“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shayne interrupted him sharply. He moved on into the room and sat down.
One of the officers withdrew. Bronson went to a window and stood staring out into the night while the other officer leaned against the doorsill and began picking his teeth.
A few minutes later Painter hurried in excitedly. He pounded his right fist into the small palm of his left hand and said to Shayne, “I don’t know how the devil you guessed it, but that gun we took off Smith fits the bullet that downed Timothy Rourke.”
Bronson’s huge frame stumbled to a chair near by. He slumped into it. His heavy shoulders shivered, then settled rigidly.
Shayne asked, “Where does Smith say he got the gun?”
“Claims he found it,” snorted Painter. “Looks as though we’ve got our killer all right. When we get through checking up on Smith we’ll know where we stand.”
Shayne lit a cigarette, drew on it hard, and set a puff of smoke roiling through his nostrils. He said, “Why don’t you call Will Gentry and ask him if he has a record on the gun,” blandly.
“Look here, Shayne-what-how much do you know about all this. If you’re holding out on me, by God, I’ll-”
“I’m not asking you to take my word for anything.”
Painter glared at him, trotted over to the phone, and called Gentry. He said, “Looks as though I’m about to clear up the Rourke case, Will. Do you happen to have any record of a Colt thirty-two automatic, serial four-two-one-eight-nine-three?”
Shayne’s head rested easily on the back of the chair. He continued to puff smoke through his nostrils, watching Bronson and Painter through narrowed eyes. Bronson was sitting rigidly on the edge of his chair, his torso forward, as though he were about to spring up.
Painter’s breezy air of self-assurance appeared to slowly ooze out of him as he listened to Gentry’s voice rumbling over the wire. The chief of detectives of Miami Beach said weakly, “I see. Well… I see. Thanks a lot for the dope, Will.” He replaced the instrument carefully, leaned back with his small mouth tightly compressed. After a moment he snapped, “How did you know so much about that gun this afternoon, Shayne?”
Shayne shrugged and waved his cigarette. “I was always a couple of jumps ahead of you in the old days. Remember?”
Painter’s eyes blazed with anger. He jumped up and confronted Bronson. “What do you know about it, Bronson?”
Bronson’s puffy eyelids rolled up. His heavy face was flaccid. He looked defeated and utterly weary. “About-what?”
“Your pistol,” Painter raged. “The one that shot Rourke.”
“My-pistol?” croaked Bronson.
“There’s a permit on it in your name.”
Bronson slowly settled back in his chair. “Oh, that? That little automatic I used to have-I lost it several months ago. It was stolen out of my car one day.”
“Did you report it stolen?”
“N-No. I didn’t bother. It wasn’t important.”
Shayne said, “Ask him why he put that ad in his Personal column today.”
“What ad?” Painter’s face was dangerously red.
“Just two words,” Shayne told him mildly. “‘Yes. Colt.’ And ask him why he called Hake Brenner this morning asking to borrow twenty-five grand, and came over to see Brenner this afternoon and borrowed two of his hoods instead. The two who tried to shoot me tonight.”
Painter’s voice quaked with anger. “All right-why did you do all that?”
Walter Bronson was getting hold of himself, except for an uncontrollable sweating. He got out a handkerchief and mopped his face, then pointed a fat and accusing finger at Shayne. “Ask him. I told you he was trying to blackmail me. He got hold of that gun somehow. He told me it was the one that had been used on Rourke. He threatened to turn it over to the police and I knew it could be traced to me.”
Shayne said, “I didn’t have the gun. A man named Dillingham Smith had it.”
Painter wavered for an instant, glancing swiftly from one man to the other, then said, “After you planted it on him, I suppose, and then had him picked up,” with heavy sarcasm. He barked to the officer standing in the doorway, “Bring Smith in here.”
When the man went away, Painter ranted at Shayne, “This is one time, by God, you stepped in too deep. Attempted extortion and withholding vital evidence in a murder case.”
“Four murder cases and one attempted murder,” Shayne corrected him in a mild tone.
