A Grave Matter Read online

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  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  A GRAVE MATTER

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1963 by Frank Kane.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

  A GRAVE MATTER

  The voice on the telephone had been full throated, husky; the kind that could raise goosepimples the length of a man’s spine.

  The moment Johnny Liddell laid eyes on the redhead, he knew the voice belonged. She was sprawled out, her hair a coppery tangle on the beige rug, her arm crooked over her head. The eyes that stared up at him were slightly slanted, half closed; her lips were parted, showing the perfection of her teeth. A loosely tied dressing gown gave ample evidence that the magnificence of her façade had needed no artificial assist.

  She was redheaded, she was luscious, she was stacked.

  She was also dead.

  Johnny Liddell rolled his eyes up from the body to where Inspector Herlehy of Homicide stood watching him with no show of enthusiasm. The inspector chomped away at the ever-present wad of gum, bobbed his head.

  “Okay. Suppose you let us in on your secret. How you always manage to find them before they get cold,” he grunted.

  Liddell stole a last look at the body, shook his head sadly. “What a waste of good material.” He turned back to the man from homicide. “I had a telephone call from her. She asked me to meet her here at ten.” He consulted his watch. “I was right on the nose, give or take a few minutes.”

  Herlehy bobbed his head, looked unconvinced. “But she didn’t say what it was she wanted to talk to you about?”

  Liddell grinned. “You must have my wire tapped.”

  “I suppose you don’t even know who she was?” Herlehy exploded.

  Liddell looked back to the redhead, watched while two men from the Photographic Unit took shots of the body from various angles. “She was a cigarette girl at the Café Martin. Called herself Leslie Carter.” He waited while a man in a white jacket shoved a form in front of the inspector to be initialed. Behind them, two men from the Medical Examiner’s office were transferring the body to a stretcher, strapping it on. Herlehy handed back the form, nodded for Liddell to continue. Johnny shrugged. “That’s it. Her name was Leslie Carter. She called me, said she’d have something for me at ten.”

  “Johnny, if you’re holding out—”

  Liddell grimaced. “You know better than that, Inspector. If I had any idea of who killed her, or why, do you think I’d be standing here?” He bobbed his head in the direction of the door where the men from the M.E.’s office were wheeling the stretcher out. “I’d be out getting her someone to keep her company down at the morgue.”

  Herlehy scratched at the side of his jaw. “Larry Harris runs the Café Martin. You think he’s mixed up in this?”

  Liddell shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I intend to,” the inspector grunted. He squinted at Liddell. “As long as you don’t know what the girl wanted to see you about, I guess you won’t be sticking your nose into this one?”

  “That depends, Inspector.”

  “On what?”

  Liddell shrugged. “My guess is whoever killed her did it because they were afraid she was going to spill something to me. Maybe they’ll figure she might have told me more than she did. In that case, they might have some ideas about shutting me up, too.” He grinned glumly. “If that’s the case, you couldn’t expect me to just stand by, could you?”

  The inspector started to explode, settled for a red flush that ran up his neck from his collar. “Just make sure you don’t give them any ideas in that direction,” he ordered. “This is a murder, and murder’s a police business.”

  “Unless it happens to be my murder. I get real sensitive about that.” Liddell nodded to the white-haired man, turned and headed for the door.

  Herlehy stared after him, expressed some highly censorable opinions about private detectives in general and Johnny Liddell in particular.

  * * * *

  The Café Martin was a cellar club on Heather Mews in Greenwich Village. It was headquarters for the weirdos and exhibitionists who performed nightly for the tourists and sensation seekers who travel downtown to marvel at the way the Other Half lives and loves. A short flight of stairs led down into a large subterranean room that had been made by knocking out the walls of three adjoining cellars. The only lighting was provided by the stubs of candles stuck in the necks of wine bottles; a perpetual cloud of smoke swirled lazily near the ceiling.

