Murder and the Wanton Bride

by Brett Halliday

  The conversation had exhausted Rourke, and after the morphine took hold he slept for a time.

  He awoke at noon. He put his legs out of bed, to see if he could stand up. He could, but he sat down again at once, and rang for the nurse. She protested volubly in Spanish, but in the end she helped him dress. His clothes were rumpled and dirty, and smelled unpleasantly of the rum that had been poured over him.

  Back at the hotel, his head going around in great wheeling circles, he sent the suit to the valet and fell into bed. When he awoke, he had the impression that he had been asleep a long time. The ringing of the telephone had interrupted a very bad dream. First he looked at his watch. It said a little before two, which was impossible. After looking at it stupidly he put it to his ear. It wasn’t running.

  He picked up the phone.

  “Mr. Rourke?” a voice said. “This is Henschel.”

  “Who?” Rourke said thickly.

  “From the Embassy. You remember I came to see you this morning? I put in a report on what you told me, and on the Ambassador’s instructions I’ve done some research. The doctor on the emergency ward at the hospital says he has no doubt that your injuries were inflicted by a car. You were hit from the side and thrown against a lamp-post, which broke your arm. They didn’t run any tests for alcoholism, as the evidence seemed pretty conclusive. The people at your hotel let me into your room. There were no signs of a struggle. No blood on the carpet, or anything similar. Last but not least, the police department has no lieutenant by the name of Renzullo or Renzullo, and they know of no detective who wears the kind of thick-lensed glasses you describe.”

  “The run-around,” Rourke said. “You wouldn’t expect them to admit it.”

  “True enough,” Henschel said. “But if you choose to make a stink, they’ll say you were mixed up in a shady brawl in a saloon, and invented this story to put the blame on someone else. I’m not entirely naïve, Mr. Rourke. I won’t say I don’t believe you. It’s easy to straighten up a hotel room after a fight, and to fake a hit-run accident. I’ve inquired about your reputation, which is good. They aren’t too friendly to American news-gathering methods down here, and I wouldn’t be surprised if everything happened as you say. But I want to give you the full picture so you’ll appreciate why the Ambassador feels he can’t make an official protest, or ask for explanations.”

  “I didn’t expect it.”

  “And he hopes you won’t make too big a thing about it when you get back. It would only inflame relations, to no real purpose.”

  “It’s up to the paper, how they want to handle it,” Rourke said.

  “I suppose so,” Henschel said. “I just wanted to give you our thinking on the subject. I changed your reservation to tomorrow. Have a good trip, Mr. Rourke.”

  Before hanging up, Rourke asked the switchboard girl for the right time. It turned out to be time for supper, so he called Room Service, and ordered a bottle of rye and ice. As an afterthought, he asked them to send up a small steak.

  After eating a steak and making substantial inroads on the rye, he got up his courage to go to the bathroom mirror to see how he looked, having lost his small private battle for freedom of the press.

  It wasn’t as bad as he had feared. The left side of his face ached, and there was an ugly bruise on the cheekbone. The skin had been scraped off an area four inches square, probably when he had been thrown from the moving car. But the other marks of the beating were in places that didn’t show. One bad contusion behind the ear had been neatly bandaged. From the pattern of bruises on his body, it seemed likely that he had been kicked a number of times after he was no longer conscious. He had two broken ribs as well as the fractured forearm. The entire upper half of his body, front and back, was tender and discolored.

  But on the whole, it could have been worse.

  He lifted his glass, but interrupted the gesture short of his lips. He listened carefully, and heard it again: a low tapping at the bedroom door.

  He had a moment’s panic. He went to the door, reaching it just as the knock came again, louder, more urgent, but somehow still hurried and furtive.

  “Who is it?” he called.

  A woman’s voice answered in English, “Please open the door. Please. Hurry.”

  Rourke hesitated a second longer, then turned the key in the lock.

  A girl in a long blue dressing gown slipped in quickly, closing the door behind her. She was carrying some sort of flat package. She was blonde, young, and seemed small and defenceless in slippers without heels. She wore no make up, and her hair was in curlers for the night. Despite these handicaps, she was one of the nicest-looking girls Rourke had ever seen.

  And he had another impression in that first instant. She was terrified.

  CHAPTER 3

  She was breathing quickly, her lips parted. Rourke started to speak, but she stopped him with a raised hand. She was listening intently.

  Footsteps passed along the corridor. There was a loud, resounding knock on the adjoining door, and the girl winced. A man’s voice called out something in Spanish. A key grated in a lock, a door opened and closed.

  The girl seemed to see Rourke for the first time.

  “I have visitors,” she said. “May I borrow a cigarette?”

  Rourke tapped a cigarette out of a pack, and tried without success to light a match with one hand. Taking the matches, she lit the cigarette herself, though her hands were trembling badly.

  “God,” she breathed. “That was very close. You are an American, aren’t you?”

  “Sure,” Rourke said.

