The Fatal Foursome Page 6

  It had a tantalizingly familiar scent and the hand-writing was angular, almost childish. Once opened, it turned out to be from Mona Varden.

  Dear Johnny, Maybe I’m playing with dynamite. I got something so hot it’ll bust this town wide open. If anything happens to me, though, just have a talk with Sal Moreno. He may be able to tell you something about Goodman and Randolph that will make the grand you dropped the other day well worth while. In the meantime, if nothing happens to me, I will have told you this before you came home so no harm’s done. Mona Varden.

  Johnny Liddell swore softly. So she knew she was flirting with a killer!

  Moreno? Johnny kicked the name around in his mind for a few minutes, decided it failed to strike any familiar chord. Once again, he tried to connect the slate-eyed bodyguard with some experience that would make it possible to place him. He ended up by calling Toni Belden at the Dispatch and setting a date for dinner at Angelo’s.

  Toni was definitely cool through dinner. Her main grievance seemed to be that, instead of calling the coroner’s office when he found Mona, he should have called her. Johnny pacified her by giving a few details that had not been made public.

  He waited patiently while she phoned the story to her paper. A half hour later, he asked, “Know anybody around town called Sal Moreno, Toni?”

  The girl reached for a cigarette. “Why?” she demanded.

  Johnny shrugged. “Just curious. The name happened to pop up in conversation today and I’d never heard of him. He must be since my time.”

  Toni nodded. “You’re lucky, then. Moreno’s bad mediane. Don’t mess with him.”

  “What’s his racket?”

  The girl reporter leaned forward. “Look, Johnny. There are some guys you can get tangled up with and come out on top. Others are just poison. That’s Moreno. Too many guys who tried to take him were later dredged up from the bottom of Frisco Bay.”

  Johnny subsided until the waiter had replaced the empty jiggers on the table with full ones. “Who is he, and where do I catch up with him?” he persisted.

  “Going to kill him?” Toni asked. “That’s the only way you can come out on top. He never forgives and he always pays off.”

  “In that case maybe it’ll pay for me to kill him.” Johnny smiled. “Come on, stop stalling. Where do I find him?”

  Toni shrugged. “Okay. Sal Moreno’s quite a character in this menagerie of characters. He runs the Port of Peace Burial Haven.”

  “The what?”

  “You heard me. The Port of Peace Burial Haven. You see, there are lots of floaters and bums come out here to die. They have no people, nobody to notify. Port of Peace takes their bodies and saves them from graves in Potter’s Field.”

  Johnny tossed off his drink. “That don’t make him sound like such a bad egg. Why the build-up?”

  Toni tried to explain. “Lots of guys have disappeared in this town and it’s awful hard to prove murder without a body. A lot of people wonder how many of those floaters who were buried had other tags before the Port of Peace got them.”

  Liddell nodded in approbation. “Leave it to Hollywood to think up a really good racket. Now, where do I get to see him?”

  Toni Belden took a long drag from her cigarette. “I wish I could talk you out of it, Johnny. Why don’t you let the police handle Moreno? I tell you he’s a killer.”

  “That’s what I’m looking for, Toni. A killer.”

  Toni sighed. “Well, I’ve warned you. From now on you’re on your own.” She drank her rye quickly, with a grimace. “Moreno shows up at the Bird’s Nest almost every night at ten-thirty. He has a blonde floozie in the floor show.”

  “Bird’s Nest. Where’s that?”

  “It’s a little joint on the Laguna Beach Road. You can’t miss it.” She reached out, covered. Liddell’s hand with hers. “You will be careful, won’t you, Johnny? And if you’re not careful and you do start something, remember—call me first. The cops can wait.”

  The Bird’s Nest was twelve miles out of town according to the speedometer on the hired Buick. It was an ugly, square white building, almost gray in the dark, set back in a clump of trees off the twisting state highway. An unshaded bulb swung slowly in the faint evening breeze and cast a yellow light over the entrance. To the left was a string of cars. Johnny Liddell parked the Buick, and ambled up a few rickety steps that led to the bar room.

