A few of them noticed him in intimate conversation with a young lady of striking blond beauty.
They left the Tip Top Club together at a few minutes before two o’clock in Mr. Hazard’s convertible roadster.
Less than an hour later, Mr. Hazard’s convertible roadster was found parked near the Beach entrance to the Venetian Causeway. Hazard’s body was slumped under the wheel. A striking dissimilarity from the two previous killings was noted by the alert Beach detectives in that Hazard had been shot twice with a .32 automatic pressed against his right side. One of the bullets had penetrated his heart. His money was gone. And so was the ubiquitous blonde. Neither of the bullets matched either of the two death slugs dug out of the hearts of Peter Jordan and Jim Crowley. Thus, it is obvious to Chief Peter Painter that none of the three murders are in any way related.
These are the facts. They are easily ascertained by anyone aware that the Oceanview, Sundown, and Tip Top Clubs are operating openly on the Beach in defiance of (or in connivance with) the authorities pledged to stamp out such illegal practices. The truth of the above statements can be verified by anyone who cares to examine the affidavits in this reporter’s possession.
Chief Painter is not interested in these facts. He blandly denies the existence of the three clubs named in this column. He is not aware that a man named Brenner manages these three establishments for the syndicate that financed them.
The Courier makes no accusations. It presents the facts for the information and the consideration of any persons who may be interested. We believe in Miami and we believe in the future of the Greater Miami Area. That great future lies in the hands of the public, and not in the hands of a selfish few who condone murder as an inevitable concomitant of the way of life they would force upon us.
Shayne finished reading the story with a low whistle. He leaned back and muttered, “The Courier ran this the day Rourke was shot?”
“In the Blue-Flash edition. The first one to hit the street about two-thirty. And only in that one edition,” Gentry added with a slow grin. “The managing editor caught the story and killed it in all the later editions.”
“Had Rourke been writing much stuff like this?”
“He’s been pounding on that line for several days,” Gentry admitted. “Needling Painter and hinting that those three murders were tied up with the new and growing gambling racket on the Beach. Nothing like this last story,” he added hastily. “This was the first time he took his gloves off and named names, or gave any of those facts he’d dug up.”
“The damned fool,” Shayne muttered hoarsely. “He should have had sense enough to know they’d go gunning for him if he started giving names and descriptions to the paper before the murders were solved. What’s got into him, Will? Was he imagining things, or is it getting that bad?”
“It’s getting bad, Mike,” Gentry told him soberly. “We’ve had our hands full the last few months. It’s been getting bad,” he repeated. “We’ve held things down pretty well on this side of the Bay, but you know the Beach has always been inclined to wink both eyes at stuff like that. You can’t blame Painter too much. He’s got a job to hang onto.”
Shayne lit another Picayune, disregarding Gentry’s shudder of revulsion. “So Rourke had been riding this line for days, and then suddenly comes up with this broadside. No wonder they killed the story after one edition.”
“The way I get it,” said Gentry, “that story was a sort of slap in the face for Walter Bronson, the managing editor. He and Rourke have tangled several times in the past when he tried to hold Tim down, and it seems he read the riot act to Tim Tuesday morning. So Tim faked a tame story for his okay and sneaked this one in instead. He knew it’d be the last he’d write for the Courier, so he made it good and hot.”
“Walter Bronson,” said Shayne meditatively. “I thought Wilcox was the Courier editor.”
“They fired Wilcox about a year ago and imported Bronson from New York. He’s a big shot, I guess. I never met him myself, but I’ve heard Tim’s gripes. He bought a big place on the Beach, makes speeches at the Chamber of Commerce—” Gentry waved a beefy hand to indicate more of the same.
“No wonder he tried to gag Rourke.”
“Jimmy Dolan says Bronson was sore as hell about that story. Rushed out to fire Rourke and found a note in Tim’s typewriter telling him where to stick his job.”
