Marked for Murder ms-12

by Brett Halliday

  “Sure. Gentry was a friend of Rourke’s and would like to see the thing cleaned up.”

  “I’m running things on this side,” Painter said.

  “Have it your way. You take the high road and I’ll take the low road. Just like it used to be.”

  Chief Painter strutted out and slammed the door. Helen asked wonderingly, “Isn’t it dangerous to ride a cop like that? Isn’t he the top man here on the Beach?”

  “It’s been that way with us since the first case of mine he horned into,” Shayne told her, and sighed heavily.

  She laughed softly. “I knew you were a fast worker when I first met you. What do we do now?”

  “Get to work. Tell me about Madge Rankin-all about her.”

  “I don’t know too much,” Helen said after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ve only been living here a couple of weeks. I liked her. Men were crazy about her, I guess. She twisted them around her little finger, to hear her tell it.”

  “Ever hear her mention going around to gambling joints?”

  Helen changed her position on the couch so she could face him squarely without turning her head. She frowned thoughtfully, then said, “I don’t think so. I don’t know where she went nights when she was out. Do you really think her murder is tied in with those others?”

  “I think Tim was murdered because he was digging into them, and Madge’s letter to Tim indicates that she knew something. It’s reasonable to suppose she was killed to prevent her from talking.”

  “Maybe so. But I don’t believe it. Madge wouldn’t be mixed up in anything like that,” Helen maintained stoutly. “If she had any information about those murders she must have just happened to hear it somewhere.” Her long black lashes came down over her tawny eyes to avoid Shayne’s intent gray gaze.

  He asked, “Who was paying her rent?”

  “How would I know?” Her voice was suddenly sharp.

  “You claim she was your friend,” Shayne persisted. “You must have known some of the men she went out with.”

  “I didn’t know any that could have been mixed up in those murders,” she said, a trace of annoyance still in her tone.

  “Name some of them-the ones at Madge’s party Tuesday night.”

  She looked up at him and said, “I told Chief Painter the truth about that. From the sounds I heard when I got home I guess there were three or four fellows in her apartment, but I don’t know who they were.”

  “And they all left slightly after ten o’clock?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I heard the party breaking up about ten o’clock. Maybe one of them stayed on, but the radio was on so loud I couldn’t tell.”

  “But you did hear enough to suspect someone stayed on,” Shayne pressed her. “Was it a man or woman?”

  “I don’t know. That is, a man, I suppose. Madge wouldn’t likely have any women there. And-” She paused and looked away from him.

  “And what?”

  “I was just thinking about things. Everything is all cleaned up in there now. No cigarette butts or glasses around. Madge must have cleaned up Tuesday night after the party was over-before somebody shot her. Even the kitchen is cleaned up.”

  “You think she cleaned up after they left, and then someone else came,” Shayne said, his eyes intent upon her, trying to adjust his thoughts to hers. “Or one of the men came back.”

  “I was thinking that,” she admitted. “She would be more likely to clean up if they all left than if one of them stayed on. You know-she wouldn’t bother if she still had company.”

  “That makes sense,” Shayne agreed.

  “Say, I just thought of something. You claim you didn’t know Madge. Where’d you get the key you unlocked her door with?”

  “That was a skeleton key,” Shayne told her. He grinned at her and took out his key ring to show her. “It’s part of my stock in trade. I had to make you think Madge had given me a key when I told you I was a friend of hers.”

  “Anybody could probably get into either one of these front doors with a skeleton key,” she said, looking with interest at the numerous keys. “Darned cheap locks,” she ended in grave disgust.

  “Yeh,” Shayne agreed absently. “But Madge must have given somebody a key-somebody she didn’t mind coming in when she was all dressed up in a pair of stockings.” His eyes were bleak, and he stared at the opposite wall.

  “You’d think she’d have slipped on a robe-or something,” Helen offered, “but I didn’t see any robe around-nor any clothes.”

  “Who does she know well enough to fit that?”

  “How in hell would I know?” she blazed in sudden anger. “You’re the damnedest guy-don’t you ever think of anything but asking questions?”

