Bare Trap (18 page)

“What about Glennon?”

“She’s got to go home sometime. It’s a cinch she doesn’t work twenty-four hours a day. I’ll just wait until she gets on her broomstick and goes back to her haunted house to sleep.”

Muggsy giggled, watched him pour some cognac into each of the glasses. “Don’t say such things about Glennon. I’ve got a warm spot in my heart for her. She’s about the only female in the case you haven’t gone on the make for.”

“I was getting around to her.” He stopped pouring. “I didn’t hear you say stop.”

“I didn’t. I have a feeling I’m going to need a man-sized drink before the night’s over.”

Liddell capped the bottle. “After it’s all over we’ll do it up right. Right now I think we’d better get moving.” He picked up his glass, waited until she picked up hers, then touched his glass against hers. “Here’s to a license on its way to getting canceled.” He drained the glass, setting it back on the table. “I wonder how I’m going to like driving a truck?”

“You’ll probably love it and have a girl in every truck stop.” She emptied her glass, set it next to his. “You know, we can still keep our skirts clean by telling Devlin everything we know, whether he does anything about it or not, and — ”

“And stop feeling noble? No soap. I’m enjoying it too much.”

“Okay. It was just a suggestion. What’s our first step?”

“Call Lulu. Set up a date for tonight.”

Muggsy nodded, walked over to the phone, dialed a number. After a moment: “Lulu? Muggsy Kiely.”

The receiver chattered amiably, ended on an interrogative note.

“I haven’t heard from Liddell,” Muggsy lied, crossed her fingers.

“He was picked up by the police? Are you sure? What for?”

She listened, nodded.

“I’ll probably be hearing from him then. No, I’m not seeing him. I was wondering if you could have dinner with me tonight and — ”

The receiver became voluble for a moment.

“Oh. Gee, I’m disappointed. Maybe we could make it
later. Say around twelve or twelve-thirty after the broadcast?” She shook her head at Liddell, shrugged. “Gee, I hope you can, Lulu. There are some things Johnny told me last night that I want to talk over with you.”

The receiver rattled for a minute. Muggsy grinned, touched her thumb and forefinger to make a circle, and held it up triumphantly.

“Gee, it’d be swell if you could. About twelve-thirty at Romanoff’s? I’ll be there. Thanks a lot, Lulu.” She dropped the receiver on the hook. “She thinks she can meet me at twelve-thirty.”

Liddell nodded. “What’s this about the broadcast?”

“I forgot all about tonight being her broadcast night. She does one about nine to hit New York at twelve and then she does the repeat for the Coast at eleven-thirty. Give you an idea?”

“A glimmering. Where does she broadcast from?”

“The studio.”

“How about Glennon?”

Muggsy shrugged. “Works with her during the broadcast, I guess. In case anything late comes through.”

“That gives me from eleven-thirty through twelve for sure.” He consulted his watch, grimaced. “It’s only seven-thirty. That gives us four hours to kill. Got any suggestions?”

Muggsy lifted her glass, put it to her lips. “Can’t you think of anything interesting to pass the time?” she asked over the rim.

J
OHNNY
L
IDDELL
dropped the cab at Ciro’s, three blocks north on Sunset from the frame building where Lulu Barry
made her headquarters. He walked into the bar, perched on a bar stool, had a cognac and soda. He took his time drinking it, watching the movie people fresh from the lots arrive in droves for their evening play. Every so often a wide-eyed tourist would walk in self-consciously, fail to control the widening of her eyes as she brushed close to one of her Celluloid idols. Liddell thought of Carter Sales, wondered how many of the movie greats now being ushered to their tables were paying tribute to the same source.

He checked his watch. It was eleven-eighteen, twelve minutes before Lulu Barry went on the air to bring her palpitating audience up to the minute on the doings of the stars — presumably only those stars who were delinquent in their payments. He dropped a dollar in change on the bar, ransomed his hat from a breath-takingly beautiful girl in skintight satin breeches.

The night air was cool after the heat of the day. He took his time walking the three blocks to the house. As he approached it, he took a look at his watch. Eleven twenty-two. At this moment, Lulu Barry would be at her mike, checking over her script for the last time before the
On The Air
signal flashed, and Glennon was probably at her right hand, ready to pass along any last-minute flashes. That gave him at least forty-five minutes’ grace.

