Al Murphy opened the door himself in response to Johnny Liddell’s knock. He looked surprised to see the private detective, stood aside, motioned him in.
“Am I interrupting anything?” Liddell wanted to know.
The agent shook his head. “I was just making myself a drink, and I don’t like to drink alone.” He led the way inside. “What’ll you have?”
Liddell shook his head. “Not right now.” He watched while Murph tried the bourbon bottle, found it empty, and settled for Scotch.
“You see the guy?” The agent tossed his drink off neat, set the glass back on the bar.
“I saw him. Somebody else saw him first. He’s dead.”
Murphy raked his fingers through his hair. “These guys are playing for keeps, Liddell. I told you that from the beginning.”
“You did that.” Liddell dug a cigarette from his jacket pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. “I think I will have that drink, Murph.”
The agent nodded, found a glass, spilled two fingers of Scotch into it. He looked to Liddell, and when he didn’t get a cutoff sign, he added another finger to it. He handed it over.
Liddell took the glass and paced the room. He stopped outside the den, looked around. “You got a pretty nice place here, Murph.”
The agent watched him with pursed lips. “I like it.” He spilled some Scotch into his glass. “You going to drop this whole mess, Liddell, before all of us get knocked off?”
Liddell stared around the den approvingly, then turned, walked back to where Murphy stood. “You know, Murph, I did a first-class job of fumbling this one.” He swirled the Scotch in his glass, seemed fascinated by it. “I should have tumbled to the key to the whole mess that first night.” “How?”
“Dongan’s alibi for the night of the killing is no good. Neither is yours, and neither is mine.”
“Why not? It should be easy to prove where everybody was at one — ”
“Lane wasn’t killed at one. She couldn’t have been.”
Murph frowned at him. “But you said you had a call from her at one. You’re making out a case against yourself, aren’t you?”
“I had a call from a girl at one. She gave me the impression she was Lane, and asked me to get out there.”
“So?”
Liddell shrugged. “So, over an ice-cream soda it occurred to me to check with Powhatan to see if Lane put in a toll call to New York that night.” He swirled the liquor around the glass. “She didn’t. Funny, eh?”
“A scream.” Murph set down his glass, stared at Liddell. “Look, if you didn’t get a call, and you knew about the diamonds — ”
“I got a call. And I’m not making out a case against me.”
“Who then?”
“You. That call was made from here.”
The agent’s jaw dropped. “You crazy? You said yourself you heard the shot at one. I was here. What are you trying to prove?”
Liddell grinned humorlessly. “I’m just proving how dumb I really am. I actually thought it was a shot.” He looked at Murphy. “That’s what I was supposed to think, so it would set the time of the kill and give you an alibi.”
“Look, Liddell, I can account for every minute of my time. From the show break right after eleven through — ”
Liddell turned his back on him, walked to the doorway to the den. “Some of your guests were questioned by the Jersey police. They said you never went out all night.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“They did say that from time to time couples would disappear into other rooms. Maybe you and Claire came into the den, eh?”
Murph’s eyes narrowed. “So?”
“So it’s a real nice den. Leather chairs, ping-pong tables. The works, eh?”
“Is there a law against being comfortable? What’s the furnishing of my study got to do with the crazy crack you made a minute ago?”
“Everything. You know another thing that popped into my head while I was having a soda? I remembered that you used to be a sound-effects man in radio before you hooked onto Laury.” He walked into the den, picked up a ping-pong paddle. “You haven’t forgotten how a sound-effects man fakes the sound of a gun when he doesn’t want to use live ammunition?” He raised the paddle, smacked it against a leather chair. There was the sharp crack of a shot. “Sure. They just smack leather with a ping-pong paddle. With amplification it makes a better shot than live ammo.”
The good looks of the big man had disappeared. His lips straightened out into thin, bloodless lines; hard lumps formed at the sides of his jaw. “Go on.”
“You and Claire disappeared into the study for a while. Some way you got her to call me, probably as a practical joke. Maybe told her it was a cute way to get me over.” He grinned at Murphy. “Now that I remember it, when I called you back you said, ‘You are a detective. How’d you know we wanted to see your Irish puss over here,’ or something like that.”
“I’ve lost my touch for talent. I should have signed you to write radio,” Murphy growled. “Go on.”
“I had it all backward. I kept figuring Claire was killed because she knew something about Dongan. It was you she had something on. When Pinky told you in my office I was trying to get in touch with Claire because she had called me, you got scared. You tried to cover one killing with another.”
Murphy walked over to a leather chair, sat on the arm. He dug his hand under a cushion and brought up a gun. He held it on Liddell. “Just for the record, why should I kill Lane? She was my meal ticket. Besides, I was an hour away from her.”
“She was already dead when you picked up that gang at the stage door. If I had any sense at all, I would have known the killer had to be someone Tate knew or trusted. He never would have let one of Dongan’s men get close enough to put him out of play.”
“You should have left well enough alone, Liddell. I tried to warn you off, but you wouldn’t warn. You’ve been pretty lucky, but nobody can be lucky forever.”
