Free Bare Trap by Frank Kane

got a report on Richards.”
    “And?”
    “He was seen in a car with Yale Stanley and one of his boys early this morning.”
    “Richards and Stanley? Together?” Liddell shook his head. “That’s a tough one to swallow, Inspector. Richards was on the Syndicate’s black list.”
    “Came from a reliable source.” The inspector pounded on his gum with rapt concentration. “From the time they report the make, it could be that Stanley picked him up at the lodge while you were calling in the report.”
    “You don’t mean to tell me you think Richards and Stanley were in on the kill together?”
    “It’s not impossible. Suppose Richards was dipping in the kid’s money. Suppose it was a deep dip and the time was getting close for an accounting? That way he might have made it worth Yale’s while to get the kid in for a wad so he’d have a swell out for the examiners when they went over the account.”
    Liddell considered it, a deep V ridging between his eyes. Finally, he shook his head. “Why would the kid have to hide out then? All he’d have to do would be to tell Richards, who’d then go through the motions of paying him off. There’d be no need to kill him.”
    “Suppose the kid tumbled to the setup? Suppose he told Richards he was wise, then realized that he’d put himself on the spot?”
    “Won’t wash. Why would he call Richards and tell him where he was in that case?”
    Devlin snorted. “How do you know he did? We only have Richards’s word for that phone call. He could easily have found out where the kid was, knocked him off, then called you with the story about the phone call.”
    Liddell shook his head. “I can’t buy it, Inspector.”
    Devlin regarded him sadly. “Neither can I. Matter of fact, what I think really happened is that while you were gone Richards stumbled on something that pointed right at Yale Stanley. Yale was still around someplace or came back and found Richards.” He shook his head. “That means only one thing, Johnny.”
    “What’s that?”
    “You’d better look for a new client. I’m afraid your old one is pretty shopworn at this moment.”
    It was almost dark by the time Johnny Liddell dropped the cab outside his hotel. The Marlowe was a pseudo-modern pile of brick, concrete, and plate glass that looked like a giant waffle standing on end. Each room had its own wall-sized picture window and a small balcony made completely private by being indented into the grill of the waffle.
    The clerk behind the desk slid his key across to him,opined that there had been no messages with a smile that had no effect on the boredom in his eyes.
    Liddell rode the elevator to the fifth floor, followed the corridor to 546, and used his key to push the door open.
    A thick-shouldered man in a loud-checked sports jacket sat in an armchair pulled up to the window overlooking Wilshire Boulevard. He didn’t turn around as Liddell walked in and kicked the door shut behind him.
    “Looking for somebody?” Liddell wanted to know. His fingers were inches from his left lapel.
    The man in the chair looked around, eyed him from beady eyes set close to the spattered bridge of his nose. His lips were puffy as if they had been bashed against his teeth once too often; his hairline seemed almost resting on bushy eyebrows that met over the bridge of his nose. “You Liddell?” he asked incuriously in a harsh, guttural voice.
    Liddell nodded.
    The man with the broken nose nodded. “Okay, so we’re looking for somebody. You.” He didn’t take his eyes off the private detective. “This is him, Duke. He’s got a rod in his fist.”
    “He couldn’t get it out fast enough, Maxie,” a voice from the bedroom door chimed in. The door swung slowly open and a small, dapper little man walked out. He stood something less than five five, had the narrow shoulders and small bones of a jockey. The .45 in his hand looked as big as a cannon and was pointed at a spot about an inch above Liddell’s belt