How you feel, Bud?”

Liddell attempted to nod his head, regretted the impulse. The black cloud threatened to move in on him again. He closed his eyes, fought it off.

“Can’t you leave him alone until the ambulance gets here?” he heard Lois say. “I told you everything you have to know. They tried to kill him from a car and then they sent a man with an icepick to finish the job. You have enough witnesses. Ask them. Any of them. They all saw it.”

“Look, lady,” the cop explained patiently. “No matter how many people saw it, a couple of guys turn my beat into a shooting gallery, I got to have some answers when my boss starts asking questions. Now—”

He broke off as the ambulance skidded to a stop at the curb, disgorged a white-coated interne. He shouldered his way through the crowd, walked over to the cop. “Save any for me?”

The cop pointed to Liddell with a pencil. “He’s all yours, doc.”

The interne nodded, knelt at Liddell’s side. He tore open Liddell’s bloody shirt, swabbed the chest dry with gauze, grunted. He looked up at the cop. “What’s supposed to have happened to this guy, Mac?”

The cop shrugged. “Stopped a couple. Some guys in a car—”

“Not this guy.” The interne flipped back Liddell’s jacket, examined the heavy leather holster. “Take a look at this. This took the slug, deflected it.” he scratched at his head. “But where the hell did all the blood come from?”

“You ought to see the other guy,” the cop grunted. He leaned over, stared at Liddell. “He ain’t punctured at all?”

The interne shook his head. “His chest’ll be sore where that slug kicked him, but the worst he’s got’s maybe a cracked rib. Where’s the other guy?”

The cop led the way to another form covered with newspapers. The interne leaned over, took a look, drew the breath in through his teeth. “What’d he try to do? Swallow a cannon?” He dropped the newspapers back over the dead man’s face. “We’re not dirtying up our nice clean ambulance with that. I’ll give you a DOA on him and you can have the meat wagon pick him up.” He pulled the printed form from his pocket, scribbled on it, handed it back to the policeman.

“You’re sure he’s all right, doctor?” Lois wanted to know.

The interne nodded. “Might pay to have some X-rays taken.” He leaned over Liddell. “How’s about coming in with us and getting checked over?”