Marked for Murder (3 page)

The white line of her throat was as smooth and clean as a young girl’s. He put his knuckles against her cheek and laughed. “Up from your position of adoration, woman. Is this a proposal?”

“It could be,” she said quietly. She sprang up and went lithely toward the bathroom, holding herself proudly erect.

Watching her, he thought that life was sometimes funny as hell.

LUCY HAMILTON LOOKED UP from her typewriter when Michael Shayne stalked into the reception room of his office in downtown New Orleans. She was smiling and her red lips formed to call a cheery greeting.

Instead, she pushed her chair back, half-arose, and cried, “What on earth, Michael? Why are you looking like that?”

Shayne’s face was set in harsh and strained lines. His gray eyes were cold with a blank, unseeing expression. A folded newspaper was crushed in his big right hand. He advanced to the wooden railing separating Lucy’s desk from the rest of the reception room and ordered curtly, “Get the airport. See about a plane to Miami.”

“What’s happened? What
is
it?” she asked, her right hand reaching into the top desk drawer and bringing out the telephone directory. She rapidly thumbed through the pages for the number and picked up the receiver. Dialing, she asked, “When shall I say you’re going, Michael?”

“On the very first plane that can take me,” Shayne told her. “Tell them it’s police business.”

When the airport answered and Lucy made an urgent plea for a seat on the first plane leaving, she kept her anxious brown eyes upon her employer’s grim face.

Shayne relaxed his fingers on the newspaper and smoothed it out. His gaze brooded down on the small headline on the second page:
Crusading Reporter Near Death.
The paragraph below was a wire service item datelined Miami, Florida.

Lucy sighed and cradled the receiver. “Not a chance this week. They’re booked solidly.”

“Try the railroad.” Shayne’s voice was flat and even, warding off further questions and stifling her sympathy.

Lucy bit her lip and swallowed the words she was going to say. She looked up another number, dialed it, while Shayne stood flat-footed before her, waiting, reading the words of the short item over and over, though he already knew them by heart.

Lucy talked a little longer over the telephone this time, but when she hung up she said, “Nothing for at least two weeks unless there happens to be a last-minute cancellation. Do you want me to—?”

“When does the next train leave?”

“There’s one in twenty minutes, but you can’t possibly get a reservation. I even asked about the day coach. They doubt whether there’ll be a seat.”

Shayne said, “I’ll take my chance on that. Twenty minutes? I won’t have time to pack anything.”

Lucy stood up, her tall slim body very straight, her eyes soberly studying the detective. She said severely, “You’re not going to dash off to Miami like that. You can’t do it. Mrs. Caruthers is waiting in your office. She had a nine o’clock appointment. And you’re to see Mr. Heinz today about that theft. And there’s the Erskine case—” Her voice trailed off when she realized that he wasn’t listening to her, that he was looking through her as though he didn’t know she was there. He had walled himself off from everything in the world except the newspaper in his hand.

Shayne shifted the folded paper to his left hand and worried his left ear lobe between right thumb and forefinger. “You take care of things here, Lucy,” he said absently. “What time does that train reach Miami?”

“Six-thirty tomorrow evening. But I can’t take care of things. You know you’ve—”

“Take a wire,” Shayne snapped.
Chief of police Will Gentry, Miami, Florida. Arriving six-thirty tomorrow evening. Have all dope on Rourke ready. Mike Shayne.
“Got that?”

“All dope on Rourke?” Lucy looked up from her notebook questioningly.

He spelled the name for her and added in a strangely gentle voice, “You remember Timothy Rourke. The reporter who flew that stuff here on the Margo Macon case.”

“Of course I remember. Is he—?”

Shayne nodded. “Shot last night. He isn’t expected to live.” He looked down at the newspaper as if for confirmation.

“Oh—I’m sorry. But do you have to dash off like this? Can’t the Miami police—?”

The door opened unceremoniously and a telegraph boy entered. He said, “Telegram for Michael Shayne.”

Shayne took the message and tore it open. He read:
Crime popping Miami Beach. Three murders. Can you take over. Urgent. Tim Rourke.

Shayne uttered a sharp oath and crushed the message in his hand. He said to Lucy, “It’s a message from Tim—evidently sent before he was shot in his apartment on Miami Beach. I’ve just about got time to get a taxi to the depot. Get that wire off to Gentry right away.”

