Liddell turned the envelope over. It bore the return address of the Hotel Abbott, had “Johnny Liddell” scrawled across the front. He looked up into the clerk’s eyes.
“They wanted to leave a message, so I suggested they use our facilities.” He dry-washed his hands, bobbed his head.
Liddell slit open the envelope, pulled out a folded sheet of note paper. It was blank on both sides. He growled under his breath, swung the register around, satisfied himself that no new arrivals occupied adjoining rooms or rooms across the hall.
“What’d these friends of mine look like?” Liddell demanded.
“I only saw one. He had a slight accent, and—”
Liddell growled, started away from the desk toward the elevator.
“I hope nothing’s wrong, Mr. Liddell,” the clerk called after him.
“I hope you get your hope.”
The dry-wash was going full speed. “Of course, I didn’t give out your room number. I never—”
Liddell stopped, grinned mirthlessly at him. “You didn’t give out my room number. You just stick an empty envelope into my box.” He turned his back, entered the grillwork elevator cage.
At the sixth floor, he looked both ways, satisfied himself there was no stakeout in the corridor. He walked down to his room, put his ear against the door. There was no sound.
The keyhole showed no signs of being tampered with, but he didn’t have to be a locksmith to realize that the lock couldn’t put up a respectable struggle with a bent bobby pin. He slid his key in the lock, turned it. He pushed the door open, flattened himself against the wall, waited for some indication that one of his “friends” was inside.
Finally, he applied one eye to the edge of the door.
Charles, the headwaiter at Mona Varden’s club sat in Liddell’s favorite easy chair facing the door. A fixed smile was frozen on his lips, his eyes stared at Liddell unblinkingly. His throat had been cut expertly from ear to ear.
Liddell walked in, closed the door behind him. The room gave every evidence of a careful search. Drawers were pulled out, their contents spilled on the floor, the pillows on the couch and in the chairs had been slashed.
He walked over to where the dead man sat, stared at him for a moment. Then he picked up the telephone, dialed police headquarters. He was connected with Inspector Herlehy.
“You can stop looking for Charles, Inspector. I’ve got him here at my hotel.”
“Good,” the inspector’s voice approved. “Keep him there. I’ve got some questions to ask that baby.”
Liddell nodded, looked over to where Charles sat. “He’s not likely to be going any place. If he tries turning his head it’ll fall off.”
The receiver was silent for a moment. “Dead?”
“Real dead.”
Herlehy growled at him. “I’ll have a squad up there right away.” He slammed the receiver down.
6.
Late that afternoon, Johnny Liddell sat at his desk in his 42nd Street office, stared out across Bryant Park. He swung around at the sound of the inner office door opening, grinned at his redheaded secretary as she came in with a pile of correspondence for signing.
“Better sign these while you can still write,” she told him. “Some of it’s a week old.” She dropped the letters on his desk, helped herself to a cigarette. “See tonight’s paper? Lee Morton, the columnist, really gave you a working over. Said something about the best way to get rid of a client is to let them get murdered. He was wondering what, kind of business you’d be going into next.”
Liddell grunted, picked up a pen, started signing the letters. “He thinks we’re holding out on him.” He waded through the pile, pushed them away. “He’s a prima donna anyway.”
Pinky pursed her lips. “Maybe so. But a guy like that could be real helpful, seems to me. In that job of his he knows all the characters at the club. Don’t forget he hangs around there almost every night.”
Liddell shrugged. “He’s still a prima donna.”
The redhead picked up the letters, checked through them. “My feminine intuition tells me you have something more up your sleeve than a hairy arm.” Her eyes rolled up from the letters to his face. “You wouldn’t look good with your throat cut.”
He started to answer, broke off at a sharp knock on the office door. He held his finger to his lips, pulled open the top drawer, brought out a .45. He walked across to the door to the outer office, reached for the knob.
He was almost thrown off balance by the force with which the door was pushed open. A girl ran in, slammed the door behind her, leaned against it.
She was young, blonde. There was no color in her face, her make-up stood out as garish patches against the color. She wore a well-filled Nile-green sweater and skirt. She looked from Liddell to the redhead and back, reached up, tucked a loose tendril of hair into place with incredibly long, graceful fingers.
She made a desperate attempt to gain control of herself, almost made it. “I’ve got to see you, Mr. Liddell.” She was breathing heavily.
Liddell looked her over, nodded toward the customer’s chair. He walked into the outer officer, opened the hall door, satisfied himself the corridor was empty. He stuck the .45 into his waistband, walked back into the private office.
“Do I know you?”
The blonde shook her head. “I was Charles’ sweetheart. I worked as hat check girl at the club.”
Liddell hoisted one hip on the corner of the desk, nodded for her to go on.
She licked at her lips. “It’s true? Charles is dead?”
“He’s dead all right. Know who did it?”
She shook her head. “All I know is it’s just like Mona. They’ll be after me next.” She fitted a cigarette to the wet red blob of her mouth with a shaking hand. “They’re probably after me right now.”
Liddell steadied the cigarette, held a light, waited until she had filled her lungs. “Who’re they?”
“I don’t know.”
Liddell stared at her for a moment, walked around behind his desk. “Let’s start at the beginning. You were Charles’ girl. What’s your name?”
“Bea. Bea Clarke.” She pulled the cigarette from between her lips, crushed it out. “Don’t let them do it to me, Mr. Liddell. Don’t let them.”
Liddell nodded. “You were in on the jewel jobs?”
The girl licked her lips, nodded.
“Who was the top man in the set-up, Bea?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. God help me, I don’t know. Only Mona knew.”
“How about Charles?”
“Only Mona.”
Liddell drummed on the corner of his desk with the tips of his fingers. “Did you know Eastman? Hook Eastman?”
The girl buried her face in her hands, started to sob. She nodded. “He was part of the set-up. He did the actual stick-up.” She raised her tear-stained face. “The head man signaled to Mona which ones were to be taken—”
Pinky brought two glasses and a pint of bourbon in, poured a drink for the girl.
“That figures,” Liddell conceded. “Mona couldn’t have spotted the real stuff from the floor. We had it backwards.” He wrinkled his brows. “Then the big shot was out front quite a bit. Go on. Then what?”
“Mona would get word to me which ones were to be taken. Charles would take over the checkroom and I’d go out for air. I’d be on the curb when the mark came out. Eastman would be down the street waiting for the signal.”
Liddell poured himself a drink. “Suppose there were several women in the party. How would he know which one to take?”
The girl took a deep swallow from her cup, coughed. “I’d fix the left side of my hat. That would mean the woman on the left. If I fixed the right side, it meant the one on my right.”