Marked for Murder (2 page)

THE MANAGER OF THE APARTMENT HOUSE jumped up from behind the switchboard and exclaimed, “Good heavens, Mr. Rourke!” as the reporter stumbled into the lobby. He hurried forward, his eyes wide and solicitous. “Have you been in an accident?”

“Sort of.” Rourke tried to grin but his puffed lips didn’t work.

The manager was a slim young man with a blond mustache and a bad heart. His name was Mr. Henty. He put his hand under Rourke’s elbow and said, “Here, let me help you. How on earth did it happen?”

Rourke said, “It’s all right—I can make it to my room—I think,” and shook the manager’s hand from his arm. He started doggedly toward the stairway at the back of the lobby leading to the second floor.

Mr. Henty said, “There’s a—ah—I think I should tell you, Mr. Rourke. There’s a young lady waiting in your apartment.”

Rourke stopped with his right hand on the newel post. He turned bloodshot eyes on Mr. Henty and muttered, “Which one?”

“She’s one I haven’t seen before, Mr. Rourke.” Mr. Henty tried to leer evilly, but it turned out a smirk. He made a soft smacking sound with his thin lips. “Very nice, I must say.”

“I’m in a hell of a shape to entertain visitors,” Rourke grunted. He made his way painfully back to the small office and said, “I’ve got to send a telegram right away. I’d better send it from here if I have a visitor in my room.”

“Certainly. I’ll get an operator for you, Mr. Rourke. You’d better sit down here.” He moved a chair convenient to the desk telephone and went to the switchboard.

When the operator answered, Rourke said, “I want to send a telegram to Mike Shayne in New Orleans,” He gave the address and continued:
Crime popping Miami Beach. Three murders. Can you take over. Urgent.

“Sign that
Tim Rourke,”
he ended, hung up, and pulled himself slowly to his feet. He gripped the banister for support when he climbed the stairs and stopped to steady himself outside his apartment door.

He tried the knob and found it was locked. He started to knock, then took out a key ring, and unlocked the door. It opened soundlessly and he stood for a moment blinking stupidly at the disordered living-room. He wasn’t a very neat housekeeper, but he was quite certain he hadn’t left his apartment in such condition that morning.

A typewriter desk with his portable was in the right-hand corner. Papers on the desk were disarranged, the drawers pulled out, and there were more papers scattered on the floor. A magazine stand beyond the desk had been ransacked.

Rourke moved into the room quietly. An archway on the left led into a short hall from which the bathroom and bedroom were entered. Straight ahead through a larger archway was a sunny breakfast nook with a kitchenette opening off it.

He went into the hall and peered through the open door to the bedroom. The first thing he noticed was a pair of long and very shapely legs. The girl’s back was toward him. She was leaning forward, pulling things out of the bottom drawer of his dresser.

Rourke’s eyes weren’t focusing very well. He blinked them a couple of times, cleared his throat, and croaked, “Nice.”

The girl straightened up slowly and whirled to face him with a .32 automatic pistol in her right hand. Golden hair was arranged on top of her head and a bow of ribbon peeked up above the pompadour. Her eyes were elongated and the color of molten copper, the lids fringed with long lashes. She was very pretty and seemed completely self-possessed. Laughter crinkled her lips and she drawled, “Well, fry your face and call it hamburger.”

Rourke said politely, “If you’ll tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help.”

“You must be Tim Rourke.” She held the little gun carelessly with the muzzle pointed down.

A wave of dizziness swept over Rourke and he knew he was going to be sick. He turned and stumbled into the bathroom. He felt weaker but relieved when he was through retching, and turned on the light to look at his face in the mirror above the lavatory.

His left eye was turning a dirty, purplish yellow, and there was a dark bruise on his right cheekbone. His upper lip was cut and blood was caked on his chin and shirt. He stripped to the waist and bathed his face and head in cold water, put Newskin on his cut lip, and combed his hair. He went into the bedroom for a clean shirt and went in the living-room tucking the tail inside his trousers.