“Gentry’s own words will convict you,” Painter went on. “He admits you gave him the dope on that death gun and arranged to have your stooge picked up with it on him.”
Shayne said, “You can’t convict me for being smarter than you are. If that were against the law, ninety-nine percent of your fellow-citizens could be jailed.”
An officer ushering Dillingham Smith in stopped the reply Painter started to make. Smith looked older, and frightened. He wet his slightly parted lips and let his oddly rounded eyes rest for an instant on Shayne, Bronson, and Painter.
Painter said, “I want the truth from you, Smith. I’ll see that you get a break if you come clean. Don’t try to protect anybody. I guess you know that rod was plenty hot. Tell us exactly how it came into your possession.”
Smith took his time about answering. Not a muscle in his stocky body moved until he turned his head slowly toward Bronson and drawled, “I found the pistol right outside the apartment where that reporter was shot on Tuesday night. I saw you drop it, Mr. Bronson, when you came out with the dame and got in your car.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Shut up, Bronson,” Painter roared.
“I knew I did wrong keeping it,” Dilly Smith went on in a slow, earnest drawl. “I was broke and figured Bronson would pay to get it back. I guess that’s against the law, but I don’t want to get mixed up in any shooting rap and I’m telling you the truth, Chief Painter.”
Painter’s face looked as though he had just bitten into a green persimmon. He gestured toward Shayne despairingly and demanded of Smith, “How does Shayne figure in it?”
“Him?” Smith rounded his eyes at Shayne. “I don’t know. He’s a private detective I met at a friend’s place the other night. That’s the only time I ever saw him.”
Bronson heaved his bulky body to his feet. “This man is obviously lying,” he said hoarsely. “His story of how he came into possession of the weapon is an absurd lie. I tell you it was stolen from-”
Dillingham Smith started toward Bronson like a man walking in a slow moving picture. His short broad hands were doubled into fists and slowly swinging at his sides.
Painter said, “Sit down, Bronson,” and motioned to the officer standing guard.
The officer got in front of Smith and shoved him back. Smith’s expression didn’t change. He continued as though the short scene had never occurred, “I picked the pistol up where Mr. Bronson dropped it Tuesday night. I didn’t know what had happened upstairs then, but when I heard about the reporter being shot next morning, about it being a thirty-two and all, I knew that must be why he was in such a hurry to get away and didn’t notice dropping it by his car.”
Painter took a few nervous paces around the room, came back to Smith and snapped, “So you decided to keep the gun and blackmail Mr. Bronson?”
“That’s right,” drawled Smith. “I recognized him and I knew he was rich and I thought I could make a good touch. I wrote him a letter Thursday night and told him to put that ad in today’s paper if he wanted to deal. Then when I started over here tonight I got picked up by a couple of Miami cops.”
A look of complete bafflement came over Bronson’s heavy face. He said, “This man is protecting Shayne for some reason. It was Shayne who wrote me that letter demanding money.”
“Have you got the letter?” Shayne asked.
“It’s at home in a safe place.”
“You can check Smith’s and my handwriting and find out soon enough,” Shayne told Painter. “Right now,
it seems to me a murder charge is more important.”
“Right,” snapped Painter. He turned to Bronson. “Do you deny Smith’s story of how he came into possession of the pistol?”
“Of course I deny it. I didn’t go near Rourke’s apartment that night. His entire story is preposterous.”
Into the short, dead silence that followed, Shayne said calmly, “Why don’t we ask Mrs. Bronson about the whole thing? She was a pretty good friend of Rourke’s.”
“That’s an outrageous lie,” Bronson broke in hoarsely. “My wife scarcely knew Rourke.”
“Not only that,” Shayne went on, placidly ignoring him, “Bronson started out for Rourke’s apartment that night at nine-thirty with some personal effects in a Manila envelope. If Smith saw him coming out of there with a woman after Rourke was shot, he must have been there. What did the woman look like?” he asked Smith.
