Bare Trap (21 page)

“What’s the matter, peeper?” Maxie sneered. “Can’t you take it?”

Liddell made a stab at a grin but succeeded only in twisting his face into an ugly grimace. “I must be getting old,” he gasped.

Yale Stanley caught Maxie by the shoulder, pulled him aside, stepped in front of Liddell. He wasn’t as dapper as the last time the private detective had seen him — in his office at the Dude Ranch. His carefully shellacked hair now showed signs of being mussed, and there were blue-black bristles glinting from his chin and upper lip.

“Keep on being as nosy as you are and you won’t get much older, Liddell,” the gambler growled. “How’d you find us here?”

“I read tea leaves.”

The gambler’s thin lips spread back from his teeth. “A tough guy, eh?” He slashed out with the flat of his hand, slammed Liddell’s head backward. “The way I hear it you’ll be doing all your communicating by Ouija board, tough guy. How’d you get here?”

Liddell lay on his back on the floor, breathing heavily through his mouth. His eyes were closed.

Stanley stepped closer, bent down over him. He kicked
him in the ribs lightly, kept kicking until Liddell opened his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question, Liddell.”

Liddell shook his head weakly.

“Let me have a crack at it, Yale. I got ways of making bashful guys open up. I open them up real wide,” Maxie promised.

“Not yet. I want him to be able to talk.” The gambler stood over Liddell, looked down at him.

“I owe him plenty, Yale,” the broken-nosed man snarled.

“Okay, okay. I’ll give him to you for Christmas. Just don’t break him into pieces before I’m done with him.” He nodded down at Liddell. “Get him up in a chair.”

Maxie glowered at the gambler, tried to outstare him, dropped his eyes. He growled deep in his chest, reached over, caught Liddell by the lapels, dragged him to his feet, and dumped him into a chair.

Liddell looked around, saw Eddie Richards for the first time.

The fat man sat slumped in a chair at the far side of the fireplace. His arms hung down at his sides, and his big head drooped on his chest, spilling his chins over his collar. Black, dried blood ran down the side of his face from an open cut over his eye and became matted in the heavy growth of beard on his jowls. His overripe lips had been mashed to a pulp; spilled blood stained his shirt front.

“He was stubborn, too,” Stanley growled.

Liddell looked away from the fat man to the gambler. “He dead?”

Stanley looked over at the unconscious man, spat. “Not yet. But he will be if he doesn’t stop trying to outsmart me.” He looked back at Liddell, scowled. “How deep are you in this frame, shamus?”

“What frame?”

Stanley’s open palm snapped the private detective’s head back again. “Don’t answer my questions with questions, Liddell.”

Maxie shuffled over. “Let me soften him up for you, Yale. He’s still a tough guy. Let me soften him up,” he
pleaded. His beady little eyes looked inflamed, his thick lips slobbered. “I got it coming to me.”

“Don’t get overanxious, Maxie,” Liddell spat at him. “Your pal Duke had it coming to him, too, and I saw to it that he got it.”

Maxie started for the private detective, was pushed back by Yale Stanley. “Cut it out, I told you, Maxie,” Stanley ordered. He waited until the goon relaxed, then turned to Liddell. “I heard about the Duke. So it was you, eh? That’s another score we’ve got to settle.”

Liddell stared at him, offered no answer.

“What were you doing in the broad’s apartment?”

When Liddell showed no signs of answering, Stanley slashed his open palm across his face again.

“What were you doing there?”

“Getting the evidence to send your pal in Lulu Barry’s office to jail.”

Stanley’s eyes grew bleak. “Busy little fellow, aren’t you?” His eyes glowered at Liddell from behind triangular-shaped pouches. “Who else knows about it?”

“Lulu Barry. Mendy. Benny Cardell.”

“You’re lying.”

Liddell shrugged. “Okay, so I’m lying. How the hell do you think I knew where you were?”

“Who else was there when you talked to Mendy?”

“A couple of guns from Chicago. Estes and a guy named Ryan.” He grinned crookedly at the worried frown on the gambler’s face. “The Syndicate sent them in to take care of you.”

Stanley turned his back on Liddell, walked over to a table, poured himself a drink, glowered at the private detective over the rim of the glass.

“Don’t listen to him, Yale. He’s lying,” Maxie growled.

Stanley shook his head. “Estes was in town tonight. He called to tip me off that Liddell was on his way out here.” He set the glass down hard, raked his fingers through his hair.

