Stairway To Hell: Johnny Liddell Mystery Crime Series: Mystery Crime Series, #2

By Frank Kane

STAIRWAY TO HELL - ANOTHER JOHNNY LIDDELL MYSTERY CRIME NOVEL

It wasn't just the set-up that bothered Liddell - two murders, a blackmail and a messy scandal.  It was the girl; a girl he could really go for - and she was mixed up with both murders, the blackmail, and especially the scandal.

Take the journey through mid-century New York City as Detective Johnny Liddell sifts through the evidence and uses his keen intuition to solve two scandalous murders.  Get it now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Golden Retro Publishing
• Release date: Feb 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524278656

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The man standing in the shadows of the building across the street from the deluxe apartment building yanked irritably on his coat collar and drew it closer to his face in a fruitless effort to stave off the pelting rain. He took a deep drag on the soggy cigarette he held cupped in his hand, cursed the decision to open his own detective agency after his abrupt resignation from the police force.

The wet face of his wristwatch showed almost twelve. He muttered his opinion of the blonde and her alley-cat habits. It was almost two hours since she had disappeared into the lobby with the gigolo type. He debated the advisability of staying any longer, tried to tell himself that he had more than enough on her from his observations of the past week.

Suddenly he stiffened as the gigolo type appeared in the doorway of the lobby opposite. The man in the shadows took a last drag on his cigarette, flipped it out into the gutter and melted back into the shadows of the building line.

Across the street, the man in the doorway flattened his sleek hair against his skull with the heel of his hand, carefully adjusted a dark homburg at the right angle. Then he pushed his way through the heavy glass doors, headed across the street to where the private detective was standing. He stopped in front of him, brought a cigarette from his pocket. Do you have a match? he asked in a slightly accented voice.

The detective grunted, brought out a lighter. In its weak flame he could see the gigolo's face. His eyes were large, liquid; he affected a pencil-line mustache that highlighted the whiteness and perfection of his teeth. Thank you, Mr. Murphy.

The detective snapped off the lighter. How do you know my name?

The gigolo shrugged elaborately. Elsa. Mrs. Martin. She suggested that I ask you to drop by for a drink. He shuddered. You must be chilled to the bone.

I’ll bet you aren't, Murphy growled.

The gigolo grinned, looked past the detective to where a cab, its dome light lit, had just turned into the street. Here's my cab. I'll have to run. He stepped to the curb, waved down the taxi. He turned back to the detective before getting into the cab. It's Apartment Six-D, you know.

Murphy watched openmouthed while the man slammed the cab door behind him. He walked to the curb, watched as the cabby gunned the hack toward the nearest corner, where it disappeared in a left turn, its twin light blinking redly.

Well, I'll be damned! the detective muttered to himself. He stared over at the lighted front of the apartment building, pulled his damp fedora lower over his forehead, sloshed across the street to the lobby.

He was prepared for the fact that the woman would be stacked. Night after night he had taken detailed and mouth-watering inventory of her obvious assets as he followed her and a variety of escorts from club to club, inevitably ending with a two or three hour nightcap at the apartment.

But prepared as he was, Elsa Martin took his breath away as she stood framed in the open doorway.

She was a tall, voluptuously built blonde, a fact that the blue satin lounging pajamas made an only halfhearted effort to hide. The satin clung to generous curves and seemed to be having difficulty restraining the full, thrusting breasts. A small waist hinted at the full hips and long legs that were concealed by the flowing pajama bottoms.

But it was her voice - low, sultry, intimate - that raised goose bumps along Murphy's spine. I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, Mr. Murphy. Her eyes, green and slanted, flicked over him negligently, seemed unimpressed by the damp fedora, the rumpled blue suit and the hint of stubble along his chin line.

Think nothing of it. Anything worth doing is worth doing well, he grunted.

Maybe I can make it up to you with a drink. The blonde turned, headed into the living room beyond.

Murphy stepped in, closed the door behind him and watched with appreciation the effect of her well-rounded bottom against the tight satin of her pants. He tossed his hat on a small table alongside the door.

