A Grave Matter Page 2

  “Something?” Liddell asked.

  Devon waited until the girl had closed the door behind her on her way out. “Maybe, maybe not.” He looked worried. “If there is something, it’s a real screwy setup.” He led the way back to the desk, indicated a chair to Johnny, walked around to his own desk chair. “After you called, I did a double check on everything we’ve handled in the past year. Everything is clean and above board. Not an indication of anything phony.”

  Liddell looked disappointed. “But—”

  “Nothing phony,” Devon reiterated. “But there is something that has been bugging me a little.” He opened his top drawer, took out three paper folders. “In the past two years, we’ve had a couple of real expensive fire claims.” He indicated the files. “I’ve had the reports pulled out. In every case we’ve paid off.”

  “But?”

  Devon opened the top file, brought out some glossies, flattened them out on the top of his desk. “Take a look here.” He indicated one of the glossies with a pencil. “This was the Dunstan house on Sands Point. You can see how heavy the flames were. A complete loss.”

  Liddell eyed the charred timbers, the blackened remains of the walls, nodded. “So?”

  “See the intensity of the flame near this wall?” The tip of the pencil rested on a heavily charred area. “That was in the living room.” He selected another glossy, pointed to a similarly charred area. “Here’s another point of equal intensity. This was in the den.” He looked up at Liddell. “In an accidental fire, there’s one starting point, then the fire spreads. It’s obvious that this one started simultaneously in those two places.”

  “You think the place was torched?”

  The insurance adjuster leaned back in his chair. “That’s what’s so puzzling about it, Johnny. The Dunstans have more money than they’ll ever need. And besides, they were careless with their insurance. The house and its contents weren’t insured for anything near to worth.”

  Liddell pursed his lips. “And the others?”

  Devon shrugged. “Not quite as much physical evidence of a torching, but all of them complete losses.” He grimaced. “All owned by people above suspicion, none of them insured for enough to make it worth anybody’s while.” He leaned forward, replaced the photos in the file. “We had a conference with the home office people, decided to pay off the claims, so there’s never been any action taken.”

  Liddell walked over to where a water cooler stood humming to itself against the wall, helped himself to a cup of water. He drained the cup, crushed it into a ball, tossed it at the waste basket.

  “There’s nothing else that the girl who called me might have a line on?”

  Devon shook his head.

  Liddell shrugged. “Maybe I’m off on the wrong track. Maybe she had some information about Old Man Wellman that would help his wife’s divorce case or—”

  Lee Devon’s forehead was ridged with a frown that etched a V between his eyes. “Except for one thing, Johnny. After you called, I did some checking around. A few days ago, the office had a call. It was a woman. She wanted to know who did our investigations. My assistant gave her your name and office number.”

  Johnny Liddell looked grim. “In that case, mind if I have a look at those files?”

  “Be my guest.” Lee Devon pushed a button on the side of his phone. “I’ll get you an office where you won’t be disturbed.”

  The door to the reception room opened, the girl in the knit dress stepped in. “Yes, Mr. Devon?”

  “Find an empty office for Johnny, Miss Grant. If there’s anything he wants, see that he gets it.” His eyes rolled from the girl to Liddell. “That is, within reason.”

  Johnny Liddell rubbed his eyes, closed the last of the insurance adjustment files. The ash tray at his elbow was almost filled, his coat was draped over the back of his chair, the knot of his tie at half mast. He looked up as the door opened, the girl from the reception desk walked in, placed two containers of coffee on the desk.

  “You like it black or regular?” She indicated the container with an X scribbled on the cover. “That’s the black.”

  Liddell reached over, snagged the container. He indicated a chair. “Sit down. No use of the coffee going to waste.”

  The girl grinned at him. “I didn’t intend it to.” She drew up a chair, picked up the other container. “How you coming?”

  Liddell raked at his hair with clenched fingers, shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He gouged the top out of the coffee container. “I’ve got a sneaking hunch. But that’s all it is right now, a hunch.” He took a sip from the container, burned his tongue, swore softly. “But it’s the only way that anything makes sense.”