The girl sat near the door composedly smoking. A cloth handbag lay in her lap and her skirt was above her knees. She looked up at him and said, “You’re the damnedest guy. You haven’t asked who I am or what I’m doing here.”

Rourke went over and stretched out on the couch. “I learned a long time ago,” he said lazily, “that the surest way to get a woman to tell something is to pretend you aren’t curious. It infuriates them.”

She laughed and said again, “You’re the damnedest guy,” and added, “You can call me Betty.”

Rourke said, “Thanks, Betty. I will. Did you find what you were looking for?” His eyes roamed over the litter of papers on the floor in front of his desk.

Betty’s eyes were cold. In the brighter light of the living-room they looked light brown instead of molten gold. She said, “No, I didn’t. What is this stuff? Are you writing a book?”

“I’ve been writing one for twenty years.”

She crushed out her cigarette and smoothed her skirt until it almost covered her knees. “A friend sent me here,” she volunteered. “He figured I could get into your apartment easier than he could.”

“He figured correctly,” Rourke assured her.

“This friend of mine doesn’t like the stuff you’ve been writing in the paper. He wondered how much you know and what you’re just guessing at. He thought maybe I could find some dope on it here.”

“I don’t work here,” Rourke explained. “All my stuff is at the newspaper office.”

“I was to tell you for him,” said Betty, “you’d better lay off.”

“No bribes?”

She laughed and got up, swaying her hips provocatively. Rourke noticed that her handbag was unclasped and hanging open. The automatic inside was undoubtedly accessible. She came across to the couch and stood close to him. Looking down at him, her elongated eyes were once again like hot molten gold. She said, “We might figure out something, but I wouldn’t want my friend to know about it.”

“Which one of your friends beat me up?” he asked wearily, turning his eyes away from hers.

She said, “I wouldn’t know,” casually, and went back to her chair. “What makes you think it was a friend of mine?”

“He didn’t like the stuff I’ve been writing in the paper either.”

“Lots of people don’t. If the cops don’t worry about a couple of knockovers, why don’t you let it ride?”

“Maybe I will.” Rourke grimaced and touched his bruised cheek tenderly.

The girl bent forward, her body tense. Her face was not so pretty when she said, “You’ve just been doing a lot of guessing, anyhow. You don’t know a damned thing.” She waited breathlessly for his answer, and when he didn’t say anything, she demanded harshly, “Do you?”

Rourke was thinking fast. He knew she hadn’t read his latest story in the afternoon paper. He felt a lot better about the gun in her bag now. As long as she thought he had just been guessing—

He said, “I’m a pretty good guesser.”

Rourke gasped audibly when she ran her hand into the open bag. He relaxed when she brought out a pack of cigarettes and matches. She lighted the cigarette, got up, and walked to the window and stood staring out for a moment. She whirled around and said, “My friend’s pretty sore about it. You’re lucky it is only guessing, and if you’re smart you’ll give up the idea.”

Rourke said, “I’ve got an idea you could persuade me.

She stood looking steadily at him. She appeared to be neither flattered nor displeased as she considered his offer. Then she walked slowly toward him, saying, “I wouldn’t mind trying.”

“When I’m in better shape,” Rourke said hastily. He pulled himself up from the couch and started unsteadily toward the kitchen. “What I need is a drink. Have one with me?”

“Sure. I want you to get in good shape.” Her eyes, half-covered by long lashes, looked darker now, as though, like a chameleon, she could change their color at will. She opened them wide and he saw a hot glow in them.

Rourke felt a strange hypnosis creeping over him. He stared at her for a full half-minute before proceeding to the kitchen. She was tremendously attractive, and he had an idea she was a murderess.

He returned with a bottle of whisky and two glasses, poured two drinks, handed one to her, and poured the other down his parched throat. He poured the small glass full again and drank it, then stretched out on the couch again.

