Transcript

Chapter 9 · Bullet Proof

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Chapter nine of Bulletproof by Frank Kine. This LibriVox recording is in the public
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domain. Read by Ben Tucker. Chapter nine, perspiration beat it on Johnny
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Lilydell's face as he stood looking down at the man in the chair. The
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past hour had not improved Coppola's appearance. You're being awfully hard to get along
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with, Frankie, he told him. All I want to know is where
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Gene Merritt is and who gave you the office to spray let at me the
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other night. The beady little eyes glared from behind their pounches. You're having
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all the fun, don Lydell, Capola muttered through smashed lips. I'll never
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forget a face, and I'm double sure to remember yours. Lydell's hand described
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a short arc caught the man in the chair smartly across the cheek. Never
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mind what's going to happen to me, Frankie, just give some thought to
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what's going to happen to you. You scared me to death, the fat
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man snarled, Okay, fat, so, if that's the way you want
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it, I mightn't have scared Reccy and scoted to death, but it's a
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cinch. The forty five slugs I pumped into them didn't linked in their lives.
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He pointed to forty five at Capola's bulging waistline. One more won't hurt.
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The fat man studied Lydell's face for signs of a bluff. Lydell returned
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the scrutiny unblinkingly. His finger tightened against the trigger. Copola squeezed back against
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the cushions of the chair, his fat face slack with fear. A minute,
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I'll talk, Lydell released his pressure on the trigger. He became suddenly
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aware that Coppola's eyes were staring past him at the door. There was a
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faint, almost imperceptible creak behind him, as though the door was being opened.
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Without attempting to turn, Lydell blasted away at the only lighted lamp in
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the room. The forty five slug tore the fixture half off the wall,
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leaving the room in darkness. As he fired, he threw himself to one
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side, flattened out against the floor. The door scraped all the way open,
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simultaneous with the crashing of the light bulb. There was a faint PLoP
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and a short flash near the door followed by a soft sigh and the sound
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of someone sitting down hard. The light in the hallway had been turned off
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and the gunman in the doorway provided no target. Lydell slid cautiously to the
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left in an attempt to get a shot at him, caught the leg of
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a small table with his foot, knocking it to the floor with a crash.
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There was another muffled PLoP from the doorway, and Lydell heard the buzz
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of an angry bee whiz past his ear. He squeezed the trigger of the
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forty five threw two shots at the doorway. The forty five made a deafening
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roar in the cramped space. He heard the patter of running feet in the
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hallway. By the time he reached the door, the hall was empty.
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He sprinted down the corridor, arrived at the elevator in time to see that
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it was on its way down. He debated the advisability of trying to race
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it to the lobby by way of the stairs, decided against it. Returned
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to Capola's apartment. He walked in let a match closed the door by behind
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him. He found an undamaged lamp, turned it on. Frankie Coppola was
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still sitting in the chair, grinning at him. A small blue black hole
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in his forehead had spilled a bright red stream that ran down the side of
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his nose and was dripping from his chin down on to his white collar.
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The beady little eyes secure behind their purple buttresses regarded Lydell soberly, were glaring
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no longer. There was a muffled pounding on the bedroom door. Lydell walked
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over, turned the key. The bedroom spilled yellow light across the carpet to
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the chair where Frankie Coppola sat grinning. What happened? The brunette tried to
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look into the room over Lydell's shoulder. Coppola's dead. Someone stuck his head
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in the door, started pitching lead. Frankie fielded one with his head.
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The girl's hands shook as she pulled her robe close around her. What'll we
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do call the police, I guess, Lydell grunted. Someone else's bound to
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probably has already. We better get it on record that we reported it as
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soon as it happened. They'll kill me, the girl moaned. They'll blame
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me for it. They'll think I put him on the spot. Who will
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his friends the pallor had returned to the girl's face. Her voice was high,
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squeaky, with fright. They'll think it was me. Lydell patted her
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arm. Don't worry about it. I'll see to it that your booked as
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a material witness and put away some safe place until I can take care of
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those friends of his. The girl licked her lips, made a visible effort
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to get herself under control. Why what do you want me to do?
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Forget what happened tonight? You and Frankie expected me over. You went inside
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while Frankie and I were talking. The first thing he knew there was shooting.
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Leave the rest to me, But his friends they'll know. Lydell nodded,
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leave them to me too. The brunette took a deep, shuddering breath,
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nodded, okay. She looked down at her gown, pulled it together.
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I'd better get some clothes on. After she had returned to the bedroom,
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Lydell took Capola's luguer from his pocket, wiped it carefully with his handkerchief,
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Then, lifting the dead man's hand from where it hung limply over the
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side of the chair, he pressed the gun into the lifeless hand in several
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positions. He blew on the gun, seemed satisfied with the number of prints
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that showed up. Holding it with his handkerchief, he slipped it into the
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fat man's holster, walked over to the telephone dialed Inspector Hurley. He had
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headquarters. A few minutes later, one of the radio patrol men, who
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had been the first to answer the call, opened the door for Inspector Hurley.
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He and his men. The Inspector pushed his broad brimmed hat back on
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his head, scowled at Lydell. He crossed the room and bent over the
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corpse. After a careful scrutiny of the wound, he nodded for the headquarters
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men to take over. Then, perching himself on the arm of the sofa,
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he regarded Lydell soberly bless, like y lux run out, Lydell.
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No one could call this one's self defense. Lydell managed to look surprised.
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You don't think I did it, Inspector Hurley. He shifted his gum from
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his left cheek to his right, grinned humorlessly. You kidding this morning?
