Poisons Unknown Read online

  It was a small, mean bedroom. An ugly dresser leaned drunkenly against an unpainted plaster wall. An unmade double bed dominated the room, its soiled linen dingy and yellow in the half-light. This room, too, had been searched. The drawers had been pulled out, emptied. Clothes from the closet had been dumped into an untidy pile in the center of the room.

  A small lamp was lit on the dresser, throwing a yellow light over the bed. Angie Martinez lay on her back across the bed. One arm dangled to the floor; the other was thrown across her face as though to ward off a blow. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear, and a pool of blood had dripped to the floor beside the bed.

  Liddell’s eyes flicked around the room, noted the closed window, the half-open door to the lavatory. Whoever had been in the apartment when he rang the bell was still in it. Softly he crossed the room, pushed open the lavatory door. It was empty.

  “All right, you in the closet. You get a count of three, then I make a sieve out of that door. Come out, hands first. Make sure the hands are empty.”

  There was no sound from the closet. Liddell could feel the butt of the .45 growing moist from his palm.

  “One.”

  There was no sign of life from the closet. The pulse in his trigger finger started to pound.

  “Two!”

  Liddell could feel the faint line of perspiration that beaded his forehead and upper lip. His finger grew white on the trigger.

  “No, don’t!” The closet door sprang open. A small pair of hands stuck out. A blonde girl followed them. She had difficulty keeping them from trembling. “Don’t shoot!” she begged piteously.

  Liddell walked over and poked the gun into the closet to make certain it was empty. When he turned back, the girl had sunk her face in her hands, sobbing loudly. He took her by the arm, led the way out of the bedroom, and sat her down on a wooden chair in the living-room. He let her cry it out.

  “You should have shot me. You should have ended it,” she sobbed through her fingers. “If I weren’t such a coward—” She dissolved into another burst of weeping.

  “Suppose you stop crying long enough to answer a few questions.”

  The blonde dropped her hands and looked up. She couldn’t have been over nineteen. Her hair was a natural ash-blond, her eyes gray. Her face was drawn, drained of all color, her make-up standing out in dark patches against the pallor. Her full lower lip quivered as she looked at Liddell.

  “Use a drink?” he asked gently.

  Her only response was the heaving of her shoulders. After a moment, she regained control. “I’ll have a cigarette if you have one.”

  Liddell pulled out his cigarettes, dumped out two, lit them, passed one to the girl. “You’re in a bad spot, blondie,” he told her.

  The girl took a deep drag on the cigarette. Her hand shook as she took it from her mouth, breathed a fog of smoke in a jerky stream. “I didn’t kill her. She was like that.”

  Liddell nodded. “I don’t think you did. A killing like that’s messy.” He gave her a moment to compose herself. “What are you doing here?”

  The shaking started again. “I—I came to see Angie. She was my friend. I—I heard you at the door. I thought you were the—the killer, so I hid.” Her hand wobbled violently as she carried the cigarette back to her mouth.

  Liddell shook his head. “Lying doesn’t help either of us.”

  “I’m not lying.” A tiny vein started to throb in the side of the girl’s neck.

  “What were you looking for?”

  The girl shook her head and dropped her eyes. She started fumbling with her fingers in her lap.

  “Let’s try it this way. What’s your name?”

  “Arrest me if you like. But I’m not saying another thing.”

  “I’m no cop,” Liddell told her.

  Her eyes shot up hopefully. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” The hope drained away, leaving the eyes empty, dead. “Then you’re one of them.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but if you mean I’m one of the temple gang, I’m not.” He put his hand on her shoulder, could feel her trembling. “I may be able to help you, if you’ll let me.”

  “What about her?” She nodded toward the bedroom door.

  “It’s too late to help her.” He stuck the .45 in its shoulder holster, caught the girl by the arm. “Maybe if we get out of here, you’ll feel more like talking?”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Liddell grinned at her. “No place. You take me wherever you want to go. All I want to do is talk this out with you. Won’t you believe that I want to help you?”