Betty went back to her chair and sat down, crossed her sleek long legs, and sipped the whisky.

Two heavy slugs of liquor on an empty stomach dulled Rourke’s sensibilities. Or perhaps it was that sultry glow in Betty’s eyes. The hypnosis he had felt before drinking was growing. He tried to close his eyes against it, but the lids wouldn’t come down. Then he didn’t care. He felt himself sinking into a sort of torpor. It was pleasant and he didn’t want to fight against it.

The girl’s voice came to him from a great distance, warm, like the glow in her eyes, and caressing. “You can have anything you want from me, Tim.”

“There’s only one thing a man would want from you,” he said thickly. He tried to raise his head but its weight was too much.

“You won’t write any more of those stories, will you, Tim?”

“No,” he murmured.

She said, “You’re sweet.”

Rourke heard her snap her purse shut, heard her get up from her chair, and come toward him. When she stood over him he saw that she was smiling and her golden eyes were bright as though with secret amusement. He asked falteringly, “How can I get in touch with you? I don’t even know your last name.”

“But I know yours. I’ll call you. Tomorrow night—if you keep your word not to write any more stories.”

“Tomorrow night’s a long ways off,” he protested. “Why don’t you stick around?”

She laughed with soft amusement. “Did you look at yourself in the mirror?”

“Yes—I wouldn’t be very good at playing post office.” His hand came up slowly and touched his split lip.

She bent down and kissed him gently and said, “Take care of yourself until tomorrow night, Tim. You won’t be sorry.”

He heard her move across the room to the door, open it, and close it as she went out.

He lay inert for a while and let his semi-conscious state have its way with him, forcing his eyes to stay open in order not to lose consciousness altogether. Thoughts of the day’s events kept swarming dully through his mind.

He turned over and pushed himself up from the couch, staggered through the archway to the bathroom. His lips burned and he rubbed the back of his hand across them roughly, breaking the Newskin and starting the blood afresh. He looked stupidly at the blood on his hand.

In the bathroom he stripped off his clothes and got into a tub of cold water. He stayed in the tub a long time, felt better after he got out and toweled his thin body. He dressed in clean clothes and kept putting Betty out of his mind.

He went to the kitchen and fixed a pitcher of ice water and drank two glasses. The water soothed his stomach. He poured another glass brimming full and took it in the living-room with him.

A great weariness came over him as he sank on the couch again. He looked around at the littered room, but was too enervated to pick up the papers. He poured another small drink and sat there wondering whether Betty had read the afternoon paper yet. He shuddered a trifle as he wondered, and staring with unfocused eyes into space, he tried to sort things out in his mind.

He didn’t realize how jumpy he was until he heard a soft rapping on the door. It had grown almost dark in the apartment, and an involuntary muscular reaction brought him to his feet in one movement, his eyes wide and staring at the door. He felt his bruised cheek twitching as the rapping was repeated, soft and insistent.

Curiosity sobered him a little. He got up, squared his shoulders determinedly, went to the door, and opened it. He said, “For God’s sake, Muriel, you shouldn’t have come here,” to the woman who slipped inside with, lithe grace and turned to face him.

“Close the door—quickly,” she breathed. Her big round eyes, as blue as spring violets, were terrified.

“I HAD TO COME, TIM.” Muriel Bronson’s voice was warm with passion and with excitement. She put both hands on his shoulders, pressed her body against him, and lifted her red lips invitingly. Rourke’s face remained grimly displeased, but he kissed her. She tightened her fingers on his shoulders, swayed back, and cried, “Your face! Darling, what happened?”

He laughed shortly and released her to turn on the lights. “I’m a little bunged up.”

Mrs. Walter Bronson gasped when she saw his face dearly in the light. “What happened, darling? Walter didn’t—he hasn’t been here?”

“Why do you ask that?” Rourke demanded.

