Lawrence Block - Masters of Noir - Volume 1

Liddell followed the darkened hallway to the open door. He stopped at the entrance to the room and looked around. Two men looked at him incuriously. One of them, a tall man in a rumpled blue suit and a battered fedora, grunted, “Who’s this, Allen?”

“Name’s Liddell. Says he wants to see Miss Lane.”

“Be my guest,” the man in the rumpled suit grunted. He walked over to where a blanket was draped over a suggestively shaped bulge, pulled it back.

Laury Lane lay on her back, her arm crooked languidly over her head. Her thick blonde hair was a tangle on the thick pile of the rug. Her green eyes were half closed. Her lips, full and inviting, seemed set in a half smile. A hole midway between her full breasts had spilled an ugly red stain on the white silk of her evening gown.

The man in the blue suit watched the scowl ridge Liddell’s forehead. He dropped the blanket back over the girl’s face. “You say you’re Liddell?”

The private detective nodded, dug into his pocket, brought out a pack of cigarettes and held it up for approval. When the lieutenant nodded, he stuck one in the corner of his mouth where it waggled. “I’m Liddell. Who’re you?”

The man in the blue suit pinched at his nostrils with thumb and forefinger. “Murray. Lieutenant in homicide out here. Mind telling me what brings you out this way at this hour?”

“Lane was a client. She wanted to see me.”

Murray pursed his lips, considered it. He tugged a dog-eared memo book from his hip pocket, jotted down some notes. “So you just drop by at—” He pushed up his sleeve, consulted his wrist watch — “at two o’clock in the morning?” His eyes rolled up from the notebook to Liddell’s face. “Keep kind of late office hours, don’t you?”

“Something had happened. She called me to get right out here. Something she wanted to talk to me about.”

The homicide man wet the point of his pencil on the tip of his tongue. “What was it that couldn’t wait?”

Liddell shrugged. “She didn’t say.”

“Maybe we can tell you,” Murray grunted. He led the way to the french doors that opened onto the back patio. “Put some light out here, Al,” he snapped at one of the other men.

Liddell followed him, stared down at the body of a man, sprawled face down on the patio. He knelt beside the body, lifted the hat off its face, swore under his breath.

“Know him?” Murray wanted to know.

Liddell nodded grimly. “One of my boys. Name’s Tate Morrow.”

“Have you any idea what he was doing out here, or is it customary with your organization to make late calls on clients?”

“Tate was assigned to Lane. He was bodyguarding her.” He straightened up, brushed the folds out of his knees. “Any idea of what happened?”

Murray grinned humorlessly. “We thought you might have some idea. Busting out here this way.”

Liddell shook his head. “No ideas.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette, wrinkled his nose in distaste, dropped the cigarette to the patio floor, ground it out. “Could be that Tate heard the shot that got the blonde, came running, and—”

The homicide man snorted. “Why don’t you start levelling? You can see he was headed away from her, not toward her.” He jabbed his hand into his jacket pocket, brought up a small gun, wrapped in a handkerchief. “This was lying right next to her hand. It’s got one bullet fired.” His eyes were bleak, unfriendly. “My guess is that the one in his back will match it.”

“That’s crazy and you know it. Why should Lane shoot the guy who was protecting her? And if she did, who shot her?”

“He did,” Murray snapped. “Show him, Al.”

The other detective walked over, spilled the contents of an envelope into the palm of his hand, held them toward Liddell. “Diamonds. We found them right near his hand, where he dropped them when he fell.” Murray turned his back, walked into the den. “That’s the way we see it,” he said flatly.

“That’s the way you’re supposed to see it. It’s a set-up, can’t you see?” Liddell argued. “You think that babe could get a gun, aim it and bring him down with one shot when she’s wearing a .45 slug for a lavaliere?” He caught the homicide man by the arm, swung him around. “That babe was deader than Kelsey the minute that slug tagged her. And my guess is that Tate was dead before that.”

Murray caught the private detective’s hand, lifted it from his arm. “Why should anybody go to all that trouble?”

“The diamonds,” Liddell snapped.

“And then leave without them?” Murray shook his head. “You’re not making sense.”

“You’re making less. You don’t think that handful of little stones is what Tate was guarding, do you? Lane had over $150,000 worth of unset stones. Where are they?”

The homicide lieutenant looked thoughtful, plucked at his lower lip. “That’s the first I hear of this. Fill me in.”

Liddell found another cigarette, lit it. “Lane was getting ready to retire. Did you know that?”

Murray shook his head, nodded for one of his men to answer a ring at the front door. “I don’t know much about the theatrical crowd. All I know I read in the columns. I thought she was a big star?”

Liddell shrugged. “She’s had her day. But she’s been fading fast for the past couple of years. This year she decided to go back home. She was British, you know.”

“Excuse me.” Murray went over to the door to shake hands with a small man carrying a brown instrument case. They carried on a whispered conversation for a few minutes; then the newcomer went over and pulled the blanket back from the dead woman. Murray walked over to where Liddell was standing.

“The medical examiner,” he explained. “So she was going back to Britain. So?”

“She was turning everything she had into cash.” Liddell took the cigarette from between his lips, scowled at the glowing end. “For years she’s been collecting diamonds. They’re easier to hide, and the Treasury boys can’t put them onto an adding machine like they can the contents of a safe deposit box.” He took a last drag on the cigarette, stubbed it out in an ash tray. “She hired us to keep an eye on her until she turned the stones into cash.”

Two men from the M.E.‘s office brought in a stretcher. Liddell broke off and watched glumly as they transferred the blonde to the stretcher, strapped her on.

“Whoever killed her knew about the stones. So he tried to make it look as though Tate did the job.”

“Could be,” Murray agreed.

“You’ve got other ideas?” Liddell wanted to know.

The homicide man shrugged. “Just ideas, so far. No proof.” He reached over, picked a thread off Liddell’s jacket and let it float to the ground. “Suppose your boy here did stop one, but his confederate managed to get away with the bulk of it?” He looked Liddell in the eye. “Who knew about the diamonds?”

Liddell scowled. Hard lines joined his nostrils with the end of his mouth, hard lumps formed on his jaw as he clenched his teeth. “Mike Murphy, Lane’s personal manager, for one. It was his idea to hire the agency because the stuff wasn’t insured.”

“Who else?”

Liddell studied the homicide man’s face carefully. “Louis Arms. He was supposed to be the buyer.”

“Arms, eh?” Murray raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips. “Anybody else?”

Liddell shrugged angrily. “Not that I know of. Not unless they spread it around.”

“Think they were likely to?” Murray sneered.

“No.”

The homicide man nodded. “Then that leaves just you and your boy, Liddell.” He jabbed his pencil at the private detective. “But you can undoubtedly tell us where you were all evening?”

“In bed.”