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  Herlehy looked tired. A V-shaped crease was between his brows, his cold eyes were steady, searching, his face serious. “This can be a tough rap for you if I want to stack it up that way, Johnny,” he said. “We've got a guy on ice wearing three of your slugs for a belt buckle. That license you carry is an investigator's license, not a hunting-license.” He spoke flatly, no malice or emotion evident in his tone. “I don't want to have to throw the book at you, but I'm going to know what's going on in my district no matter who gets stepped on.”

  Liddell took a drag from the cigarette, held it in his lungs, let it drift from his lips. He returned the inspector's stare impassively.

  “Suppose we start again from the beginning.” Herlehy didn't miss a stroke on his gum. “Who were you supposed to meet tonight?”

  “A client.”

  “What was her name?”

  Liddell sighed. “I don't think you could make a rap stick on me, inspector, and I don't think you think you can, either.”

  “Don't make me prove it, shamus.”

  Liddell dropped his cigarette to the floor, ground it out with his heel. “I'm going to make an exception of this one, inspector, and tell you some of my client's business. But not because of anything you think you can do to me.”

  “Because you like the way I part my hair, no doubt?”

  “Because I think I'll need some help before this is over.”

  Herlehy smiled frostily. “That's damned decent of you, Liddell. Who is this elusive client?”

  “Her name's Merritt. Jean Merritt.”

  The V-crease was back between the inspector's brows. He leaned back in his chair, regarded Liddell through lowered lids. “Any relation to Matt Merritt?”

  “His daughter.”

  Herlehy nodded, indicated for Liddell to continue.

  “She called me yesterday afternoon. Wanted the agency to look into her old man's death.”

  “Give me a better one, Liddell. Her old man committed suicide.”

  Liddell shrugged. “She doesn't think so. She's convinced he was murdered.”

  The man behind the desk scratched at his scalp through thick white hair, stared down at his fingernails.

  “Why didn't she come to your office?”

  “Scared. Thinks the old man's killer is keeping an eye on her. She didn't want to tip that she was having the case reopened.”

  Herlehy rolled his eyes upward from his nails to Liddell's face. “But she didn't show, after all?”

  “I waited from ten-thirty until twelve, then I called her hotel. She'd disappeared. Checked out with no forwarding address.”

  “So?”

  Liddell shrugged. “So maybe she was right. Maybe someone did want to keep her from having the case reopened.”

  The inspector snorted. “Just because she decided to change hotels? There's a hundred reasons why she should check out—and none of them sound like what you say.” Herlehy pulled a pad to the corner of the desk. “Who was the hood in the car, Johnny?”

  “I don't know. I told you that, inspector.”

  Herlehy tossed the pencil down on the desk disgustedly. “You don't know. Some guy takes the trouble to spray enough lead at you to sink a battleship and you don't know who it was or why.”

  “I think it's tied up with Jean Merritt's check-out. Somebody found out she contacted me and wants to discourage me from taking on the case.”

  Herlehy snorted.

  “All right,” Liddell growled. “Then you tell me.”

  “I will. Just as soon as I have the answer,” Herlehy promised grimly. “Only then it will be too late for you to co-operate.”

  Liddell stood up angrily, leaned over the desk, feet a little apart, broad shoulders slouching, balled fists jammed deep in his jacket pockets. “I'm getting a little tired of all the snide remarks about my holding out, inspector. I'm no newcomer around here. You know the way I operate. And you know me well enough to know that when I say I'm not holding out, I'm not holding out.”

  “You still insist the only reasons these hoods tossed lead at you was to scare you off the Merritt case?”

  “I still insist.”

  “Happen to know who the guy is you gunned out tonight?”

  “I didn't have time to get introduced,” Liddell growled.

  “Mike Scoda. Know him?”

  Liddell nodded. “I've heard of him. You sure it was Scoda?”

  “Checked his prints from the slab. It's Scoda, all right. How does he fit in with your Merritt case?”