“She was a swell blonde. They came down the back stairs and Mr. Bronson got in his car and the woman got in hers. They were parked on a side street. After I picked up the pistol where he dropped it, I followed them in my car. They both drove straight up to Mr. Bronson’s house and turned in the drive.”
Shayne said, “Your wife’s a blonde, Bronson. Did she help you attack Rourke?”
“My wife is ill and has been confined to her room for days,” said Bronson stiffly. His face was gray and he mopped it constantly. “Do I have to sit here and listen to these ridiculous insults to my wife-and these preposterous accusations?”
“Go ahead and tell Painter your wife has been confined to her room only since Wednesday morning,” Shayne said harshly. “Tell him you don’t permit the servants to see her, and though you claim she’s ill with a nervous breakdown, you haven’t called a doctor.”
“Is that right?” Painter snapped at Bronson.
“She simply needed rest,” Bronson protested. “There was no need for a doctor. She’s had these attacks before and always recovers in a few days.”
“Do you always lock her in her room when she has them?” Shayne persisted.
Branson’s heavy lids closed over his eyes and he sank back. “I wanted to protect her,” he moaned. “I’ll tell you the whole truth.”
Chapter Seventeen: ONE LITTLE THING
Painter gave Shayne a swift glare of cold hatred, strutted to the swivel chair behind the desk and said, “Now I’m getting somewhere. See that you do tell the truth, Bronson. You’ve heard this man say he saw you coming out of Rourke’s place with a woman soon after he was shot.”
“Yes.” Walter Bronson wiped his face with a soggy handkerchief. “You’ll have to understand that my wife and I have very little in common. She’s strongly self-willed and for years we’ve more or less gone our separate ways. She likes excitement and a good time, while I’m more interested in my work.”
He paused to moisten his thick lips, then continued, “I was surprised and horrified when I found her in Rourke’s apartment that night. I assure you I had no idea-”
“Let’s get down to facts and skip your personal feelings,” Painter interrupted sharply. “You found her in Rourke’s apartment Tuesday night?”
“Yes. I stopped for a cup of coffee and a sandwich after leaving my office, then drove directly to the Blackstone. I had cleared out Rourke’s desk and had his things with his final check which I intended to deliver to him.
“There was no one in the lobby when I entered. I noticed it was ten-forty by the clock behind the desk. I had the number of Rourke’s apartment and I went up the stairs and found the door standing open. I knocked and pushed it open and-saw my wife kneeling on the floor beside Rourke’s body.
“You can imagine how I felt. I suppose I went out of my head for a moment. Muriel-my wife-was weeping and distraught. Her hands were bloody, and she had received a blow on the left temple that was already causing her eye to blacken. She seemed dazed by it. There wasn’t any weapon in sight, though I saw that Rourke had been shot.”
Walter Bronson ran his hand over his face and pressed his fingers against his eyes. “My only thought was to get Muriel away from there before she was discovered,” he went on earnestly. “She insisted that she hadn’t shot him, but didn’t know exactly what happened. It was wrong of me, but-she is my wife.
“I got hold of her and helped her out the door and she indicated the back stairway. We went down without being seen, and she was getting hold of herself by that time and insisted she was able to drive her own car. She promised to drive straight home, and I helped her in and went back to my car and followed her. I wasn’t aware that we had been trailed home. The servants were in bed, and we went up to our suite without being seen.” He paused to draw in a deep, tragic breath.
“So you didn’t carry any gun down from the apartment with you and drop it outside?” Painter barked.
“I did not. I didn’t know until we reached home that Muriel had taken my pistol with her to Rourke’s apartment-and that it was mysteriously missing from her handbag.” Bronson stopped speaking, as though from sheer exhaustion.
Painter fumed at Dilly Smith, “Then you lied about where you found the gun. You’d better come clean or-”
“Let Bronson finish,” Shayne interrupted impatiently. “I’m sure he has a lot more to tell us.”
