Johnny Liddell Mystery Crime Box Set

  Johnny Liddell

  Mystery Crime Box Set

  Deadly Ransom - Book 1

  Stairway To Hell - Book 2

  Deadly Cure - Book 3

  DEADLY RANSOM

  A Johnny Liddell Mystery Crime Novel

  (Originally Titled Dead Rite)

  By Frank Kane

  Edited by John Skelton

  Golden Retro Publishing

  "I'll Kill You For This." The beaten bodyguard put his hand to the ugly welt left by the butt of Johnny Liddell's .45.

  "Don't move out of your class, Killer," Liddell said. "You do real good killing women. Stick to that." He stopped halfway to the door. "In case your boss wants to report this to the police, he knows where to reach me."

  "You got us wrong, Detective. We bury our own dead - and we make our own."

  CHAPTER 1

  Barney Evans had the penthouse in the Carter Arms, one of Hollywood's most desirable apartment houses. The lobby was furnished in modernistic style with brightly colored couches and chrome chairs complementing the soft, restful pastel carpeting.

  Two men entered the lobby, crossed to the bank of elevators. The cage swiftly whisked them to the penthouse, the door slid quietly open. One of the men knocked at the penthouse door.

  A small panel slid open, a pair of icy blue eyes checked the two men. There was a grunt of annoyance inside the door.

  After a brief interval, the door opened. Evans stood there, wrapped in a terry cloth robe. "What is it, Rocky?"

  "Got a message for you from the big boss. Mario flew in from New York this morning."

  Everything about Barney Evans suggested icy calm - sparkling blue eyes, the striking contrast between jet-black eyebrows and snow-white hair, thin lips and almost too perfectly capped teeth. A frown of annoyance ridged his forehead as he stepped aside to let the two men in. He glanced at his watch. "You realize what time it is? Couldn't this message wait until morning?"

  Mario shook his head. "Couldn't wait even an hour." He glanced around approvingly. "Nice place you got here."

  The white-haired man slammed the door. "You come to write it up for House Beautiful? Or you got a message?"

  "Anybody here?"

  Evans frowned. "The boss checking up on my morals or something? What is this?"

  "Confidential," Mario assured him. He nodded to the other man to check the two doors leading into the room. Evans stood, balled fists dug deep into the pockets of his robe, watched while the man checked out the two rooms.

  "Okay. So now you're satisfied. Suppose you give me the message and let me get back to bed," Evans growled.

  "The big boss is tearing up his contract with the singer. Denton's on his own from now on. Everybody's out. You included."

  The frown on Evans' forehead deepened. "That's crazy. I don't dig the creep either. But he's going like a house on fire. Those last couple of movies of his made a pot full. This one he just wrapped up is even bigger." He walked over to his desk, pawed through some papers, came up with a blue folder. "He can write his own ticket on a new contract with Mammoth. And his records—" He looked from Mario to the other man and back. "The boss sent you all the way out here to tell me I'm fired?" He stared thoughtfully at Mario. "How come he didn't phone?"

  Mario shrugged. "He didn't confide." He looked around, spotted a hi-fi against the wall. "You got any of the singer's new biscuits?"

  "Yeah."

  "So let's hear." Mario walked over to the set, admired it. "You know, I got a broad, she's queer for the singer. Me, I could never see him."

  Rocky Castri nodded. "They're all alike. They hear him, he's got them eating out of his hand. Then they get to meet him. Then strictly no. Right, Barney?"

  "To know him is to despise him." Evans flipped through some records and put two on the turntable. "Here's a couple of his latest."

  The opening intro was a blockbuster. It poured into the room, and then died away gently as Mickey Denton's voice came in on top of it, perfect, sure.

  Mario listened critically, shook his head with reluctant approval. "Kid's sure come a long way, I got to admit. I was with the boss the first night he hears him. In some gin mill out on Long Island." He continued to shake his head. "I had him figured strictly a nothing. How wrong can a guy be?"