  Liddell pinched at his nose with thumb and forefinger. “I don't know where he fits. And I don't know who his buddy was, the guy who handled the typewriter. All I know is the dame was scared somebody was out to stop her from breaking this case open, and the minute I tackle it they start working me over.”

  The inspector leaned back, studied Liddell's angry face, nodded. “Okay. Maybe you are leveling—as far as you know. Maybe you really do believe all this ties in with Merritt's suicide. I don't.”

  “Then how do you figure it?”

  “How do I know what you've been up to?” Herlehy grunted. “You might have moved in on some guy's gal, you might even have tried to ring in a pair of trained dice on somebody sensitive enough to discourage you from a repeat performance.” He grinned slowly. “It doesn't take some guys as long to get unpopular as it does others, you know.”

  “Okay, okay. So I'll change my deodorant. But just to make sure I'm not just half safe—how about my gun back?”

  Herlehy nodded, drew a pad out of his drawer, signed an authorization, slid it across the desk. “I'll play along with you until I find you've been crossing me, Johnny. If I do, you're going to wish you had stopped some of those slugs!”

  * * *

  The Hotel Westmore was a huge, oppressively modern group of buildings overlooking Riverside Drive and the Hudson River beyond. The cabby swung his hack out of the slow-moving stream with such violence that it banged its front wheels against the curb, skidded to a stop. A heavily braided doorman scowled his disapproval at the driver, yanked open the door, waited while Liddell shoved a bill through the half-opened window.

  He crossed the sidewalk, shouldered his way through a chromed revolving door, entered a thickly carpeted lobby. A few upholstered chairs were occupied by baggyeyed men wearing expensive-looking suits, Countess Mara ties, and the morning tabloids.

  Liddell walked the block-long length of the lobby to an ornate registration desk, submitted to the scrutiny of a thin, lantern-jawed young man with a carnation in his dark suit, asked for the house detective. The clerk gave him a startled look, stared up at the clock above the desk that said 2:30 a.m., returned reproachful eyes to the detective. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  The clerk signaled for a bellboy, gave him instructions in a low voice. The bellboy turned a pair of wise, old-young eyes on Liddell, nodded.

  “This way, mister.”

  He led him to the end of the registration desk, turned left to a group of executive offices, knocked on a door the second from the end. A heavy voice invited them in.

  A gray-haired man in a dark suit smiled at them, nodded for the bellboy to leave. When the door had closed behind him, he turned to Liddell. The smile was still on his face, but his eyes were cold, searching. “Now, what can we do for you, sir?”

  Liddell dropped into a chair on the far side of the desk. “I was looking for some information.” He brought out his credentials, tossed them across the desk. “I was hoping Lee Cassidy would be on.”

  The man picked up the credentials, riffled through them. “Cassidy's on the day shift this month. We rotate. Know him well?”

  “Worked on a few cases with him while he was still on the force.”

  The gray-haired man finished with the credentials, shoved them back across the desk. “So you're Johnny Liddell?” The cool eyes studied him impersonally. “Heard about you.”

  “Good?”

  “Good enough to help you if I can. Far's I know you'
re okay with the house.”

  Liddell picked up his papers, rearranged them, stowed them in his breast pocket. “I want some information about one of your guests. A check-out.”

  “Why?”

  “She had a date with me at ten-thirty last night and didn't show. I checked here at midnight, but she was gone with no forwarding address.”

  The house officer blinked. “No bad publicity in it for the house?”

  “No publicity,” Liddell promised.

  “What's the name?”

  “Jean Merritt.” Liddell watched while the gray-haired man jotted the name on a slip of paper. “I want to know when she left, where she was going if possible, and a line on the car she left in.”

  “Make yourself comfortable. I'll see what I can do.”

  In a few minutes he was back. “I'm afraid this isn't going to be much good to you, Liddell.” He referred to the slip of paper in his hand. “Miss Merritt left the hotel at about ten last night, came back at ten-twenty with a man.”

  “A man? Anybody know him?”

  The house detective shook his head. “Not that I could find.” He referred back to his notes. “They went up to her room and she called down to have her bill made up, checked out about ten-fifty or so. The man paid the bill, left with her.”

