Bare Trap (2 page)

Liddell groaned. “Why me, Muggs? There are plenty of good ops in L. A. I’ll give you a couple of names, and — ”

“We can’t use any local talent, Johnny. This is real
hush-hush.” Her voice dropped. “I’m asking you for me, Johnny.”

Liddell scowled irritably at the mouthpiece, pinched at his nostrils with thumb and forefinger. “Well, maybe I can get away sometime tomorrow, and — ”

“It can’t wait that long, Johnny. I told Richards you’d be here first thing in the morning. Don’t let me down, will you?”

“The morning? How the hell can I get down there first thing in the morning?” He consulted his wrist watch. “It’s almost six now.”

“You can get the Lark at ten. That’ll bring you into Glendale by about eight. I’ll make a reservation for you at the Marlowe.”

Liddell looked over to where the redhead sat smoking. “I can’t leave by ten, baby. I’ve got things to-do.”

The receiver laughed at him. “That’s what I figured when I found out you were in the bar. You’re more likely to stay out of trouble if you hit the road by ten. Got a pencil?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Take this down. Eddie Richards Productions. Got that? He’s on Wilshire, and he’s expecting you at nine. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

Liddell sighed, nodded. “I guess so.”

“I knew you would. And, Johnny — take the Lark. I wouldn’t want you to get airsick or something by staying over.” There was a brief tinkle of a laugh, then the connection went dead.

Liddell slammed the receiver back on its hook, glowered at it. The redhead studied his expression from under half-lowered lids. “Change of plans?”

He nodded, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, chain lit it from the one in the girl’s hand. “I’ve got to go down to L.A. on business. I’m supposed to go out on the Lark.”

“So I heard. So you’re a private eye, eh?” She looked him over with renewed interest. “You’re the first one I ever met. I guess I don’t hang out in the right bedrooms.”

“We could fix that.”

The redhead snubbed out her cigarette. “But then, you’re going out on the Lark, aren’t you? There goes that Cook’s tour you promised me.” She slid off her bar stool. “But there’s always Moana’s, isn’t there?”

Liddell took a deep drag on his cigarette, dropped it to the floor. “I certainly wouldn’t want that on my conscience,” he agreed solemnly. “Think it would pay a guy to stay over and risk getting airsick tomorrow?”

The redhead considered it seriously. “It might.”

The telegram he sent the Eddie Richards office postponed his nine o’clock date until four that afternoon.

T
HE WORDING ON THE FROSTED GLASS DOOR SAID,
Edwin Richards Productions.
Johnny Liddell dropped his butt to the floor, ground it out, pushed the door open. The reception room was heavily lined with pictures of movie greats, near-greats, has-beens, and never-weres.

A girl sat at a typewriter, pecking at its keys, taking excessive care not to fracture the polish on her long nails. She was blond and wore her thick hair piled on top of her head; she trusted a fragile-looking silk peasant blouse with the thankless job of restraining her high breasts.

“Richards in?” Liddell wanted to know.

She stopped jabbing at the typewriter long enough for a pair of sea-green eyes to look him over incuriously. “Might be,” she admitted. “Who wants to know?”

Liddell dropped a card on her desk. “Johnny Liddell. I’m a private detective. Richards is expecting me.”

The blonde consulted her desk calendar, then the small baguette on her wrist that looked as if it might have cost a
month’s salary. “He was expecting you at four, Mr. Liddell. It’s four-fifteen now.” She picked up the card, read it, handed it back to Liddell. “So you’re a private detective.” She pronounced the words as though they had a bad taste. “How interesting.” Her eyes never left him as she pressed the button on the base of her phone, crooned into it. “He’s in to you,” she conceded.

She got up from her desk, led the way to an inner door that was gold-leafed
Private.

Ed Richards looked as if he had been jammed into the huge chair behind the desk. He was fat, soft-looking, his eyes two shiny black marbles almost lost behind the puffy balls of fat. Dark, damp ringlets made a futile effort to cover the bald spot that gleamed pinkly through them. As Liddell walked into the office, the producer made no effort to get up, waved him to a leather overstuffed chair on the far side of the desk.

“That’s all, Margy.” Richards’s voice sounded blubbery, as if choked by the heaviness of his jowls and chin. “You can go.”

“But not too far,” Liddell muttered as he walked past. The door slammed behind him.

