“Hotel Wainwright,” a tired voice informed him.

  “Is this Monument 8-0897?”

  “That’s right. This is the Hotel Wainwright. Something I can do for you?”

  “Sorry. I must have a wrong number.” Liddell dropped the receiver on its hook, twisted around, looked up into Muggsy’s face. “It’s a hotel. The Wainwright.” He got up, walked over to the rack containing the telephone directories, flipped the pages open, stopped at one page; ran his finger down the listings until he found the one he was looking for. “It’s on Mews Street. In the Village.”

  “Now what?”

  Liddell shrugged. “We find out whether Alice Johnson is still registered there or whether she just took the place to get that phone call from Jacobs.”

  “Why didn’t you ask for her?”

  “Because if she’s still there, it might scare her off. Where’s your car? In the parking lot?”

  Muggsy nodded. “You want to drive?”

  “In Greenwich Village? You think I’m out of my mind?” He took her arm, headed toward th parking lot. “If I tried to drive that tank of yours down MacDougall Street, I’d scrape the fenders against houses on both sides of the street.”

  They located Muggsy’s red convertible where she’d left it in care of a uniformed airport attendant in an area that was clearly marked No Parking. She slid behind the wheel, waited until Johnny Liddell slid in beside her.

  “Thanks, Eddie,” she smiled sweetly at the attendant.

  “Think nothing of it, Miss Kiely. Any time. And if that cop out there gives you a hard time, tell him it was official business. He can check with me.”

  “You’re a doll,” she assured him. She stabbed at the starter button on the dash, roared the motor into life, let it settle back into a soft purr.

  Liddell brought a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, held one out to the redhead. She took it with her lips, waited until he held a match to it.

  “I know,” he eut her off. “I’m a doll.”

  Muggsy grinned at him, wrinkled her nose. Liddell winced as she swung the big convertible into a lane of traffic, ignored the scowls of the policeman directing traffic, seemed impervious to the sound of screeching brakes behind her.

  “Look, I do most of my flying in planes,” Liddell said. He shifted uneasily as she fitted the car between a taxicab and an airport bus. “What’s the hurry?”

  “I know you, Liddell. And I’m making sure you can’t complain that it took as long to get from the airport to town as it did to get here from L. A.” She swung the car around the lumbering airport bus, settled down to eat up the miles to the city.

  Liddell sighed, settled back against the cushions.

  Greenwich Village is many things to many people. There are the towering skyscraper apartments that look down on Washington Square and on the low squat buildings that were once “under the el” and still seem to be squinting in the unaccustomed brightness of the sunlight through half-lowered blinds and drawn curtains. There are the quaint tea rooms that squat cheek to jowl with the dives and cellars that keep the vice squad and Homicide West working on full schedule. There are the gift shoppes, the “art galleries,” the book stores, the coffee shops that pander to the artistic element; there is the Bohemian fringe — real and affected — that brings the tourists from Oshkosh and Albany to see how the other half lives and loves.

  Its floating population is made up of the shrinking working art colony, the weirdos and the exhibitionists, the sightseers and the sensation seekers who travel downtown to marvel at the eerie lighting and the futuristic paintings that mark the sucker traps.

  The Hotel Wainwright was an ugly, squat stone building that towered over its grimy neighbors on the Mews. It had a faded awning that showed signs of having waged a losing battle with time and strong winds. Nobody had bothered to patch the rips that gaped in it as it flapped noisily in the breeze. The stone façade was dirty, neglected looking.

  The prim little lobby had the requisite number of tired rubber plants, a few chairs obviously not intended to be sat upon, a general air of decay. The impression was borne out by the shabby registration desk and the rheumy-eyed old man who presided over it. He blew his nose noisily as Johnny Liddell and Muggsy Kiely crossed the lobby. He favored them with a jaundiced look, raised an eyebrow as they stopped in front of him.

  “I’m looking for an Alice Johnson,” Liddell told him.

  The old man shook his head, stowed the dingy handkerchief in his hip pocket. “No Alice Johnson,” he said in a flat, tired voice.

