Marked for Murder

by Brett Halliday

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

  “I won’t—and you don’t know how much I appreciate this.” Shayne seized the letter with a sigh of relief and tore it into ribbons while the mailman looked on with an understanding smile.

  Shayne strode away, whistling off-key, got in his car, and sat for several minutes drumming his blunt finger tips on the steering-wheel. His thoughts leaped ahead, forming many conjectures and discarding them, searching for a way to get hold of the letter Dilly Smith had written to Walter Bronson, now entrusted to the United States mail.

  Plan after plan he threw to the winds as being too dangerous and too likely to fail. At the end of ten minutes or so he hit upon an expedient that had a chance of working. An extremely slim chance, but it was the best plan he could formulate at the moment.

  He took one envelope from the box and folded a blank sheet of paper in it, got out and crossed over to another drugstore on the other side of the street. He bought a very soft lead pencil, sharpened it, working the lead down to a rounded edge on the side of the showcase, then addressed the envelope to himself in care of General Delivery, Miami Beach, Florida. He put a very light pressure on the soft lead so that the address could easily be erased if desired, sealed the envelope lightly at the tip of the flap. He hurried back to his car and drove to the main Beach post office where he deposited it.

  As the envelope slid into the night slot, Shayne stood for a moment rumpling his unruly red hair, a deep frown between his gray eyes, muscles twitching in his set jaw. Then he suddenly whirled and strode to his car and headed for Miami.

  At police headquarters he was lucky enough to find Sergeant Jorgensen sitting idly in a bull session with a group of other officers. Calling him aside, Shayne gave him the license number of the car Dilly Smith was driving. “How long will it take to get the owner’s name?”

  Jorgensen glanced at the number. “It’s a Miami license. Five minutes.” He called a younger officer over and gave instructions to check on the number immediately, then asked Shayne, “Getting anywhere, Mike?”

  “I’m moving.” Shayne grinned. “Ever hear of a guy named Dilly Smith?”

  Jorgensen thought for a moment “I don’t believe so. Think he’d have a record?”

  “I doubt it—but check.” Shayne gave him a full description, adding, “God only knows whether he belongs to the name of Smith or not. He’s mixed up in this thing somehow, but I don’t know how far or in what direction.”

  Jorgensen said, “Just a minute, Mike,” and went over to talk to one of the other officers. When he came back the young cop returned with the information on the license number. “A nineteen thirty-nine sedan,” he reported, “owned by Dillingham Smith. A sporting-goods salesman. Lives at the Front Hotel here in Miami.” He gave them an address on Northwest 1st Avenue.

  Shayne’s eyes were very bright. “That’s a break. Go to work on Dillingham Smith, Jorg, and get every damned thing you can about him. But don’t let your petticoat show.”

  The sergeant laughed and said, “We’ll do what we can, Mike. Like I told you.”

  “Thanks—and turn anything you get over to Gentry,” Shayne said as he went out.

  It was a short drive to the Front Hotel. It was a dreary frame building, and a fat man was asleep behind the desk when Shayne went in the shabby lobby. Shayne drummed on the desk to wake him up.

  Blinking sleepily at the detective, the fat man heaved himself up and said, “Room?”

  Shayne extracted a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, folded it so that the man could easily see the denomination, and said, “I’m in the market for some information.”

  “That’ll buy it, Mister,” the man grunted.

  “About one of your customers. Dillingham Smith.”

  “Dilly?” He chuckled and his pudgy hand moved hopefully toward the bill. “Sorry, but he ain’t around.”

  “He lives here, doesn’t he?”

  “Well, sir, he’s got a room. Two-o-seven. But he ain’t been in it for a coupla weeks.”

  “Out of town?”

  “I wouldn’t know about—”

  The man’s voice trailed off when Shayne started to put the bill back in his wallet. “I wouldn’t want to get Dilly in any trouble,” he said.

  “Of course not.”

  “On the other hand, he didn’t say anything about it being a secret.” There was a sly look in his eyes. He chuckled and added, “O’ course I reckon he wouldn’t exactly want his whereabouts broadcast.”

