Marked for Murder (4 page)

“So the blonde could have left any time. On the other hand, Tim may have been beat up too badly to keep a blonde occupied long.”

“He was pretty badly beaten,” Gentry said judicially, “but you know how Tim was about blondes.”

“I know,” Shayne agreed. “Anything else?”

“Not in the line of actual, known facts. Seems Rourke left the office about twelve-twenty after turning in his copy for the day. No one knows where he went or what he did between that time and four when he turned up at his place with a shiner and a bleeding lip. His heap is parked in front, but there are no bloodstains on it. Henty
thinks
he noticed Tim drive up and park about two o’clock, but when he didn’t come in, decided he must have been mistaken. Later, he decided it was Rourke’s roadster all the time.”

Shayne dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and toed it out. His face was a grim, preoccupied mask. “If the blonde was a new number, who’s Tim been seeing lately?”

“Another blonde,” Gentry told him with a grin. “He’s been living at the Blackstone about four months, and Henty says he has seen only one woman around 2-D all that time. He describes her as something of a looker, in her mid-twenties, and with plenty on the ball.”

“No other dope on number-two blonde?”

“No. Henty claims she hasn’t been around recently, or has been using the back stairway. That’s about all there is, Mike.”

“It’s not a hell of a lot,” Shayne said shortly. “One blonde fixed his supper and drank coffee and whisky with him. Another blonde searched his room. Did the first one kill him and leave, and the other one arrive later and search the place? Or did she feed him and leave while he was still alive?”

“That sounds best. Though the second one could have come in and found him shot, knew there’d be an uproar and an investigation, and searched the place in a hurry to get her letters or anything she didn’t want the police to find—and then put in the emergency call.”

“It could add up that way,” Shayne agreed. “Damn it, Gentry, hasn’t Painter dug up any leads? The dispatch I read sounded as if Tim was putting on a one-man crusade to clean up the town and was shot on that account. And the telegram I had from him said there were three murders.”

Gentry looked up, surprised. “Tim telegraphed you?”

“Yeh. I got the message after I’d read about him being shot. He didn’t say anything about personal danger. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t seen the newspaper item.”

“I’m coming to that,” Gentry said patiently. “I wanted you to get the physical picture in your mind before we started digging into possible motives.” He chewed thoughtfully on his damp cigar, took it out of his mouth, and tossed it aside at a brass spittoon. His aim was no better than it had been two years ago.

“The attempt to murder Rourke actually goes back to three other murders, Mike. When you solve those you should know pretty well what happened in Tim’s apartment Tuesday night. Here’s the last story Tim wrote in the
Courier.
It was published Tuesday afternoon, and gives you a pretty fair background.” He passed a folded newspaper to Shayne and settled back with a fresh black stogie.

SHAYNE SPREAD THE NEWSPAPER out on Gentry’s desk and spotted Rourke’s by-lined story prominently displayed on the front page. He read:

Three men have been murdered in Miami Beach during the past week. The murders have not been solved. No arrests have been made. No arrests are anticipated by those who know the record of the Miami Beach detective bureau under the leadership
(sic)
of Chief Peter Painter.

In an exclusive interview with Chief Painter this morning, this reporter offered to furnish Miami Beach detectives evidence conclusively indicating that these three deaths are a direct outgrowth of the operations of a criminal ring which threatens to engulf the entire Greater Miami Area in a wave of terrorism unparalleled in our history.

This information and assistance was refused by Chief Painter. With his own so-called “investigation” bogged down by a lack of clues and the chief’s stubborn insistence that there is no crime wave in his bailiwick, citizens of Miami Beach can look, forward to a continuation of these terroristic killings, encouraged and abetted by official complacency which refuses to look facts in the face.

In these columns the
Courier
has repeatedly warned its readers of the dangers they face so long as certain selfish civic and business leaders continue to keep the lid clamped tightly on the truth, and continue to encourage the growing power of the criminal elements which threaten us.