  “Do you any good to talk it out?”

  “It might. I—” He broke off. “I can’t just call you Hey, you. You got a name?”

  “Charley.”

  Liddell’s eyebrows raised. “Charley?”

  “My father’s private joke. My full name’s Charlene. But everybody calls me Charley.” She lifted the top from her coffee container, swirled the contents around slowly. “Any other questions?”

  “That’ll do for now.” Liddell tried his coffee again, managed to swallow a mouthful without scalding himself. “You familiar with the Dunstan case and the others?”

  Charley shrugged. “Generally. As part-time secretary for Mr. Devon, I get to hear something of what goes on in Adjustment. For a while there it looked like we weren’t going to pay off on the Dunstan claim. But when it turned out that the Dunstans were in Europe when it happened, and the claim didn’t even cover the loss—” She shrugged. “They decided to drop it.” “Figuring?” Liddell asked.

  The girl sipped at her coffee. “Tramps or somebody staying in the house got careless. Something like that.”

  Liddell indicated the files on his desk. “Could you run me off a list of all the items lost in these fires?”

  “When do you need it?”

  Liddell shrugged. “As soon as I can get it.”

  The girl managed to look unhappy. “I’ll have to stay tonight to finish it. Could you drop back to pick it up tonight?”

  “I don’t know what time I’ll be free. Let’s make it at your place. Then you won’t have to hang around.”

  The girl grinned at him. “That’s downright considerate of you.”

  He picked up the pile of folders, handed it across to her. “Maybe you’d better get started.” He consulted his watch. “I’ve got some checking to do that’ll take most of the afternoon.”

  Charley took the files, gave him an indignant look, hightailed it out of the room. Liddell grinned as she slammed the door behind her. He consulted the intercom directory on the desk, dialed 243.

  After a moment, Lee Devon’s voice came through the phone.

  “Liddell, Lee. Can you check the cross files with the other companies, get me a list of all fires in the past six months and a breakdown of the most valuable items lost?”

  “You on to something?”

  “Could be.”

  There was a worried note in the voice on the other end. “Don’t forget, Johnny. We backed away from any action on this because the people involved were important. Don’t get us into anything we can’t handle.”

  “You know me, Lee.”

  “Yeah, I know you. That’s what I’m worrying about.”

  “How long will it take you to get all the information?”

  There was a slight pause. “A couple of days, maybe.”

  Liddell grunted. “It’ll have to do. But the sooner, the better.”

  * * * *

  Charlene Grant, Lee Devon’s receptionist, lived on East 61st Street, a block of brownstone houses that had the distinction of having the only trees left in that part of the East Side. They were dwarfed and stunted from exposure to the grime, gas fumes and lack of sun that are part and parcel of the New York scene. But they were trees.

  The cab dropped Johnny Liddell in front of one of the brownstones which nestled anonym
ously in the row, he climbed to the vestibule, pushed the button under the name Charlene Grant. There was a stuttering of the latch, he pushed the inner door open and walked into the hall. Charlene appeared silhouetted in the open door to the apartment on first floor rear.

  “Down here.”

  Liddell followed her into the apartment, tossed his hat at a table. “Finished?”

  Charley nodded, indicated a list on the coffee table. He walked over, picked it up, glanced through it, nodded his satisfaction. “Great.” He sat on the arm of an upholstered chair, took inventory of her obvious assets. “You really want to help me with this one?”

  The girl nodded enthusiastically, then with a cautious afterthought, “It won’t involve typing?”

  Liddell grinned, shook his head. “I know where there’s a job for a good looker as a cigarette girl—” He waved off an interruption. “I’ll fix it with Devon. You interested?”

  The girl considered, bobbed her head. “Could be.” She walked over to a portable bar near the wall, held up a bottle of Scotch for approval. “Drink?”

  Liddell nodded. “On the rocks.” He watched while she dumped some ice into the glass, spilled Scotch over it. “This could be dangerous.”