  Shayne held the bill loosely between his thumb and index finger. “I don’t intend to do any broadcasting.”

  The fat man considered this for a moment. He said, “You a friend of Dilly’s?”

  “Well—we’ve done a little chasing around,” Shayne told him.

  “I been sending his mail to the LaCrosse Apartment on Fourteenth Street.”

  “Isn’t that a pretty flossy joint?” Shayne dropped the bill on the desk.

  “It is that. Yes, sir. For Dilly I’d say it was right up the ladder.” He chuckled again and his fingers closed over the bill.

  “Take his stuff with him?”

  “Not all of it. Dilly said he didn’t know how permanent it’d be.”

  “A dame, eh?”

  “Well, sir—it might just be. Dilly’s quite a lady’s man. Likes ’em blond.” He winked a puffy eyelid.

  Shayne said, “On second thought, I believe I will take a room for tonight if you’ve got one.”

  “Two-fifty—in advance.” He turned a much-thumbed and soiled register around for Shayne to sign.

  Shayne signed “Bill Adams, City,” and put $2.50 on the desk. “Call me at six.”

  “Yes, sir.” He slid a key across to Shayne and said, “Two-thirty-six. Right at the head of the stairs and to your right.”

  Shayne took the key and his box of stationery up the stairs. Number 236 was a small room but surprisingly clean. He looked longingly at the bed, inspected the shower, but turned his back on temptation and went quietly out of the room to number 207.

  He tried two skeleton keys on the old-fashioned lock of Dilly Smith’s room door before it opened. He went in, closed it, and turned on the lights. The bed was made but clothing was scattered on the backs of chairs and draped from open drawers of the bureau.

  Shayne went directly across to the writing-desk and pulled the one drawer open. He was disappointed to find no old letters, but there was a balled-up sheet of Front Hotel stationery pushed far back in one corner. He smoothed it out and read: Dear Harriet: I’ve been hoping and hoping I’d hear from you before this, but I guess you’ve just decided to forget all about me. That hurts me deeply, for I remember you said you’d never forget me that day when we were leaving the hotel, and laughed about what would happen if anybody ever found our signatures as man and wife.

  Of course I’ll never tell anybody because I know how it would be if your husband ever found out, but I thought you might be interested to hear I’ve had a run of bad luck this past month…

  The note ended thus, and was dated almost a month previously. Shayne smoothed it out and folded it and put it in his pocket. He searched the bureau drawers, the pockets of a suit that was of poor quality and badly worn, but found nothing.

  He went out, locked the door, hesitated for an instant about returning to his room, and went downstairs instead. The fat clerk was again snoring behind the desk.

  Shayne went out and walked the short distance to Miami Avenue where he found a liquor store, and returned with a bottle of California brandy. The clerk was still asleep, and Shayne went directly to his room.

  There was only one glass in the bathroom. He let the water run as cold as it would run, filled the glass, and took it to the small writing-desk. After opening the brandy bottle he took half a dozen envelopes from the stationery box and spread them out before him.

  With the half-finished letter Dilly Smith had written to Harriet as a guide, and rem
embering the glimpse of Smith’s letter to Bronson, he began practicing writing Mr. Walter Bronson, 1832 Magnolia Avenue, Miami Beach, Florida. After each try he took a long drink of brandy and a sip of water.

  He wasted seven envelopes before he got one that suited him. This one he put carefully in his pocket, crumpled the others into balls and stuffed them in another pocket, then got up and began stripping off his clothes.

  His suit was rumpled and baggy, his shirt and underclothes soiled and sweaty. He hung them up with great care, having no others to replace them for tomorrow.

  After profusely lathering his body and showering, he crawled between the clean sheets naked and was asleep within a minute.

  Chapter Twelve: OUTTHINKING A THINKER

  THE TELEPHONE BESIDE SHANE’S BED wakened him the next morning. He groped for it sleepily and an unpleasantly alert feminine voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Adams. It’s six o’clock.”