  Shayne jerked his eyes around and looked at her, a muscle moving in his cheek. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded.

  Then Helen Porter laughed softly and laid her dark head on his shoulder, one arm around his neck. She patted his cheek with her other hand and wriggled closer to him.

  The doorbell rang, a long ring followed by several impatient jabs.

  Helen jumped up, her eyes startled for a moment. She hesitated, standing perfectly still, then murmured, “Let it ring.”

  Shayne stood up, saying, “It might be the cops again. You’d better answer it. I’ll go in the bathroom just in case it isn’t the cops.”

  “I’ll get rid of whoever it is.” Her voice was low and excited. She was evidently confused. “Don’t worry, Mike. I’ll get rid of him in a hurry.”

  Shayne hurried to the bathroom and pulled the door partially shut. He heard Helen say in a surprised and not-too-pleased voice, “Oh, it’s you, Dilly?”

  A man said, “I’ve got to talk to you a minute, Helen. About Madge.” He spoke with a harsh drawl and with suppressed excitement.

  Chapter Eleven: WORKING ON THE LADY’S MAN

  Helen said, “You can’t come in, Dilly. What about Madge?”

  “That’s what I want to know. I drove by and saw the cops here.”

  “Madge has been murdered,” she said flatly. “You’d better go if you don’t want the cops asking you a lot of questions.”

  Shayne sauntered into the living-room and asked, “Who’s your friend, Helen? I’d like to talk to him.”

  She threw a startled glance over her shoulder at him. “This is Dilly Smith, Mike. Come on in, Dilly, if Mike says so. This is Mike Shayne, a detective, and he’s interested in Madge’s murder too.”

  Dilly Smith walked into the room with a slow and measured tread. His face was as round as a full moon, ending with a solid jutting jaw that moved slightly and constantly as he moved his clamped teeth together. His upper lip was too short and his breathing was audible through his parted lips. His nose was broad and flattish and turned up at the end, and his bulky build made him appear shorter than his medium height. His hair was the color of ripened corn silk, his eyes light blue with a candid, ingenuous expression that gave an impression of youthful good nature and appealing honesty.

  He said, “A cop?” widening his eyes and corrugating his brow at Shayne.

  “Private,” Shayne reassured him quickly. “I just happened to drop in on Helen a few minutes before the police came. Since Madge was a friend of Helen’s, I thought I might solve the case while the cops are running around in circles.” He lounged forward and held out his hand. “Did Helen say your name is Smith?”

  “That’s right.” His hand was big and smooth and soft, but he had a rock-crusher grip.

  “How’d it happen?” Smith asked Helen. “I talked to Madge on the phone just a couple of days ago. She wanted me to come around but I couldn’t make it till tonight.”

  “That must have been Tuesday,” Helen said. “The police say she was murdered Tuesday night. I remember she told me about phoning you.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t come to see her that night?” Shayne asked.

  “I sure didn’t,” Smith drawled. “She told me she was having a little party, but I could
n’t make it.”

  “How well did you know Madge?”

  “Pretty well,” he muttered, and glanced at Helen.

  Helen went to the couch and sat down. She looked disinterested and said, “Why don’t you run along, Dilly. Mike and I were just-”

  “Don’t rush off,” Shayne interrupted hastily. “I’d like to talk to someone who knew Madge well.”

  A flush crept into Smith’s chubby face. “I didn’t know her too well,” he protested. “We were just sort of good friends. Who do the cops think killed her?”

  “The cops don’t think,” Shayne said. “Did you ever take Madge out to any gambling joints?”

  “Mike thinks maybe she was the blond gun moll who killed those three guys,” Helen put in. “Maybe you helped her.”

  The color went out of his face. He stopped moving his jaw and set it hard. He sat down in a chair across from the couch and twisted a soft hat around in his hands. He said slowly, “I haven’t seen Madge in two or three weeks,” staring at Helen with light-blue eyes that were wholly expressionless. “I don’t believe Madge ever had anything to do with gambling.”

  “Can you give me a line on any other men that knew her?”

  “No. Like I said, I didn’t know her so very well.”