  Charley cocked an eye at him. “Drinking with you?”

  “Working as a cigarette girl.” He accepted the glass she brought him. “I want somebody in the Café Martin who can keep an eye on Larry Harris. If he were to find out it was a plant—”

  “He won’t.” She held up her glass. “Here’s to the new cigarette girl at the Café Martin.” She took a deep sip from the glass, gave him the full effect of her slanted green eyes over the rim.

  Liddell consulted his watch. “It’s almost seven now. Harris doesn’t usually show up at the cafe until around twelve.”

  The girl walked over to the couch, dropped onto it. She patted the pillow at her side. “That’ll give you more time to tell me what I’m supposed to do.” She pouted when he showed no signs of walking over to the couch. “Sit over here by me. I won’t hurt you.”

  She didn’t.

  * * * *

  The man behind the desk in the back room of the Café Martin laced his fingers at the back of his head, let his eyes roam from the top of Charlene Grant’s head to her ballet shod feet with appropriate stops in between.

  “What makes you think we can use a cigarette girl here at the Café Martin, baby?” Larry Harris wanted to know.

  Charley shrugged. “I read the papers. The one who used to work here is dead. You need somebody to replace her.” She shrugged again. “I’m applying for the job.”

  Larry Harris nodded, the heavily veined lids half veiling his eyes. “You live with your folks, baby?”

  The girl shook her head. “This is just a breather until I get my break. I came here from Oswego to go on the stage.” She grinned shamefacedly. “But in the meantime, a girl’s got to eat.”

  Harris got up from his chair, walked around the desk. “I happen to know a lot of people in that racket. I might be able to help you.”

  “That’d be awful nice of you.”

  “Think nothing of it. I like to do things for people who are nice to me. It’s like I always say—”

  A door in the rear of the office opened, a tall blonde stepped in. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

  Larry Harris straightened up, dropped his hand from Charley’s arm. “Think nothing of it. I was just putting on a new cigarette girl.” He patted Charlene, winked to her. “Go on out front, baby. The kid in the checkroom will get you a uniform, show you the ropes.”

  Flora Winters waited until Charlene had left, then she whirled on Harris. “You crazy? I told you not to get so friendly with the help. Didn’t you learn anything at all from what happened with that other little tramp?”

  “Take it easy.” Harris stiff-legged it around the desk, dropped into his chair. “Maybe you think it’s smart waltzing in here like this? Okay, so it’s just some kid I’m putting on. Suppose it was the cops in here?”

  The blonde narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re supposed to keep that door locked if there’s anyone in here. When it’s open it means the coast is clear. Or did you forget?”

  The man behind the desk looked sulky. “I still think there’s too much cloak and dagger. Why can’t you just phone and—”

  “Because wires can be tapped,” Flora snapped. She opened her handbag, pulled out a batch of pages torn from a magazine. “I’ve got a job for you.”

  Harris looked unhappy. “So soon?”

  The blonde ignored him, smoothed out the pages of the magazine. “This should be a cinch. It’s on Manhasset Bay, about 20 miles out. House is owned by Vincent Derby, a ceramics collector. He has some pieces I can place right away. Should be worth twenty thousand or more and I don’t think there’s a chance they could be traced.”

  Greed clashed with caution on the man’s face. He finally leaned over, studied the magazine article. “Article says he has some Ming vases that are worth a fortune—”

  “He has a lot of things, but some of them are traceable. They’re no good to us. I’ll tell you what to take. We take that and nothing more.” There was a snap to the woman’s voice. “I’ve done all right for both of us up to now. We’ll continue to do it my way.”

  “When do we do the job?”

  The blonde shrugged. “That’s your department. You make the arrangements, let me know when you’re ready. I want to go along and pick out the pieces myself.”

  Larry Harris bobbed his head glumly. “I’ll have one of the boys ride out there in the morning and case the place. We should be ready by the end of the week.”

  The blonde stiffened, put her fingers to her lips, indicated for the man to keep talking. He frowned, nodded, kept talking as the woman walked to the door and pulled it open.