  He stood at the door and peered into the smoky opaqueness of the interior. A tinny orchestra set off in the far corner was doing unmentionable things to a popular song. On the floor six bored chorines were pounding out the last few steps of a dance routine with more determination than inspiration.

  Liddell skirted the tables. A big, heavy-boned Swede in a white jacket stood behind the bar, swabbing it with a wet cloth that left greasy circles.

  “Double brandy, bud,” Johnny ordered. He turned and surveyed the room. The Swede slid a glass across the bar, scooped up the silver Johnny had deposited.

  “About time for Belle to be coming out front, ain’t it?” the detective asked conversationally.

  The Swede kept wiping the bar. “Belle who?”

  “Belle St. Mary. You know, the blondie with the classy chassis in the show.” Johnny took a gulp of the brandy, winced as it seared its way down. “I been getting up enough nerve to brace her for a date ever since I hit this town.”

  The Swede shook his head. “You better peddle your sex life some place else, chum,” he advised in an undertone. “She’s got herself a guy. Regular stuff. He don’t like competition.” He dumped the wet rag behind the bar. “And he can make it stick.”

  Johnny Liddell tossed off the rest of the brandy with a show of bravado, put the glass back on the bar. “Who’s this guy she’s got?” he wanted to know.

  The Swede didn’t lift his eyes. “Don’t look now, bud, but that’s him leaving with Belle. If I was you, I wouldn’t go looking for no trouble. His name’s Sal Moreno and he’s got all the connections that’s to be got.”

  Johnny Liddell picked up his glass and swung around in time to see a tall, heavy-jowled man in a dark suit and a thickly painted blonde moving toward the door. They seemed to be arguing. The man glanced aimlessly around the room as he and the girl reached the door, his beady, restless eyes passing over the figures at the bar without interest.

  The detective grunted, tossed down a bill and followed the couple to the door. He watched Moreno and the blonde get into a heavy sedan. The powerful motor sprang to life and, as the car moved noiselessly toward the state road, Johnny Liddell slid behind the wheel of the rented Buick.

  He kept the bouncing tail light of the sedan a few hundred feet ahead. Moreno drove into the city proper, turned right down Grove Avenue, skirted the business section and headed for Cypress Boulevard. At Cypress the big car pulled up to the curb in front of a good-looking modern apartment building. The Buick drove slowly past. It was not until several hundred feet beyond that the detective was able to find a suitable parking place.

  It took Liddell a couple of minutes to walk back to the apartment building. Belle St. Mary’s name was listed on the lobby register. Johnny walked up three flights of stairs and stopped in front of 3C. He could hear the muffled sounds of an argument inside. Then a door slammed and there was silence.

  Johnny slid the .45 from his shoulder holster and tapped lightly on the panel. There was no answer or sound of further movement. After a moment he knocked again, somewhat more loudly. He could hear the man grumbling as he stamped across the room. The door swung open.

  “What the hell …”

  The snarl died suddenly and the heavy jowls turned a deep blue-gray. The man’s beady little eyes were riveted on the .45 pointed at his stomach.

  “I ain’t selling subscriptions, Sal,” Johnny said grimly. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  The man’s lips quivered twice, as though he were about to speak. He changed his mind and led the way into the living room.

  A pile of newspapers w
as scattered on the floor next to a big, comfortable-looking couch. Hanging over the back of one of the chairs was Moreno’s holster, with a .38 tucked in it. Johnny took the gun and dropped it into his jacket pocket. Then, still keeping his .45 trained on Moreno, he ran his hand down the sides of the chair and under the pillow. He brought up another .38.

  “Okay, it’s safe to sit now.” He indicated the chair with his gun. “Maybe we ought to let Belle in on our party. Call her, Sal. And just in case you’re thinking of pulling something, try thinking back to the last guy you saw blasted through the belly with a .45. It leaves a hole like a cannon ball.”

  The gleam of hope died in Moreno’s eyes. He dropped into the chair.

  “Hey, Belle, come here.”