As he turned toward the door Lucy caught his arm and said earnestly, “Promise me you’ll be careful. You frighten me—looking like that.”

“If that telegram had been delivered to me when it
should
have, I’d be halfway to Miami by now,” Shayne grated. Then looking into Lucy’s upturned face he said gently, “Don’t worry about me. Do the best you can with things here.” He kissed her lips and said, “Good-by”

She followed him into the hall, calling, “When will you be back, Michael?”

“When Tim Rourke’s murderer is in jail,” he flung over his shoulder, and long-legged it to the elevator.

The afternoon was fading imperceptibly into the long tropical twilight period when Shayne stepped from the train in Miami. His clothes were rumpled and he was weary after more than 30 hours in a day coach, but his nostrils flared and his gray eyes brightened as he dragged in a deep breath of the warm evening air.

With no luggage to delay him he thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets and strolled along the brick walk, his eyes straying around looking for a familiar face. Tourists poured from every car of the long train, and there were those waiting to greet friends, craning their necks, and some standing on tiptoe for a better view.

The thought struck Shayne suddenly that he had few friends in Miami. It had been part of his job not to become widely known and to keep his picture out of the local papers. A muscle twitched in his angular jaw and his eyes grew bleak. Timothy Rourke had been the only close friend he had made in all the years he practiced here.

He stopped strolling and looking around. His long legs swung out in a purposeful stride. Just before he reached the taxi area he felt a strong grip on his arm and turned to see the bronzed and smiling face of a trim Miami policeman.

Shayne exclaimed, “Sergeant Jorgensen.”

The young officer stepped back and gave a snappy salute before saying cordially, “Mike Shayne—welcome home. The chief sent me down to meet you. How does it feel to be back in God’s country?”

“Plenty good.” Shayne fell into step with the sergeant toward a prowl car parked beyond the waiting taxis. “How’s Tim Rourke?”

Jorgensen’s face was grave. “Not so good, I guess. I haven’t heard since noon. He was holding his own then.” He opened the door for Shayne, slammed it shut, and went around to get under the wheel. “We’re stymied on it with Painter in charge.”

“Still strutting like a damned peacock and getting nowhere, eh?” Shayne’s voice was bitter.

“Still keeps his nails manicured,” said Jorgensen sourly, “but I’m wondering if he’s keeping his hands clean, Shayne. There’ve been some pretty rotten deals over on the Beach lately.” He started the motor and as they drove away he added, “Painter’s not a bad dick when he wants to be. I guess he’s really doing his best on this case. I’ve an idea pressure is being put on him from all sides nowadays.”

“He never liked Rourke,” Shayne reminded him grimly.

“No. Tim used to get in his hair plenty. You and Tim both,” Jorgensen added with a chuckle.

“No arrests yet?” There was sharp concern in Shayne’s voice.

“Nope. The field’s wide open.” Jorgensen turned east on Flagler Street. “All of us on this side of the bay will be pulling for you.”

Shayne sat slouched in the seat staring out at the familiar scenes he had not seen for nearly two years. He said gruffly, “Thanks—I know,” in answer to the sergeant’s offer.

Memories, fleeting and queerly hurting memories, tugged at him as they rode down Flagler toward police headquarters. Nothing had changed. Miami was still the Magic City. It might have been yesterday that he and Rourke had chased a disappearing corpse around Miami’s streets.

Sergeant Jorgensen made a sharp turn to the right and pulled up in front of police headquarters. “The chief’s waiting for you in the same old office.”

“Thanks, Jorg. See you around.” He got out and circled the car and went in a side door. The dreary hallway heading to Gentry’s office retained its remembered odor, and the door was hospitably ajar as it had always been.

Chief Will Gentry sat behind the same scarred oak desk, and Shayne received an immediate and fleeting impression that he was chewing on the same black cigar that had been in his mouth the last time he saw him. At least, it smelled the same. Gentry’s face looked a little heavier, a little more florid, but the twinkle in his eyes was the same, his handshake as firm as ever.

Gentry rumbled, “It’s good to see you again, Mike, though I don’t like the way we had to bring you back to Miami.” He chuckled and added, “Anyway, I’m glad it’s Painter’s hair you’re getting into instead of mine.”

Shayne grinned, then sobered, and asked, “How’s Tim?”

“I just checked with Dr. Fairweather at the Flagler Hospital. Tim’s holding his own, Mike.”

