Marked for Murder

by Brett Halliday

  “Was he still sore at Rourke?”

  “He doesn’t confide such things to me.”

  “Don’t kid me, Minerva. A man doesn’t have to confide things for you to know them. Tim used to say you knew it when he was just thinking about going out on a binge.”

  She looked up and smiled fleetingly. “Mr. Bronson said some terrible things about Timothy that afternoon. He had cooled off by evening, but I don’t think he had forgiven him.”

  “Has your sixth sense by any chance given you an inkling as to who Tim’s latest flame is? A blond babe with plenty of oomph?”

  Minerva didn’t answer at once. She turned her eyes away from Shayne’s intent gray gaze and her thin mouth tightened. After a moment she said, “Mr. Shayne, I’ve never been disloyal to an employer. I’ve tried to stay out of all this, but Timothy has always been a sort of pet of mine. Now that he—he’s had this terrible thing happen to him, and all because he was trying to do his duty as he saw it, I’m willing to do what I can to help find his—the person who shot him.”

  “Good girl! Now what about Tim’s latest?”

  She hesitated again, and the strain of her indecision showed plainly in her expression. Then she began in an apologetic voice: “I’m not accustomed to gossiping, Mr. Shayne, but a woman is a fool to come around with her eyes blazing at a man and expect another woman not to suspect it.” She paused, then blurted out, “That’s exactly what Mrs. Bronson does—to Timothy. And she makes it a point to come here when she knows Mr. Bronson is out.” She leaned toward Shayne and almost whispered, “She goes over to his desk and hangs over him. Timothy tries not to pay any attention to her except to be courteous, but—I wonder if he’s just courteous to her—at other times. He hasn’t brought a girl around here for a long time. Not since right after the Bronsons came.”

  “And Mrs. Bronson is a blonde?” Shayne asked casually. There was no change in his expression.

  “And very beautiful. She looks much younger than I’m sure she is. Another woman can always tell that, too.”

  “Where do the Bronsons live?”

  “On the Beach.”

  “I mean the address,” Shayne amended.

  “Eighteen thirty-two Magnolia Avenue,” she told him. An odd flush rose in her pale cheeks and she said hastily, “You won’t even breathe I told you anything, will you, Mr. Shayne?”

  “You know you don’t have to worry about that, Minerva,” Shayne said gravely. He got up and stood looking down at her slight figure. “Don’t worry about Tim. He’ll be back to devil you again. And thanks.”

  He strolled out, waved to Jimmy Dolan, and went out to the elevator.

  Outside, he got in the police coupé Sergeant Jorgensen had found for him and drove to Miami Avenue. He turned north a few blocks and stopped in front of a small barroom squeezed in between a delicatessen and a pawnshop, and went in.

  Half a dozen men were lounging at the bar. The bartender was a stranger to Shayne. Lucky Laverty was nowhere in sight. Two of the men at the bar were roughly dressed laborers, the others thin-faced punks.

  Shayne went behind them toward a closed rear door. A man was seated at a table with a glass of beer. He was wearing a purple-striped shirt with bright suspenders and tight-waisted pants flaring into big legs at the bottom. He was about 25, with a slack mouth and protuberant eyes. He watched Shayne approach, pushed back his beer, and got up when Shayne went toward the door without looking at him.

  He got in front of Shayne, muttering menacingly, “Where you think you’re goin’, bub?”

  “In to see Lucky Laverty,” Shayne said mildly.

  “Like hell. Not without—”

  “Scram.” Shayne swung him aside with a sweeping motion of his right arm, and started on.

  The doorkeeper crouched with a sobbing snarl, and naked steel flickered toward Shayne. Shayne drove the side of his big hand hard against the thrusting wrist and a knife spun to the floor. He hit the doorman on the point of his chin with a looping left, and he subsided quietly.

  Shayne opened the door and went into a small back room thick with tobacco smoke. A green-shaded drop-light glared above a round poker table surrounded by five players. There were chips and cards on the table, and a fat man with a pink bald head was dealing stud. He slapped a card down and looked at Shayne, as did the others.