“So you’re Liddell, eh? Thanks for coming down.”

Liddell nodded, sought out the chair. “I was finishing up a job in Frisco when Muggsy Kiely reached me. She told me you had a problem.”

The producer nodded, disturbing the rolls of fat under his chins. “Want you to find my kid. He’s been missing for the past four days.” He swung his chair around, slid open a panel that disguised a small built-in refrigerator and a miniature bar. “Use a drink?”

Liddell nodded, watched the fat man snag a bottle, two glasses, and some ice, and deposit them on the desk top.

“He’s not exactly my kid, you understand. I’m sort of his guardian. Kiely tell you anything about it?”

“I haven’t seen her yet. I came right here from the airport.”

Richards nodded, pulled an oversized handkerchief
from his pocket, blew his nose noisily. “Maybe I better fill you in on the background. The kid’s father was Wally Reilly. Remember him?”

“The Robert Taylor of his day. Piled his car into a canyon. Big scandal at the time, the coroner saying he had a snootful, forgot to make the turn.”

“That’s him. Biggest star ever to hit Hollywood.” The fat man puffed out his overripe lips, shook his head sadly. “Nobody ever dragged the women to the box office like he did. No one ever will.” He sighed again, poured two drinks from the bottle. “Anyway, that’s the kid. Wally’s. Name’s Shad Reilly. And I’ve been taking care of him ever since Wally was killed. And believe me, it hasn’t been easy.”

“Running wild?”

Richards shrugged. “He’s got too much of his old man’s blood in him. Wild and a chaser, he’ll take anything that’ll stand still long enough.” He pushed one glass to the edge for Liddell, picked one up. “I did my best to keep him under control, but maybe it wasn’t good enough. Anyway, he’s missing. And this time I’m worried.”

“Happened before?”

“A couple of times. But never for more than a day or two.”

Liddell leaned over, took his glass, sipped at it critically, approved. “Could be a cutie, a coupé, and a cabin, eh?” He took a deep slug out of the glass, set it back. “You don’t need me for that. Any local private eye could do that kind of a job for you. Why flag me?”

“I told you. No publicity. There’s not an op in town that don’t make a daily report to Lulu Barry. With that radio program of hers and that gossip column, anything she knows the whole world knows the next day.” He leaned forward, slapped the edge of the desk with a pudgy hand. “You’ve got to turn him up before she gets word he’s missing.”

“Why the fever? He wouldn’t be the first kid to parlay a blonde and a bottle into a cabin. I’d be more worried about him if he didn’t make the try.”

Richards leaned back, touched the tips of his fingers across his belly. “It’s not that simple, Liddell. If Shad gets jammed up before he’s twenty-one, he don’t get a cent from Wally’s estate. He won’t be twenty-one for almost a year.”

“What happens to the money?”

“It goes to the Actors’ Fund.” The fat man scowled heavily, snagged his glass, took another drink, wiped the wet smear of his lips with the back of his hand. “Walt was a funny guy, Liddell. Not too smart.”

“Sure sounds it. Why should a guy fix his will to freeze out his own kid for a lot of broken-down old characters he never even knew?”

“That wasn’t the intention.” Richards settled back, blew out his lips into a pout. “He was married to Barby Carter. You know that?”

Liddell nodded.

“Wally was nuts about her, but he’d been around too long not to know that he had to keep his eye on her. There wasn’t a wolf in these parts that didn’t have his teeth sharpened for her. What a doll!” The fat man sighed, shook his head. “Anyway, Wally gets it into his head that Barby’ll get out of line if anything happens to him, so he gets oversmart and fixes it so she won’t. He draws up a will tying up the bulk of his estate until the kid is twenty-one, and providing that if the beneficiary gets into any kind of a jam, the estate goes to the Fund.”

“But Barby Carter died before Reilly did, didn’t she?”

“That’s right. She got on the junk and tried to take the cure. It killed her.” The fat man sighed deeply. “It broke Walt all to hell and he started to hit the bottle.” He shrugged ponderously. “He died without ever fixing up the will.”

“So now the no-scandal clause hits the kid as beneficiary?”

“Right. And nothing would give that Barry bitch a bigger bang than to cut Barby’s kid out of Wally’s will. She never got over Wally giving her the go-by for Barby.” He
swabbed at the dampness of his face with the handkerchief. “Now you see why it can’t be a local op?”