  “Why did she call you Tuesday afternoon?”

  “To-well, to sort of make up.” Dilly Smith swallowed hard and looked at Shayne with appealing and youthful candor. “We sort of had a fight a few weeks ago and she was sore. But Tuesday she said she wanted to see me.” He frowned and looked like a petulant adolescent. “I wish I’d known about it. You mean she’s been there all that time and nobody found her?”

  “And I didn’t know it,” Helen said. “I thought she was out having a good time. Isn’t it terrible?”

  “It sure is,” Smith agreed. “I’m mighty sorry. I guess there’s nothing I can do.” He pulled himself up from the chair and plodded to the door.

  When Smith closed the door on his way out Shayne asked Helen quickly, “Who is he? He looks like a kid-too young to be having a love affair with Madge.”

  Helen laughed softly. “He certainly is the fair-haired boy, but Madge told me he was nearly thirty when I kidded her about him.” She shrugged eloquently, dismissing the matter, and said, “Come on and sit down. I’ll fix some more drinks.”

  Shayne shook his red head and picked up his hat “I’d better not. Not this time. If I take another drink with you I won’t want to leave at all.”

  “What of it? I told you nobody had any strings on me.”

  “Another reason why I’d better beat it. Besides, you’ve got to realize the cops are keeping an eye on this place tonight. Watch your step.”

  Helen got up and threw her arms around him and lifted her lips to be kissed. Shayne made it a fast one and hurried out to try to tail Dilly Smith. Helen ran after him and pressed a house key into his hand. “You said you wanted one,” she reminded him.

  “Did I? Oh-you bet.” He pocketed the key and patted her cheek. “I’ll try to see you tomorrow.”

  A car was pulling away from the curb near the end of the block. Shayne got in his car and started the motor just as Smith’s car swung around the next corner to the right. He didn’t see any of Painter’s men around, but was pretty sure the Beach chief had left a stake-out. He didn’t know whether they had orders to follow him or not.

  He made a U-turn without turning on his lights, switched them on, and drove east to the next corner, then turned north. A car slid past the intersection in front of him, headed east on the next street north from Tempest. The timing was right for it to be Dilly Smith.

  Shayne slowed to let the other car get a couple of blocks ahead before swinging around the corner in pursuit. There was nothing to indicate that either car was being trailed. He stayed well back until Smith’s car turned north on Ocean Boulevard, and he let two cars get ahead of him before turning onto the boulevard.

  Increasing his speed gradually, he passed one of the cars and was pulling up on the tail light of the next one when his quarry turned to the left. He was close enough to pick up the Miami license number as he drove by, and to get a glimpse of Smith alone in the front seat.

  Shayne raced on to the next corner before turning left, and as he neared the intersection he saw a sign reading Magnolia Avenue. Upon reaching the avenue he saw a car headed in his direction slow almost to a stop in the middle of the block. He turned boldly in that direction, pulling his hat brim low on his forehead.

  Smith’s car picked up speed and began to move forward as Shayne came abreast of him. Smith’s head was turned toward a pair of stone gate posts in front of a three-story mansion at the end of a driveway flanked by tall royal palms. There was no light in the big house.

  Shayne saw a house number on one of the gateposts as he drove by without slowing. The number of the big house at which Dilly Smith had hesitated was 1832. He remembered then that Minerva had told him Mr. Walter Bronson, managing editor of the Courier, lived at 1832 Magnolia Avenue.

  In his rearview mirror he saw Dilly Smith swing around the corner toward Ocean Boulevard. Shayne speeded up for two more blocks, turned left, and pulled in to the curb near the boulevard, turned off his lights, and left his motor running.

  A few minutes later, Smith passed on the boulevard headed toward the Miami Beach business section. Shayne let three cars pass before pulling onto the boulevard and following. He repeated his former tactic of speeding up to pass the intervening cars. By the time Smith neared Fifth Street, Shayne was directly behind him.

  Smith signaled for a right-hand turn at Fifth. Shayne trailed him around the corner onto the brightly lighted street lined with business houses on both sides. Moving into the right-hand lane, Smith slid into a parking place in front of the first drugstore he came to.