Liddell grunted. “You’re a funny operator. Here they
got a call out for you for murder and all you’re worried about is a two-bit gun like Estes.”

“I can beat the murder rap because I didn’t kill the kid. But if my number’s up with the Syndicate, that I can’t beat.” Stanley jammed his fists into his jacket pocket, paced the room. He stopped pacing in front of Liddell, jabbed his finger at him. “You know damn well I didn’t kill that kid. It’s a frame and I’m not standing still for it.”

Liddell fumbled through his pockets, came up with a cigarette. “If you didn’t, who did?”

“That rat.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the unconscious Richards. “He had that babe of his in the office call me and tell me to get out to the old country club. When I get there, the kid was dead. He was hiding in an inside room; you were calling the cops. All set to put the finger on me.”

Liddell wiped his mouth with the side of his hand, stuck the cigarette between his lips. “Where were you when the cops got there?”

“Not too far away.” Stanley twisted his lips in what passed for a smile. “Far enough.”

Liddell lit his cigarette, filled his lungs with smoke, let it dribble out slowly, soothingly. “What’d you run away for, Yale?”

“You think I’m crazy? I know a setup when I see one. That fat slob wants the kid out of the way, knocks him off, and has me there as a ready-made fall guy when the cops arrive. Only it didn’t work out that way.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to work him over until he’s ready to go to the cops and admit it was a frame-up.”

Liddell touched the sore spot behind his ear, winced. “I don’t know anything about any frame-up. All I know is I was hired to find the kid and when I did find him he was dead. I went to call the cops and Richards was gone when I got back.”

The gambler stuck his face down near Liddell’s, bared
his teeth. He slammed the cigarette from between the private detective’s lips with a sweep of his hand. “You’re a liar. You were in it with him. You were all set to finger me for the cops.” The soft voice had risen to an angry shout. “Weren’t you?”

Liddell was aware that Maxie had shuffled into position at his side, stood licking his thick lips expectantly. “You’re wrong, Yale. I wasn’t in on any frame. I don’t think they could make it stick.”

Some of the wildness drained out of the gambler’s face. “Why not?”

Liddell shrugged. “You didn’t have any reason. The kid owed you fifty grand — at least you had his paper for that much. Killing him would only mean you were out that dough. You wouldn’t kill him.”

The gambler stared at him, rubbed the back of his hand over the bristles on his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, that’s right. Anybody could see that. I’d be out that fifty gees by killing him. Why would I want to go and do a thing like that?”

“But we’ve got to give them a killer in your place, Yale,” Liddell told him. “One they can pin it on.”

Stanley whirled to Richards. He walked over to the fat man, kicked him in the ankle. “Here’s your killer. He didn’t want the kid to pay me the dough he owed me. He killed him to get all the dough.” Richards groaned, stirred. His discolored eyelids flickered, the cruelly smashed lips twitched. Stanley kicked him again, the fat man’s eyes rolled in their sockets. He stared at the gambler blankly. “Wake up, you fat slob and talk, or I’ll fix it so’s you’ll never talk again,” Stanley growled.

The fat man rolled his head weakly. “I didn’t set you up, Yale. I never did it.”

Stanley slashed out with the flat of his hand, knocked the fat man’s head to the side. “You killed him, didn’t you? You killed the kid?”

Richards shook his head, the chins wabbling crazily. “Why would I kill him?” His beady little eyes filled with
tears. “He was my kid. I brought him up. Why would I kill him?”

Liddell pulled himself painfully from his chair and staggered over. “Richards, it’s Liddell. Can you hear me? Liddell.”

The black marbles rolled behind their discolored pouches, focused blearily on Liddell. “Tell him, Liddell. I didn’t kill the kid. Tell him.”

“You could have, Richards. You could have killed him before you picked me up. You could have framed Stanley by calling him to go out there.”

Bubbles formed in the corners of the smashed lips. “Why? Why should I kill him? I did everything for that kid. Everything I’d do for my own kid.” He rolled his head helplessly, blubbered. “I didn’t kill him.”

“You were afraid you’d have to get up the fifty thousand he owed me, Richards. You couldn’t bear to see him pay off. You-”

“I don’t have fifty thousand, Stanley. I’m broke. Dead broke.”

Liddell caught him by the shoulder, shook it. “That’s why you did it, isn’t it, Richards? You used up the kid’s dough. You were afraid of what would happen when — ”

“The kid had no dough. Not a dime,” the fat man blubbered.