Liddell nodded. “Who’s executor? You?”

“That’s why I’m in such a spot. I want the dough for the kid. But if this story ever hits the newspapers, my hands are tied.”

“He’s a chaser, you say?” The fat man nodded. “Any particular babe or strictly the field?”

“He did seem to be concentrating on one babe lately.”

Liddell dug into his pocket, came up with a notebook and a stub of pencil. “What’s her name?”

“Terry Devine. Did a few bits for me, but when I warned her off the kid she got tough, so I ruled her out of the shop. No great loss. Plenty of chassis but not enough up here to go places.” He tapped at his head. “Well stacked but featherbrained.”

“Know where to reach her?”

The fat man nodded. “She’s been working over at Mammoth the past couple of days.” He sipped at his glass, replaced it on the corner of his desk. “I think it’s something worse than petticoat fever this time, Liddell. A lot worse.”

Liddell replaced the notebook in his pocket, leaned back. “Just a hunch or do you know something?”

“A little bit of each. Saturday night, which is two days before the kid did the fade, he comes home all banged up. Says he’s been in an accident.”

“But?”

Richards shrugged. “But there’s not a mark on the car. That’s what I know. The rest is hunch.”

“A beating?”

“It figures.”

Liddell nodded, scowled at his glass. “You think he’s in something over his head so he’s holing out until it cools off, eh?”

“Could be. Anyway, I want him found before he gets in any deeper. And without any publicity.”

“Still sounds like you’re making a big deal out of nothing, but as long as I’m here I might as well make carfare.
What’s he look like?”

The fat man sighed at the necessity for movement, made the effort with a lugubrious grunt, and turned a picture on the desk around so Liddell could see it. “That’s him.” The picture showed a good-looking youngster with large, liquid, black eyes, and a friendly grin spoiled only by the weakness of his chin. He wore his hair in a high wave, the sides plastered against his temples. “Make him from that?”

“Good enough,” Liddell agreed. He pulled himself out of the armchair. “I’ll check you in a day or so. In the meantime, if you want me I’ll be at the Marlowe.”

The fat man nodded, let his heavy lids veil his eyes. “Make your report direct to me — nobody else.” He stared at Liddell for a moment. “If you want anything, ask Margy. She’ll give you anything you want — within reason.”

The blonde in the outer office was polishing her nails when Liddell came out. She raised her eyes as he walked over to her desk, dropped them again to her nails.

“Have fun?” she asked.

“Loads of it.” Liddell grinned. He pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes from his pocket, stripped the cellophane off it, tore open the tin foil. “Smoke?”

The blonde shook her head.

“Richards told me anything I wanted, all I had to do was ask you.”

“How nice for you. And what was it you had on your mind?”

“A telephone number.”

The blonde raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips, shook her head. “Sorry, Liddell. I’m not in the habit of — ”

“Terry Devine’s telephone number.”

“Oh.” What had started out to be a grin faded from the blonde’s face. She shrugged. “No accounting for tastes, I guess.” She pulled the telephone over to her, started to dial. After a second, she handed the phone to Liddell. “She’s all yours, mister.”

Liddell grinned, put the receiver to his ear.

“Who is this, please?” she wanted to know, a trifle testily.

“Is this Terry Devine?” Liddell countered. The voice admitted it. “My name is Johnny Liddell. I’m at Eddie Richards’s office. I’d like to see you for a few minutes.”

“What about?”

“I’m a private detective. I’m doing a job for Mr. Richards and I think you might be able to help.”

“What is this? If he thinks he can strong-arm me into — ”

“Just conversation is all I want.”

She snorted. “I don’t want any conversation about Eddie Richards. And you can tell him — ”

“The conversation is about Shad Reilly.”

There was a slight pause, then: “What about Shad? Has anything happened to him?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, Miss Devine. You can help me. Do I get the few minutes?”

“Well, I don’t usually have visitors here. I — ” The voice hesitated for a moment, then: “But I do want to help. If you’ll be here in about an hour or so, I’ll be glad to tell you anything I can.”

“I’ll be there. What’s the address?”

“Denton Apartments. Figueroa at Fifteenth.”

Liddell copied the instructions down in his notebook, nodded. “In about an hour or so.” He held the receiver out to the blonde, grinned when she slammed it down. “She sounds nice.”

“If you like the type.”

“What is the type?”

“All drool, and a yard wide.”