  Charley Grant stood on the other side. The blonde caught her by the arm, pulled her into the room.

  Charley made an effort to regain her balance, but the blonde slammed the door, was all over her. She slashed at her face with the flat of her hand, back-handed it into position. Charley tried to fight back, but the blonde’s earlier advantage overwhelmed her. She was slammed back against the wall, slid to a sitting position, buried her face in her hands.

  Flora looked from the girl on the floor to the man behind the desk, her breast heaving. “You satisfied? She was a plant!”

  “By who?”

  “How do I know?” the blonde gasped. “My guess would be that keyhole peeper, Liddell.” She nodded to the girl. “Get her into a chair.”

  Harris picked the girl up, dumped her into a chair. Her head rolled forward. “She’s passed out.”

  “She’s faking,” Flora snarled. She picked up the carafe of water, splashed it in Charley’s face. The girl shook her head, wiped her face with the flat of her hand. For a moment it was difficult for her to focus her eyes. When she did, she made an effort to get out of the chair, was pushed back roughly by the woman.

  “Who sent you?”

  Charley shook her head. She was dimly aware that the woman’s hand was flashing toward her in an arc, felt the impact as it connected. Flora hit her again, but Charley had the sensation it was happening to somebody else. A spreading black pool mercifully swirled over her and she sank into its depths.

  “That won’t do any good,” Harris growled. “She’s passed out again.”

  “Tie her up. We’ll take her with us on the Manhasset job.”

  Harris gasped. “You planning on going ahead with it?”

  Flora bobbed her head. “It may be our last job for a long while. But we’re not passing up that kind of money.” She indicated the girl. “As for her, when they investigate the fire, they’ll just find her bones. They’ll mark her down as somebody who crawled in for shelter, set fire to the place with a cigarette or something.”

  * * * *

  Johnny Liddell stood huddled in the doorway across from the Café Martin, smoked his fifth cigarett
e to a butt, dropped it to the ground, crushed it out. He started across the street, walked down the short flight of stairs to the Café Martin. He crossed to the coat-check cubicle. “Where’s your cigarette girl?”

  “Don’t you read the papers, Pops? She’s dead. And if she isn’t, they’re playing her a dirty trick. They’re burying her tomorrow.”

  “What about the new one?”

  The girl shrugged. “No new one, Pops. You tell me your brand—”

  Liddell swore under his breath. He pushed his way through the tables, headed for the door marked Private. As he shoved the door open, he tugged the .45 from his shoulder holster.

  Inside the room, Larry Harris and his bodyguard looked up, stared at the .45 in Liddell’s fist. Harris looked from Liddell to Mike and back. “What do you want?”

  “You, pal. Boiled, fried or roasted I want you.”

  Harris tossed another look at his bodyguard. Mike started toward Liddell, Johnny swung the barrel of the .45 in a small arc, laid it across Mike’s mouth. The big man stumbled backwards, got his legs tangled in a low stool, crashed to the floor in its wreckage.

  Harris used that moment to go for the gun in his drawer, froze with his fingers touching the barrel as the .45 covered him again. “Where’s Charlene Grant?” Liddell walked over to where Harris sat, caught a handful of his hair, pulled his head back. “Where is she?” When the man in the chair didn’t answer, Liddell bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. “You’re going to talk, Harris. Or so help me, I’ll leave you as toothless as the day you were born.”

  The man in the chair licked at his lips. When Liddell lifted the barrel of the .45, Harris cringed back. “In the back of the antique shop. The Winter’s dame. She’s the one you want. Not me. Get her and you’ll have all the answers you need.”

  * * * *

  * * * *

  The girl in the chair opened her eyes, managed to focus them on the blonde. She licked at her lips, tried to talk. Her voice was a hoarse croak.

  Suddenly the back door to the shop shot open, Johnny Liddell sent Harris sprawling in. He landed on his hands and knees, stayed there. The blonde took in the situation in a glance. Quickly she moved to the girl in the chair, put a gun to the side of her head.