David Alexander - Masters of Noir - Volume 2

“Any word on the car?”

Herlehy shook his head. “Not yet. But we’ll find it if it’s in town. And I can’t figure a city rat like Eastman dumping the car in the sticks and making his way back. He wouldn’t feel safe unless he could disappear down a sewer or into a subway.”

It was almost noon before the car was recovered.

Inspector Herlehy sat sleeping in his desk chair in his office, heels hooked on the corner of his desk, window shades drawn. Johnny Liddell lay sprawled on the big leather couch. When the phone shrilled, the inspector started, dropped his legs from the desk. He lifted the receiver from its hook, held it to his ear, growled into it. After a moment, he replaced the receiver, walked stiffly to the window, opened the blinds, spilled a yellow pool of sunlight into the office. He walked over to the small sink, splashed cold water into his face, dragged a comb through his hair.

Liddell rolled over onto his back, stared around the room. His eyes finally came to focus on the inspector. “What time’s it?” he yawned.

“Near noon,” Herlehy grunted. He ran the tips of his finger along the stubble on his chin. “Motor Vehicle picked the car up on Canal Street about an hour ago. Identification’s been going over it for fingerprints. No soap.”

Liddell slid his legs off the couch, sat up. “What about the package?”

“They found it behind the cushion. It’s on its way up.” He walked over, sank into his desk chair, stabbed at a button on his desk. When a young patrolman stuck his head in the door, he said tiredly, “Get us a couple of coffees, will you, Ray?”

“One black,” Liddell added.

The cop’s head was withdrawn. The door closed.

Liddell tottered to the sink, doused his face and hair. He was drying them off on the towel when a knock came on the door and Hennessy of Motor Vehicle walked in. He grinned a hello at Liddell, dropped a familiar brown paper-wrapped package on the inspector’s desk. “Right where you said it’d be, inspector.”

Herlehy nodded. He picked up the package, turned it over curiously in his hand. Then he broke the string. “Let’s see what all the shooting’s about.” The brown paper wrapper peeled away to reveal a canvas pouch loosely basted at the top. Herlehy ripped the thread with his nail, dumped the contents of the bag on his desk top.

A cascade of diamonds of all sizes flowed onto the desk.

Liddell tossed the towel at its hook, whistled. “I’ll be damned.”

Herlehy stirred the pile with a blunt forefinger. “At least it makes sense. It explains where Eastman fits into the picture.” He picked up one of the larger stones, held it up to the light, murmured appreciatively.

Hennessy, the man from Motor Vehicle, closed his mouth. It had been hanging open since the diamonds first poured out. “You knew this was there all the time?”

“We weren’t sure what was in it,” Herlehy said. He scooped the stones back into their bag. “This is the same bag Varden gave you last night?”

Liddell nodded.

Herlehy reached into his drawer, found a rubber band, closed the neck of the pouch, dropped it on his desk top. “Tie this up the same way I do, Johnny?”

“The epidemic of jewel jobs?”

Herlehy nodded. “It figures. Most of the jobs were Cafe Society. Who’s in a better spot to finger the jobs? While Varden was strutting around, she could have been in a swell spot to get a slant at the worthwhile ice those rich dames were sporting. Then she signaled somebody—”

“Eastman?”

Herlehy considered it, shook his head. “No, not Eastman. It’d have to be somebody that was there every night or could go there without being conspicuous. Eastman couldn’t. As an ex-con, one of the boys on the vice squad would have spotted him if he made the bright lights too often.”

“I better be getting back downtown, inspector,” Hennessy put in. “Do I tell the boss about this?”

Herlehy nodded. “Tell him to keep it quiet until we get ready to break it.”

The patrolman with the coffee passed Hennessy on the way in. He deposited two containers of coffee on the desk.

Herlehy flipped the canvas bag at him. “Take this down to the Property Clerk and get me a receipt on it, Ray,” he told him.

Liddell gouged the top out of his container, tasted it, burned his tongue and swore under his breath. “The lab boys didn’t come up with anything in Varden’s apartment?”

Herlehy shook his head. “Some guy who couldn’t sleep saw a man knocking at her door, but it was only Morton, the newspaper guy. We knew about that. Outside of that, a dry well.” He stirred his coffee with his finger. “If we could find Eastman and shake out of him who it was that gave him the orders to pick you up—”

“Why don’t we work backwards? Who knew I was in to see Varden? Just the headwaiter, the guy she called Charles. He must have tipped Eastman.”

Herlehy looked thoughtful. “A headwaiter, eh? He could fit the picture. He’s in the club every night. He could be the one Varden signalled to. He—” The inspector scowled, shook his head. “It don’t wash. Look, suppose Varden was fingering for a jewel mob. She decides to doublecross them and hold out a batch of stones for herself. Does it make sense that she’d let the head man know who she was giving them to for safekeeping?”

Liddell pinched his nostrils between thumb and forefinger. “Unless Charles got together with Eastman and decided to doublecross the big shot. Then he could have pulled a triple cross by telling the big shot that Mona was getting ready to pull out.”

Herlehy took a swallow of coffee, grunted. “The only way we’ll know for sure is to ask them.” He drained the container, tossed it at a waste basket. “I’ve got a call out for both of them. We’ll get them — and when we do we’ll get a few answers to a few questions.”

Johnny Liddell lived in the Hotel Abbott, an old, weather-beaten, grime-darkened stone building that nestled anonymously in a row of similar stone buildings on East 31st Street. The lobby was large, noisy, seemed bathed in a perpetual pink light, the reflection of the huge neon sign to the right of the entrance that identified The Cowl Room — Cocktails. The easy chairs spaced throughout the lobby were filled with men who perused their newspapers with a determination undampened by the noise around them.

A short fat man at the cigar counter was trying, with indifferent success, to interest the blonde who presided over it in his plans for the evening. She looked over his shoulder, waved at Liddell as he came in.

Liddell winked back and headed for the bank of elevators in the rear, but was deterred by a gesture from the immaculate creature behind the registration desk.

“A message for you, sir,” he said importantly. He made a production of removing an envelope from a pigeonhole prominently numbered 625. He handed it across the desk, worked hard at a semblance of an urbane smile that missed by miles. “Your friends were disappointed that they missed you.” He stood adjusting his cuffs.

Liddell turned the envelope over. It bore the return address of the Hotel Abbott, had “Johnny Liddell” scrawled across the front. He looked up into the clerk’s eyes.

“They wanted to leave a message, so I suggested they use our facilities.” He dry-washed his hands, bobbed his head.

Liddell slit open the envelope, pulled out a folded sheet of note paper. It was blank on both sides. He growled under his breath, swung the register around, satisfied himself that no new arrivals occupied adjoining rooms or rooms across the hall.

“What’d these friends of mine look like?” Liddell demanded.

“I only saw one. He had a slight accent, and—”

Liddell growled, started away from the desk toward the elevator.