  The bedroom door opened, and the blonde stepped through. She was wearing a sheer negligee, and looked younger than she had seemed at the Bird’s Nest. She had the face of a girl of twenty-two that was beginning to show signs of hard wear. Faint shadows were noticeable under the green eyes, little lines crossed at the corners of her red mouth, and there was a tired droop to her full lips. When she saw Johnny Liddell she made an ineffectual attempt to pull together the negligee to hide her nakedness. Then she saw the gun in his hand. The blood drained from her face, leaving it a transparent ivory. Her hand flew to her throat and for a moment she “looked as though she were going to scream.

  “Take it easy, sis,” Johnny cautioned. “Nobody’s going to get hurt. Sal here is going to tie you up just so’s you’ll be a good girl while he does some singing.”

  The heavy jowls quivered indignantly. “I’m damned if I do …”

  “And double damned if you don’t,” Liddell promised.

  Moreno’s eyes wavered. Then they fell. “Come here, Belle,” he snapped.

  The girl walked over, a faint flush of color beginning to return to her cheeks.

  “Use your belt, chum,” Johnny Liddell ordered. “And make sure that she’s well tied. Then maybe you might stick a hanky in her mouth, a clean one if you have one. We might not want to be interrupted.”

  The perspiration was beaded on Johnny Liddell’s face as he stood looking down at the man in the chair. The past hour’s pushing around had not improved Moreno’s appearance. There was a welt across the side of his head, and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his lips to the bulging chin that overflowed his collar.

  “You’re being awful hard to get along with, Moreno,” Johnny said softly. “All I want is what you know about Mona Varden. And I’m only going to ask you once more.” He reversed the gun, and held it by the barrel. “Then I’m going to feed you this rod, butt first. If I don’t like the little story you tell me, so help me I’ll leave you as toothless as the day you were born.”

  The beady little eyes glared from behind discolored pouches. “Have all the fun you can,” Moreno snarled. “I never forget a face and I’m double sure to remember yours.”

  Johnny Liddell’s hand swung in a short arc, caught the man in the chair smartly across the cheek.

  “Never mind what you’re going to do to me, tough guy,” he advised. “Just give a little thought to what’s going to happen to you.” He turned the gun around again, aimed the barrel at Moreno’s stomach. “A girl who trusted me was killed today. You know who killed her. I promised to even up the score for her. Okay. If you won’t tell me who did it, you’ll do as a stand-in.”

  Moreno’s eyes studied the detective’s face for signs of a bluff. Johnny Liddell returned the stare unblinkingly. His finger tightened slowly on the trigger. Moreno squeezed back against the cushions of the chair.

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. I’ll talk.”

  Johnny Liddell released his pressure on the trigger. He became suddenly aware of the different direction Moreno’s eyes had taken. They were staring past him to the door. There was a faint, almost imperceptible squeak behind him, as though the door were being slowly opened.

  Without attempting to turn Johnny Liddell blasted away at the only lighted lamp in the room. The .45 slug tore the fixture half off the wall, leaving the room in perfect darkness. As he fired, he threw himself to one side, flattening out against the floor.

  The door scraped all the way open.

  Simultaneously with the crashing of the lamp bulb, there was a faint “plop” and a short flash near the door followed by a soft sigh and the sound of someone sitting down hard. The light in the hall had been turned off and the man in the doorway provided no target. Johnny Liddell slid cautiously to the left in an attempt to get a shot at him. His foot caught the leg of a small table that went over and hit the floor with a crash. Another faint “plop” from the door and Johnny Liddell could hear the buzz of an angry bee close to his ear.

  He fired twice. The .45 made a deafening roar in the cramped space. He heard the patter of running feet in the hall. By the time he reached the door, the hall was empty.

  Back in the apartment, Liddell closed the door and lit a match. He found an undamaged lamp and switched it on. Sal Moreno was still sitting in the chair. A little blue hole in his forehead had spilled a bright red stream that ran along the side of his nose and dripped from his chin down on his white collar. The beady little eyes, secure behind their purple buttresses, were glaring no longer.

