JOHNNY LIDDELL SQUIRMED uncomfortably on a hard wooden bench at Police Headquarters. The big clock on the wall over Macy’s desk said ten. He lit his fifth cigarette in an hour, glared at the broad shoulders of the Homicide sergeant who gave no notice that he was aware of the private detective’s presence. Finally, Liddell got up from the bench, walked over to the railing-enclosed space, tapped the Homicide man on the shoulder.
“How much longer do I have to sit around this rattrap?”
Macy squirmed around on his chair, looked up at Liddell as though he’d never seen him before. “We’ll tell you when we want you.” He swung around, picked up some papers on his desk.
“That damn chair’s getting hard,” Liddell growled.
“Make the most of it, shamus,” Macy told him over his shoulder. “That’s our de luxe model. They’re not that comfortable in the cell block.”
Liddell expressed some highly controversial opinions in a low tone, got no rise out of the man at the desk, then walked back to the bench and sat down.
At ten-thirty, the phone on Macy’s desk buzzed, he grunted into it, nodded, got up, and took his coat from the back of his chair. “Okay, Liddell, let’s go.”
He led the way down the hall to Inspector Devlin’s office. The inspector sat behind his battered old desk, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. He glared at Liddell as he walked in, waved him to a chair.
“All this kind of highhanded, Inspector? I didn’t know I was under arrest,” Liddell told him.
“Maybe you are,” Devlin growled: He jabbed at a button on the edge of his desk, waited. The door opened and two people walked in, a man and a woman. The woman, obviously terrified, clung to the man’s arm.
“Stand up, Liddell,” Devlin told him.
Liddell shrugged, got to his feet. “Intimate sort of lineup, isn’t it? I thought it was mandatory to have a couple of others in on it?”
“You can have it that way if you insist. I’m just trying to keep this on an informal basis.” He nodded at the couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Jorgensen, here, are neighbors of the Devine girl. They heard the shooting and saw the killer running down the service stairs. You say it wasn’t you, so you shouldn’t have any objection to letting them have a look at you.”
Liddell thought back to the dark hall, knew the degree of excitement that the shots had caused at that hour, counted on the fact that the Jorgensens had been in bed at the time of the shooting, and decided to gamble. “I have no objection at all, Inspector.”
Devlin scowled at him uncertainly, rolled the cigar in the center of his mouth, nodded. “Fine.” He turned to the man and woman. “Is this the man you saw in the service-way this morning, Mr. Jorgensen?”
Jorgensen, a thin, washed-out Swede with lank blond hair, focused a pair of watery blue eyes on Liddell, walked around him. He walked back to the stout, stylishly furred woman in the chair, whispered to her. They both looked Liddell over again. “I would not say yes, Inspector,” he said finally. “The light was bad, you understand. The man had a gun in his hand, and we did not wish to get mixed up in something that was not our business.” He looked back to the woman, who nodded her approval. “We do not think this was the man.”
The inspector sighed, nodded. “Thanks for coming down, Mr. Jorgensen. And you, Mrs. Jorgensen.” He stood up, offered his hand to the man. After the door had closed behind the couple, Devlin walked over to the water cooler, took a drink. “Sorry, Liddell, but we had to be sure.”
“Are you sure now?”
Devlin crushed the paper cup in his huge paw. “Maybe.” He ambled back to the chair behind the desk, dropped into it. “Maybe it wasn’t you, and maybe the Jorgensens figured it couldn’t be you if you were willing to let them put the finger on you. Funny thing, identification.” He leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head. “Suggestion works both ways. They had a case in Germany years back where a man had a fight with his wife. She ran out of the house shouting she was going to kill herself. That night the police dragged a body out of the canal. The husband, his brother and sister all identified the body. When they got it home, the husband went to his room to dress and his wife was there in bed. Later on, it was apparent there was no resemblance between the dead woman and his wife. Autosuggestion.”
Liddell seemed duly impressed. “Amazing,” he admitted. “Are you trying to tell me that despite the fact that I have no gun, despite the testimony of what amounts to eyewitnesses that I’m not the man, that you still believe I killed the little guy?”
“I could be convinced either way. I’d be a lot happier if you had reported the gun missing. It always worries me when a man is killed by a certain caliber bullet, the suspect is known to have a gun of that caliber — and after the shooting it seems the gun disappeared before the shooting. Stubborn, ain’t I?” He got out of his chair, walked to the window, stared down to the street below. “Any ballistic records available on your gun, Liddell?”
“I think so. New York probably has some.”
Devlin swung around, faced him. “I figured there would be. I sent for them, Liddell. It could be very bad if they check.”
Liddell shrugged. “Why don’t you check them?”