  Liddell pinched irritably at his nostrils. “Left at about ten the first time, eh? She was supposed to meet me at ten-thirty. That would have given her plenty of time to keep the date.”

  The gray-haired man held out a humidor. When Liddell shook his head, he helped himself to a cigar, lit it. “Must have changed her mind.”

  “Somebody changed it for her. You sure nobody got a good look at this guy she was with?”

  The house man took three quick puffs on the cigar, examined the burning end with elaborate interest. “I hope you haven't forgotten there would be no publicity about this, Liddell.”

  “I'm not looking for publicity. I'm looking for my client. You wouldn't be holding out?”

  “Why should I?” The detective shrugged. “I'm not interested in covering up for your client or her boy friend. I'm just interested in keeping the name of the house out of the papers.”

  “How about the car she left in?”

  “Had a little better luck there. We don't have much of a line playing the house after nine, so the doorman remembered putting her and the guy into a cab.” He consulted the paper. “Driver's name was Leo Steinberg. He's a regular on the line.”

  “Can I see him?”

  The gray-haired man nodded. “I passed the word to the starter to keep him there for you soon's he gets back. He's on a haul. Should be back any minute. You can wait in here if you like.”

  Liddell pulled himself out of his chair, reached over, shook hands with the house detective. “Thanks, but I think I'll have a little talk with the doorman while I'm waiting.”

  He walked through the elaborate lobby. None of the men in the armchairs had moved, still seemed to be reading the same pages of their tabloids.

  The doorman's name was Harvey, and under the stimulus of a carefully folded five, he remembered that Miss Merritt and her boy friend didn't do any talking while they were waiting to load her bags in Steinberg's hack. No, that wasn't usual. She was in the habit of kidding with the doorman and the bellboys. Looked to him like she'd had a fight with the guy. What'd he look like? Skinny guy, dark coat. Not much to look at, didn't seem. No, couldn't rightly say he could identify him. Didn't pay that much attention.

  A cab slid out of the line of cars heading across town toward the Drive, took its place at the end of a small line parked along the curb.

  “That's Steinberg now, mister,” the doorman told Liddell. He led the way down the line to the cab. A thin-faced man with a shock of light-colored hair grinned toothily as they approached. “Hi, Harvey.” “This guy wants to ask you a couple questions, Leo.” The doorman indicated Liddell. “He's interested in the Merritt dame.”

  The cabby looked Liddell over. “The who?”

  “The Merritt dame,” the doorman repeated patiently. “The one with all the bags. The check-out.” He scratched his head, pursed his lips. “Musta been around eleven.”

  The cabby consulted his route card, underscored a notation with a grimy fingernail. “Oh, that one. What about her?”

  “Where'd you take her, Leo?” Liddell wanted to know.

  “Who'd you say this character is, Harvey?” the cabby demanded.

  “Friend of the house dick.” Harvey looked at Liddell, winked. “Leo figures his time is valuable, too, mister.”

  Liddell reached into his pocket, brought up a five. “That valuable?”

  The cabby reached over, snared the bill, folded it lovingly. “Why didn't you say he was a friend, Harvey?” He grinned. “What was it you wanted to know, mister?”

  “Where'd you take Miss Merritt and the man?”

  “Corner of Madison and Forty-Fourth.”

  Liddell scowled over the information. “Across from the Biltmore, eh? Or the Roosevelt. No idea which one they went to?”

  “Neither.” The cabby shook his head. “There was a car waiting right alongside Wally Frank's there on Forty-Fourth. No lights. They transferred the bags into that.”

  Liddell groaned. “You didn't see the license plate?”

  The cabby shook his head. “Too dark.”

  “What kind of a car was it?”

  “A big black sedan. Looked like a Buick to me.”

  Liddell gnawed at his knuckle, nodded. “You say they transferred the bags and stuff to the black car?” The cabby nodded. “How about the girl? She seem to put up any fuss or anything?”

  The cabby thought it over, shook his head. “She sat in the cab until they had all the bags in the other car. Then she got out with the skinny guy and got into it. They was still sitting there when I pulled away.” He looked anxiously at Liddell. “I hope you got your dough's worth?”