  Johnny walked into the bedroom, took the handkerchief from between Belle St. Mary’s teeth. Her wide, scared eyes asked questions.

  “Moreno’s dead,” he told her. “Some guy stuck his head in the door and killed him. The police will be coming and it means a big mess. If you play ball with me, I’ll do everything I can to make it light on you.”

  The girl started to shake. “They’ll give me what they gave Moreno,” she wailed.

  “Who’s they?”

  The girl shook her head. “I don’t know. The ones he was working with. They had some stunt they were pulling. Sal said it would mean a lot of money. More money than they ever seen, any of them.”

  Johnny Liddell loosened the belt that bound the girl’s arms. There was a red welt prominent on the white skin.

  “All that’ll keep,” he said. “First, we’ve got to set this scene right. Somebody must have heard those shots. The call is probably already in to headquarters.” He tossed the girl a housecoat that was thrown over a red upholstered chair.

  “If I do tell you what I know will you help me get out of town?” the girl pleaded. “I’m scared. First Randolph, then Goodman, and now Moreno.” She wrung her hands piteously.

  “That ain’t all, Belle,” Liddell told her. “Mona Varden had her throat cut this afternoon.”

  Listlessly, the girl put on the housecoat, zipped it up to the neck. The last vestige of color had left her face. “Her, too? See, all of them. They all got it. I’m next. I know I am.”

  Johnny Liddell caught her by the shoulder, shook her gently. “Do you know who’s behind all these killings, Belle?”

  “No,” she said. “I just know they’re all connected. Randolph, Goodman, Mona and Moreno—they were all friends. They were working together.”

  “We’ll talk about that later. That is—if you’ve decided to come in on my side?”

  The girl nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just forget what happened here tonight. Just remember that you and Moreno invited me over for a little talk. Leave the rest to me. I’ll see that you’re put some place where no one can get at you.”

  Johnny Liddell took Moreno’s two .38’s from his pocket, wiped them carefully with his pocket handkerchief. Then, lifting the dead man’s right arm, he pressed one gun, and then the other into the lifeless hand. Holding the edge of the barrel with his handkerchief he breathed on each gun experimentally and grunted his satisfaction at the number of fingerprints showing. Then he slipped one gun back into the holster that hung on the back of the chair, the other down the side.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LESS THAN TEN MINUTES LATER, Johnny Liddell opened the door for Inspector Devlin and his men. The inspector pushed his bro
ad-brimmed hat back on his head.

  “I might’ve guessed you’d be right in the middle of it, Johnny,” he growled. “Why don’t you do California a favor and take your crime wave back east with you?”

  He crossed the room and bent over the corpse. After a careful scrutiny of the wound, he nodded for the headquarters man to take over. Then, perching himself on the arm of the sofa, he looked at Johnny Liddell soberly.

  “We may have to take you on this one, Johnny,” he said. “Seems to me you’re showing up on the premises with too many corpses in one day. Fresh corpses, too.”

  Johnny Liddell opened his eyes wider. “Take me for what?”

  Inspector Devlin shifted the gum from his left cheek to his right cheek and grinned humorlessly. “You kidding?” he asked. “Here we walk in on you with two stiffs on your hands in one day. Both of them were apparently messed up in a dirty deal with a client of yours. Seeing as you’ve got a reputation of doing anything for a client, why not this? Pony up the artillery.”

  Johnny Liddell shrugged, yanked the .45 from its shoulder holster and passed it over.

  “You’re making a mistake, Inspector,” he said.

  Devlin held the barrel of the .45 to his nose and sniffed.

  “No use smelling it,” Johnny Liddell told him. “You won’t have any trouble proving it was fired tonight. Where you’re going to have your trouble is proving how I shot Moreno through the head with a .45 while he has a .38 hole.”

  “You seem pretty sure it was a .38, Liddell,” Devlin growled. “Why?”

  “Just a hunch, Inspector. Just a hunch.”

  At that moment one of the uniformed men came out of the next room, leading Belle St. Mary by the arm.

  “What’s this, Liddell?” Devlin growled. “Why didn’t you tell us this woman was here?”