Free Crime of Their Life by Frank Kane Page B

accident. He got washed over during a storm—”
    The redhead dropped her glass. “He was a private detective?” She stared at Handel with stricken eyes. “Look, mister, I told you I’d stick with you through thick and thin. But if you’re mixed up in a murder, that scratches everything. Little Rita wants no part of a ride on the thunderbolt. A stool pigeon saving his skin I can stomach, but a killer, pardon me!”
    As Handel started to blurt a denial, Liddell moved in. The disbarred lawyer tried to swing the gun back into firing position, Liddell caught him a crippling blow on the wrist with the side of his hand. Handel screamed his rage, tried to bring his knee up in Liddell’s groin. Johnny caught him under the arms, lifted him and threw him into the chair he had just vacated. The chair went over backward, spilled Handel onto the floor, a tangle of arms and legs.
    Liddell walked over to where the gun lay on the floor, picked it up. He weighed it in the palm of his hand.
    “Nice iron,” he grunted. He examined the serial number. “You could get in a lot of trouble carrying a piece like this.”
    Handel was on his hands and knees, staring up at him. The carefully combed hair hung lankly over his face, beads of perspiration glistened at his hairline, along his jowls. ‘I’ve got a license for it.”
    Liddell looked up, grinned bleakly. “So it’s registered in your name. Convenient, huh?”
    Panic widened the lawyer’s eyes until the whites showed. “What do you mean?”
    “If I was doing a job for the organization, look how nice and neat it would be. You got shot with your own gun and when they found out who you really were it would make a lot of sense that you did the Dutch because you were afraid the boys were catching up with you.”
    “No, don’t, Liddell!” Handel crawled over to him on all fours, caught his leg. The perspiration was streaming down his face. “Give me a break, Liddell. You can have everything I’ve got. Money, her, anything. But don’t kill me. Don’t!”
    The redhead stared at the man on his knees, loathing in her eyes. “You trying to use me to buy your own lousy life?” She walked over, put the flat of her foot against his shoulder, toppled him on his side. “I hope he does kill you. If you don’t die of fright first.”
    Handel lay prone on the floor, sobbing. Liddell shook his head, stepped across the prostrate man, walked to a porthole. He threw the .45 out.
    When he turned around, the redhead was staring at him with narrowed eyes, parted lips. “Then you weren’t sent here to set him up?” Her voice was low, sultry.
    Liddell shook his head. “I had no idea he was on board. When I recognized him, I couldn’t care less. He called for the showdown, not me.”
    The girl looked down to where her husband was cowering on the floor. “He made you a bargain, Liddell. We always keep our bargains, my husband and me.” She tossed the white sweater onto a chair, reached up and yanked at the zipper of her gown. The skin tight dress peeled away from her body, verified his guess that she wore little under it. Slowly she pushed it down over her hips, stepped out of it. On the floor, Handel groaned, shook his head. “Don’t, Rita. Don’t do it. I—I was only talking—”
    The redhead ignored him, stared at Liddell, wet her gleaming lips with the pointed tip of a pink tongue. She hooked her thumbs into the elastic band of the wispy pants she wore, rolled them down. When she had kicked the panties aside, she straightened up.
    Her legs were long, sensuously shaped. Full rounded thighs swelled into high-set hips, converged into the narrow waist he had admired earlier in the evening. Her breasts were full and high, their pink tips straining upward.
    As she stood there, she raised her hands slowly from her sides, loosened her hair, let it cascade down over her shoulders.
    “All right, Liddell. He’s being so generous. Be my guest.” The man on the floor moaned. “For God’s