  "With Agnelli behind him, how could he miss?" "The kid's solid now. He doesn't need Agnelli; he doesn't need me; he doesn't need anybody. Everything he touches turns to money." Evans gestured to the pile of papers on the desk. "I got a dozen top spots I can fit him into. His albums are breaking all records and they're screaming for more. He's a louse and nobody likes him except the people who buy records." He shrugged. "If you've got that, you got everything." He turned back to Mario. "That's why I don't understand what this message is all about."

  Mario grinned, shrugged. "It's just like you said. The boss wanted you to know you're fired." He reached down, turned up the volume on the hi-fi. "He didn't want there should be any misunderstanding about it. So he sent me out to take care of it." He nodded to the other man.

  Before Evans could move, Rocky caught his arms, pulled them behind him. The white-haired man opened his mouth to yell, Mario slashed him across the Adam's apple with the side of his hand, the yell came out as a strangled gasp. Evans' eyes popped, his tongue rolled out of his mouth.

  Mickey Denton's voice roared from the hi-fi, reached for a high note to get off.

  As Evans struggled weakly in Rocky's grip, Mario brought his knee up into the white-haired man's groin. Evans went limp; the man holding him dumped him into a chair.

  Evans' head rolled uncontrollably from side to side.

  His carefully combed white hair hung dankly over his forehead, the icy blue eyes were watery, his lips purple.

  Mario walked out onto the small patio that rimmed the penthouse. The Carter Arms was set on a high spot, the penthouse screened from any possible witnesses.

  "Bring him out."

  Rocky walked back into the living room, loaded the semiconscious Evans on his shoulders, staggered out onto the patio. Evans' lips were still moving, trying to form words. A stream of saliva glistened brightly on his chin.

  "You take his head, I'll take his feet. When I say go, we swing him over."

  The other man licked at his lips, nodded. When Mario got a firm grip on Evans' weakly thrashing legs, his companion caught the white-haired man under the neck. At a signal from Mario they lifted and swung him outward over the hedge.

  Neither looked over the side. Mario led the way back into the living room, walked over to the hi-fi, turned it down.

  "Nice music," he commented. "Real nice music." The other man nodded. "Music to die by."

  _________________________

  In Chicago, Harry Jacobs stood at the window of his suite of offices in the Lincoln Building, cursed the typical Chicago day with its dampness, its cold, its winds. Overhead the gray skies writhed and twisted like something alive, something in ferment.

  Jacobs was short, heavy set, affected tweeds. A thin gray wisp of a mustache matched the color of his hair. He had the bulk of a one-time athlete whose muscles had been allowed to run to fat. His jaw was still heavy, making a last ditch effort to keep from being engulfed by his jowls. His high color testified to a diet of bourbon and beef supplemented by frequent massage, but it was a losing battle. Already a fine network of broken veins was visible on either side of his nose.

  He stood, chewing on the cigarette holder, worrying about the turn events had taken. The news of Barney Evans' supposed suicide had preceded by less than a day the telegram from Agnelli.

  He walked back to his desk, picked up the telegraph form and frowned at it. On the face of it, it meant not
hing. Signed by a highly respectable firm of lawyers, it called for a meeting of Mercantile Exports, Inc. Normally such a notice heralded a new venture for the organization headed by Tony Agnelli. But coming this close on the heels of Evans' death, it could only mean one thing - the ransom money had showed up in the last shipment.

  Jacobs took the cigarette holder from between his lips, removed the butt, and replaced it with a fresh cigarette. He tilted the holder in the corner of his mouth and lit it.

  He wondered if Agnelli knew anything. It didn't seem possible. Only he and Benny Welton knew who had bought that money. And with the kidnaping rap hanging over his head, it didn't seem likely that Welton would talk.

  Jacobs chewed on the holder stem, cursed the day he had ever heard of the Cheney ransom money. It had seemed so simple - 30 cents on the dollar and a fast $350,000 profit. Now everything had gone to hell!

  He leaned against the desk, looked out at the lowering skies. On the streets below, the slush was ankle-deep in the gutters and the wind coming off the lake cut like a knife.