“He was so terribly angry this afternoon—about that story you slipped past him in the first edition. It was distributed and sold on the streets before he caught it. He was still raving when he left the house a while ago and I thought—I wondered—”

“You thought he was coming here?” Rourke asked harshly. “So you hurried over to fix everything up. That was a hell of a bright idea. You promised me you wouldn’t come here again.”

“I didn’t think he was coming here, Tim. He doesn’t even know your address. Don’t you remember? I told you weeks ago about asking him casually.”

“If he doesn’t know my address what made you think he’d been here? Besides, he could find out in a hurry.” He swung around and went to a window and flung it open. The room was suddenly hot and stuffy after being closed all day. The cool evening breeze soothed his burning face, and clean air in his lungs was reviving.

“It was just my first thought when I saw you’d been fighting,” she said petulantly. “He frightened me with his raving at dinner, and I guess it was uppermost in my mind.” She went over to stand near him, carefully avoiding being seen through the window. Her big eyes were limpid with anxiety. She touched his cheek gently and murmured, “Who did it to you, sweet?”

Her childlike petulance and throaty voice had once charmed him to burning passion, qualities he believed she reserved solely for him. Outwardly, she was cold and patrician, her tall, willowy body always exquisitely groomed, her blond-gold upswept coiffure accentuating her classic features.

Now, as he looked at her, he felt only disgust that a woman of 35 should spend all her time trying to look 25, and succeeding. That she should hang onto Walter Bronson and his money while she ensnared other men with her charm and beauty and exotic perfume, or repel them with her hauteur when it pleased her.

Rourke wanted to laugh loudly and derisively at himself. In the beginning, he had thought it amusing to cuckold the overbearing managing editor whom he disliked. Later, after the first fire burned out and he learned that Muriel Bronson was a wanton at heart, incapable of faithfulness to one man, they had seen each other less frequently.

Rourke had been gazing out the window. He turned to her again and she drew back a step when she saw his eyes. “Tim—why are you looking at me like that! Why don’t you tell me who—?”

“A couple of other guys who didn’t like my story, either.” His tone was sharp.

Her violet eyes hardened and she turned away from him. “It was a silly story to write, Tim. I’m sure a lot of people didn’t like it.” She went to a chair where she had dropped her purse when she came in. Her fingers fumbled as she picked it up and it fell to the floor with a dull thud.

Rourke whirled around, frowning. He took three long strides and reached the purse before she could pick it up. “What have you got in there? A brick?” He tested the weight of the bag speculatively, studying her face intently.

She said lightly, “Don’t be a goof. Why would I be carrying a brick in my purse?”

“I wonder.” He opened the bag and took out a .32 Colt automatic and regarded it stonily. “What is this strange power I have over women that sends them gunning for me?”

Muriel laughed and tossed her golden head. “Women?”

“Women. I just got rid of another one who pulled a gun on me.”

“Don’t be absurd. I haven’t pulled a gun on you. That happens to be Walter’s pistol.”

“What’s it doing in your bag?”

“You’re so droll, darling. I do believe you suspect I came here to force my attentions on you at gun-point. I assure you I’m not that hard pressed.”

“What’s it doing in your bag?” he demanded again.

“If you must know—to protect you.”

“From your husband?” Rourke asked derisively.

“Don’t joke about it, Tim,” she said earnestly. “Walter was dreadfully upset. I didn’t know what he might do if you happened to be back at the office tonight when he got there. I remembered that pistol being in his bureau drawer and I slipped it out and hid it in my purse. Don’t be angry with me.” She moved close to him and caught his arm, her violet eyes appealing to him, her red lips pouted. “It was just a precaution for your sake. I never saw Walter so angry.”

Rourke laughed shortly, dropped the automatic back in her purse, and tossed it on the chair. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“Don’t say that, darling. You do know I care. I’ve been attracted to you ever since that first day when you walked into Walter’s office and I knew why God sent us to Miami.”

Rourke patted her shoulder and muttered, “I’m not in very good shape tonight.” He went over to the couch and sat down heavily.

