The Fatal Foursome Read online

  “Think you can do it, Doc?”

  “I’m going to damn well try.”

  Morrissey spent the next half hour dividing the face of the screen idol into segments, each of which was carefully measured and checked for general proportions. The features were tabulated by size, width and depth, the angle of the nose, the slope of the forehead, depth of the cleft of the chin, and so forth. Finally he threw down his pencil and began to collect his papers.

  “This will be some stunt if we do it,” he announced.

  Morrissey gathered up his notes and the pictures of Randolph and motioned for Liddell to follow him. He led the way down the hall to a door marked Laboratory.

  The big room was empty. After locking the door behind them, the coroner opened a locker near the rear and brought out a large quantity of impression wax. He cleared off the top of one of the tables and piled the wax on it. Johnny found a seat where he would be out of the way and settled down to wait.

  The coroner first made what appeared to be a rough head, an irregular ball of impression wax mounted on a triangular base. He worked feverishly until he had the general dimensions to his satisfaction, then rechecked his calculations with the memoranda found at the scene of the murder. Then he worked rather more slowly for a while and once, when he made a mistake, he wiped the embryo features clean with a swoop of his spatula. After about an hour Johnny was able to recognize some of Randolph’s more striking features, such as the arched eyebrows that had endeared the movie star to so many women, the long, thin, handsome nose, and the clean broad forehead.

  Doc Morrissey worked faster. He gave the lips the proper uptilt, carved out a hollow in the cheek suggestive of a dimple, checked the nose to be certain it had the proper thirty degree angle, carefully sculptured the cleft in the chin. He stepped back, and drew a deep breath.

  Johnny Liddell got out of his chair, walked over to study the face. It was a startlingly accurate likeness, an exact replica of the picture in the glossy prints supplied by Martha, the maid.

  “Well, if we needed any more proof of who the patient was the night Maurer got his, that’s it,” he murmured. “It’s a swell piece of work, Doc.”

  The sculptor wiped his forehead and mouth with his sleeve. “Thanks, Johnny, but maybe you’d better save those bouquets. Now comes the really tough part. Keep those fingers crossed.”

  Johnny took a deep breath. “Now, if we’re right, every one of those corrections made by Maurer should be designed to hide those good looks.”

  Morrissey picked up the notes, studied them, referred back to the head he had just sculptured. “No doubt about it, Johnny. Every one of these alterations goes from what approaches perfection to what almost approaches abnormality. Take this nose for instance.” He indicated the perfectly shaped nose on the figure. “It’s now at a thirty degree angle, almost perfect. According to these notes, it’s to be changed to 39h, which would be little better than a sharply hooked beak.”

  Johnny Liddell nodded. “What about his eyes, Doc?”

  Morrissey referred to the notes. “Shot of paraffin into the cheekbones to throw the shape of the face out and the eyebrows built up and beetling,” he muttered, then looked up. “The eyes would be practically reduced to a squint.”

  Liddell shook himself. “I hope I’m not going to wake up and find this is all the product of that bum hooch of yours. Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

  Morrissey nodded, took the spatula full of wax, slapped it on the perfect aquiline nose he’d previously fashioned and manipulated it until it had become a sharp hook. He picked up an odd-looking instrument, applied it to the nose, nodded.

  “What’s that, Doc?” Johnny asked.

  “A profilometer, Johnny,” Morrissey explained. “It’s often used in plastic surgery to check measurements and things.”

  Johnny stepped behind the coroner, critically stared at the new nose. “Holy socks, that must be wrong, Doc,” he moaned. “That don’t even look human.”

  “Don’t let it worry you,” Morrissey counseled. “It only looks that way because the rest of the face hasn’t been altered to match. A nose that doesn’t stand out needn’t be a perfect nose as long as it is in harmony with the rest of the features. The only time you get the feeling that a nose or any other feature is—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Johnny was plainly impatient. “Let’s skip the classroom stuff. Where do we go from there?”