  Mobiles spun in the smoky air and customers enjoyed the proceedings from canvas chairs, while waitresses with long, dank hair and dangling earrings worked their way through the chairs, their swaying hips brushing lightly against the customers.

  Johnny Liddell walked down the short flight of stairs from the sidewalk level and stood in the doorway looking around. In the far corner of the room, a shaggy type in black beret, shapeless slacks and sport shirt was reading some German verse with comically extreme gestures. Sitting at his feet, a bearded young man was pounding unmelodiously on a pair of bongos.

  One of the long-haired waitresses materialized at his side. “Alone, Pops?”

  Liddell nodded. “Harris around?”

  The long-haired girl lost interest. She nodded toward the rear of the room. “Back in the office.” She glided off into the dimness.

  Liddell worked his way through the chairs, grinned at the snatches of “authentic beat” that was flying around to give the tourists something to talk about on their way back to the sticks. Joints like the Café Martin, created strictly for the tourist trade, are as much a part of the Village as the tearooms that squat cheek to jowl next to the dives that keep the vice squad working a full schedule, the art galleries, the gift shops and the bookstores that pander to the artistic element.

  In the rear of the room, Liddell rapped his knuckles against the door marked Private. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed it open, walked in.

  * * * *

  Larry Harris looked up from the open ledger on which he was working, scowled when he recognized Johnny Liddell. A heavy-set man with the face of an unsuccessful club fighter, his ears two twisted lumps of flesh stuck to the side of a totally bald head, studied the newcomer disinterestedly.

  “What do you want, shamus?” the man behind the desk growled. Larry Harris was an old-timer. The lean wolfishness of his face had been blurred by an overlay of fat over the years, but flat, lusterless, lethal eyes still peered from under heavily veined, thickened eyelids.

  Liddell walked in, closed the door behind him. “I dropped by to offer my condolences. Or didn’t you know your cigarette girl was murdered?”

  Larry Harris leaned back in his chair. “So what’s it to you?”

  “Just before she was murdered, she called me. Asked me to meet her at her place at ten.” “So what’s that to me?”

  “I thought you might like to know what she called me about.”

  There was a slight flicker of interest in the lusterless eyes. It died away almost as fast as it came. “Why should I want to know?” He pulled a cigarette holder from his breast pocket, started to screw a cigarette into it. His eyes rolled up from the holder to Liddell. “Maybe it’s better I don’t know. Knowing what she did got real fatal for her. Maybe that’s what happens to anybody who knows.” He tilted the cigarette holder from the corner of his mouth. “So, if that’s what you came here to tell me—”

  “I came here to tell you that I’m taking cards in the game. The redhead came to me for protection, someone hit her. That hurts my pride.” Liddell grinned glumly. “I figure it’s only fair to give you warning, Larry.” He put the flat of his hands on the desk, leaned across to the man sitt
ing behind it. “Because if I find out you had anything to do with what happened to her, I’m coming for you.”

  Larry Harris sneered. Without taking his eyes off Liddell’s face, he turned his head to the man with the bulky shoulders. “Throw him out, Mike. He’s beginning to annoy me.”

  The man with the battered face screwed his features into what passed for a grin. He reached up, slipped out his denture, dropped it into his pocket. He started around the desk in an odd, shuffling motion.

  Liddell straightened up, watched the big man’s approach warily. Mike moved with a speed surprising in a man his size. He slammed a beefy fist at Liddell’s head, took a sharp right to the midsection in return. The big man roared like a stung bear, started boring in again. He caught Liddell on the side of the head with a hamlike fist that started bells ringing. Sensing his advantage, the big man threw caution to the winds, came in flailing with both fists.

  Liddell backed away from the attack, side-stepped. He caught the big man under the right ear with a blow that carried his full strength. Mike staggered back, a dazed expression on his face. Liddell planted his right to the elbow in the big man’s midsection. As the bodyguard folded over, Liddell brought up his knee, caught him in the face. There was a crunching sound as Mike’s nose broke again. Liddell chopped down at the exposed back of the big man’s neck. He hit the floor face first, didn’t move.

