Lawrence Block - Masters of Noir - Volume 1

“Witnesses?”

“This happened to be my off night. I was in bed alone.”

Murray squinted, plucked at his lower lip. “But you got a phone call from the Lane girl and she told you to get right out here?”

Liddell nodded. “That’s right.”

The homicide man walked over to the desk in the corner of the room, lifted the telephone from its cradle. “We don’t have dials out here yet, you know. Pretty small time stuff to a big operator like you, I guess.” He turned his attention to the phone. “Millie? Ed Murray from Homicide. Say, about an hour ago, do you remember a call Laury Lane made to New York? Number was—” He raised his eyebrows at Liddell.

“Homeyer 5-7236,” Liddell grunted.

“Number was Homeyer 5-7236.” He waited a moment, then pursed his lips, looked at Liddell from under lowered lids. “You’re sure of that?” He nodded, dropped the receiver on its hook. “There haven’t been any calls from this number to a New York number tonight.”

“Maybe I got the message by ouija board,” Liddell growled.

“Maybe you didn’t get the message.”

“Let me get this straight, Murray. You’re trying to say that I didn’t get a call from Lane, that I came out here to meet Tate and cut up the dame’s diamonds. Then what happened to them?”

Murray grinned bleakly. “Maybe this isn’t the first time you came out tonight. Maybe you got here right after the shooting, picked up as much of the loot as you could find in the dark, hit back to town, stashed it and then came back to put on this injured innocence act.”

“That’s how it is, eh?”

Murray nodded. “That’s how it is. What are you going to do about it?”

“You mean I’ve got a choice? I’m going to find the real killer and hand him to you on a silver platter. You don’t have to worry, though, I’ll label him for you so you’ll know him when you fall over him.”

“And if I decide to take you in and book you?”

“On what? There’s not a judge in the county would hold me on your pipe dream. It’s like you said, you haven’t got a thing but an idea — a screwy idea. I’ll be around if you want to talk to me.”

Mike Murphy lived in the Livermore Arms, an expensive pile of mortar and plate glass overlooking the East River at Beekman Place. Johnny Liddell parked his car out front, plowed across the deep pile rug in the ornate lobby to the desk. A white-haired man in an oxford grey suit with a wing collar made a half-hearted attempt to wipe the boredom out of his eyes as Liddell approached, but didn’t quite make it. His teeth were too shiny and too even to be real and Liddell had a passing suspicion about the color in his cheeks.

“Can I help you?” His fingers toyed with the triangle of white linen that peeped from his breast pocket.

“Will you ring Mike Murphy’s apartment? Tell him Johnny Liddell must see him immediately.”

“Certainly, sir.” The white-haired man sat down at a small switchboard, plugged in one of the wires. He licked at his lips before he spoke into the mouthpiece, nodded, then pulled the plug from the board. “It’s rather late, but he says he’ll see you.” He smoothed the hair over his ears with the flat of his hand. “It’s the penthouse.”

Liddell nodded, headed for a bank of elevators in the rear of the lobby. He jabbed the button marked Penthouse , chafed at the slow progress the cage made upward. The elevator glided to a smooth stop; the doors slid noiselessly open. Liddell crossed the small hall, pushed the buzzer set at the side of the door three times. There was the stuttering of a latch and the door swung open.

Mike Murphy stood in the middle of the room, a glass in his hand. He was tall, his broad tapering shoulders seeming to balance precariously on the slimness of his waist and hips. He wore his thick, black hair long on the sides, plastered back against his head. On top it was a mass of curls. His mouth was smeared with lipstick; his eyes were slightly off focus. He waved Liddell in.

“Come in, come in.” He called over his shoulder. “You can come on out, honey. It’s a friend.”

The door to an inner room opened and a long-legged redhead walked out. Her hair had been loosened and fell over her shoulders in a molten cascade. She had on a blue gown that gave ample evidence she wore nothing under it. As she walked, her breasts traced wavering patterns on the shiny silk of the gown. Her eyes were slanted, green. She looked Liddell over, seemed to like what she saw.

“This is Claire Readon, Liddell. Meet a real live private eye, baby.”

“You should have come earlier. The party was fun.” Her voice was sultry, disturbing.

Murphy waved toward a small portable bar that showed signs of having had a busy evening. “You’ll have to make your own, Liddell. I don’t think I could make it across the room.”

Liddell walked over to the bar, found some ice cubes in a scotch cooler, dumped them into a glass. He spilled two fingers of bourbon over them, swirled it around the glass. “When’s the last time you saw Lane?”

Murphy’s features were marred with an annoyed frown. “Tonight, when I took the stuff out to her.” He took a deep swallow from his glass. “How’s that kid of yours getting along? That blondie can be fun when she—”

“Tate’s dead. So’s Lane.” Liddell smelled his glass, took a swallow. It tasted as good as it smelled.

The other man did a slow double take. He blinked his eyes, shook his head. “Dead? How?”

Liddell shrugged. “Murder. The stones are missing. Looks like it was a heist.”

“Wait a minute.” Murphy put down the glass, walked across the room and disappeared into what was apparently a bathroom. There was a sound of water running. When he walked out, some of the vagueness in his eyes was gone. “When’d it happen?”

“Near as I can judge, around one. She called me, and I heard the shot. By the time I got out there, the cops were all over the place.” He drained his glass, set it down. “They figure it for an inside job.” He looked over at the redhead. “How many people were in on the deal, Mike?”

Murphy shrugged. “Just me and Laury on our end.” He bit at the cuticle on his nail. “Arms, of course. He was buying the stuff.”

“You didn’t leak?”

“Me?” Murphy shook his head emphatically. “Hell, I never even mentioned it to Claire. Did I, kid?”

The redhead squirmed into a more comfortable position on the couch that caused the gown to dip breathtakingly at the neckline. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her words were softly slurred. “What’s more, I don’t care. I came to this party for fun, not to talk business.”

Murphy ignored her, smoothed some of the wrinkles out of his brow with the tips of his fingers. “This is a hell of a mess. You knew the stuff wasn’t insured?” Liddell nodded.

“The police know about the stones?” Murphy asked.

“Yeah.”

The big man groaned. “Now it comes. The Feds are going to want to know where the dough came from and why it wasn’t declared. What a mess. If she’d only listened to me—”

“I listened to you, Mike. It didn’t do me any good — so far,” the redhead said. “I guess I’m not smart like Laury.”

“You’re something better. You’re alive,” Murphy said. He turned back to Liddell. “It looks like Arms.”

Liddell freshened his drink, took a sip. “Looks like.” He looked from Murphy to the girl and back. “What time did you get the stuff out to her, Mike?”

“Ten-thirty. Eleven, maybe. I got back here in time to pick Red up at the stage door after the show. She’s in the 1954 Revue .” He frowned as the redhead held her glass out to Liddell for a refill. “Maybe you better take it easy, baby. The cops may be around asking questions.”