Shayne chuckled. “Tim never did give a damn. I’ve had to hog-tie him a couple of times to keep him from going off half-cocked with a front-page story before the time was ripe. Always sticking his neck out.”
“Seems to me,” said Gentry, “I remember your neck being on the block a couple of times—and the ax raised.”
Shayne arched a bushy red brow at Gentry and went on gravely, “You say this thing hit the streets at two-thirty? Sometime between noon and four o’clock Tim took a hell of a beating. And by ten-thirty that night he had a couple of slugs inside him.”
“That’s right,” Gentry said quietly. “From a thirty-two fired from close enough to leave powder burns. The slugs don’t check with any one of the bullets taken from the other three murder victims.”
“Someone must have a big supply of thirty-twos,” Shayne grunted. “A new gun for every job. This blonde—could she be the gal who came to visit Rourke while he was out getting himself beat up?”
“Could be. Maybe she arranged it, thinking she wouldn’t get caught in his apartment. The manager said she was blond and beautiful.”
Shayne’s blunt finger tips drummed impatiently on the chair arm. “Even Painter couldn’t ignore a story like this. It must have pushed him into doing something.”
Gentry shrugged heavily. “None of those three clubs were open for business Tuesday night. Painter made a lot of noise about personally leading a raiding party on all of them about midnight, and they were locked tight.”
“Tipped off?”
“That story was plenty of tip-off,” Gentry pointed out mildly. “Brenner was smart enough to know a raid was overdue.”
“Who is Brenner?”
“I don’t know too much about him. Strictly from the grapevine, he was one of the big betting operators. Fixed a few races, maybe. Generally knew where the smart money was going. They say he’s gathered together quite a bunch of gun-quick lads for this Beach gambling deal.”
“And blond gun molls?”
“I don’t know about that. I’d say Brenner is fronting for some big money.”
“Who?”
“That’ll take some digging.”
“How do you make it, Will? Rourke, I mean.”
“About the same as you do, I guess.” He gestured toward the newspaper. “There’s enough dynamite with the fuse lighted to get a dozen reporters gunned. Brenner and his backers wouldn’t like that sort of stuff, and Blondie and her mob wouldn’t be too happy about that publicity. Tim mentions affidavits. His room was thoroughly searched.”
Shayne said angrily, “The damned fool asked for it all right. How about the syndicate he mentions?”
“I don’t know anything about it. I think it was mostly guesswork. There had to be a lot of pressure on Painter to let the joints run, and some of it must have hit Bronson, too, to make him clamp down on Rourke. After all, stuff like that is damned good for circulation.”
“How can I get to Brenner?”
“I think he has an office at the Sundown, but I understand all three clubs are closed. If you’re smart you’ll stay away from Brenner.”
Shayne’s face hardened and he didn’t say anything.
“I know you won’t be smart,” Gentry admitted, “but I’ve got to warn you, Mike. This isn’t quite like the old days. This new crop is far more vicious. Once word gets around that Mike Shayne is horning in there’ll be a lot of fast triggers looking for you. And you’ll be on your own across the Bay. You know how Painter’s going to take it.”
“Yeh. I know how Painter’ll take it.”
“You can’t walk into the middle of it li
ke you used to and blast ’em apart,” Gentry warned heavily. “These three gambling-house murders are only a small part of the whole thing. Rourke concentrated on them because they were a definite springboard.”
Shayne said stubbornly, “I’ve always been able to take care of myself.”
“Sure. I could have written that line for you.” He sighed and puffed gently on his half-smoked cigar. “How’ve things been with you in New Orleans?”
“So-so. I’ve gotten soft with a lot of easy stuff.”
“Why’d you ever leave Miami, Mike? I know you followed a case to New Orleans, but we expected you’d come back.”
Shayne said, “Everything in Miami reminded me of Phyllis. And now if Rourke kicks off, everything here is going to remind me of him.” He drew in a long breath and his gray eyes became very bright. “God! The times Tim and I had.” He shook his red head, then asked casually, “You got an extra gat I could borrow?”