“Bad?” Shayne lowered one hip to the desk corner and lit a cigarette.

“Plenty bad.” Gentry sank back in his swivel chair and purled on his cigar. “A thirty-two slug struck close to his heart and another one drilled a lung. Anybody but a black Irishman would be dead.”

“What’s being done for him?”

“Transfusions and injections. He’s in a coma—hasn’t regained consciousness at all. Dr. Fairweather assured me everything was being done, but he didn’t offer much hope, Mike,” Gentry ended solemnly.

Shayne got up and paced the length of the office, came back, and pulled up a chair to face Gentry across the desk. Dropping his rangy body into it he asked, “What did you get from Painter?”

“Had a talk with him yesterday morning and got everything I could without telling him who it was for.”

Shayne grinned briefly in acknowledgment of the chief’s tact. “He won’t like me popping up.”

“He won’t like it,” the chief agreed drily. “Particularly if you crack it while he’s running around in circles. He’s had it kind of quiet and easy with you in New Orleans.”

“Let’s have what you’ve got,” Shayne said. Gentry took some scribbled notations from a drawer, glanced at them, and explained, “I’ll give you the bare facts first. A woman called the Beach police at ten-forty Tuesday night and told them to go to number 2-D at the Blackstone Apartment House in a hurry. She sounded frightened and hung up. When Painter’s men got there Tim was lying on the floor a couple of feet inside the door with two slugs in him. The place had been ransacked as though someone had searched for something. A woman had been there—fresh powder spilled on the lavatory and a piece of tissue with rouge where she’d wiped the excess off her lips.

“Half-empty whisky bottle on the floor beside the sofa with the cork out. Two water glasses that had been used for whisky. Dishes in the sink showing one person had eaten bacon and eggs for dinner, and two people had drunk coffee. Woman’s fingerprints on the extra cup and on the dishes along with Rourke’s—as though he’d eaten and she cleaned up. Same prints on the extra glass in the living-room.

“But they found another set of women’s prints all over the place. Looks as if the second one turned the place inside out. The gun was a Colt automatic, two empty shells found on the floor where they’d been ejected. And—that’s about it.” Gentry pushed the notations aside and spread out his pudgy hands.

“Shot from close up?”

“Close enough for powder burns.”

“What about the position of the body and direction of the bullets? Was he shot by someone coming through the door or in the room with him?”

“That’s hard to say. The medical examiner thinks he may have twisted and dragged himself a couple of feet. There was a lot of blood smeared around and there wasn’t a rug near the door. They couldn’t determine whether he moved toward the door or away from it. Knowing Tim, I’d say he’d thresh around trying to do something as long as he was conscious.”

“What about prints on the door?”

“Both knobs were wiped clean of prints,” Gentry said with a deep sigh.

“How close do they set the time?”

“Around ten-thirty. Not more than ten minutes either way.”

“Any witnesses who heard the shots?”

“Painter hasn’t found anybody, yet,” Gentry rumbled.

“What sort of apartment is the Blackstone? Tim wasn’t living there when I left.”

“Two stories. No elevator. A back stairway leading up from the alley, and front stairs leading off the lobby. One man for manager, switchboard operator, and janitor. He was behind the switchboard when Rourke came in about four o’clock. Tim had been beaten pretty badly, Mike. Henty—that’s the manager—wanted to help him upstairs, but Rourke said he could make it. He had a black eye and a split lip that was bleeding. They found the bloody shirt and tie in his bedroom.

“He had a visitor when he got home. A swell blond dish, according to Henty. She arrived about two-thirty and asked to be allowed to wait for Tim in his apartment. Henty claims he’d never seen this particular girl before. He didn’t see her leave, but from about ten-twenty to ten-forty Henty says he was in the back working on the air-conditioning unit. Anybody could have entered or left through the lobby during that time—and by the back stairs any time.”

Shayne ground out his Picayune and lit another. He blew a puff of smoke toward Gentry. “That the only time she could have left the front way without him seeing her?”

Gentry coughed into the puff of smoke, glared at the Picayune, and demanded, “What are they smoking in New Orleans these days?”

Shayne grinned. “It’s only a Picayune. People down there like them better than tobacco. Was Henty in the lobby all the time from four until ten-twenty?”

“Hell, no,” Gentry growled. “You know how it is with one man handling everything in a place like that. He admits to being in and out a dozen times—for periods varying from a couple to ten minutes.”