  The next notation dealt with the cheekbones. Liddell watched in silent fascination while Morrissey changed their entire appearance. By consistent application of wax, he raised them to the height indicated, then built the brow down from above until the eyes were almost hidden and the figure seemed to glare malevolently.

  “He sure looks like sudden death,” Liddell remarked. “But that cupid’s bow mouth never belonged to any gorilla that looked like that.”

  Morrissey ignored the protest. He applied a little wax to the figure’s mouth, then with a deft twist of the wrist, transformed it into a perpetual leer.

  “I knew it, I knew it,” Liddell exulted.

  The coroner stepped back and admired his handiwork. “Know him, eh? I had an idea you would. At least we have the satisfaction of knowing that he was wasting his time shooting down old Maurer because he’d know what he looked like after the bandages were off. Now we know, too.”

  Liddell scratched his head. “I just can’t figure a pretty boy like Randolph letting things like that hap pen to his face. He won’t have to go through life with that kisser, will he?”

  The coroner walked over, turned on the tap and washed his hands. “No longer than he wants to, Johnny. There isn’t one alteration in his face that couldn’t be undone by a simple operation.”

  Liddell held out a pack of cigarettes. Morrissey took one. “I might have known. Well, what now?”

  Morrissey removed the white apron he wore over his suit and tossed it over the bust. “Guess we’d better get a photographer in here and take a few pictures,” he suggested.

  Johnny snapped his fingers. “Right. Got an old hat we can stick on his head?”

  “Hat?” Morrissey asked. “What for?”

  “We can’t carry that bust around and he’s thorough enough to do the job right. Probably change the way he combs his hair, and chances are that he’ll keep wearing a hat. That can make a lot of difference.”

  “You think of everything. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  He was out of the door before Johnny could answer. The detective wandered curiously about the lab, studying the labels on the bottles, pulling out the corks of some and sniffing experimentally. Tiring of this, he hoisted one hip up on the edge of the lab table and was lost in a cloud of blue smoke when the coroner returned.

  In his hand, Morrissey carried a small candid camera with a flash attachment. “I thought it might be better if we took the pictures ourselves,” he explained. “Getting a photographer in here would be letting another person in on it.”

  Liddell took the camera and studied it for a moment. “Perfect, Doc. This will do swell.”

  “I just remembered I had it lying around in my locker. They use it here for before and after shots in the allergy clinic. You know, some guy comes in with his face all broken out, so we take a few pictures. Then we shoot a couple of grains of our pet theory into his arm and when the rash disappears, we take another picture. May not break Life, but every once in a while we do break the medical journals.”

  “Poof,” Liddell snorted. “Who reads them except a bunch of doctors?”

  Morrissey removed the apron from the bust, perched an old gray fedora on the top of the head, and stood back, focusing the camera. Suddenly the flash bulb went off with a faint plop and Liddell blinked.

  “I’d better get a profile shot as well, eh?” Morrissey asked.

  He took three more pictures from various angles, then they started breaking down the figure. They were almost done when Liddell stopped.

  “Hey, Doc! What happens if the p
ix don’t come out?”

  The coroner said something under his breath. “I never thought of that,” he admitted. “Let’s develop these things and get a drink.”

  Liddell was the first one to the door. “Correction, please. Let’s get a drink—then develop these things.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JOHNNY LIDDELL was stopped at the canopied entrance to the Chateau Chance by the uniformed doorman.

  “Sorry, sir. We’re just getting ready to close. Only a few people still in there, and they’re about ready to go.”

  Liddell shook the man’s hand off his arm. “Cookie Russo’s still in there, ain’t he? He’s the one I want to see.” The doorman started to block his way, saw the look on the detective’s face, stepped aside. “That’s being smart,” Liddell informed him.

  “I wish I could say the same for you.”

  The doorman watched Johnny run up the stairs. When he had reached the top, the doorman pressed a hidden button three times. Johnny crossed the barroom to the door at the rear. The gunman named Jake stood guard instead of Mushky.

  “Going some place, mister?”

  “I want to see Russo. It’s important.”