  She breathed out a mouthful of smoke. “I’m Carla Adams. What happened to your arm? You didn’t have that cast when I saw you yesterday. And your face—”

  “A slight accident,” Rourke said carefully.

  “I’m sorry. Look—is it all right if I sit down? I’m feeling kind of shaky.”

  Rourke moved some shirts from the armchair to the bureau. “Drink?”

  “I’d love one,” she said gratefully.

  She sat down, leaning the flat package against the side of her chair. She was careful with the dressing gown as she crossed her legs. It occurred to Rourke that there was nothing but Carla Adams beneath that dressing gown. No nightgown or pajama top showed at the throat.

  It was hard for Rourke to judge a girl’s age, but he thought she couldn’t be more than 21 or 22. Her hair was the color of driftwood. Her cheekbones were well marked.

  He handed her a water tumbler filled with ice and whiskey. She lifted the glass and said something in Spanish. It sounded like the toast Rourke had heard the night before.

  “Excuse me,” she said in English. “That’s a habit I’ve got to break.”

  She drank deeply. “I’d better tell you the worst right away. I’m afraid that the man who just banged on my door is a policeman. But don’t jump to conclusions. I’m not a criminal. Well, I suppose I am, in a way, but let me tell you about it.”

  Rourke poured more whiskey into his glass and sat down on the bed.

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m not crazy about the cops in this town, so you don’t need to sell me. My name’s Tim Rourke, by the way, and to get all the vital statistics out of the way, I’m a reporter on the Miami Daily News. Crime stuff, mainly. I’m flying back tomorrow. You’re welcome to my hospitality for as long as you like, such as it is.”

  He added as she looked up quickly, “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. I’m fed up with this country, with the statues, the boulevards, the repression, in short with the general smell around here. So tell me what I can do to help. In addition, it’s a great pleasure to see an American face, specially a good-looking one like yours.”

  She flushed slightly. “I know how I must look, Mr. Rourke. I was getting ready for bed—”

  “Tim.”

  “Tim. My teeth were brushed, and I was just about to turn out the light. Luckily one of the girls on the board feels the same way I do about the dictatorship, and she took a big ch
ance to warn me that the police were on the way up. I was in a real panic, Mr. Rourke—Tim. Then I remembered I’d seen an American coming into this room. I didn’t get a very good look at you, but I had a feeling I could trust you. I don’t know why.”

  “I told you I’m already sold. Have another drink.”

  “Thanks for being so nice, Tim, but I have to tell you what it is, so you’ll know what you’re letting yourself in for. You see—”

  “I know all about it already,” he interrupted. “You’ve been working with the underground.”

  Her eyes widened. “But how could you know that?”

  “I recognized the toast. I don’t know much Spanish, but it’s something about democracy and freedom, isn’t it?”

  She shivered. “Lord, but I’m lucky. You could have been one of those export-import people who think the Marshal is wonderful because he’s outlawed strikes and built a few roads. How do you happen to feel so strongly about it?”

  Rourke filled her glass. “It’s strictly personal, between me and two cops. They wanted to hold soccer-practice and they didn’t have a ball. So they used me, without my consent.”

  “You were beaten up?” she said, concerned. “They’re really getting out of hand, Tim. They’ve always done as they pleased with their own people, but they drew the line at Americans. Would you mind telling me about it? What provocation did you give them?”

  “I was my usual polite self,” Rourke said. “I told them I was a simple tourist, but I don’t think they believed me. They asked me to leave the country. I said I wouldn’t. They asked me again. I told them to go climb a statue. Then the scrimmage started. I woke up in the hospital, the victim of a hit-run driver.”

  She frowned into her drink. “This makes my own position much more serious. If they aren’t afraid to do that to you—Well, I’ll begin at the beginning. If you work on a Miami newspaper, you probably know Antonio Quesada?”

  “I don’t think so,” Rourke said doubtfully. “In Miami?”

  “He’s a history professor at the University, and a really wonderful teacher. He went into exile when Gonzalez seized power. He’s chairman of the Provisional Committee, and he’s pretty sure to be the Revolutionary Democrats’ candidate for president as soon as the Marshal is overthrown.”

  “Yeh, I’ve read about him,” Rourke said. “I never pronounced his name that way.”

  “He was a visiting lecturer at Swarthmore in my junior year. I was absolutely enthralled by him, Tim. You probably won’t understand this, because he’s seventy-three years old, but I would have done anything for him. I begged him to let me do something in the anti-Gonzalez movement. I offered to write propaganda, to raise money, anything. I speak Spanish quite well, by the way. But he wouldn’t take me seriously. What could a romantic American college girl do to help overthrow a dictator? When he finished his lectures I made up my mind. I had a bang-up fight with my family, left college and came straight here and enrolled at the University. I’ve been working with the student movement ever since.”

  She smiled grimly. “I won’t boast, but I think I’ve given the police excellent reasons for hating me. I did things the others wouldn’t dare to do. I guess I don’t look much like a conspirator, because up to now I haven’t ever been bothered. I’m looking forward to giving the professor a personal report.”

