Free Bare Trap by Frank Kane Page A

buckle.
    The private detective’s fingers tightened on the butt of his gun, still nestled in its shoulder holster, and estimated on his chances of getting it out and swinging to his off side to shoot. He dropped the decision.
    “I think you’re right.” He nodded. He dropped his hand, empty, to his side.
    “Get it, Maxie,” the little man ordered.
    Broken Nose pulled himself out of his chair and shuffled over to Liddell. He pushed open his jacket, relieved him of his .45, examined it critically. “Nice piece of iron,”he grunted, dropped it into his jacket pocket.
    “How’d you know my room?” Liddell wanted to know.
    “New invention called the house phone.” The man called Duke grinned. “You pick it up and ask. All the latest conveniences.”
    “Ain’t science wonderful?” Liddell growled. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”
    “Got a message for you.”
    “From Yale Stanley?”
    The little man stared at Liddell unblinkingly. “You got a bad habit of name dropping, mister,” he chided. “I figure this message don’t need a signature.”
    “The kind you delivered to Shad Reilly, eh?” He looked from the man with the gun to the broken-nosed muscle man. “I been hearing things about you two hoods and your messages.”
    Duke gave no indication he had heard, ignoring the angry growl from his partner. “We figured it was time you left town. Some guys don’t take as long as others to get unpopular. You just set a new track record.”
    “I can’t leave until my client tells me to.”
    “You haven’t got a client. Richards don’t figure he needs you any more.”
    Liddell shrugged. “I’ll wait until he tells me. Besides, I’m beginning to like this town.”
    “Maybe we can fix that. What do you think, Maxie? Can we fix it so’s the shamus don’t like our hospitality?”
    Maxie twisted the corners of his misshapen lips upward in a gross caricature of a smile. “It’d be a pleasure. Tough guys are my meat.” He shuffled over toward where Liddell stood. “Let’s dance, sweetheart. They’re playing our song.”
    He threw a beefy fist at Liddell’s head. The private detective blocked it easily, slammed his right against the side of Maxie’s jaw. The big man blinked, licked at his lips, shuffled closer. He feinted with the left again, crossed his right against Liddell’s jaw with a speed unsuspected in a man of his size. It slammed Liddell back against the door, where he slid to a sitting position. There was a dull ringingin his ears; the floor seemed to be tilting crazily as he struggled to his feet.
    He was dimly aware that Duke sat on the arm of the chair, his .45 nestled in his lap, a broad grin creasing his thin cheeks. Maxie stood over Liddell, waiting for him to get up.
    Liddell shook his head, trying to clear it of the cobwebs. He got to one knee, pretended to lose his balance, but got his legs behind him and plowed into the big man, shoulder first.
    Maxie let out a strangled oath as the private detective’s shoulder caught him unaware and bowled him over. There was a crash as the big man hit a chair, splintered it, and knocked the small end table and chair over with him. He lay in the debris cursing angrily.
    By the time Maxie got to his feet, Liddell was waiting for him in a half crouch. The big man moved in again, seemingly impervious to Liddell’s Sunday punch as it opened an inch-long gash on his cheekbone. He threw a hamlike fist at Liddell’s face, missed, gasped as the private detective sank his left in his stomach to the cuff.
    Before he could recover and lash out in return, Liddell scuttled to the left, threw him off balance. Maxie’s little eyes glared hatred as he tried to recover his earlier advantage. He took an overhand right to the mouth that smashed his lower lip to pulp in an effort to bring Liddell close enough to use his right.
    Liddell kept circling, using his left in an attempt to get a clear shot at the big man’s midsection. Moving as fast as he