  “Mind checking?” Liddell asked. “I had a note from her, asking me to look her up here at the Hotel Wainwright. This is the Wainwright, isn’t it?”

  “This is the Wainwright. We still don’t have no Alice Johnson.”

  Liddell dug into his pocket, brought up a small roll of bills. He carefully separated a ten-spot from the rest, folded it. “But she was here?”

  The man behind the desk seemed to be having difficulty keeping his eyes from the folded bill. “That could be,” he conceded grudgingly. “Can’t expect a man to remember everyone who comes or goes in a place like this.”

  “But it could be checked.” Liddell laid the bill down on the edge of the desk. “The letter was dated about two weeks ago. She must have been here then.”

  The old man pursed his lips, considered. He lifted a dog-eared registration book from a lower shelf of the counter, flipped through the pages. He ran a stubby index finger topped with a dark crescent down the scribbled signatures on the page, stopped at one, looked up. He bobbed his head. “She was here.”

  He reached out for the bill, Liddell caught his wrist. “I already knew that. When did she leave?”

  The old man grumbled under his breath, consulted the ledger again. “She stayed four days. From May 7 to May 11.” He shook Liddell’s hand off, snagged the folded ten, transferred it to his watch pocket.

  “I don’t suppose you remember what she looked like?”

  The man behind the desk considered. He dug thoughtfully at a molar with the nail of his thumb, stared into space. “Young. Maybe late twenties. A looker.” He shook his head. “Didn’t see too much of her.”

  “Get any mail or make any phone calls?”

  The old man shrugged. “I wouldn’t remember.”

  Liddell dug the roll out again, peeled off another ten-spot. “This help?”

  “No, but I might be able to check.” He shuffled over to the small switchboard set in the back of the mail rack, picked up an old ledger. He wet the tip of his index finger, flipped through the pages. “Let’s see. Nothing the first day.” He continued to flip through the pages, shook his head. “Wait a minute.” He squinted at a notation. “On the last day, May 11. Two calls from her room.” He looked up. “You want the numbers?”

  Liddell nodded.

  “Sherbrook 3-3200 — ”

  Muggsy gasped, grabbed Liddell’s sleeve. “That’s the telephone number of the office.”

  “Larry Jensen.” Liddell shook his head grimly. He looked to the old man. “And the other?”

  The man behind the desk squinted at him shrewdly. “You know, young fellow, maybe this isn’t right. I don’t even know who you are or why you want — ”

  “You worry too much, old-timer.” Liddell dug into his pocket, pulled out a shield, flashed it.

  The old man shuffled to where they stood, caught Liddell’s sleeve as he was returning it to his pocket. “Just a minute, young fellow. I haven’t had time to take a good look at that buzzer.”

  Liddell withdrew the shield, held it cupped in his hand.

  The old man nodded. “A private dick. No official standing.”

  “No official standing,” Liddell growled. “But one telephone call and I can arrange that you’ll be up to your hips in guys who do have official standing. You want sweat, I’ll give you sweat.”

  The old man reached out, snagged the second ten-spot. “No offense, young fellow. Man in a place like this has to be careful. Real careful.” The bill followed the first one into his pocket. He opened the ledger to the page marked by his finger. “The second call was to a Templeton 3-3285.”

  “I’ll check it,” Muggsy volunteered. She crossed to the rear of the lobby, fumbling in her purse for change.

  The old man reached for the dingy handkerchief, dabbed at his nose. “Anything else I can do for you, young fellow, just drop by.”

  “I’ll do that. I’ll start saving my pennies now,” Liddell grinned at him glumly.

  “By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I didn’t throw it.”

  “Well, in case you should call up, it might be a good idea for me to know who I was talking to.”

  “The name’s Liddell, Johnny Liddell.”

  The telephone-booth door slammed open, Muggsy crossed the lobby, nodded to Liddell. She headed for the street door.

  “Be seeing you,” Liddell nodded to the old man. He followed Muggsy to the exit from the lobby. “Well?”