Muriel Bronson sat down in the chair Betty had occupied an hour or so before. She lit a cigarette, put the match in an ash tray, picked up the small glass from which Betty had drunk. She said, “I see lipstick on this glass. Why don’t you offer
me
a drink? I suppose,” she continued jealously, “you got
her
drunk, made love to her, and she decided not to shoot you?
Who was she?”
There was a feline glint in the depths of her dark eyes.

“I don’t know,” Tim snapped. He picked up the bottle, of whisky, took it over, and set it on the table. “Here, I’ll get a clean glass from the kitchen.” He took the soiled glass with him.

“You’re lying, Tim,” she flung at him through the archway.

When he brought the fresh glass back he poured a drink in it, and said, “How about a cigarette?” She gave him one. He took it with him to the couch, lit it, and said, “Let’s have it, Muriel. Why did you come here tonight?”

“To see you, darling.”

Rourke made an impatient gesture. “You haven’t seen me for weeks. Why the sudden urge tonight?”

“I’ve already told you,” she said stubbornly.

“So you dashed over here,” he said harshly, “with your husband’s gun to protect me from him. Good Lord, do you think it’ll help matters any if he comes and finds you here?”

“I told you he didn’t know your address,” she insisted.

“Then why were you worried?”

“For fear you might go to the office. That’s where Walter has gone.”

“You could have telephoned me.”

“I wanted to see you.” Her voice was soft and persuasive. She finished her drink, poured another, and went over to sit beside him on the couch. “Why don’t you take a drink with
me?
You did with her. Don’t you care for me any more?” She ran her fingers through his thick hair at the back of his neck.

“We haven’t seen each other for over four weeks. You’ve probably had three other men since I saw you.”

“That’s a lie.” She kept her voice softly good-natured. “There hasn’t been anyone else since you and I met.
You’re
the one who—”

“Let’s not kid each other,” Rourke told her brutally. “That’s finished. It was swell while it lasted. Let’s not ruin it now by trying to blow on some dead embers.”

“You’ve been hurt and you’re tired and in a belligerent mood. Why don’t you relax?” She drew his head down to rest on her shoulder. “Why do you insist on attacking windmills?”

Rourke resisted the pressure of her hand, the persuasiveness of her voice, the exotic perfume. “Meaning my campaign against the gambling racketeers and murder?”

“Meaning the way you keep Walter upset all the time. Why can’t you let such things alone? Solving crimes is for the police.”

Rourke straightened up and said, “So Walter sent you here to persuade me.”

Muriel laughed lightly. “Goodness, no. He doesn’t know I even know you.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Rourke growled. “The way you look at me when you come in the office—”

“He doesn’t notice how I look at men,” she scoffed. “He hasn’t noticed for years. But I think if you’d give it up and apologize to Walter for the trick you played on him today, he’d forgive you and give you your job back.”

“There are plenty of other jobs.”

“But not in Miami, Tim. He said this afternoon he’d fix it so you couldn’t go to work on any paper in Miami.” She pressed close to him and whispered, “Oh, Tim, I couldn’t stand it if you had to leave—”

“Nuts. I told you it was all ended.”

“I know you
told
me. But I don’t believe it unless—kiss me, Tim, darling, and
then
tell me it’s over.”

Rourke kept his face turned straight ahead. “It won’t work, Muriel. It’s dead.”

“Promise me you’ll give up your silly one-man reform campaign and go back to work for Walter.”

He asked coldly, “What’s the matter? Will it cramp your style if I force the gambling joints to close? I hear you’ve been giving some of Brenner’s games a play.”

“So I have,” she admitted calmly. “Yes, if you want to know the truth. I need a chance to win back some of the money I’ve lost. I’ve just hit a winning streak and now you want to close them up.”

He turned to scowl at her. “How deeply are you in?”

“Awfully deep,” she confessed with a sigh. “Walter doesn’t know yet. He’d be terribly angry if he did. He won’t have to know if I could just have a few more good nights.”