Chief Gentry looked surprised. “You never used to pack one. I always thought—”
“I’ve still got my Florida license,” Shayne interrupted. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I’d still like to try walking into the middle of it.”
Gentry opened a drawer and brought out a .38 Police Positive and laid it on the desk. Shayne picked it up, thumbed the hammer back enough to release the cylinder, and spun it to see that it was loaded all around. He unbuttoned the two bottom buttons of his shirt, thrust the gun inside and under his waistband.
Shayne stood up and said, “Thanks, Will. One more favor. Is there a spare heap around?”
“Sure. Jorgensen will fix you up.” Gentry got up and held out his hand. “Keep your nose clean, Mike. And let me know.”
Shayne said, “I will—and thanks again,” and went out to look for Sergeant Jorgensen.
Chapter Seven: HIS CARDS ON THE TABLE
SHAYNE FOUND JIMMY DOLAN and a few others of the staff lolling at their desks and listening to the clatter of the teletypes in the Courier office. Dolan was a wiry little Irishman with a big mouth, a crooked nose, and a soft heart. He was an ex-lightweight of Benny Leonard’s era, and did a sports column for the Courier.
He jumped up from his desk and came forward with a grin splitting his face, his feet and fists simulating a boxer’s, exclaiming, “It’s Mike Shayne in the flesh and a sight for sore eyes. If Tim could see you—”
“They say Tim’s bad,” Shayne answered, engulfing the sports writer’s smaller hand in his big palm.
“Mighty bad, Mike. I went to see him this afternoon. Laid out like dead with a pretty nurse tending him. If he’d open his eyes and see her, he’d be up and about his business in a hurry. She’s a cute blonde, and you know how Tim is about—”
“Blondes,” Shayne finished for him. “Did you talk to the nurse about his condition?”
“I told her I was official, see? From the office here, and she said they’d operate on him tomorrow morning if he was in shape. They’ve been filling his veins full of blood fast as it leaked out, and gave him some stuff for his heart. Now if they can just get him to come to, Tim would fight it out himself, but—”
“Do you know anything about those murders he was investigating?” Shayne interrupted. He had been on the listening side in conversations with Jimmy Dolan before.
“Not a thing, Mike.” Dolan shook his graying head disconsolately. “You know what a tight mouth he was on a story like that.” He led the way back to his desk and pulled up a chair for Shayne, got out a short-stemmed, foul-smelling briar, and began filling it from a zippered pouch, pressing the rough-cut down firmly in the bowl with a stubby thumb.
“I’m wondering about his pipelines,” Shayne said, as Dolan lit his pipe. “If I could get a lead in that direction I might learn something.”
“He had plenty, but no man ever knew who they were.”
“He mentioned affidavits in his last story. Any chance something like that would be stashed here in the office?”
Dolan didn’t answer until he had worried his pipe into burning evenly. He said, “Yes and no, Mike. I’d say the stuff might have been here once, but it isn’t now.”
“Did Tim take it with him? I understand he resigned.”
“Yep. It was like this, Mike. When the Old Man saw the Blue Flash, he saw red. Came stamping out of his office like a mad bull and yelling for Rourke. He went over to Rourke’s desk and started pawing through the drawers.” Dolan stopped to chuckle. “Then he saw the sheet of paper Tim left in his typewriter. Yessir, Tim beat him to the last punch. Walked out without saying a word to anybody.”
“Did he clean out his desk?” Shayne asked.
“Tim? I don’t know. I saw him putting some things in his pockets before he walked out. But some of the boys said Bronson came back to the office after supper last night and went through Tim’s desk and cleaned it out good.”
“How late after supper?”
“Eight or nine o’clock. Minerva could give you the dope on that. You remember Minerva.”
Shayne nodded. “What kind of a heel is Bronson?”
Dolan looked cautiously about him, lowered his voice, and said, “A puffed-up adding machine. Thinks he’s a tin God on wheels, likes to crack a whip just to hear it crack.”