  Liddell looked from the fallen man to the man behind the desk. Larry Harris sat glaring his hatred, his hand in a half-opened drawer. Liddell grinned at him. “Still coppering your bets, eh Larry?” He nodded toward the hand in the drawer. “In the old days you used to do a lot better when you did your own dirty work. Maybe you ought to go back to doing your own muscle work. You can’t depend on these meatballs. They’re all soft inside.”

  He stepped across the unconscious man’s body, headed for the door. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Larry Harris reached for his phone, started dialing a number. When he was finished with his call, he got up, picked up a water carafe, spilled it over the bodyguard, brought him sputtering back to consciousness.

  * * * *

  A little after midnight, Johnny Liddell strolled aimlessly down the street where Leslie Carter had lived. The shades were drawn on all the front windows. Aside from a few cars that shot by, there was no sign of life along the street.

  When he had satisfied himself that the uniformed patrolman stationed outside the house had been withdrawn, Liddell flipped his cigarette into the gutter, started across the street. He headed up the short flight of stairs to the vestibule. A row of letterboxes supplied the information that while Leslie Carter had lived in 2A, the other apartment on that floor was occupied by Flora Winters. He pushed open the hall door, headed for the stairs.

  On the second landing, he walked past the door to Leslie Carter’s apartment, knocked on the door on which was stenciled 2B.

  After a moment, the door opened, a tall blonde stood in the opening. “Yes?” “Flora Winters?”

  “That’s right.” The light was behind the girl, Liddell couldn’t see her features. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Liddell. I’m a detective.”

  There was a trace of annoyance in the girl’s voice. “I’ve already answered enough questions to last me a lifetime, let alone a nighttime.” She started to close the door.

  “I’m not with the police. I’m a private detective.” “All the more reason.”

  Liddell put his foot in the doorway. “Leslie Carter called me just before she was killed. She wanted me to help her.”

  The blonde paused, then pulled the door. “Oh, all right. Come on in.” She waited until he had accepted the invitation, closed the door after him. She was wearing a dressing gown that clung closely to a figure that was obviously worth clinging to. Her thick, glossy blond hair was caught just above her ear with a bright blue ribbon, then allowed to cascade down over her shoulders. Swelling breasts showed at the V-neck of the gown, a thin waist hinted at full hips, long legs.

  She eyed Liddell curiously. “Why come to me?”

  Liddell shrugged. “You lived next door to her. I thought you might know if she was in any kind of a jam.”

  The blonde considered, shook her head. “She didn’t talk much.” She walked over to the couch, dropped onto it, the gown revealed long, shapely legs as she crossed them.

  Liddell looked at the legs.

  “I don’t suppose you saw her visitor or visitors earlier tonight?”

  Flora Winters shook her head. “This isn’t the kind of a neighborhood where you keep track of your neighbor.” She reached out to a coffee table with devastating effect on the neckline of the gown. “I suppose you know that I was instrumental in getting her the job?” She leaned back, jutted her breasts against the fragile fabric of the gown, put her cigarette in the corner of her mouth.

  Liddell shook his head, provided a light. “Then you know Larry Harris?”

  The blonde made a move of distaste. “I don’t think that’s the right word. I’m acquainted with him because we’re both in business here in the Village.” She leaned forward for the light, drew a mouthful of smoke, let it dribble from between half-parted lips. “I run an antique shop on the Mews—a few doors down from the Café Martin.”

  Liddell held the burning match a moment too long, scorched his finger, snapped it out with a scowl. “How did Leslie Carter come into it?”