  He thought longingly of the cottony blue skies in Nevada, of the soft breeze that dried perspiration on a man's body. At this time of evening, the mountains in the distance were blue-black, the desert a purplish haze.

  He reached back, pressed a button on the base of his phone. He lifted the receiver to his ear.

  "Yes, Mr. Jay?" the upholstered blonde in the outer office wanted to know.

  "Give me an outside line, Bunny."

  There was a click, then a buzz signal. He brought a small leather memo book from his breast pocket, flipped through it. He located the number he wanted and dialed.

  "Yeah?" a voice on the other end said.

  "Mendel around?"

  "I’ll see." He could hear the receiver bang against the wall. In the background were muted voices, the occasional crack of a pool ball. Then a new voice came on.

  "This is Mendel. Who's this?"

  "Mr. Jay."

  A respectful note crept into the voice on the other end. "Yeah, Mr. Jay? Something I can do?"

  "I want you to take a little trip, Mendel. To California." His eyes strayed to the premature darkness outside.

  "Sure, Mr. Jay. I can leave any time you say."

  "Tonight. I want you to register in the Hotel Criterion downtown under the name of Albert Meyers."

  "I got it."

  "I want you to locate Benny Welton for me. He operates from some place around L.A. As soon as you locate him, I want you to get in touch with me. He shouldn't know you're looking for him. You understand that."

  "Sure, Mr. Jay. Leave it to me."

  Jacobs said unhappily, "I got no choice. Look, Mendel, the sooner the better. There could be a bonus in it for you if it's extra quick. I'll send some expense money out there. But I expect action."

  "Action you'll get, Mr. Jay," the receiver chattered.

  "So let me know the minute you find him." Jacobs dropped the receiver back on its hook, broke the connection.

  __________________

  In Las Vegas, Mitch Corday held the telegram between thumb and forefinger, squinted at it. He flipped it to the top of his desk, looked up at the man standing across from him.

  "I thought you were the singer's bodyguard, Castri," he grunted. "I don't remember asking Agnelli for any assistant. I been running this casino for ten years without any help." Corday had come to Las Vegas in the early days from Detroit where he had been known as Mike Cordana. His new name was a tribute to the elegance of his new surroundings.

  He was darkly tanned, wore suits that showed a good understanding with his tailor. His hair was touched with gray, was warn in a closely clipped brush cut.

  Rocky Castri shrugged his shoulders. "I only do what I'm told, Mr. Corday." Rocky Castri was a product of East New York's Brownsville who had attached himself to Mickey Denton's retinue. He was thickset, with swarthy skin drawn tight over his high cheekbones. His eyes were heavy-lidded, expressionless. "I got sick of taking the singer's crap, so when Mr. Agnelli gave me a chance to come out here, I jumped."

  Corday considered it, nodded. "Okay. Check in with the floor boss. He'll find something for you to do." He indicated the telegram. "I'll be seeing Agnelli in a day or so. I'll find out what he has in mind."

  He watched the short man swagger out of the office. There was a subtle change in Castri's attitude that bothered the casino boss. The last time he saw him with Denton, Castri had been subservient, anxious to please. All of that was gone and an obnoxious self-assurance had taken its place.

  Corday swung around on his desk chair, stared thoughtfully out across the desert haze. Barney Evans' death had come as a shock to him. Even more shocking was the follow-up news that Evans had been hit because $500,000 worth of hot ransom money had shown up in a payment Evans had made for the organization on a Seattle hotel.

  He had never approved of the idea of using the singer as a front to buy into real estate and hotels and other legit enterprises. But the boys he represented had illicit money they couldn't show legitimately and it was a good way to unload.

  His eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities. Money sent to Barney Evans came from four sources and he was one of them. He turned, stared thoughtfully at the door.

  Was that the reason Rocky Castri had been sent to Vegas? Did they think the ransom money was included in his shipment?

  He pulled a key ring from his pocket, walked over to the wall, moved a picture and unlocked the safe behind it. He fumbled inside the safe, brought out a list, and checked each name off with his thumbnail. There wasn't one name listed that would have anything to do with hot money - especially money with blood on it. They all had more dirty money to unload than they could handle.