  “What the hell,” he growled, and was ready to ask her what she was calling him for if it was Mr. Adams who wanted to get up, but his dazed mind suddenly remembered how he had signed the register. He said, “All right,” and dropped the receiver from lax fingers onto the hook.

  He wasn’t awake and he didn’t want to wake up. He never wanted to wake up again. He pulled the covers up around his neck and tried to convince himself there was no good reason why he should wake up.

  A vision of Timothy Rourke lying wounded, mortally perhaps, assailed him—and Madge Rankin, murdered in bed. The unknown blond girl who had lured three men to their death—and Dillingham Smith—and Helen Porter.

  The plans he had carefully planned last night, for today, crowded his mind and popped his eyes open. He threw back the covers and swung his long legs from the bed in one smooth motion. He padded over to the writing-desk and took a long drink from the brandy bottle, then took a quick cold shower. A stubble of beard had grown on his face since a hasty shave in Jacksonville between trains yesterday morning. He scowled at his reflection in the mirror, dried himself hastily, and went tack to the bedroom.

  He grimaced his distaste when he put on the soiled clothes. When he finished dressing he went to the phone and called the hospital and asked about Rourke. His eyes were bleak and a muscle quivered in his gaunt cheek when he got the report. He muttered an oath after he hung up, went to the bed and got his .38 Colt Gentry had loaned him and slid it under his waistband. He examined the envelope in his breast pocket, patted his side pocket where the discarded ones were balled up, looked around to assure himself that no scrap was left behind, and went out.

  A bright-faced young girl was at the desk in the lobby. She smiled and spoke cheerfully. Shayne smiled not so cheerfully and grunted a return of her greeting, and stalked through the door to the police coupé parked outside.

  The sun was not yet up and the damp chill of the morning was penetrating. Shayne turned his coat collar up and dragged in long drafts of fresh air. He got in the car and drove to Miami Avenue, turned slowly down it until he came to a small restaurant open for business, and went in.

  He picked up a morning Herald from a pile by the cash register, slid onto a stool, and ordered six scrambled eggs with sausage and black coffee.

  He spread out the paper and read the front-page account of the discovery of Madge Rankin’s body in her Beach apartment. There was little he didn’t already know in the news story, A mysterious underworld tip was mentioned as the source of information that sent police to the address. Chief Painter was quoted as deriding the possibility of any connection between Madge’s death and the attack upon Timothy Rourke or the three preceding murders.

  The Herald politely withheld comment, but mentioned the fact that Madge Rankin, too, had been drilled through the heart at close range with a .32, quoting Beach authorities as stating that a ballistic test on the death bullet proved it had not been fired by any one of the four different guns that had figured in the previous attacks.

  Madge Rankin was described as a voluptuous blond divorcee and it was intimated that her death was probably the result of a love tryst.

  Shayne folded the paper, put it aside, and attacked his eggs with the gusto of a healthy man who hadn’t eaten for more than 18 hours. He finished by dunking his toast in a second cup of coffee, and when he stopped at the cash register to pay his bill he asked the proprietor if there was a near-by barbershop that was likely to be open so early.

  The proprietor suggested one across the street in the next block, and Shayne found a two-chair shop open with one man sweeping out. He interrupted the man’s work, got a quick shave, and hurried back to the coupé.

  He drove across the Causeway to the Beach and was in the post office before the General Delivery window was open. When the window slid up, he asked for Michael Shayne’s mail and received the square envelope with the lightly penciled address which he had mailed to himself the previous evening.

  Turning to a counter, he loosened the tip of the pointed flap, pulled out the blank sheet of paper, and then carefully erased the penciled address so that no trace of it was left. He propped the forged address of the preceding night in front of him, and with his fountain pen copied it onto the envelope with canceled stamp and Miami Beach postmark. He then took out his handkerchief and wiped both sides of the envelope to void it of possible fingerprints. He crumpled the seventh envelope and put it in the pocket with the other discarded ones and placed the newly addressed one in his breast pocket.