Sunset Boulevard was deserted except for the occasional whizzing by of taxicabs. He stopped, lit a cigarette, looked in both directions. He saw no one who appeared in any way interested in his actions. He walked boldly through the gate and melted into the shadows of the doorway. He stood there motionless for ten seconds, saw nothing to alarm him.

After carefully grinding out his cigarette, he brought out a fine steel rule from his pocket, fitted it to the door. On the second try, he was rewarded by the sound of a sharp click, the knob turned in his hand. He opened the door, slipped in, closed it behind him.

He waited in the dark for a moment until his eyes had
adjusted themselves, then tried to reconstruct the appearance of the little waiting-room. He recalled the distribution of the furniture, carefully skirted the library table, heading for the door to the inner office. It pushed open easily in his hand, the room behind it in complete darkness. He closed the door behind him, slipped the .45 from his holster, and waited. Then, sliding his hand along the wall, he found the button, flooded the room with light.

Glennon’s office was as he had remembered it, a small workroom with a cluttered desk, a few filing-cabinets, and a bank of telephones. He walked over to the desk, snapped on a small desk radio, turned it low to the station on which Lulu Barry broadcasted. His watch said eleven twenty-eight and the rhythms of a dance band came from the set.

Carefully, methodically, Liddell sifted through the papers on the top of Glennon’s desk, checked through an advance proof of the next day’s column, found nothing of interest. Next, he tried the filing-cabinets.

The row on row of Manila folders contained a wealth of information on the habits and mores of the denizens of the Hollywood jungles.

There was the sound of three chimes from the radio. Liddell waited. Then an unctuous voice flowed through to announce:

“And now, through the courtesy of Petal, the cream that gives your skin the glow of roses, we bring you that chatterbox of Hollywood, the woman who knows everything about the people you dream about — Lulu Barry. Miss Barry’s syndicated column appears in over — ”

Liddell closed his ears to the monotonous patter of the announcer, went back to his examination of the files. He riffled through until he came to a Manila folder marked
Carter Sales.
He took it out, brought it to the desk. From his pocket he took the penciled notes he had made from Terry Devine’s scrapbook containing the dates of the column items. He checked through the file, failed to find the items filed under Carter Sales. Puzzled, he went back to the files, brought back the file on Walter Arnold. Again,
there was no item filed for the date in Terry’s scrapbook.

He was about to return the folders to the file when he saw a lightly penciled note on the back cover of the file. He checked it against the code numbers he had copied from the scrapbook. They checked.

Lulu Barry’s voice sounded louder than it had. Liddell’s attention snapped back to the radio. It was still a low mumble.

Then Lulu Barry said again, in a loud tone, “Don’t move.”

Liddell started, looked up to the door, where the columnist stood covering him with a businesslike looking automatic. He looked from her to the radio and back.

“We always do our rebroadcast from tape,” she explained. The gun in her hand was steady, pointed at Liddell’s head. “And I thought I was going to like you, Liddell. Funny how wrong you can get.”

Liddell nodded. “The same to you.”

She walked over to the desk, flipped closed the files he had been studying. “Carter Sales and Walter Arnold, eh?” She stepped back, kept him covered with the gun. “Seems a shame to have to coop something like you in a cage for five or ten years, but the law is narrow-minded about people who break into other people’s homes. I think they call it robbery.”

“Burglary,” Liddell corrected wryly. “One element of it must be breaking and entering.”

The radio on the desk chattered away breezily. Liddell looked at it from the corner of his eye. “Mind if I shut that thing off?”

Lulu Barry stared at him through narrowed eyes, shrugged. “Shut it off. But don’t try anything, Liddell. This thing looks like a toy but it’s got a kick like a mule.”

Liddell snapped the radio off, studied the gun. “A twenty-five, eh?”

“Serves the purpose at close range.”

“It did in the case of Shad Reilly.”

Lulu Barry laughed. “You’re being corny, Liddell. You
know I didn’t kill Shad.”

Liddell nodded. “I know you didn’t kill Shad. Okay, so what are we waiting for? Why don’t you call the police?”

“Because you interest me. You interest me very much.”

“Or is it because you don’t want the police in on it?” Liddell asked softly.