“Naturally I demanded an explanation as soon as we were home,” Bronson resumed. “Muriel was hysterical. She admitted that she had-gone around with Rourke for months, and had gone to his apartment after I left for the office that evening. She admitted taking my pistol, claiming that she feared I might take it with me if she didn’t and do some harm to Rourke. I was exceedingly upset over the way he had disobeyed my orders that day.” His voice trembled and he paused again.
“That was when we discovered the pistol was missing,” he went on wearily. “It wasn’t in her handbag where she said she had seen it last. She said she tossed her bag with the gun in it on a chair in the living-room of Rourke’s apartment.”
“Tell us exactly what your wife told you about the whole thing,” Painter ordered.
“I will. I realize now that I should have come to you at once. She told me about finding Rourke alone and nursing some bruises he had received that afternoon in a sort of brawl. The entire place was in state of disorder, she said, as though it had recently been searched.”
Shayne drew in a sharp, audible breath at that piece of news. He muttered, “Torn up by his earlier blond visitor?”
Painter flashed a scornful look at Shayne and said, “Go on, Bronson.”
“I presume so. Muriel told me that Rourke admitted having an earlier visitor. She claimed that she, herself, cooked him some bacon and eggs because he was in no condition to go out, and that they had a few drinks after that.
“She was in the bathroom when she heard Rourke answer the door and admit someone. She stayed in the bathroom, afraid it might be me and that I’d discover her there, but she could hear nothing but very low voices in the living-room. Then she remembered her handbag and her whisky glass in plain sight and decided to brazen it out.
“The light in the hallway outside the bathroom was out, she said, and as she stepped out she was struck a stunning blow on the side of her head. It knocked her unconscious for a few minutes. She didn’t know how long. She was dazed when she came to, and she stumbled into the living-room and found Rourke sprawled out on the floor. She knelt beside him and examined his wound, and it was at that moment I arrived.”
Painter turned slightly to throw a grudgingly inquiring glance at Shayne. Shayne arched his ragged brows and grinned. Painter turned back to the Courier editor and demanded, “Did you actually believe that wild story?”
The fight was gone out of Bronson. “I don’t know,” he said heavily. “God knows I wanted to believe it. But when she told me about the missing pistol, I realized with horror that it might actually have been the gun used to shoot Rourke if her story was true. I knew if it was found it could be traced to me. I realized that my secretary could testify that I had obta
ined Rourke’s address from her and left the office with the intention of seeing him. When I saw the paper next morning and learned that the weapon had been identified as a thirty-two Colt automatic, I felt positive my pistol had been used.
“I realized there’d be enough questions asked without having to explain how Muriel received the blow on her head and the black eye, and, in fact, I was also worried lest she call the police and tell them everything. She was in such a state of hysteria she didn’t care what happened to her-or to me. I can’t believe she actually loved Rourke, but she’s always been one to dramatize herself.
“That’s why I insisted that she stay in her room and out of sight of the servants, and why I locked the door to keep them out. Friday morning when I received that threatening letter through the mail, I was frantic.” He stopped talking and looked at Shayne.
“You were there when the letter arrived,” he said. “You mentioned the serial number. From that hint I was positive you were taking a roundabout way of letting me know you had the pistol in your possession.”
Shayne grinned and shook his head. “You’ve got a bad habit of jumping to conclusions, Bronson. Smith wrote that letter and mailed it Thursday night. I watched him do it and got the serial number.”
“How’d you manage that?” Smith drawled. “I left you at Helen’s house. I didn’t see you anywhere around when I was writing the letter.”
Shayne grinned widely. “Maybe I have a secret power to make myself invisible.” He asked Bronson, “Why did you call Brenner to try to borrow the money from him?”
“Because I didn’t have that much money,” Bronson confessed. “Contrary to general belief, I’m not a wealthy man. My wife-” He paused gloomily and licked his lips.
“Has she been gambling with your money?” Shayne asked.
“Yes,” the editor admitted despondently. “I knew she’d been frequenting Brenner’s clubs, but I hadn’t realized how deeply she had plunged until she told me Tuesday night.”
“So you figured you had twenty-five grand coming from him?”
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