“That’s what we’re doing. We’ll know pretty soon now.”
“You trying to tell me you’ve already gotten them? Why, if you sent a man in a plane both ways he couldn’t be back here this soon with samples of bullets fired from my gun.”
“Don’t count on it. Never heard of rolled photographs of bullets? They take the whole circumference of a bullet on one plate, transmit it by wire. We had sample photographs of bullets fired from your shell an hour ago. Ballistics has been working on them.”
“What chance has a poor crook in this atomic age?” Liddell groaned lugubriously. “I might as well give myself up. I killed Cock Robin.”
“Very funny.” Devlin picked up the phone, jabbed at a button on its base. “Any report from Ballistics on that check on the gun that killed Duke, Macy?” The receiver chattered metallically; Devlin nodded. “Okay, let me have it as soon as it comes.” He depressed the crossbar on the receiver with his finger, jabbed at the base button twice. “Get us a couple of containers of coffee, will you, Murph?” He looked up at Liddell. “Sugar and cream, Liddell?”
“Black.”
Devlin transmitted the order and hung up the phone. He pulled the cold cigar from between his teeth, tossed it at the waste basket. “Look, Johnny, we’ve known each other a long time. In the past we’ve always worked together. I don’t like the way you’ve been working on this one.
“You mean killing off the suspects?”
“That remains to be seen. If the bullets in Duke check out on your gun, that washes the whole deal up. I’m going to throw you in the cooler and keep you there. On the other hand, if you manage to wiggle out of it, God knows how, you’re going to play by my rules or so help me, Hannah, I’m going to rule you off the track. And don’t think I can’t make it stick.”
Liddell nodded. “I know you can. On the other hand, Inspector, as you say, you’ve known me a long time. That means you know I play on the side of the angels. Not that I’m one, but I’ve had my ticket too long not to be attached to it.”
“Then we understand each other. I’m not going to ask you again if you were in the Devine dame’s apartment this morning. I’ll take Ballistics’ word for that. But I am going to ask you what the hell is going on.”
Liddell pulled the straight-backed chair up to the desk, got comfortable. “I’m not too sure myself, Inspector. I took on what looked like a snap assignment to find a wild kid who had disappeared. The kid shows up dead and my client disappears. No word of him, I suppose?”
Devlin shook his head. “Not yet.”
“It turns out that the kid is up to his dirty little neck in debt to a rough character who has him worked over a couple of days before he gets it in a place where he’s holed out. My client claims the rough character had found out where the kid was hiding. Sounds simple.”
“It was until you started fouling things up. We’ve got a call out for Yale and his muscle men. One of them we found, thanks to somebody who could use a forty-five better than he did. We’ll find the other one, and when we do, we’ll wash up the Shad Reilly kill.” Devlin leaned forward. “It’s that simple. That’s why I can’t figure what the hell you’re stirring up so much of a mess about.”
“I tell you it’s not that simple, Inspector.” Liddell slapped the desk with his open hand. “It’s like an iceberg. That part of it’s only a small piece of what’s going on. The biggest part is still under cover.” He looked up as a uniformed man came in, set two containers of coffee on the desk, waited until he had left. “Yale Stanley figures in this and so does that goon of his. Maybe Eddie Richards does, too. But there’s more to it than just that.”
“Such as?”
Liddell shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think there’s a blackmail ring operating in this town that’ll turn your hair gray” — he glanced at the white shock on the inspector’s head, grinned — ”or maybe in your case it’ll turn it black.”
Devlin reached for a container, gouged out the top. “That the angle you’ve been working on?”
“Part of it. And I’m beginning to get somewhere.”
“What’ve you got that’s concrete?”
Liddell took the cigarette from between his lips, scowled at it, snapped the thin collar of ash off with his middle finger. “Nothing concrete. Just a hunch.”
“Hunches aren’t admissible in a court of law,” Devlin growled. “In the meantime, I’m not standing still for a lot of gunplay and killing in my district.” He sipped at his coffee, glared at Liddell over the rim of the container. “Another thing, Liddell. There’s a lot of important money tied up in some of the people in this town, investments that can be wiped out overnight by scandal. Don’t start something you can’t handle.”
“You mean you’re telling me to lay off the shakedown angle?”
“You know damn well that’s not what I’m telling you,” Devlin roared. “You trying to imply that I’m covering for it?”
Liddell reached for his container, snapped off the cover. “What are you getting so excited about?” he asked mildly. “After all, you’ve just accused me of being a murderer and a half a dozen other things. If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize.”
A dull flush stained the inspector’s neck. He started to say something, checked himself. “Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe this isn’t just a welsh killing. You prove it to me and I’ll apologize.”