  “Oh, sure,” Liddell assured him. “You couldn't have confused me more if I'd paid a hundred !”

  Chapter Three

  At ten the following morning, Johnny Liddell irritably pushed open the ground-glass door that bore the caption Johnny Liddell— Private Investigations, slammed it after him. The redhead sat at a desk in an enclosed space, stabbing listlessly at the keys of a large desk typewriter, taking excessive care not to fracture the finish on her carefully shellacked nails.

  “Sorry about last night, Pink,” he greeted her. “I got tied up.”

  She stopped jabbing at the typewriter keys, turned a pair of sea-green eyes on him. “So I read.” She reached over, pulled a pile of paper toward her, extracted a clipping from the Dispatch. “I saved it for you.”

  Liddell grunted. “I don't have to read about it. I was there. Anything new?”

  The redhead shook her head. “A couple of checks on old jobs. The check from Miss Merritt I already told you about. That's all.”

  “She hasn't phoned or anything?”

  “Just the check. I put it through this morning.” She watched him as he pushed through the railing gate, started for a door marked Private. “You've got company in there. Your little blond playmate. Said it was all right to wait inside.” She shrugged. “It's okay with me if it's okay with you, but this is supposed to be a business office, and—”

  “It's okay with me,” Liddell cut her off.

  The redhead sniffed audibly, went back to stabbing at the typewriter keys. Then, as Liddell closed his office door behind him, she tore the half-finished page out of the carriage, crushed it irritably, threw it at the wastebasket.

  Inside the private office, Muggsy Kiely sat behind Liddell's desk, polishing her nails. “Hi, Johnny. Surprised to see me?”

  Liddell grinned. “I thought you were going to stay on the Coast for a couple of months, Muggs.” He walked around the desk, kissed her upturned lips. “When'd you get in?”

  “This morning. On the Commodore. Looks like I timed it right. What's going on around here with all the
boom-boom?”

  “Damned if I know, Muggs,” he admitted. “I was supposed to meet a client last night when these guys opened up on me with a tommy gun.”

  “Some client !” Muggsy grinned. “Who was it?”

  “A dame named Merritt. Jean Merritt.”

  Muggsy Kiely grimaced, wrinkled her pert nose. “That screwball? How'd she get mixed up with a torpedo like Scoda?”

  “I don't know that she is. I was supposed to meet her at ten-thirty on Lexington Avenue. She didn't show but the boys with the guitar did. Maybe there's no connection, but—”

  The door to the outer office opened, the redhead stalked in, dropped a pile of letters on the desk, stalked out.

  “What's with her?” Muggsy demanded.

  “Pinky doesn't approve of your using my private office for a boudoir.” He nodded toward the nail polish. “Thinks it unbusinesslike.”

  “I can't say the same for those sweaters she wears and the way she tosses those hips. They really do mean business!” Muggsy picked up the letters the redhead had typed, groaned. “Bad spelling, erasures, poor spacing. Why don't you get a secretary who can type, too?”

  “Why don't you lay off Pinky? She's a good kid.”

  “She must be good, the way you baby her,” Muggsy retorted. “Why don't you sit down, or doesn't that Rexall redhead approve of that, either?”

  Liddell sighed, dragged the client's chair to the side .of the desk, dropped into it. He hooked his heels on the corner of the desk, leaned back. “I didn't know how good I had it last night when all I had to do was dodge bullets.”

  “What about last night, now that you mention it? Didn't Merritt show up at all?”

  “She's disappeared.”

  A glimmer of interest flickered in the girl's eyes. “Now you're my boy.” She reached for the telephone.

  “Wait a minute, baby.” Liddell pulled the phone out of her reach. “You can't use that yet. Anyway, I thought you were finished with newspaper work. What happened to that Great American Movie you were going to write?”

  “I didn't like Hollywood, Johnny,” Muggsy confessed. “I couldn't wait to get back to New York. Besides, Pop is still on the desk and he'd never forgive either of us if somebody beat him to this.”