  “I want to.” The girl got up. Her knees were knocking. “I need help so badly. Can we go to my place?”

  Liddell nodded. “Any place you say.” He led her to the door. She had perceptible difficulty in making her knees behave. “Will you just answer two questions?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you tear the place apart like this?”

  She shook her head. “It was this way when I came in and—and found her.”

  Liddell nodded. “This one you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. What’s your name?”

  The blonde looked at him. “Donna. Donna Espirito.” She threw her head back proudly. “My father owns a plantation outside of Baton Rouge.”

  “I’m Johnny Liddell. I operate a detective agency in New York.” He stuck out his hand; she shook it gravely and managed a wan smile. “Now that we’re friends, let’s get out of here.” He led her to the staircase, down to the lower hall without meeting anybody. They walked out into the dusk of Marseilles Road.

  With the coming of night, Marseilles Road was bestirring itself into activity. A few drunks, white and black, made their appearance on the street. An occasional yellow-faced girl, dressed in yellow or bright red, started on her night’s assignations while her zoot-suited pimp congregated with his fellows in the all-night candy stores to wait for her to return with her night’s earnings.

  If any of the habitués of the street noticed the weeping blond girl being led from Number 70, they gave her no more than a passing glance. Too many white girls had run or been dragged from these grimy buildings to cause more than a momentary ripple. Many of them had returned time and again, finally staying to become one of the dead-eyed, shuffling creatures who made it possible for their males to strut their finery, establish their standing in the community.

  11

  DONNA ESPIRITO lived in a two-story walk-up in a long row of dun-colored buildings in the Quarter. She led the way up the stairs and leaned against the wall at the top. Her hand still shook so badly she had to give Johnny Liddell the key to open the door.

  “I’m scared, Johnny,” she told him as soon as the door was closed behind them.

  “There’s nothing to be scared of, baby,” he reassured her.

  “But what about her, Angie? They’re sure to find her.”

  “Stop worrying, will you? There’s no reason for them to know we were there at all.” He patted her shoulder, then looked around the studio apartment. It was furnished with comfortable-looking barrel chairs and a big sofa; the north end was glassed in. “You an artist?”

  Donna shrugged. Her eyes were still wide, showed signs of the shock. “That was the excuse I gave my parents for coming to New Orleans to live by myself. I’m not very good.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.” He walked over to the corner where five or six canvases were piled against the wall. He held one up, cocked his head, and studied it critically. “The Cathedral St. Louis?”

  Donna smiled wanly. “I told you I was no good. If I were, you wouldn’t have been able to recognize it.” She padded across the room and stood behind him, appraising the painting over his shoulder. “I never was cut out to be an abstractionist. I guess I’m strictly old school.”

  “I like it,” Liddell told her. He set the painting down, went through the other five. “I think the Cathedral one will be my fee.”

  “You’re welcome t
o it,” Donna told him. She walked across the room and dropped onto the couch. “I wish I’d never seen this awful town.”

  “You can’t get rid of trouble by wishing it away, baby,” Liddell told her. “Sometimes you can do something about it by facing up to it, dragging it out into the open, and taking it apart.” He picked up a paintbrush and tested its softness against his palm. “I might be able to help if you’d tell me what it’s all about.”

  The girl sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, staring at the wall.

  “What were you doing at Angle’s apartment?” Liddell asked.

  Donna turned, studied his face. “What were you doing there?” she countered.

  “A fair question. I’m investigating Brother Alfred’s death. Martinez was close to him. I thought she might be able to—”

  “Alfred’s death?” It seemed to take a little time to register.

  Liddell nodded. “He was found dead this morning in a smashed car. The story’s probably in the evening papers. Why?”

  The blonde wrung her hands. “Now there’s no out. I was hoping Brother Alfred would have mercy, that he’d—” She broke off, stared dry-eyed at the wall, and shook her head miserably.