  The girl on the couch shrugged. “She was out of work. I happened to hear that the Café Martin had an opening for a cigarette girl. She went down, got the job. Simple as that.” She studied Liddell from under carefully tinted lids. “I should imagine that investigating a murder would be the job of the police, though. You must have more of an interest in it than just the fact that she called you.”

  Liddell considered, grunted. “I have a feeling that because she made that telephone call, she was murdered. Was she the type that might be putting pressure on anybody?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I just knew her as a neighbor. I had no business dealings with her.” The blonde eyed him curiously. “You think the killer was in the room with her when she called you?”

  “It figures.” Liddell stared around the apartment, noted for the first time that most of the furnishings were far more expensive than would be expected in such a neighborhood. His eyes came back to the blonde. “Were you home around the time she was killed?”

  The blonde smiled at him. “Nobody has told me what time she was killed.” She squinted as a thin plume of smoke curled upward from the cigarette, stung her eyes. “But I have been home since around eight.”

  Liddell nodded. “She called me at about 8:45.” He scowled, stared at the walls. “She was shot. You didn’t hear a thing, huh?”

  Flora Winters shook her head. “The walls are thin, but you’ll notice my walls are hung with tapestries. They act as soundproofing as well as being decorative.” She took the cigarette from between her lips, studied the carmined end. “I’m afraid it’s just as I told you, Mr. Liddell. There’s nothing I can tell you.” She rolled her eyes up from the cigarette to Johnny’s face, smiled coldly. “And it is getting rather late.”

  “Real subtle,” Liddell nodded. “But I think I get the point.”

  * * * *

  The following morning, Johnny Liddell was already at his desk when the redheaded secretary came in. She opened the door to the private office, stared at him with undisguised surprise.

  “What goes? You turning over a new leaf, or haven’t you been home yet?”

  Liddell looked up from a pile of folders he’d been studying, scowled at her. “Just checking on what time you get the office open.” He leaned back. “How many assignments we got on our open file, Pinky?”

  Pinky pursed her lips, counted off on her fingers. “The Fineman wedding in Great Neck. You have Williams and Gannett out there guarding the coffeepots—”

  Liddell nodded for her to continue.

  “The Wellman divorce bit. But that’s practicall
y washed up. All we have left is to itemize the evidence and send the bill.”

  “That wouldn’t be it.”

  Pinky frowned at him. “What are you looking for?” “A girl called me last night, said she had some evidence in a case I was working on. Two hours later, she’s dead.” He scowled at the redhead in the doorway. “What case?”

  Pinky shook her head. “The only other thing on the books is the Seaway Insurance retainer. There’s no case there. Just the retainer.” She ridged her forehead in thought, shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Liddell got up from his chair, walked to the window, looked down into Bryant Park eight stories below. “Just the same, someone thought she had something that we’d be interested in. They thought enough of it to kill her to keep her from spilling.” He turned, walked to the desk, started dialing.

  “What are you going to do?” the redhead wanted to know.

  “I’m going to find out what Seaway has on the fire that might be hot enough to cause someone to kill her.”

  * * * *

  Johnny Liddell left the elevator on the 54th floor of the Chrysler Building, walked down the corridor to the double glass door bearing the inscription Seaway Indemnity Company. He pushed through the door into the ante-room, walked up to the receptionist’s desk.

  “Lee Devon. My name’s Johnny Liddell. I’m expected.”

  The girl smiled brightly, nodded. When she got up, she was taller than he’d thought, the black knit dress clung to her ample curves as she headed for an inner door. “Will you walk this way, please?”

  Liddell watched the soft play of her hips against the knitted dress. “I just don’t have the equipment, honey,” he smiled.

  The girl gave no sign she had heard, held the door for him. He could smell the expensive perfume she wore, had the impression of a well-rounded hip as he squeezed past her into the inner room.

  Lee Devon got up from behind the highly polished desk set between two windows at the far end of the room and met Liddell with an outstretched hand. “I’m glad you came by, Johnny. Real glad.” His handshake was firm and cordial.