  He went down the hall to an office marked Ass’t Postmaster, entered, and showed his credentials, asked them to give him as nearly as possible the time the first mail delivery might be expected at Walter Branson’s house.

  There was a short delay before a clerk came back and said, “That’s route number six. Nineteen thirty-two Magnolia is only a few blocks from the beginning of the route and the carrier should be there in about thirty minutes.”

  Shayne said, “Thanks,” and went out. He drove out Ocean Boulevard, parked his car a block and a half south of Bronson’s house at a watching vantage point

  His second cigarette was almost smoked when he saw the postman round the corner and start toward the stone gateposts leading into the imposing estate. He started his motor and passed the postman, pulled up to the curb close to the entrance gateway and got out. He stretched and yawned as the man approached, then grinned and said, “Nice morning.”

  The postman responded to his grin and said, “It’s a dandy.” He was separating half a dozen letters from the sheaf he held in his hand.

  Shayne started up the, curving walk toward the Bronson house, lingering for the man to catch up with him. He suggested casually, “I’ll take Bronson’s mail if it’ll help any. Save you a few steps.”

  “Sure. Every few steps count on this job.” He handed Shayne half a dozen letters, swung about and went down the walk whistling cheerily.

  Shayne glanced up at the house. He was in clear view of the front door and windows, but he had to take a chance. Turning his back to the house he opened Smith’s letter and quickly read the brief message: Is it worth $25,000 to you if the police don’t find a Colt .32 automatic serial number 421893 and run a ballistic test on it? If so, run a personal in the Courier saying “yes” and sign the ad “Colt” You’ll hear from me later. The cops get the gun if the ad isn’t in today’s paper.

  Shayne memorized the serial number while he was crumpling the envelope into his side pocket and reaching in his breast pocket for the envelope he had carefully prepared at the post office.

  He slid Smith’s letter into the envelope, licked the flap lightly, and pressed it hard against his palm. After scrubbing both sides of it against the front of his coat he placed it among the other letters. The entire operation had taken less than a minute.

  Turning again toward the house he looked and listened. There was no sound or sign that he had been detected. He walked on to the front door, found a metal mail slot beside it, and slid the letters into it.

  He put his finger on the door button and
chimes rang out through the house. A chubby maid with flaxen hair and rosy cheeks opened the door after a time.

  Shayne said, “I want to see Mr. Bronson.”

  She hesitated briefly, looking far up at Shayne’s set face with very blue and uncertain eyes. “Mr. Bronson is having breakfast right now. I’m afraid he wouldn’t like being disturbed.”

  “My business with Bronson is urgent,” Shayne persisted.

  “Then—I’ll take your card to him. Maybe he’ll see you.”

  “I haven’t a card with me,” Shayne told her. He had his big foot in the doorway and moved forward as he asked, “Where will I find Bronson?”

  “He always has breakfast in the sunroom when it isn’t raining,” she stammered.

  Shayne went on through the big living-room with an imposing fireplace in the middle of the opposite wall. The fireplace was flanked on either side by a pair of French doors which stood open.

  He found Walter Bronson seated in a leather chair in the glassed-in sun porch. Potted palms rose from the tiled floor, and exotic ferns drooped from brightly painted pots in wall brackets. A breakfast table was set up between two of the palms near the east windows and pale sunlight glittered on a silver coffee service and an array of oval serving-dishes covered with silver domes. Bronson was alone at the table.

  He was in the act of forking a piece of toast with a poached egg on it when Shayne said, “Good morning, Mr. Bronson.”

  The brightness of the room accentuated the editor’s heavy features and the shining baldness of his head. He looked at Shayne with stern disapproval and turned away to complete the transfer of the toast and egg to his plate. He replaced the silver cover on the serving-dish. Still disregarding his visitor, he lifted another silver cover and forked out three slices of bacon.

  Shayne strolled over to the table and said, “I want to talk to you, Bronson.”

  Bronson’s puffed lids rolled up and he looked at Shayne with red-veined eyes. He said fretfully, “Didn’t Agnes explain to you that I never see anyone at breakfast? Who are you?”