The woman considered it, raised her eyebrows. “I confess that the idea of bringing the police into my private affairs doesn’t particularly intrigue me,” she conceded. “But then, it wouldn’t be civic-minded to let a burglar get away with breaking into houses, would it?”

Liddell shrugged. “You could always shoot me while I was trying to take the gun away from you. That’s always a good one.”

“But so final.” The columnist motioned him out of the chair with the gun. “Maybe we can talk this over.”

“Maybe.”

“Suppose you walk over to that wall. Keep your hands where I can see them.” She followed him to the blank wall. “Stand about an arm’s length from it, then lean forward tiptoe and support yourself against the wall with your finger tips.”

Liddell leaned forward, supported himself with the tips of his fingers. While he was off balance, the woman walked up behind him, slid her arm around him, pulled out his .45.

“You’ll think I’m an Indian giver, getting this gun for you, then taking it away,” she chided.

Liddell grunted, found the position becoming a strain. He could feel the perspiration forming on his upper lip, and the muscles in the backs of his legs beginning to ache.

“How long do I stand like this?”

Lulu shrugged. “Until you feel real confidential.”

His fingers began to ache from the weight of his body. “No doubt you learned this little gimmick in Madame Clara’s Finishing School for Wayward Girls?”

The columnist laughed softly. “Don’t be silly. I’m a sucker for crime pictures. They come up with such intriguing
ideas. This is the first time I’ve had an opportunity to test it. It does work, doesn’t it?”

Perspiration rolled down into Liddell’s eyes. He blinked it out, swore softly.

“I understand that about two minutes in that position is considered par for the course. I imagine a big, strong man like you could break par without trying.”

She walked around the desk, pulled the chair out, and sat down, her gun still pointed at Liddell’s back. When he didn’t answer, she opened her bag, brought out a cigarette case and holder. She fitted a cigarette to the holder, tilted it in the corner of her mouth, lit it.

Perspiration ran in rivulets down the inside of Liddell’s shirt. The ache in his fingers had translated itself to his arms and shoulders. He took it as long as he could, and then his knees threatened to give way under him.

“What do you want to know?” he gasped.

Lulu took the cigarette holder from between her teeth, consulted her watch. “Three minutes. Not bad.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What were you doing in my files?”

Liddell tried to blink the blinding stream of perspiration from his eyes. “As if you didn’t know.”

Lulu pursed her lips, nodded. “I think I do. But I’d like to hear you explain it. I’ve always been interested in the motives of a blackmailer.”

Liddell snorted angrily. “Who should know better?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you’re going to have to shoot me after all.” He tried to push himself erect, felt as though his arms had been transfused with hot lead, stumbled to his knees. “I should have let you do it right off. You can’t let me walk out of here.” He breathed heavily, managed to turn around, glare at her, his face gleaming with perspiration. “You know that I’ve tumbled to your racket and you’ve got me in a spot to get rid of me with no questions asked, so what are you waiting for?”

“I think you’re getting delirious,” Lulu told him judiciously.
‘Or is the tactic of a good offense being the best defense the idea?”

“Stop playing games, Lulu. I’ve got the dope on your tie-in with Yale Stanley and you know it.”

Lulu frowned at him. “Tell me about it.”

Liddell managed to get one lead-heavy arm to his mouth, wipe it with the back of his hand. “You made one slip-up. You marked the code number on the folders.”

Without taking the gun off him, the columnist got up from the chair, walked to the desk, picked up a folder, examined it. “What code numbers?”

“The ones that match Terry Devine’s bookkeeping system. And Yale Stanley’s, too, if I could lay my hands on them.”

Lulu Barry studied the penciled notation on the folder, frowned. “This means something to you?”

Liddell looked up at her, scowled. “It means that you put the boots to the suckers Terry Devine and Yale Stanley were squeezing. Now, you know how much I know, get it over with.”

Lulu Barry nodded. “You do seem to know a lot.” She walked over to where Liddell sat, stood over him. “A lot more than I do.” She put her gun in her bag, brought out a cigarette, stuck it between his lips. “Maybe if we talk this over, we’ll start making sense.” She held a lighter to the cigarette, waited while he took gasping drags on it, blew the smoke out through his nose. “It’s just possible, you know, that I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”