“You should know that. Your string has run out. The Jersey police know that Tate was sapped before he was shot, and a dermal nitrate test proved Laury didn’t fire the gun you planted near her hand.”
“You haven’t given me a good reason why I should have killed her,” Murphy grated through his teeth, “none that the police would buy. Go on, show me how smart you are.”
“If I were smart, I would have tumbled long ago. You kept insisting there were no diamonds. That’s the only true thing you’ve said since I knew you. You were taking Laury’s money and pretending to buy her diamonds. Maybe you did buy phonies, maybe you never bought anything. But the two hundred grand she gave you for the stones only bought seven or eight thousand dollars’ worth for her. You blew the rest. When she decided to sell, you knew the jig was up, so you killed her.” Liddell scowled at the gun in the big man’s hand.
“You’re smarter than I thought you were. Claire got smart, too. She tumbled to the play and tried to shake me deeper than I could afford to go. She threatened to spill, and when your girl called to find out where you could reach her, I knew she had to go.” His finger tightened on the trigger. “I didn’t realize how deep you can get into a thing like this. When you start killing, you got to keep right on — ”
“What are you going to do with my body?”
“What difference will it make to you?” Murph wiped his damp jowls with the side of his hand. “I’ll call the cops, tell them you came here drunk, admitted killing Laury, and pulled a gun. I had to shoot in self-defense. It may sound thin, but you won’t be here to argue — ”
The glass filled almost to the brim with liquor left Liddell’s hand, streaked for the big man’s face. Murphy tried to duck away, started squeezing the trigger. Slugs plowed long trenches in the wall near Liddell’s head. Murphy screamed and pawed at his eyes as the raw liquor burned into them. He lifted the gun again but didn’t get it into firing position.
Liddell moved in relentlessly. He hit the big man’s wrist with the side of his hand. The gun clattered to the floor from nerveless fingers. Liddell slammed his fist against the side of Murphy’s jaw, sent him reeling backward. He followed up, backhanded the agent’s face into position, then took the fight out of him with a steaming uppercut to the midsection.
Murphy went down, tried to catch Liddell around the knees. The private detective side-stepped, kicked him in the face, and knocked him flat on his back. The big man lay there moaning, pink-tinged bubbles forming between his lips.
Liddell walked to the desk against the wall, dialed the number of Police Headquarters. In a moment he was connected with Inspector Herlehy.
“This is Liddell, Inspector. I’m at Murphy’s place. Can you send around a squad to pick him up?”
“For what?” Herlehy growled.
“You got the report on Hook Best?”
“Were you in on that?”
Liddell shook his head. “I didn’t plug him, Murph did. I’m up at his place now, and I’ve just spent the past five minutes conning him into producing the gun. It’s on the floor here now with his fingerprints all over it.” He looked at the man on the floor. “You won’t have any trouble getting a story out of him.”
“But why Murph?”
“He’s the guy that killed Lane, and he’s been behind everything that’s happened since.”
“Will he sign a statement?”
Liddell grinned tightly. “I haven’t asked him, but I have an idea he will.”
“Not if he’s in his right mind. You still can’t prove the diamonds ever existed. It’s a pretty flimsy story to juice up an electric chair with.”
Liddell nodded. “I’ve got an extra generator up my sleeve, Inspector. When I hang up here, I’m calling Lou Dongan, and I’m telling him how Murph tried to frame him for the Lane kill. Dongan’s pretty sensitive about things like that. I think Murph’d be better off taking his chances with the law.”
“I’ll have him picked up, but you’d better have him all softened up by the time the boys get there. The Hook Best kill might water down into a self-defense plea unless you’ve got the rest to back it up.”
“I’ll have it.” Liddell dropped the receiver on its hook.
The man on the floor was moaning his way back to consciousness. Liddell walked over, caught him by the front of his shirt, and dragged him to a chair. The agent was no longer dapper. His eyes were watery; the carefully combed hair hung lankly down over his face. He was sick, breathing noisily through a smashed nose.
Liddell buried his fingers in the man’s hair and pulled his head back. “Listen, you rat. I’ve already notified both the cops and Lou Dongan that you killed Lane and tried to set Dongan up for the fall. They’re both sending boys over to pick you up. You understand?”
Murphy’s eyes stopped rolling. He made a visible effort to focus them. “You — you told Dongan that?”
Liddell nodded grimly. “Yeah. Take your pick. If you haven’t written out a full statement by the time the Homicide boys get here, I’ll see that they go home without you. I’ll bet Dongan’s boys wouldn’t get discouraged that fast.”
“Don’t throw me to Dongan, Liddell.” Pink bubbles formed and burst between his smashed lips. “Get me a pen. I’ll sign the statement. Get me a pen.”
“You’re damned right you’ll sign a statement,” Liddell growled. “Get on your feet.”
Murphy looked at him, licked at his lips, stumbled to his feet. He stood there swaying. Liddell slammed his fist against the big man’s mouth, there was a crunching of teeth, and Murphy went staggering backward, sprawled over a table.
“That’s for the kid. He didn’t even have a chance to see it coming. Besides, you’re not going to need teeth where you’re going.”