“Provided you’re not in the can with a murder indictment on you,” he amended.
“I won’t be,” Liddell assured him. He took a swallow of the coffee, set the container back on the desk, grinned shamefacedly. “Look, Inspector, we’re acting like a couple of jerks. I know damn well you’re not covering for anybody. And you know I’m not gun happy.”
“That remains to be seen.” The inspector refused to be mollified. He finished his coffee, dropped the container in the waste basket.
“If Ballistics gives me a clean bill, still friends?” Liddell grinned.
Some of the anger drained out of the older man’s face. “Until you go too far.” He pounded on the corner of the desk with his clenched fist. “Why the hell do you have to play a lone hand? Why can’t you tell us what you’ve got and let us work with you? That is,” he snorted, “if you’ve got anything.”
Liddell shrugged. “There are some things a private op can handle better than the authorities. Like you just said, there’s a lot of money tied up in this town and that money swings a lot of weight. Me they can’t hurt. You they can.” He sipped at his coffee. “Besides, as I told you, I still don’t have anything definite. At least not enough to — ”
The phone on the desk buzzed. Devlin swept it to his ear, nodded. “Okay, send him in.” He dropped the receiver back on its hook. “Ballistics has identified your gun, Johnny,” he grunted. “You’re in trouble.”
“But they couldn’t. I tell you I didn’t — ”
“Save it, Liddell.” Devlin waved him to silence with a shake of his head. He got out of his chair, walked to the window. “I was half hoping you were leveling with me.” He turned his back, stared morosely out the window. He was still looking out the window when the knock came on the door. “Come in,” he called over his shoulder.
The door opened; a lab man walked in. In his hand he carried a sheaf of papers. “Lyons from Ballistics, Inspector,” he announced himself.
Devlin walked back to his desk, didn’t look at Liddell. “Macy tells me you found something, Lyons?”
“Yes, sir.” He spread the photographs on the desk. “This is the rolled photograph of sample bullets from the gun in question wired out from New York this morning.” He indicated a large flat photograph showing the grooves left on a bullet by the rifling of the barrel. Above that he laid a similar photograph, pointed to it with the tip of his pencil. “You can see that they match perfectly.”
Liddell got up from his chair, looked over the lab man’s shoulder. “But that’s impossible.”
The lab man shook his head. “It’s a positive identification. I’d stake my job on the fact that the gun was the same one that fired the bullets on file in New York.”
Devlin scowled at the photographs, looked up. “That does it, Johnny. Ballistics doesn’t lie. Your gun killed that guy, and — ”
The lab man looked puzzled. “These bullets didn’t come out of the dead man, Inspector,” he interrupted.
“What do you mean they didn’t come out of the dead man? Where did they come from?” Devlin roared.
“From the wall in the kitchen and from the door jamb. These bullets were fired from the dead man’s gun. I did a recheck with the weapon itself. They match perfectly.”
Liddell sank back into his chair with a sigh, wiped the thin film of perspiration off his upper lip with the side of his hand.
“What about the bullets in the dead guy?” Devlin demanded.
“No match at all.” He slid another photograph on top of the others. “You can see for yourself.” He pointed with his pencil to the differences in the grooving. “I didn’t know what you wanted. Sergeant Macy just told me that you wanted to prove the gun used in the shooting was the same one that fired the bullets New York had on file.”
“You’re sure you didn’t get them mixed up?”
The lab man snorted indignantly. “Of course not. I checked it back against the gun they took out of the stiff’s hand.”
‘Okay, okay. That’s all, Lyons. Thanks.”
The lab man picked up his photographs, stalked indignantly out of the room. He slammed the door behind him.
“Well, Inspector?”
Devlin cursed under his breath, ignored him.
“Looks like Duke liked my rod better than his.” Liddell got up. “Now do you believe they took my rod when they busted into my place?”
Devlin leaned back, looked tired. “Okay, Johnny. You’ve got an apology coming. Looks like I was wrong.” He got up, extended his hand. “No hard feelings?”
Liddell shook his hand. “Just one thing, Inspector. I feel kind of naked without my gun. Any chance of my getting it back?”
Devlin sighed, raked at his hair. “It should be kept as evidence, but — oh, what the hell.” He pulled a pad over and scribbled on it. “Show this and your license to the property clerk. He’ll give it to you.”
Liddell nodded his thanks, folded the authorization, stowed it in his wallet. “Thanks, Inspector. I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I have something to tell you.”
“Do that.” Devlin nodded. “In the meantime, I’ve got something to tell you. Keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble. Jerry Macy doesn’t like you even a little bit and the first time he can tag you with something he can make stick, he’s going to ram it into you and break it off.”