  She leaned forward, and the robe fell away from her knees. She brought it together again.

  “I know it was all very impulsive and foolish, Tim. People have been killed as the result of things I’ve done. Innocent people. I won’t go into detail. I was careless one day, and three of my friends were captured. They were tortured before they were killed. And all the time—I can see it now, and believe me I’m sick to death of myself—I looked on myself as a heroine in some silly adventure novel. I was sure I’d still be alive at the last page. If I ever did get into trouble, the State Department would rush to protect me. The police wouldn’t be able to do anything but deport me. I’d go back to the States in triumph, and Professor Quesada would have to apologize for some of the condescending things he used to think about me. Now that they’ve come for me, I’m suddenly scared, Tim. Maybe they’re planning another hit-run accident for tonight, only this one will be fatal.”

  “What you’d better do, young lady,” Rourke said, “is just what I’m going to do tomorrow. Get out of the country.”

  She made a gesture to indicate the way she was dressed.

  “Like this?”

  Rourke laughed. “You’d be a little conspicuous, at that. Can’t you get some clothes?”

  She thought about it, her smooth forehead puckered in a frown. “One of the maids has worked with us now and then. We’re pretty much of a size. But how would that help? They’d pick me up as I came out of the hotel.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  Rourke snapped his fingers silently. Here was a chance to get back at the cops for the beating they had given him. There was another angle as well, and it decided Rourke. The story would make a wonderful lead for his series. Carla Adams, a lovely American undergraduate who had fought with the rebels, would be snatched out from under the noses of the cops by Timothy Rourke, of the News.

  “Are your papers all right?” he said.

  “Oh, yes. Our movement has its sympathizers in the Department of Tourism, and long ago I had them issue me a tourist card in another name, Ellen Porter. Even then I knew that some day I might have to be leaving in a hurry.” She touched the pocket of her dressing gown. “Thank God I remembered to bring it. But I don’t have any money for a plane ticket.”

  “That’s the least of your worries, Carla. I’ll put you on the expense account as my secretary. Sometimes I can get away with that, and sometimes I can’t. If the comptroller doesn’t allow it, you can pay me back later. But I’d better not make the reservation through the hotel. What happens with the cops in your room? Will they give up and go away?”

  “I don’t think so, Tim. I think they’ll wait, to surprise me when I come in.”

  “We’ll see. I’ll call your room from an outside phone. They’ll answer if they’re there, because they’ll want to get a line on your friends.”

  He sorted out some clean clothes and carried them into the bathroom. He did what he could by himself, but he had to ask Carla to button his shirt for him and tie his shoelaces. She took care of the buttons competently, standing very close.

  “Tim, I can’t ever thank you for what you’re doing. Even if it doesn’t work, it’s just so—”

  Suddenly she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. She adjusted the knot of his sling, and picked a thread off the front of his coat. She seemed breathless and confused.

  “Be careful, Tim, for heaven’s sake.”

  “What can happen?” Rourke said. “All I’m going to do is make two phone calls, one to the airport and one to your room. And it’s no crime to hire a secretary. Can you type, by the way?”

  “Certainly,” she smiled. “With two fingers.”

  He grinned down at her. “You can practice while I’m gone. There’s the typewriter. I’ll knock four times, and don’t open the door to anyone but me.”

  After he went out, he heard her lock the door. The corridor was empty. Except for the operator he was alone in the elevator going down. As he walked across the lobby, the flesh prickled at the back of his neck. People turned to look at him, but he told himself that this was due to the conspicuous cast and the bruises on his cheek. He felt dizzy and lightheaded, and his knees were weak.

  He took a taxi to another district and walked several blocks till he came to a crowded American-style drugstore with public phones. He looked around carefully before dialing, but no one seemed to take any interest in him. When he had the reservations desk at the airport, he took space on the next day’s Miami plane, in the name of Miss Ellen Porter.

  Then he called his hotel and asked for Miss Adams.

  The phone rang three times in her room, and a man’s voice said, “S
i?”

  Rourke pitched his voice unnaturally high. “Carla there?”

  The voice said suavely, “She is not back yet, Señor. But she left a message. If anyone called, she said to tell them to come over. Who is this, please?”

  “Joe,” Rourke said. “She said to come over? Okay, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  He hung up shakily. He’d be there in twenty minutes, like hell. The instant the voice had shifted to English, Rourke had recognized it. It belonged to Renzullo, the police lieutenant with the thick glasses and the bull neck.

  Buy Fit to Kill Now!

  About the Author

  Brett Halliday (1904–1977) was the primary pseudonym of American author Davis Dresser. Halliday is best known for creating the Mike Shayne Mysteries. The novels, which follow the exploits of fictional PI Mike Shayne, have inspired several feature films, a radio series, and a television series.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1958 by Brett Halliday

  Cover design by Mimi Bark

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-1462-5

  This 2015 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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