  “You’re giving yourself an unnecessary beating, baby,” Liddell told her. “Why don’t you get it off your chest? Believe me, I’m a big boy. There’s very little you could tell me that would make me blush.”

  “This would.”

  “Try me.”

  The girl looked up at him for a moment, then made a decision. She got up from the couch, walked to a small desk, and pulled open a drawer. She extracted a photograph and held it out to Liddell. “What do you think of that?”

  Liddell studied the picture and whistled. He held it under the light, examined it. “This isn’t a faked picture?”

  The girl shook her head, colored.

  “How did they ever get you to pose for a picture like that?”

  She dropped her eyes. “I don’t know. I—I must have been high. I don’t remember anything about that night.”

  Liddell handed the picture back. “Tear it up.”

  “What good will that do? They have the negative. They made a whole roll of movie film like this.”

  “They’ve approached you?”

  She nodded. “This morning.”

  Liddell grinned encouragingly. “Well, you had me worried. If that’s all it is, a shake, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve handled more of those than I like to remember. Let’s sit down and work this out.”

  “There’s nothing we can do. If I try anything, they’ll send these pictures to my father.” She dropped her voice. “It would kill him.”

  “It won’t hurt to talk about it.”

  Donna made a hopeless gesture. “It won’t help, either. I’m hooked.”

  “These pictures. Were they taken at the Eye Almighty Temple?”

  Donna nodded. “I must have been crazy. But it was—” She fumbled for words, couldn’t find them. “Were you ever there?”

  Liddell nodded.

  “Then you know what I mean. That woman up there on the dais chanting. The beat of the drum. Everybody dancing around growing wilder and wilder. I couldn’t help myself. I guess I’m just rotten inside.”

  “Did you drink or eat anything while you were there?”

  “Some wine.”

  Liddell nodded. “What kind of wine?”

  “I don’t know. I just remember it was sweet.” She looked up at him. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t be so hard on myself, if I were you. You were probably drugged. That wine contained either a hypnotic or an aphrodisiac, or both. It’s an old trick.” He pointed to the picture. “How much do they want for the negative?”

  “They don’t want money.”

  Liddell scowled. “What do they want?”

  “I guess I passed my screen test.” The girl tore the picture bitterly. “They said there are some men that are anxious to meet me. If I do what they say, I’ll get the pictures back.”

  “That’s a come-on,” Liddell growled. “You’ll just be getting in deeper and deeper. You say they called this morning?”

  The blonde said, “It was a man. He told me what they expected of me. I’m supposed to see him tonight.”

  “Good. Maybe we can persuade him to be reasonable.”

  “We?” Her tone indicated that she hardly dared hope.

  “Sure. You just hired yourself a boy. You’re not keeping that date alone. I’ll be around.”

  She walked up, stood close to him. “There’s no price I wouldn’t pay you if you’ll get those films back for me.”

  Liddell grinned. “I already set my fee. The Cathedral St. Louis. An original by Donna Espirito. Of the old school.”

  “Look, Liddell, I’m not trying to put on the wronged-virgin act. When I went out there to the temple, I knew it wasn’t a pink tea. I went out there for kicks, and I got myself hooked. So if you’re doing this to help out a wide-eyed innocent from the parishes, you’re being had.”

  “But?”

  She dropped her eyes, massaged the back of her arm. “But I’m no prostitute. I like men, but I like quality in my men, not quantity.”

  “Look, baby, as long as we’re setting the record straight, I’m doing this because I think Brother Alfred’s death was caused by a mobster named Marty Kirk. Marty Kirk has a finger in every dirty racket in New Orleans. That includes dope and prostitution. I’ll sit in on any game that sounds like it may lead to Kirk. Check?”

  “Check.”

  “Good. Now where are you meeting this character tonight?”

  “At the bar in the Café Valentin. It’s a club here in the Quarter.”

  Liddell nodded. “Do you check in with anybody special?”

  The blonde shook her head. “He said he’d know me. He saw my picture.”