  Shayne glanced around the circle of intent faces and let his gaze come to rest on Lucky Laverty’s face. Lucky was a well-built man with dark, strong features as inexpressive as chiseled granite. There was a withdrawn, remote look about him, not so much aloofness as carefully studied immobility.

  Shayne said, “I wanted to see you, Lucky.”

  “You’re seeing me.” The words were quiet and low-toned, as lacking in inflection as though produced by some mechanical contrivance. The other four men continued to stare at Shayne. He knew two of them. One was Whitey Buford. The other was Nig Carlton. Neither of them liked him.

  “About Tim Rourke,” Shayne said.

  Lucky kept on looking at him and didn’t bother to reply. Whitey was partially hopped up. His eyes flickered and demanded of no one in particular, “Where’s Bug-eyes? Lettin’ a Shamus walk in here.”

  Shayne kept his eyes steadily on Lucky. He said, “Bug-eyes pulled a shiv on me. Things have changed in two years.”

  “Things have changed,” Lucky said.

  “But I haven’t.”

  The other men glanced around at each other, then back at Shayne, but Lucky Laverty kept his staring eyes steadily upon the detective.

  “Pass that word around,” Shayne said quietly. “To your friend Brenner and anybody else that may be interested.”

  Lucky said, “You’re making a mistake, Shayne. Rourke didn’t get it on this side of the Bay.”

  “I hear he was digging into stuff you didn’t want opened up.”

  “So?”

  “Such as blond gun molls and maybe whoever was working the racket with them.”

  Nig Carlton pushed his chair back and got up. He had black kinky hair covering a bullet head, and a barrel-like torso. He breathed loudly through his open mouth, as though his nasal passages were obstructed. He growled, “Lemme throw ’im out, Boss.”

  Lucky said, “Sit down, Nig.”

  Nig sat down reluctantly, his small, close-set, and inflamed eyes glaring at Shayne.

  Lucky asked, “Is that all?”

  The trenches deepened in Shayne’s gaunt cheek. He said in an oddly gentle voice, “Are you sure you want it this way, Lucky?”

  “Things have changed in the two years you’ve been away.”

  Shayne nodded. He rubbed his square jaw reflectively. “I guess they have.”

  Lucky Laverty turned his gaze away from Shayne’s cold eyes. He said, “Deal the cards,” to the man with the pink bald head.

  Shayne turned and went out. A couple of the punks from the bar had dragged Bug-eyes up to a chair at the table and he had his jaw in both hands and was working it from side to side and moaning. The punks shrank back and looked at Shayne with scared eyes as he stalked past them.

  At the bar, Shayne ordered a double shot of brandy. The bartender slopped out a double shot and said, “That’s a buck, Mister.”

  Shayne drank slowly. When he finished he set the glass down and said, “It’s on Lucky.” He went out and got in the coupé, took his time about starting the motor and driving away.

  No one came out of the barroom. Insofar as he could tell, no one followed him.

  Chapter Eight: CORPSE IN BLACK STOCKINGS

  SHAYNE TURNED EAST on 13th Street and drove across Biscayne Boulevard onto the County Causeway leading across Biscayne Bay. A shimmering serpentine of lights marked the curving road, the glow reflecting in the rippling water.

  A gentle breeze came through the window, cool and moist, heavy with the indefinable fragrance of tropical flowers mingled with the clean smell of salt sea air. An impossibly large and implausibly golden moon floated in the velvety blue of the night above the pen
insula directly ahead, making a moon path on the bay. Shayne relaxed at the wheel of the police coupé, slowed his speed to 20 miles an hour, and reacquainted himself with the beauty of the tropical night.

  Fleetingly, he found it good to be home again. He felt a surge of strength and assurance which had been lacking of late. Somehow, his work in New Orleans didn’t seem important now. He had a feeling of having marked time for nearly two years. It had been a long time since this sense of urgency pounded through him.

  In a sudden flash of clarity he realized that was the ingredient lacking in nearly all his New Orleans cases. There had been no personal stress driving him on. In retrospect, they seemed dull and uninteresting after his years in Miami where every case had found him behind the eight ball fighting his way out.

  Now, he was behind the eight ball again, and it was a good feeling. The brief interview with Lucky Laverty had raised his spirits immeasurably, and given the impetus he needed. The odds were stacked against him again, and that, by God, was the way he liked it.