Rourke said, “You’re like all the others. For God’s sake get wise to yourself. If you read my story this afternoon you know what happens to people who win at Brenner’s clubs.”

“Those were all men,” she reminded him. “I’m not going to let a blond gunwoman entice me out into a car on a deserted street to be killed and robbed.”

“But you mightn’t put up such a struggle against a blond
gunman.”

“Do you suspect who the murderer is?”

It seemed to Rourke there was suppressed alarm in her voice. He looked at her quickly, but her facial expression told him nothing. He said, “I’ve got a pretty good hunch. I’m not stopping until the joints are closed down and those rats run out of town.” All at once he felt tired and defeated. He remembered he hadn’t eaten any lunch. He muttered, “You’d better go, Muriel. I’m going to fix myself something to eat and go to bed.”

“Haven’t you had your dinner?”

“Nor any lunch either.”

“You poor darling. You must be starved.” She jumped up quickly and said, “Settle back and rest while I raid the refrigerator and fix something.”

“There’s nothing but bacon and eggs—and some stale bread.”

“I’ll fix that. With a pot of coffee.”

Rourke sent a scowl after her as she disappeared into the kitchenette. Muriel had become an enigma during the short period of her visit. First, making love to him; then violent jealousy; showing alarm over his supposed knowledge of the murderer, and now maternally solicitous of his well-being.

He let his head rest against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Despite his stubborn intentions, he caught himself drowsily thinking that she was intrinsically a pretty swell person. Under other circumstances, married to another man, Muriel could certainly have been a happy and contented wife. It wasn’t her fault that she had the soul of a courtesan. She had a curious lack of morals that was attractively simple and childlike.

Lazily, he turned to an analysis of himself. How much of his crusading fervor was attributable to genuine indignation, and how much to other factors? Such as his dislike for Walter Bronson and a desire to put something over on him? What about his dislike of Peter Painter? Did that date back to the times when Mike Shayne ferreted out killers under Painter’s incapable nose and turned over front-page stories to him for a scoop? Was his desire to stir up a stink merely to give him a feeling of importance?

Hell, if a man went honestly digging into his own soul for motives he was likely to come up with some pretty painful results.

He could smell the rich aroma of coffee from the kitchen and hear the sizzle of frying bacon. He let himself relax and stop thinking altogether. He was hungry as a bitch suckling 16 pups, and it was pleasant to have a beautiful woman in the kitchen preparing food for him.

He was half-asleep when Muriel called cheerfully, “Come and get it,” from the breakfast nook. She had a big plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, delicately browned buttered toast, and a cup of strong coffee ready for him, with only a cup of black coffee for herself. She looked youthful and attractive as she sat across the small table from him with her cheeks flushed and her eyes alight.

Leaning forward with her elbows on the table and her chin cupped in her palms, she asked, “Are you still angry with me for coming here, Tim?”

“Not after tasting this food.” He took a swig of coffee and wondered why the devil he couldn’t make it taste right. “If your husband catches you here I’ll tell him I’m giving you a tryout for a job as my cook.”

She frowned and her eyes were grave for a moment. Then she laughed and said, “He can’t possibly know I’m here. I waited until he went back to the office, and I parked my car on the side street and came up the back stairway. No one saw me.”

Rourke scraped up the last of his eggs and pushed the plate back with a satisfied sigh. “Bronson is the least of my worries,” he said. “Just so you’ve got his gun safe. Is there more coffee?”

“Plenty.” She took his cup into the kitchen for a refill, came back, and said tenderly, “I’ll take it in the living-room where you can be more comfortable.” She preceded him through the archway, drew up a small table beside the couch for him, then went back to gather up the dishes and put them in the sink.

Rourke rolled a cigarette and enjoyed his second cup of coffee. Muriel came back and sat on the floor beside him, looked up into his eyes, and said, “I love you, Tim. I wish you wouldn’t doubt that.”