  “What time?”

  “Ten.”

  “Good. Don’t get there before ten. I’ll be sitting at the bar when you walk in. Don’t give any sign that you’ve ever seen me before.”

  Donna nodded. “All right, if you say so.”

  “Now, if you’ll give me my painting, I’d better get back to my hotel.”

  The blonde laid her hand on Liddell’s arm. “That’s hardly a reasonable fee for what you’re doing for me.”

  Liddell reached over and kissed her half-open lips. They were soft, moist. She melted against him, held him close. After a moment, he drew back.

  “A deal’s a deal, baby. The painting covers the entire fee.” He kissed her lips again lightly. “But who knows? I may have to put in an expense account on this job.”

  • • •

  Johnny Liddell leaned on the bar at the Café Valentin with the ease born of long experience. The dinner crowd was just beginning to filter in. Already a line was forming on the wrong side of the plush rope that extended across the entrance. Every so often there would be a whispered discussion between the headwaiter and a patron on the wrong side of the rope. Invariably it would be ended by a firm shake of the headwaiter’s head.

  A four-piece orchestra was playing softly, and a hum of conversation flowed out from the dining-room. Inside, the lights were dimmed preliminary to the first floor show of the evening.

  Liddell took a swallow out of his glass, glanced down the bar to where Donna Espirito sat tensely on the edge of her bar stool. A muted buzzer sounded behind the bar. The bartender picked up the telephone, muttered into it, nodded, replaced the receiver on its hook.

  Then he walked down the bar to where Donna sat, leaned across the bar, and whispered to her. She nodded, threw Liddell a worried look, and started toward an unmarked door near the entrance.

  Liddell waited until she had closed the door behind her, finished his drink, then passed a bill to the bartender. When the man behind the bar shuffled off to ring it up, Liddell dropped his cigarette to the floor, ground it out, and headed for the door the blonde had gone through.

  A flight of stairs le
d to a small balcony that overlooked the dance floor below. A young man in a faultlessly tailored tuxedo was leaning on the decorative railing watching the beginning of the floor show below.

  “Lost your way?” He smiled pleasantly.

  Liddell indicated the closed door. “I want to see the boss.”

  The man in the tuxedo looked hurt. “Mr. Camden’s too busy to see tourists right now.” He caught Liddell’s arm with a surprisingly strong grip. “You leave your table number with the headwaiter, and if—”

  Liddell brought his fist up from the side of his knee, and the man in the tuxedo fielded it with his stomach. The air wheezed out of his lungs like a deflated balloon. His eyes glazed, and a thin stream of saliva ran down his chin. As his knees started to sag, Liddell caught him under the arms, easing him to the floor. He looked over the balcony, saw no indication that the brief scuffle had attracted any attention. He tried the knob on the huge glass door, found that it turned easily in his hand. He slipped his .45 from its shoulder holster, pushed the door open, and stepped in.

  The door sighed shut, giving the room that peculiar absence of sound that most soundproofed rooms have.

  The first person he saw as he walked in was Gabby Benton. She was sitting in a big easy chair, legs crossed, a cigarette sending a slow spiral of smoke ceilingward from between her fingers. Her face was pale, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

  “Welcome to the party, Liddell.” Mike Camden greeted him. He was seated in the mate to Gabby’s chair, with his fingers laced across his stomach. “Take Liddell’s gun, Sammy.”

  Liddell felt the snout of a gun ram him in the ribs and made no attempt to resist as the man behind him reached around and relieved him of the .45.

  “What are you doing here, Gabby?” Liddell asked.

  Gabby shrugged, put the cigarette between her lips, and took a deep drag.

  “She’s one of them, Liddell. She’s part of the gang,” Donna Espirito broke in.

  “That right, Gabby?” Liddell wanted to know.

  Gabby shrugged. “It’s like you said, Johnny. You don’t get robin’s-egg-blue Cadillacs and an apartment on Carondolet off a private detective’s salary.”