“Why did he oppose Tim’s writing the stuff he’d been writing? Rourke had sense enough to steer clear of libel. And a campaign like that always jumps circulation.”
“Bronson claimed he thought it was bad for the community. Give people the wrong idea about Miami and scare the northern investors away. His henchmen didn’t like the stink.”
“Henchmen?” Shayne’s left brow arched quizzically.
“His big-shot friends—the Chamber of Commerce, and so forth.” Dolan took the gurgling pipe from his mouth and spat in the direction of the spittoon.
“Do you think he had any other reason for trying to muzzle Rourke?”
Dolan looked up quickly, his faded eyes keen and speculative. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing you can chew on.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Bronson lived on balance sheets and statements of profit and loss. He was imported from New York to build up circulation.”
Shayne nodded. He started to get up, then settled back. “One thing more, Jimmy. What’s the inside dope on Tim’s love life?”
Dolan chuckled knowingly. “Let’s see. You left about two years ago. That would be Jessie’s time. Remember Jessie Newton?”
Shayne nodded.
“That burned out two or three months after you left. Then there was a cute little redhead—about twenty and hot as a firecracker from the way she acted. They were pretty thick for a time and it’s my guess she burned him out. She disappeared and we began to see Tim around again. And she’s the last as far as I know. That’s been about a year ago. If he had anything on the string after the redhead, he was keeping it mighty quiet around the office.”
Shayne said, “He never used to bother to keep it quiet.”
“I know. Tim always paraded his dolls around the office. It doesn’t seem reasonable he’d be true to the redhead a year after they broke up, now does it?”
“That’s not like Tim,” Shayne said casually, then asked, “How do you go about getting in touch with Brenner?”
“Hake Brenner?” Dolan wrinkled his forehead. “I wouldn’t try to find out if I was you, Mike. If he finds out why you’re in Miami—”
“I can’t get anywhere by walking around in circles,” Shayne remonstrated.
“You’ll get farther than you will by riding around in a hearse.”
“I still want to see Brenner.”
“You might ask Laverty. I’ve heard he and Brenner used to be pals.”
“Lucky Laverty?”
“You’ll find him around.”
“Is Minerva here?” Shayne asked.
“Minerva’s always around, sour-pussed as ever.”
Shayne got up and said, “Thanks, Dolan,” and went across to the managing editor’s private office. The door stoo
d open and the light was on. Minerva’s cubbyhole opened off to one side. She was sitting erect at her desk typing, her sharp, plain features weary and her gray hair untidily piled in a bun at the back of her head. She wore a black skirt and a crisp white shirtwaist and low-heeled shoes.
She looked up as Shayne came toward her and she stopped typing.
Shayne grinned. He thought he saw a glint of tears in her eyes. Her tight, unrouged lips loosened and trembled undeniably. He said, “Minerva! As gorgeous as ever,” and was beside her chair.
She blinked her eyes and a tear rolled down her cheek. He tipped her chin up and planted a hearty kiss on her unresponsive lips. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about Tim.”
“That good-for-nothing,” she sniffed. “Why would I worry about him?”
“Why, indeed,” said Shayne cheerfully. “You always said he’d come to no good end.” He sat down on one corner of her neat desk. “How do you like your new boss?”
She said, “Did you come back to—to—?”
“Why else? You can help me, Minerva.”
“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Shayne. Tim was saying only yesterday you ought to be here to get after that mess on the Beach.” Her voice was prim again and she rearranged her features.
“I’m wondering about any stuff that might have been in Tim’s desk. He claimed he had some affidavits, according to his story.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Bronson cleaned out his desk that evening.”
“What did he do with the stuff?”
“Put it in a big Manila envelope and took it away with him.” She looked down at the typewriter keys and continued, “He’d had me draw a check to Timothy that afternoon, and he took that with him too. I think he planned to see him. At least he had me look up his address in the file.”
“What time did Bronson leave here?”
“It must have been about nine-thirty.”
Marked for Murder Page 5