  Shayne drove to a parking-space in the next block, got out and walked swiftly to the drugstore, reached it just as Smith was going in. He loitered with other pedestrians on the sidewalk, looked through the display window, and caught a glimpse of Smith in the rear of the store making a purchase. It looked like a box of candy or stationery. He took the box, unwrapped, and went to a bare portion of the counter where he opened it.

  It was stationery. Smith took out a sheet of paper and an envelope, got his fountain pen from his breast pocket, and began to write.

  Shayne sauntered back to the curb and kept an eye on the entrance to the store. Smith came out after a couple of minutes with the box of stationery under his arm and a white envelope in his hand. Shayne walked on a few steps, turning his head enough to see Smith deposit the letter in the mailbox at the corner.

  Smith then strode to his car and headed it toward Miami. Shayne waited a few minutes to be sure he was gone, then sauntered to the mailbox to check on the hours of collection. The last one of the day was 10:46 p.m. He looked at his watch. The time was 10:33.

  He went in the drugstore and waited until the clerk who had sold Smith the stationery was unoccupied. He was a middle-aged man who looked dyspeptic and weary. Shayne approached him and said, “A friend of mine just bought a box of stationery in here. He showed it to me outside, and I’d like to get one like it.”

  “You mean the fellow who was in a hurry to write a letter?” the clerk asked.

  “That’s right.”

  The clerk selected a box and said, “Forty-nine cents.”

  Shayne spun a half-dollar on the counter. “Never mind wrapping it,” he said, “I’m in a hurry to write a letter, too.”

  The clerk’s jaundiced eyes went over Shayne with surprise and some suspicion when the detective went to the same vacant spot on the counter and started writing a letter.

  He wrote: Dearest Minerva: I’ve thought things over and I’m damned sick and tired of getting the run-around, so this means we’re through. Bill.

  He addressed the envelope, Miss Minerva Higgins, 316 Larkspur, Miami Beach, Florida, folded the paper and slipped it into the envelope. He put a dime in a stamp machine near
the front of the store and got three stamps, one of which he put on the envelope. He then went out and dropped it in the mailbox.

  With the box of stationery under his arm, he leaned against the mailbox and waited. Within two minutes the mail truck pulled up and the driver leaped out.

  Shayne said, “I’ve been waiting for you. Could you do a guy a hell of a favor?”

  The man in gray was past middle-age, stooped and thin, with a network of crinkles around his eyes. He drawled, “I don’t know. What is it?”

  “It’s this way,” said Shayne, grinning ruefully, “I dropped a letter in this box and-well, sort of changed my mind after mailing it a few minutes ago. I’ve cooled off, you might say, and decided it’d be foolish to hurt my girl’s feelings.”

  “It’s against regulations,” the man said uncertainly.

  “I suppose it is, but it’s my letter. I’ll be in the doghouse if I don’t get it back.” Shayne opened the box of stationery and pulled out one of the square white envelopes. “Look. You can find it easy and I can prove it’s mine. I’ll tell you who it’s addressed to. Hell, I’ll even let you open it to see whether I’m on the square.”

  The collector examined the envelope in Shayne’s hand. “Who did you say it’s going to?”

  “Miss Minerva Higgins, at-”

  “Had a fight with the girl friend, eh?” The network of crinkles deepened around his eyes. He unlocked the box and said, “We’ll see if we can find it.”

  Shayne looked anxiously over his shoulder as the man ran through the first handful of letters from the box. “That looks like it,” Shayne said eagerly, studying the address on the envelope Dilly Smith had mailed. “Nope-that’s not mine.”

  The letter was addressed to Mr. Walter Bronson, 1832 Magnolia Avenue, Miami Beach, Florida.

  “This must be yours,” the collector said, holding an identical envelope up for Shayne to see.

  “That’s it,” said Shayne happily. “Miss Minerva Higgins, Three-Sixteen Larkspur.” He chuckled. “Thanks a million.”

  Passing the letter to Shayne the collector said, “Just don’t ever say anything about this.”