Lawrence Block - Masters of Noir - Volume 1

“Whose idea was this whole thing?”

The man in the chair looked up, chewed on his lower lips. “Arms. It wasn’t the police that called when you were here. It was Arms. I had to call him back.” He fumbled through his pockets, came up with a cigarette. “The cops had gotten to him and he denied the whole thing. He told me what would happen to me if I didn’t back him up.” His hand shook as he lit the cigarette.

“That’s how he knew I was on my way out, eh?”

Murphy nodded. “After you left, I sent Red home in a cab. I got a call from some hick cop named Murray about a half hour after that. I went right out.” He cupped his cigarette in his hand, took a deep drag. “They had her out at the county morgue. I had to identify her.”

Liddell scowled down at him. “You’re sure nobody but you and Arms was in on this diamond sale? Nobody else? Servants or anybody?”

“Nobody. Arms didn’t want a leak. He wouldn’t even have let me hire you if he’d known.” He got up, paced the room. “Even if he did do it, I can’t spill. They’d have me as an accessory to Lane’s tax evasion for one thing. I was her manager and made out all her returns. And besides, Arms probably has an iron-clad alibi and he’d wait it out until the heat was off and get me for it.” He stopped pacing, took a last drag on the cigarette, stubbed it out. “I can’t spill.”

“Okay,” Liddell growled. “Now at least I know where I stand. But I’m telling you just what I told Arms. I’m going to bust this wide open and I don’t care who gets hurt. Someplace along the line, the killer must have made at least one mistake. That’s all it takes. Just one.”

The morgue was in the basement of the new four-story stone courthouse in Carport. Johnny Liddell wheeled his car into the courthouse parking lot, squeezed it between two whitewashed lines that specified, “For Official Use Only.” He crossed the courtyard, pushed through a revolving door, followed a stencilled arrow that pointed To the Medical Examiner’s Office .

The door itself was of frosted glass, bore the legend Medical Examiner’s Office with Dr. Harry Mizner in smaller letters under it. Next to it were two huge metal doors on which were lettered simply Morgue .

Johnny Liddell pushed open the frosted glass door and walked into the medical examiner’s office. The dank, damp air of the morgue beyond seemed to permeate the room. A painfully thin middle-aged man with a prominent adam’s apple looked up from a pile of forms he was filling out. His hair was rumpled; the stub of a cigarette was clenched between his front teeth.

“Dr. Mizner?” Liddell asked.

The thin man shook his head. “I’m his assistant. Can I help you?”

“My name’s Liddell. One of my boys was brought in tonight. His name is Tate Morrow. Gunshot.”

The thin man scowled, nodded. “Just finished working him up. The doc’s in talking with the lieutenant now.” He nodded his head toward the morgue. “You can go in if you like.”

Liddell nodded his thanks, headed for the white enamelled door set in the back of the office. As he pushed the door open, a blast of hot, carbolic-laden air enveloped him. At the far end of the room, a small group of men were huddled around one of several white examining tables. Liddell recognized the homicide lieutenant he had encountered in Laury Lane’s house earlier in the evening.

Lieutenant Murray showed no signs of enthusiasm as the private detective walked up. He muttered something in a low voice that caused his companion, a short rotund man with a thatch of untidy white hair, to look up.

“You Dr. Mizner?” Liddell addressed the short man.

The medical examiner nodded, studied Liddell curiously. “You were the employer of the dead man?”

Liddell nodded, looked from the M.E. to the homicide man and back. “I thought maybe you might have something to clear the kid. Some evidence that he died before she did or that he didn’t fire the gun? Anything that I can hang my hat on.”

Dr. Mizner nodded. “We’ve got plenty for you, my boy. He was dead before that bullet ever hit him.” He nodded to the canvas covered bulge on the table. “Death was caused by a depressed fracture at the base of the skull.” He picked up a sheaf of papers, riffled through it. “The woman didn’t kill him, either, from the looks of it. We did a dermal nitrate test soon’s we brought her in. Negative.”

“Doesn’t mean a thing,” Murray growled. “Lots of negative reactions show up even after you do fire a gun.”

The M.E. shook his head. “Not in this case. Some guns with a tight breech don’t kick back nitrates, but we did a test on this gun. The test showed positive.” He looked over at Liddell. “I’ve just finished telling the lieutenant that I won’t go along with his theory of the killing.”

Murray growled deep in his chest, glared at Liddell. “Okay, so you prove to me you’re right and I’ll admit I was wrong. I’ve checked both Arms and the girl’s manager, Murphy. They both claim your story about a big diamond deal is for the birds. Got a better story that’ll stand up?”

Liddell shook his head. “Arms threw the fear of God into Murphy. He got him on the phone right after you checked him. They got together on a story.”

“It’s your word against theirs. Can you make it stick?”

Liddell tugged at his lower lip with thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know. The retainer was paid in cash, and Murphy insisted that it be kept just between Tate himself and me. But he did admit the story in front of a witness.”

“Good. Who?”

“His girl. She was at his place when I got there. She’s a redhead from the 1954 Revue . Her name’s Claire Readon.”

Murray tugged his notebook from his pocket, copied the name into it. “Know where she lives?”

Liddell shook his head. “No, but it shouldn’t be hard to find out. Joe Gates is the press agent for the show. He knows where all the girls live. Sometimes he has to work up a party at a moment’s notice.” Liddell pulled out his wallet, fingered through the cards. “He’s at the Edison Hotel. Has a combination office and apartment there.” He consulted his watch. “It’s about 5:10 now. We should be able to get him.”

“Not we. I’ll get him,” Murray growled. He stamped out of the morgue into the M.E.‘s office. After a few minutes he was back, his face long.

“Get him?” Liddell wanted to know.

The homicide man nodded. “I got him.”

“He tell you where to reach her?”

Murray nodded. “Bellevue morgue. She was killed by a hit-and-run driver about three o’clock this morning.”

The Hotel Lowell was on an old stone building on a side street off Seventh Avenue on 47th Street. Its facade was dirty and neglected-looking. Inside, the lobby was dingy, lightless and dusty. A couple of discouraged-looking rubber plants were placed around it in an attempt at decoration, and half a dozen chairs were scattered in strategic places in a futile attempt to make it look cozy.

A gaunt, grey-haired old man with a pince-nez on a sleazy black ribbon stood behind the registration desk, looked askance at Johnny Liddell’s unshaven chin, deep lines of fatigue.

“Miss Readon has had an accident. She’s not here.” He stopped picking his teeth, sucked at them noisily. “Matter of fact, I hear she’s dead.”

“How about a room-mate? Understood she shared a room with another girl in the show.” Liddell consulted a pencilled note on the back of an envelope. “Leona Sabell.” He looked up. “She in?”

“Who’d you say you were?” the old man demanded.

“Tell her I’m a detective working on her room-mate’s accident.” He interpreted the look of disbelief in the room clerk’s eyes. “A private detective. Insurance.”