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You find out this guy tried a machine gun? You the other night.
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He turns up dead and you're on the scene with that hole in his head,
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it's a cinch. He didn't die of old age. How would you
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figure it? Lydell shrugged. I didn't kill him, Inspector Hurly, he
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grunted, got a gun on y here it is, sir. One of
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the uniform men produced the forty five wrapped in a handkerchief. Hurly. He
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held the barrel to his smoke sniffed, No, you're smelling it, Inspector
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Lydell told him, you won't have any trouble proving it was fire tonight.
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Your trouble's going to prove how I shot Frankie with a forty five and he
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turned up dead with a thirty two hole in his head. Hurly. He
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stared at him thoughtfully, a troubled frown on his face. He spun on
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his heel, walked over to the uniform patrolman. Anyone else in the place
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when it happened? He barked. The patrolman referred to his black leather notebook.
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Ah woman names Claire Rhodes. She's an entertainer at the show place out
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in Brooklyn. What was she doing here? Trollman scratched his head. She
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lives here. The place is listed in her name, Hurly. He turned
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back to glare at Lidell. I wouldn't it, eh, Let's have a
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look at her. Dimmock, the uniform man disappeared into the bedroom. Reappeared
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a moment later, leading the brunette by the arm. She made a determined
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effort to keep her eyes off the body lost the match when they rove there,
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uncontrollably, you were here when the shooting took place, miss Rhodes,
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Hurly, he barked at her. The girl nodded, Then you knew this
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man. He stepped aside so she could get a good look at Capola.
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The brunette's pallor turned a patchy gray. She swallowed audibly averted her eyes.
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He was my fiancee, Hurly. He nodded. How about him? He
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indicated Lidell. The girl's eyes sought out Lidell then dropped. I never met
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him until tonight. Frankie was expecting him. They had something to talk over.
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Frankie told me to go to bed as soon as he came. A
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trouble v creased the inspector's brow. They were friendly. The girl nodded.
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They were while I was here, but they had an argument and Lydell shot
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him. I didn't say that it was somebody else that shot Frankie. Somebody
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opened the door, stuck a gun in, and killed him hurly, he
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growled, deep in his chest. You said you were in the bedroom.
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How do you know all this, he snapped, I told her Lydell broke
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in hurly. He fixed Lydell with a baleful glare. It wasn't that considerate
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of you. Suppose you tell me what happened, Lydell shrugged. It's just
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like Claire says. The door opened, someone stuck a gun in and plugged
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Frankie. You didn't even get a look at the killer, no, doubt
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Lydell grinned bleakly. I didn't have a chance to do anything, but duck.
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It happened so fast. Frankie didn't even have time to go for his
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gun. He indicated the butt of the luger peeping from under the fat man's
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jacket. Either that or he knew the guy in the doorway and didn't expect
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any trouble. Very pretty theory. What were you doing when the shooting started?
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Talking to Frankie? He was in the chair and I was standing with
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my back to the door. I heard it open and someone threw a shot.
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I died for the floor and took the light with me. Then I
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threw a couple at the doorway and tried to get a crack at the killer.
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He raised his shoulders in an eloquent shrug. He got away. Do
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tell Hurley. He spun on his heel, swung back to the patrolman standing
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with the girl. Take her down and book her as a material witness.
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Arrange for a paraffin test while you're at it. Maybe she'll be ready to
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do some talking. After a couple of knights in the tank, there was
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a light tap on the door. Another patrolman opened it. The medical examiner
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breathed in greeted the inspector with a cheery grin. He whistled soundlessly as he
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took inventory of the girl being hustled through the door. I'm glad it wasn't
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her. He's not half as pretty. He dropped his hat on the table,
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leaned over the body, examined the wound with the practiced air hum A
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thirty two way inspector Hurley. He slammed his hat down on the table,
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ran his fingers through the thick mane of his hair. How the hell can
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you tell it's a thirty two until you get the damn bullet out, he
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roared. The medical examiner dropped his top coat on the couch, took off
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his jacket, started to roll up his sleeves. I can't, if you're
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going to get technical about it, inspector, not any more that you can
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tell when you find a hole under you to sink, whether it's made by
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a mouse or an elephant. He busied himself at the body, made a
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series of notations on a printed form. If it'll make you feel any better,
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I'll have him tag for an autopsy to make sure he wasn't poisoned,
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he added, maliciously. Hurly, he started to retort, let the finger
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print man catch him by the arm, draw him aside. A whisper in
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his ear. The red flush crept all the way up from the inspector's collar.
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You're absolutely sure that fince, the finger print man looked, unhappy.
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Positive, Inspector, cupolas are the only prints on the luguer. Just like
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I try to tell you, Inspector light Old grinned. I'm as innocent as
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a new born babe. Still determined to toss me into the poky Hurley,
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he gave his wad of gum a murderous pounding swore under his breath. I
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could lock you up as a material witness, but chances are the legitimate prisoners
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would be circulating a petition to get rid of you. Can I have my
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gun back, Lydell asked Hurley. He handed it back wordlessly, watched while
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the private detective fitted it into his holster. Still in sis. You don't
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know what's going on, Lidell, and as much in the dark as you
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are, Lydell nodded. The inspector sniffed. It's not what the district attorney
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thinks. God help you if you make one slip. Your department hasn't got
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a thing on me, and you know it. It's not my department you'd
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better be worried about. It's the health department. You're a public menace and
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more fatal than an epidemic. End of chapter nine