  “Stillson’s Gym.”

  Liddell scowled at her for a moment, took her elbow, piloted her toward the street.

  chapter

  11

  Johnny Liddell sat in the front seat of the convertible, scowled at the dashboard. Alongside him, behind the wheel, Muggsy Kiely watched and waited.

  “Where to now, Johnny? Stillson’s?”

  “For what?” Liddell growled. “So Alice Johnson made a phone call to Stillson’s. What’s it prove?”

  “Al Madden used to be in the prizefight racket. Wouldn’t that be the kind of a place he’d hang out?”

  Liddell shook his head unhappily. “Sure, and so would a hundred other guys. What do we do now? Walk up to Madden and tell him we know he bought the hit on Larry Jensen just because he hangs out in a gymnasium? What’s to prevent Longy Harris or Leo Toy or any of the hoods Jensen worked over from getting calls there?”

  “Do you think that hotel clerk is telling us all he knows?”

  Liddell shrugged. “He’s telling us all he’s going to tell us.” He drew deeply on the cigarette he held cupped in his hand, blew the smoke over the windshield. “If we could only narrow it down, find some tangible connection between Larry Jensen and Al Madden — ” He broke off, scowled in concentration. “Hey, wait a minute.”

  “Something?” Muggsy wanted to know.

  “Maybe there is a way we can find out what Larry was working on.”

  The redhead shook her head. “No soap, Sherlock. What do you think I’ve been doing since you left? I went over every assignment sheet, everything they could find at Larry’s apartment. Nothing.” She picked the cigarette from between his fingers, took a deep drag. “Larry used to carry a leather notebook. He kept all his notes, everything in it.” She let the smoke escape through parted lips. “No trace of it.”

  Liddell appeared not to have heard her. “It could be, at that.”

  “What could be?”

  He turned to her. “What’s the best tip-off to what a reporter’s doing, where he’s spending his time, what he’s working on?”

  “The assignment sheet at the desk.” She studied his expression, shook her head. “Not that?” She furrowed her brow. “What?”

  “His expense vouchers. Where he spent his money. On what.” He saw the disappointed look on the girl’s face. “Larry Jensen didn’t put in for expenses?”

  “I guess he did,” Muggsy said. “But I doubt if he’d list who he was with or what the story was.”

  “He’d list cab fares and lunch and dinner tabs? Where he ate?”

  Muggsy thought for a minute. “I don’t imagine old Katie would let him get away with any less than that. But what does that tell us?”

  “Let’s take a look at the vouchers and see.”

  Muggsy looked doubtful. “You ever go up against Katie?”

  “Who’s Katie?”

  “Guardian of the petty cash, deflater of the expense account. She takes the attitude that every cent that’s spent comes out of her hide and she’s not about to hand it out without a struggle.”

  “Well, even reporters have to eat.”

  “Maybe. But Katie objects to them eating so good.” She shook her head. “Those vouchers are sacred trusts. I don’t know if she’d let you look at them.”

  “Maybe Jim can persuade her.”

  Muggsy chuckled. “Jim? He’s more scared of her than the rest of us.” She started the motor. “When you go up against Katie, Liddell, I’m afraid you’re strictly on your own.”

  The business office of the New York Dispatch takes up the second floor of the Dispatch Building. The desks are spaced farther apart, there is less an air of urgency than in editorial. People seem to be able to walk from desk to desk, find time to stop and even talk.

  Here, the work can be performed between the hours of nine and five, it is insulated against the pangs of deadlinitis that afflict the editorial side. Its function, like an expectant father, is to perform its services early, then to sit back and hope that the other partner brings forth a suitable product of its labors in the appointed time.

  Toward the rear of the floor, the cashier’s office, staffed with adding machines and calculators instead of the booming teletypes and rattling typewriters of the editorial floor, sits in almost majestic calm, presided over by a tall, emaciated woman with a shock of purplish hair.