Rye or Scotch, Mr. Murphy? the blonde tossed over her shoulder. She headed for a small bar set against the side wall of the living room. Her voice was neither friendly nor unfriendly. But it still had that quality.

Scotch, the detective told her. Double.

He tore his eyes away from her generous curves and glanced around the apartment. It was a duplex, with a flight of stairs rising from the rear of the living room to what were apparently the bedrooms above. The heavy-pile wheat-colored carpeting was given warmth and color by two large Oriental throw rugs. The big picture window in the rear of the room looked out over the East River toward Long Island and he could dimly hear the hooting of tugs and the clanking of barges. He licked his lips in anticipation. It all spelled ready money.

The blonde finished pouring the Scotch over the ice cubes in his glass; picked it up and headed back toward him. The effect from the front was even more striking than on the flip side. She was loosely put together and walked in such a way that her tip-tilted breasts traced designs on the satin. She gave no evidence of annoyance at the way his eyes flicked from the top of her head to the open-toed sandals on her feet, with appropriate stops on the way.

If there's anything you missed, I answer questions. She handed him his glass with a humorless smile.

If there's anything I missed, it doesn't come on standard models, he told her.

The blonde turned, walked back to the big couch, perched on an arm. Sit down. Her eyes followed him to the big chair, waited until he got settled. Now, suppose we talk a little business.

The man in the chair smelled the Scotch, took a sip, nodded his approval. Nice Scotch.

A faint frown of annoyance clouded the blonde's forehead; then disappeared. Mr. Murphy, if I needed an opinion of my Scotch, I know a lot of experts.

Murphy took a deep swallow, settled back. O.K., so you didn't get me in here to save me from pneumonia. What then?

You've been following me for over a week. I presume you're working for my husband?

The man in the chair sighed. It's unethical to discuss a client, Mrs. Martin. You know that.

The blonde waved it aside. In the past week you've gathered quite a bit of information about me and my friends. I want to buy that information. Any pictures, reports, names - everything.

Murphy drained his glass, set it down alongside the chair. You knew I was tailing you all the time?

The blonde nodded.

The man in the chair pasted a crooked grin on his slack lips, shook his head. Baby, if that's the way you operate with an audience, I'd sure like to sit in on a private showing.

The blonde grinned back. You probably wouldn't survive. She leaned forward, with spectacular effect on the blouse, snagged a cigarette from the humidor on the coffee table. Bringing a cigarette holder from the blouse pocket, she started screwing it into the holder. My husband will not be back from his trip for another three days. Have you sent him any reports?

Murphy pulled himself out of his chair, reached down for his empty glass, walked it back to the bar. He tilted the bottle of Scotch over it, lifted the glass to the light and was satisfied by the level of liquor in it. Nothing yet, he grunted, He turned, leaned against the edge of the bar. How'd you get my name and tumble to the tail?

The blonde smiled lazily at him around the cigarette holder. You underestimate yourself, Mr. Murphy. You do have a reputation of sorts, you know. She lifted the holder from between her teeth, watched the smoke curl lazily from the mouthpiece. I've asked a few questions here and there. Bartenders, cab drivers, cigarette girls. I found out quite a few things about you, Mr. Murphy.

The detective carried his drink back to his chair. Such as?

The blonde sucked a mouthful of smoke from the holder, blew it at the ceiling. Leland Murphy. Fifteen years on the police force. Resigned suddenly in nineteen fifty-eight. She rolled her eyes down from the ceiling to the detective's scowling face. You were working vice on the East Side; there was an investigation coming. Your inspector committed suicide and saved your hide. She tapped the holder against her teeth, as if gathering her thoughts. You opened your own agency. The next year, you almost lost your license when a client accused you of blackmail. He had an accident and withdrew the complaint. In nineteen sixty—

Nice of you to take such an interest in me. How come?

Elsa Martin shrugged. Makes it easier to do business when you know something about the person you're doing business with.

Murphy tilted the glass over his lips, drained it. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. We’ve got no business together, Mrs. Martin. Somebody's been snowing you.