“What happened to it?”

Richards shook his head. “There never was any. Wally Reilly died broke. I carried the kid out of my own pocket.”

“You’re lying,” Stanley screamed. “Why would you do that?”

“Wally was my friend. He didn’t leave a dime. Not a dime.” His eyes rolled upward. “I didn’t want the kid to know his old man was a failure. I didn’t want anyone to know. I gave the kid everything to make it look like Wally had taken care of his own kid.” The fat man took a gasping breath, shuddered. “Wally was my friend, and — ” The big head dropped, rolled helplessly, the chins spilling out on his chest.

Y
ALE
S
TANLEY PACED THE ROOM
like a caged animal. Every few steps he would stop, lift the fat man’s eyelids, and listen to his heavy breathing.

Liddell sat in a chair across the room, smoking silently. “We’d better get him to a doctor, Yale. He’s in bad shape.”

The gambler whirled on him. “He’s not going to die, I tell you. He’s going to tell them he killed that kid.” He pulled out the .45 that was stuck in his waistband. Its muzzle looked big and black and empty as it stared at Liddell’s belly. “And you’re going to back it up.”

Liddell shook his head. “It won’t wash. He must be telling the truth when he says the kid had no money.” He looked over at the unconscious man. “If the kid had no money, Richards had no reason to kill him.”

The hard note crept back into Stanley’s voice. “So it’s me again, eh, Liddell? You were conning me along.” His finger grew white on the trigger. “Get this, shamus. If I’m going to sit in the gas chamber it’ll be for a killing I did. And you’re as good a one to start on as any.”

Liddell could feel the perspiration beading his lip. “You couldn’t know the kid had no money. Richards said so himself.”

The finger relaxed on the trigger. “Keep talking.”

Liddell shrugged. “You’re still in the clear. If you didn’t know the kid had no dough, you wouldn’t kill him, knowing the fifty grand was lost the minute he died.”

Stanley considered it, nodded. “That figures.” He narrowed his eyes, glared at Liddell. “If it wasn’t me and it wasn’t Richards, who did the killing?”

Liddell risked the movement necessary to wipe his lips.
“How about Maxie?”

There was a deep animal growl from behind Liddell. Yale Stanley swung the .45, covering the muscle man. “Don’t get excited, Maxie. We’re just talking.” Without moving his eyes from the ex-pug’s face, “What about Maxie, Liddell?”

Liddell shrugged. “He beat the kid up a couple of days before he was killed.”

“On orders,” Maxie bellowed. “On Stanley’s orders.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I gave you orders to give the kid a going over. But killing him was your own idea, wasn’t it, Maxie?”

Maxie growled ominously. His beefy hands hung awkwardly at his sides. He stared at Yale Stanley through piglike eyes that had receded behind two puffy mounds. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, looked from Stanley to Johnny Liddell and back.

“So that’s it, eh?” He breathed noisily through his broken nose. “I take the rap, eh? You got me wrong, Yale. I don’t take no falls for nobody.” He started to shuffle toward the gambler. “Nobody, pal.”

Stanley’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Don’t push me, Maxie. I told you we’re just talking.”

“Framing, you mean.” The big man threw himself forward with surprising speed. One of his hamlike hands deflected the .45. The roar of the gun was like thunder in the confines of the room.

Before Stanley could pull the trigger again, Maxie’s beeflike fist caught him flush in the mouth. His lips popped, spilling red down the front of his shirt. He staggered back, brought the gun up to firing position.

Maxie was on him before he had time to squeeze the trigger, swatted the gun out of his hand. It skidded across the floor, hit the wall. Liddell staggered across the room and picked it up.

Yale Stanley, trying to get away from the battering Maxie was giving him, stopped one on the side of his head that sent him wobbling drunkenly. Maxie kept boring
in, slammed the gambler against the wall. He propped him up with his left, preparing to smash his right into the smaller man’s face.

“You’ve had enough fun for one day, Maxie,” Liddell grunted. “Let him go.”

Maxie turned on him with a growl, blinked at the gun in his hand. “I’m not Yale Stanley, Maxie,” Liddell told him. “When I squeeze it, somebody goes down. For good.”

Maxie hunched his shoulders, his piglike eyes glaring at Liddell. “You’re in it with him. Trying to set me up for a murder rap.” His eyes hopscotched from the muzzle of the .45 to Liddell and back. “Nobody sets me up for that.” He started to shuffle toward the private detective.