  Johnny Liddell walked into the cashier’s office, stood at the railing that divided the room in half. A baldish man with a perpetually sad expression looked up from his desk, cleared his throat.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Jim Kiely asked me to drop up here to look over some expense-account forms. Who would I talk to?”

  The man at the desk flashed an apprehensive glance back to a glass-partitioned corner where the woman with the purplish hair sat primly at a desk.

  “That’d be Katie — I mean Miss Kate,” he corrected himself hurriedly. “She okays all expense accounts for editorial.” He dropped his voice, looked around. “She’s been doing it long before any of the rest of us came with the paper. Won’t let anybody else touch it.”

  “How do I get to have an audience with her?” Liddell sounded suitably impressed.

  The man at the desk coughed nervously, bobbed his Adam’s apple. “You say Mr. Kiely sent you up?” Liddell nodded.

  “I’ll tell her you’re here.” The thin man pushed back his chair, sidled toward the glassed-in portion of the room. He knocked at the door, pushed it open and walked in.

  Liddell could see him speaking rapidly, apologetically, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He pointed to where Liddell stood, the imperious-looking woman at the desk cast an impatient glance at him, finally nodded her head.

  The thin man stepped to the door, opened it, motioned for Liddell to come in.

  Johnny pushed through the small gate in the counter, crossed the room to where the thin man stood. “This is Miss Kate, Mr. — ?” “Liddell.”

  “ — Mr. Liddell. I’m sure she can help you.” With a relieved expression, the little man scuttled back to his desk.

  “Close the door, Mr. Liddell,” the woman at the desk barked. “Now suppose you tell me what this is all about.” From close it was apparent that she had painfully prominent front teeth, that her skin was parchmentlike, almost transparent. “I understand you expect to go through our expense vouchers?” The way she said it indicated that he was about to have a fight on his hands. “You must be aware I can’t permit that.”

  Liddell indicated a chair, drew a curt shrug. He dropped into the chair, dug a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

  “Please don’t smoke in here,” the woman snapped. “I have no facilities for fumigating the place. I have a strict rule against smoking.” She leaned back, managed to cover her teeth with her lips, folded her hands in her lap.

  Liddell sighed. “An employee of the Dispatch was murdered several days ago, Miss Kate. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

  The thin woman nodded her head. “I don’t see how that affects this office.”

  “We’re trying to find the real killer. Of course, we know who actually pulled the trigger. But he was no more than a hired gunman. We want the man who hired him.”

  “I’m aware of all these things, Mr. Liddell. I’m also aware that you’re taking up a lot of my time.” The shoulders hunched slightly in disapproval. “Would you get to the point and tell me what this all has to do with my office?”

  “The clue to the real killer may be in Larry Jensen’s expense vouchers.”

  The thin woman sniffed. “Ridiculous. His vouchers merely state how much he spent and where.” She managed to look unhappy. “I was very much opposed to Mr. Jensen’s free reign with expenses, but my views in the matter didn’t carry too much weight. There are no notations as to why he spent the money or on whom. So it’s my opinion — ”

  “I’m afraid this is another case where your opinion isn’t going to matter too much, Miss Kate,” Liddell cut her off. “I’m engaged in finding the killer of an employee of this paper. If it becomes necessary for me to go to the publisher to get the co-operation I want, I won’t hesitate a second. I thought it would be more pleasant for everyone involved if I came to you first — ” He pushed back his chair, started to get up.

  “Just a minute.” The purple-haired woman tried to keep her voice from showing her anger. “Naturally, I’m as interested in finding this killer as anybody. If I thought — ”

  “Suppose we leave that up to me, since I’m the one actually engaged in tracking him down.”

  The thin woman pushed a wisp of colored hair out of her face, tucked it tidily behind her ear. Her lips were a thin, colorless line as she got up from behind the desk, limped to the door. She tugged it open. “Burns!”

  The balding man at the front desk jumped at the sound of her voice, came trotting to the office. “Yes, Miss Kate?”

  She swung on Liddell. “What period are you interested in?”

  Liddell considered. “From about the middle of April through to the night he was murdered.”

 

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