  “Russo ain’t here. The joint’s closed. Be a good guy and scram.” Jake’s voice was hard, and even. “We ain’t looking for trouble, but we ain’t mad if we get a little exercise every now and then.”

  Liddell started to push the man aside, when another tuxedoed floor man materialized behind him. He was dimly aware of a swishing motion, swung his head to the side just in time to miss the full power of the murderous blow that was swung at his head. It caught him a glancing wallop that knocked him to his knees. Before Jake could raise his knee to kick him in the face, Liddell locked both arms around the gunman’s knees.

  Jake rose through the air, landed flat on his stomach with a plop that emptied the air from his lungs. The other hoodlum lunged at Liddell, and hit empty air with his roundhouse swing.

  The detective got to his feet as the guard lunged past off balance. He caught the guard by the arm, swung him around, hit him flush on the mouth with a right overhand. He felt the man’s lips burst like a pair of overripe tomatoes, cascading a red stream over the chin.

  The guard recovered, cursed through battered lips, came in swinging. Liddell caught him again on the side of the chin. The guard staggered, and the detective hit him with a powerful short jab that sent him reeling back. He hit the wall, slid to a sitting position.

  Jake lay where he fell, drawing breath into his lungs with greedy gasps. His arm was folded under him in an unnatural position. Satisfied that he stood in no immediate danger of attack from that direction, Johnny picked up a chair and prepared to break his way through the disguised door into the gaming room. He had the chair raised over his head, when a flat, unemotional voice ordered, “Hold it, Liddell.”

  He turned around to face Cookie Russo, gun in hand. “What’s been going on around here?” Cookie wanted to know. He indicated the two guards sprawled on the floor.

  “I wanted to see you,” Liddell panted. “They said I couldn’t. They were wrong.”

  Russo didn’t lower the gun. “What’d you want to see me about?”

  “Randolph. And the guy who killed Goodman.”

  The gambler looked him over carefully, nodded. He shoved his gun back into its holster, stepped past Liddell, fumbled with a piece of the molding on the door, and swung it open. Liddell put the chair back in place, preceded Russo through the door.

  “Eddie,” Russo called one of the bartenders who had watched the brawl from a safe distance, “get Jake and Moran upstairs and see that a doc gets to look them over. I’ll be in the office.”

  Without a word he led the way through the gambling room, down the hall to the office. He used a key from a chain hanging from his belt to swing the heavy steel door open, led the way in.

  “You must have something awful important to talk about to take on two tough boys like Jake and Moran,” Russo opened the conversation.

  “Plenty important, and there can’t be any delay.”

  He made a dive for his breast pocket. In a flash, Russo had his gun cleared of its holster, on a line with Liddell’s stomach.

  “Don’t move so fast,” he counseled. “It makes me nervous, and the first thing that gets nervous on me is my trigger finger.”

  Johnny twisted his battered face into a grin. “Just getting a picture to show you.”

  The gambler nodded, his eyes still bleak. “Bring it out slow. Nice and slow.” He watched until Liddell had brought a 4 × 6 print out of his breast pocket and tossed it on the desk. Then Russo returned his own gun to its shoulder hammock.

  “What’s that?” he demanded.

  “Goodman’s killer,” Liddell told him casually. “Take a look. See if you make him?”

  Cookie Russo picked up the picture, stared at it for a few minutes with narrowed eyes. He tossed it back on the table with a frown. “That sounds nuts to me, Liddell. I’ve seen that guy around. He ain’t tough, he just looks that way.”

  Liddell shrugged. “Maybe. But just the same that baby has gunned three guys and carved one gal to death in this man’s town.”

  Russo held out a humidor, waited until Liddell had selected a cellophane jacketed cigar, then took one for himself. He slowly and deliberately denuded it of its wrapper, cut the end with a little gold knife. Then, “You’re sure this is the guy?”

  Liddell bit the end off his cigar, spat it toward the wastebasket, leaned forward and accepted a light from the gold lighter the gambler held toward him. “Positive. If we can break this guy down into a confession, the cops will stop wondering if maybe you didn’t chill Goodman out of a grudge on a welsh.”