  He hit the east end of the Causeway and rolled east two blocks, made a left turn, and drove directly to the Flagler hospital. He parked the coupé and went in, stopped at the information desk to ask the number of Timothy Rourke’s room.

  The girl told him 312, and he went up in an elevator. He started down the cool, silent hall and his number twelves sounded loud on the tiled floor. He saw the familiar uniform of a Beach cop on a man seated on a chair outside a door, but the officer’s face was unfamiliar.

  Stopping in front of room 312, he started to open the door. The officer stood up and drawled, “Hold it. No admittance.”

  Shayne said, “I’m looking for Tim Rourke.”

  “No visitors allowed.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “The chief’s. Who are you?”

  “Don’t you recognize a dick when you see one?” Shayne asked.

  The cop looked him over carefully. Shayne tipped his hat back and scowled. The cop shook his head. “I never saw you before.”

  “I’m private.”

  “Maybe so. That don’t let you in.”

  “The hell it doesn’t. I’ve come a couple of thousand miles to see Tim and no damned flatfoot is going to keep me out.”

  “Let me see your tin.”

  Shayne drew out his wallet and flipped it open to show his Florida identification. The cop frowned at it, looked up at him in surprise, and said, “Michael Shayne, eh? I’ve heard about you.”

  “That flatters hell out of me,” said Shayne. He replaced his wallet, jerked the door open, and went in. The cop’s mouth dropped open and he took a step forward, but paused doubtfully as Shayne closed the door firmly behind him.

  A pretty blond nurse got up from her chair beside the bed. She looked trim and competent and tired. Shayne advanced on tiptoe and looked down at Timothy Rourke lying on his back. His eyes were closed and his breathing unnaturally loud and irregular. His face was pallid and the bruises stood out in bold purplish relief. Shayne was shocked to see how old he looked—only the husk of the vigorous man he had known—as though all vitality and life had been drained out of his strong lean body.

  Shayne had his hat off and clenched tightly in his hand. He stood flat-footed beside the head of the bed for a full minute before turning to look at the nurse who stood close to him.

  She put her hand on his forearm and led him aside to the shuttered window. She asked, “Are you a close relative?” in a low voice.

  Shayne said, “Tim was my best friend. How is he doing?”

  “They operated on him two hours ago. It was the only chance to save him. He’s doing better than the doctor hoped,” she told him frankly.

  “Will he get well?”

  “You’ll have to talk to Dr. Fairweather.” The nurse hesitated, then said, “We’re not supposed to discuss our cases, but he has a fighting chance. His constitution is very strong. Every hour he holds on is encouraging.”

  “How can he fight when he’s lying there unconscious?” Shayne demanded fiercely.

  “It would be dangerous for him to return to consciousness right now,” she answered. “Dangerous for him to move a muscle of his body.”

  “How long before he’ll be allowed to wake up?”

  The nurse moved her head slowly from side to side. “He hasn’t been conscious since he has been here. Perhaps that’s best no matter which way the tide turns.”

  Shayne turned around and looked again at the inert figure on the bed. He said, “Will you let me know when he comes out of this? I can be reached at Will Gentry’s office, police headquarters in Miami.”

  “If I can get the doctor’s permission.” She jotted down the information he gave her and asked, “Your name?”

  “Michael Shayne. Tell Tim I’ve come—when he wakes up. He’ll understand.”

  He went out and strode past the guard at the door to the elevator and went down. Outside the hospital, he drew in a long breath and let it out explosively, then got in the coupé and circled back toward the business section of Miami Beach.

  Fifteen minutes later he parked in front of the Blackstone Apartments. The small lobby was empty when he went in. Remembering that the manager was also janitor and general repairman, he went over to the desk and leaned on it. He smoked a Picayune and waited. There was a double row of mail pigeonholes behind the desk. He idly glanced at them through a haze of smoke.

  He frowned as he noticed three letters wedged in the box numbered 2-D, the number Gentry mentioned as Rourke’s apartment. Glancing around to assure himself there was no one in sight, he circled the counter and took the letters from 2-D.