The blonde waved him back into his seat. I wouldn't have taken the trouble to get you up here if I wasn't sure we could do business. I want your whole file on me. I'm willing to pay a reasonable price, but all sales are final. She was smiling, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. I'm allergic to being cheated, Mr. Murphy.

The man in the chair managed to look sad. That's why we have no business together, Mrs. Martin. If I sold you the file, pictures and all, you'd be getting gypped. He investigated the stubble along his chin with the tips of his fingers. I've seen some of your friends. I wouldn't want them getting mad at me. He pasted the set smile back on his lips. I'm allergic to violence. Especially when it's being practiced on me.

The woman studied him incuriously. There'd be no necessity for violence as long as you didn't try to double-cross me.

I wouldn't. But I'm not too sure you'd believe me. He leaned forward, pointed a stubby finger at her. You left a pretty wide trail, Mrs. Martin. So suppose I do sell you my file and tell your husband I couldn't find a thing? He shook his head. He'd tell me I was a liar and he'd hire another agency. And the other agency would have to be blind not to get enough on you to hang you. He dropped his hand, settled back. And you might think I was the one who gave him the dope.

Elsa Martin chewed on her cigarette. Let me worry about the possibility of someone else getting him the evidence he needs. All I'm interested in right now is buying what you've got. She smiled coldly around the holder. As you say, I have some friends who will see to it that you don't try to cheat me.

But I don't get it. There's not enough money in the world to buy off every agency and—

You're not supposed to get it, Mr. Murphy. All you're supposed to do is set a price on what you have, turn the material over to me and if the question ever arises, you have been working for me, gathering evidence for me to divorce my husband.

Gathering evidence against your husband? Murphy rose from his chair. I could never make that stick. Both your husband and his secretary would testify that he hired me—

Why shouldn't my husband's secretary testify that? Naturally she'd want to discredit you since she's the one he's been playing house with.

But your husband! He's an important man. They'd take his word against mine and—

The blonde studied the man in the rumpled suit with no show of enthusiasm. Your friends forgot to mention to me that you were nervous. I just told you. Leave my husband to me. She stood up, walked to the table by the door, picked up the man's hat. You just arrange to turn over all the evidence you have against me. There'll be nothing to worry about.

Murphy licked at his lips, walked over to the door, lifted his hat out of the blonde's fingers. You're sure about that secretary bit?

That's the reason he wants the divorce.

The detective growled. The stinking broad. Acting like she was too good for the likes of me. He perched the fedora on his head, pulled the brim down almost to the tops of his eyebrows. I’ll be in touch about what it will cost. I think maybe we can do business.

The blonde opened the door, smiled sweetly at him. I never had any doubts about it. She closed the door on the startled look on his face, walked back into the living room. She picked up her cigarette holder, unscrewed the dead butt and tossed it into an ashtray. Then she walked to the picture window, stared down at the blinking lights of the tugs six stories below. She tapped the empty holder against her teeth for a moment, then as if arriving at a decision, she walked to the telephone and lifted it off its hook. When the operator came on:

I want to make a person-to-person call to Carsonette City, Illinois, the blonde told her. I want to talk to Bobby Michaels, at the Summit House in Carsonette. She fitted a fresh cigarette to the holder, settled back to wait.

CHAPTER 2

Carsonette City, Illinois, U.S.A., makes Place Pigalle, Paris, France, look like a Baptist Sunday school picnic.

In a ten-block stretch, Carsonette City boasts more than a hundred taverns, gambling joints and honkytonks with a concentration of B-girls, pimps, prostitutes and hustlers that rivals any similar stretch of geography in the world. On any evening of the week, including Sundays, its citizens can be seen hard at work enthusiastically separating the marks from the steel mills across the state line from their money and their senses.

The customers of this area like their vice like their whiskey - straight and undiluted - so the operators waste no time on subtleties. The talent consists of an unending stream of females of all sizes, shapes and ages, who divide their time between the runways that bisect the audience and the customers' tables. By midnight, both the customers and the entertainers are likely to be better lit up than the premises.

The operators of the strip are ready to see to it that every desire and every whim of their customers is speedily fulfilled. So most of the honky-tonks have back rooms where entertainers can accommodate them. For those in a