  He put the list back in the safe, relocked it and straightened the picture. Someone was going to get burned for what had happened. But it didn't come from one of his boys.

  ____________________

  In Miami Beach, the Runleigh is a huge pile of concrete and plate glass set off from Collins Avenue by a park studded with walks and small ponds. Small porches are pasted to the sides of the building, each with an unobstructed view of the ocean, each protected against an invasion of privacy by fan-shaped opaque glass screens.

  A card table had been set on the porch leading off the living room of the corner suite on the 28th floor. Two heavy-set men, stripped to the waist, were playing gin. They looked up with a frown of annoyance as Larry Gatti walked through the living room and paused at the entrance to the porch.

  The older of the two card players, perspiration gleaming through the gray matting on his chest and dripping from his heavy jowls, turned to the newcomer.

  "Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Longino," Gatti murmured. He looked cool despite the fact that he was wearing a maroon sport jacket over his black knit shirt. The crease in his black slacks was sharp; there was no sign of perspiration on his swarthy face. His hair had receded from his brow, leaving a large area of his baldpate to be sunburned.

  Longino bobbed his head. "It's got to be important, that I know," he growled. He nodded to his opponent. "You know Felix Gorgio from Tampa, no?" He turned to his partner. "Larry Gatti. He handles things for the organization."

  Gorgio nodded, made no effort to shake hands. He chewed on the soggy end of an unlit cigar and waited.

  Gatti questioned the older man with his eyes, drew a nod. He dug into his pocket, brought up the yellow telegraph form and handed it over. Longino read it without comment, passed it across the card table.

  "A meet," Longino grunted.

  Gorgio handed the telegram back to Larry Gatti. "I don't need conversation. I need someone to tell me when I get my money back. Over a hundred big ones I got tied up in that shipment and the Feds grabbed it. Okay, so the Feds grabbed it. That don't change I want my share back." He pulled the cigar from between his teeth, jabbed it at Gatti. "That's what you tell them when you make that meet."

  "Anything you want me to tell Agnelli for you, Mr. Longino?" br />
  Longino had already turned back to his cards, his heavy chin sunk on the matting of his chest. "Yeah. You tell him what Gorgio say. We expect our money back. We don't know nothing about ransom money. We put up good money." His eyes rolled up from the cards to Gatti. "'We got like two or three weeks we wait. Then we call for a meet of the Brotherhood. You tell him that."

  Gatti nodded. He brought a wadded handkerchief from his back pocket and polished his shining pate. "I tell him just like you say, Mr. Longino." When the men at the table resumed their playing and appeared to have forgotten he was there, Gatti turned and left the porch.

  CHAPTER 2

  The day of the meeting, Tony Agnelli sat at the head of the table in the private dining room of Mercantile Exports, Inc., on the 39th floor of the Empire State Building. He loosened the napkin he had tied around his neck, swabbed at his pouting lips. He was fat, soft looking. The discolored sacs under his eyes, however, failed to dull the menace of the shiny black marbles. He gave off a strong odor compounded of equal parts of perspiration and toilet water.

  He pushed his chair back, waited while the three waiters quickly and efficiently removed the soiled dishes. He waved them out.

  "I call you if I need you." He waited until the waiters had bowed themselves out, then turned to Mario, his bodyguard. "We don't want to be disturbed. By nobody."

  The thin man nodded, followed the waiters out of the room. He closed the door behind him and took up his position on the outside.

  Agnelli turned his attention to the men around the table. "All right. We get down to business." His voice was throaty, blubbery. "You all know why we call the meeting of the Board of Directors?" His beady eyes jumped from face to face of the men around the table.

  Larry Gatti rolled his napkin into a ball, tossed it on the table. "We know." He eyed Harry Jacobs across the table. "Not that I got anything personal against him, but how come Harry Jacobs sits in on a meet? He ain't one of us."

  "Neither was Zwillman or Lepke, but we work real good with them," Agnelli growled. "Besides this is no Brotherhood meet. This is a meet of the Board of Directors of Mercantile Exports."