  He slipped them into his coat pocket, came back, and went directly to the stairway. He went up and found Rourke’s apartment, turned the knob tentatively, and then unlocked the door with a key from his ring. Stepping inside, he closed the door quietly.

  The apartment was dark, with the musty smell of being closed. There was no transom through which light could shine, so he felt along the wall for the switch and pressed it. The room was in the depressing state of upheaval the homicide boys had left it.

  Shayne’s ragged red brows crawled down in a scowl as he studied the rusty stains on the floor that had been Rourke’s blood. Stepping over the spot, he went through the breakfast nook, glanced in the kitchen, returned, and went through the small archway and stopped in the bedroom door.

  Turning on the light, he took a quick look around. He had no real hope of finding a clue that the police had overlooked. Even Painter’s crew knew how to search a place thoroughly. He glowered at the upset condition of the room, noted that the bedcovers were turned back and rumpled. He had forgot to ask Chief Gentry how Rourke was dressed when he was shot.

  Turning off the light, he went into the living-room, got Rourke’s mail from his pocket, and looked at it. Two of the letters were bills from local department stores. He discarded them and studied the third. It was a square envelope of heavy, creamy paper, addressed in heavy sprawled handwriting that might have been a man’s, but looked more like that of a woman who was excited or in haste or intoxicated. It was postmarked Miami Beach, 5:00 p.m. the preceding Tuesday afternoon. There was no return address.

  Shayne handled it gingerly to preserve the faint possibility of fingerprints, sliding a key under the pointed flapper and working it open. He drew out a single sheet of folded heavy paper such as can be bought in any drugstore. There was no salutation, no date. It read: If you are in the market to buy some information for your paper, call CA 3842.

  It had been mailed on the afternoon before Rourke was shot. A few hours after the Blue-Flash edition of the Courier went on sale.

  Shayne carefully refolded the note and slid it back into the envelope. He sat down on the sofa and let his eyes brood around the room. He shook his head angrily, went to the telephone, picked it up, and put it to his ear.

  A voice came over the wire immediately, breathless and excited. “Is this 2-D?”

  Shayne said gru
ffly, “Sure. The police. You weren’t in the lobby when I came up for another look around. Connect me with Causeway 3842.”

  Mr. Henty said, “Yes, sir,” with evident relief. There was a click and then a telephone started ringing. Shayne listened to it ring eight times. Mr. Henty broke in apologetically, “That number doesn’t seem to answer, officer.”

  Shayne said, “Get me Information.”

  Henty connected him with Information and Shayne said, “I’d like to get the address of this telephone number… Causeway 3842.”

  It took her a couple of minutes to check. She said, “The address is Six-Fourteen Tempest Street.”

  Shayne thanked her and hung up. He stood by the telephone for a moment tugging at his left ear lobe, his gray eyes looking at the scattered sheets of typescript on the floor. That would be part of Rourke’s novel—the one he had been working on for ten years.

  A grim smile tightened his wide mouth. TGAN, Rourke had factitiously referred to his novel. The Great American Novel that every newspaperman dreams of writing. Shayne recalled the time when another newspaperman named Clyde Brion Davis had published a novel by that title, and how angered Rourke had been. He had demanded to know what in hell that left a damned reporter to dream about.

  Shayne jerked his thoughts back from the past, went out of the apartment and closed the door. He went downstairs and Mr. Henty jumped up from his chair at the switchboard. His eyes widened when he saw Shayne. He gulped and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He stammered, “You’re not—that is, I don’t—uh—are you the man who was just in 2-D?”

  “That’s right,” said Shayne, moving toward the door without breaking his stride. “Special investigator called in by Chief Painter. I’ll want to have a talk with you later.”

  He drove away trying to recall the location of Tempest Street. He knew it was out north toward the Roney Plaza, so he followed Ocean Boulevard, scanning the street signs as he went. He found it about a dozen blocks north of 5th Street and turned to the left, driving slowly and checking house numbers.

  Number 614 proved to be one side of a one-story stuccoed duplex house set discreetly back from the street behind a hedge of flowering oleanders. He drove on to the next block before parking, and walked back. Number 614 showed no light in the windows. The other half of the duplex was 616, and the curtained front windows were lighted. He went up the path and onto the porch serving both entrances and rang the bell of darkened 614.