  “They’d have a helluva time provin’ that.”

  “Maybe. But it wouldn’t be doing your business any good for cops to be wandering in and out of here all the time.” Johnny rolled the cigar around the corner of his mouth. “Help me handle this guy and I’ll take the cops off your shoulders.”

  Russo studied him shrewdly. “Something about this deal smells from herring, Liddell.” He leaned back, looked at the ceiling. “If you’re so sure this guy is the killer, why come to me to pick him up? Why not have the cops do it? The manpower situation ain’t that bad —not to judge from how many of them they can spare to be wandering around my joint every night.”

  “That’s a good question, Cookie,” Liddell admitted. “There’s only one thing. The cops don’t know about this yet. In fact, I’m going to have one helluva time convincing them this baby is the killer unless he breaks down and talks.”

  “So that’s it,” Cookie shook his head. “None of my boys are gonna sit in on a session where some chump is going to talk his way into a gas chamber. No dice, Liddell.”

  Johnny frowned. “I don’t want them to sit in. This guy’s taken a powder. I don’t know where he’s holed up. I hear you got some boys that can find a spit in the ocean. That’s the kind of help I need.”

  “And I get?”

  “You get to get let alone by the cops. The only thing they got on you now is suspicion of Goodman’s murder. Let me put the real killer in the clink and your connections will keep those cops from trampling all over your customers with their flat feet.”

  The telephone rang in a subdued tone. Russo answered it, grunted a couple of times, and held his hand over the mouthpiece. “You must be real tough, Liddell,” he said. “One of my boys is in bed with a busted jaw and Jake will be out of action for a couple of weeks with a busted flipper and half a dozen cracked ribs.” He turned back to the telephone. “See that they’re taken care of and tell Mushky to get down here.” He hung up. “I ought to insist that you work for me until those boys can walk again.” He grinned. “Help is tough to get.” He took the cigar from his mouth, regarded the fine white ash on the end, tapped it off. “I’ll play. I’m going to send Mushky and one of the older boys out to find your friend. Where do you want him delivered?”

  “G
oodman’s office,” Johnny Liddell told him. “Know where it is, don’t you?”

  “I should.” In response to a code knock on the door, Russo pressed a buzzer. The door swung open and Mushky stepped in.

  “You wanted me, boss?” he asked. Then, seeing Johnny, he grinned broadly. “So it was you, Liddell? I shoulda known when I seen the way them boys was busted up.”

  Russo drummed his fingers on the desk. “Mushky, I want you to help Liddell on a case he’s working on.” He picked up the picture, tossed it across the desk. “Take a look at that guy.”

  The guard studied the picture. “Yeah. What about him, boss?”

  “Liddell wants him. Get him for him.”

  Johnny Liddell scribbled an address on the top sheet of a pad. “That’s where you find him.”

  Mushky stuck the picture and address in his jacket pocket. “When do you want him and where, Liddell?”

  Johnny chewed on the end of the cigar. “As soon as I can have him. Bring him to Goodman’s office. Know how to use the back way?”

  The guard looked to Russo, who nodded. “We know the back way, Liddell. This is no trap, is it?” Mushky asked.

  “This is no trap, Mushky,” Russo said. “Liddell knows we had nothing to do with Goodman getting his.” He looked at Liddell hard. “At least I hope he does—for his sake.”

  Johnny Liddell knocked a solid piece of ash off his cigar. “Stop threatening. I’m beginning to come apart at the seams already. I know who killed Goodman and it ain’t you or any of your boys. That good enough?”

  Mushky brightened, nodded. “It is for me.” He shook his head. “I’m sure glad you’re not after us, Liddell. I seen you work before.”

  “I don’t usually play ball with coppers, private or city hall,” Russo informed the detective after Mushky had left. “But I had word on you, Liddell. The boys back East say you’re level. I like that. I saw the way you handled two of my best boys. I liked that, too. So, like I said before, if I can give you a hand without having anything rub off on it, all you got to do is yell.”