So that the public may know and be warned,
the factual evidence offered to Chief Painter and refused consideration by him this morning is herewith presented in detail. Read the
truth
and draw your own conclusions.

The first victim in this series of related murders was Peter Jordan, 42, a minor executive of one of the Beach hotels. Monday night, Peter Jordan drove unaccompanied to the Oceanview Club, one of the three recently renovated establishments on the Beach where large-scale gambling openly flourishes.

During the evening, Peter Jordan was consistently lucky at one of the four ornate roulette tables which may be viewed by anyone who cares to visit the club. It was Mr. Jordan’s misfortune to win about $6,000,

At approximately 11:30, he cashed in his chips and went into the large bar where suckers are assuaged with free drinks. There he was accosted by a young lady of striking blond beauty. This couple had a few drinks on the house and reached some agreement whereby they went out together in Mr. Jordan’s automobile.

At 2:15, his car was discovered by the police, parked on Ocean Boulevard. Jordan’s body was in the front seat. He had been shot through the heart with a .32 caliber automatic that had been pressed against his right side. His wallet was empty. The blonde had disappeared.

So much for Mr. Peter Jordan, Number One of the three murder victims during the past week. In their “official investigation” Chief Painter’s men have uncovered none of the facts cited above. They found a body in an automobile and no trace of the killer.

Two nights later, among hundreds who swarmed into the swanky Sundown Club (under the same management as the Oceanview) was a lad named Jim Crowley. He was an honorably discharged veteran of this war, recently married, and visiting Miami Beach for a period of rest and rehabilitation.

Jim Crowley had learned to shoot craps in the army. He was unfortunately lucky at one of the crap tables in the Sundown Club on Wednesday night, building up an original roll of less than $100 into a sum estimated by various envious witnesses to be about $9,000.

Shortly past midnight, Jim Crowley drifted into the barroom for a nightcap on the house. He had several nightcaps and fell into conversation with a young lady of striking blond beauty. They left the Sundown Club together in a car which Crowley had borrowed from a friend for the evening. Two hours later the car was discovered by police, parked on an obscure side street less than ten blocks from the Sundown Club. Crowley’s body was in the front seat. He had been shot through the heart with a .32
caliber automatic that had been pressed against his right side. There was a stain of lipstick on his mouth. His wallet was empty. There was no trace of the blonde.

Jim Crowley was Number Two in this series of “unrelated killings” (a direct quote from Chief Painter). Because the bullets taken from the two bodies were not fired from the same gun. Chief Painter is not aware that Jim Crowley was gambling that night at the Sundown Club and had the misfortune to win a pile of money. He refuses to credit the existence of a blond girl.

Murder Number Three occurred Friday night. The opening scene is at the very exclusive (you have to have a few dollars in your pocket to gain admission) Tip Top Club (under the same management as the Ocean-view and Sundown). The man marked for murder was Mr. Harvey J. Hazard, a business man from Miami, well known throughout the city as a wealthy widower and a “sport.”

Like his predecessor, Mr. Jordan, Harvey Hazard was unlucky at the roulette table, winning several thousand which swelled his large original investment to well over $10,000. With this sum in his pocket, Hazard visited the bar and hoisted a few on the house, speaking jovially to various acquaintances.

A few of them noticed him in intimate conversation with a young lady of striking blond beauty.

They left the Tip Top Club together at a few minutes before two o’clock in Mr. Hazard’s convertible roadster.

Less than an hour later, Mr. Hazard’s convertible roadster was found parked near the Beach entrance to the Venetian Causeway. Hazard’s body was slumped under the wheel. A striking dissimilarity from the two previous killings was noted by the alert Beach detectives in that Hazard had been shot twice with a .32
automatic pressed against his right side. One of the bullets had penetrated his heart. His money was gone. And so was the ubiquitous blonde. Neither of the bullets matched either of the two death slugs dug out of the hearts of Peter Jordan and Jim Crowley. Thus, it is obvious to Chief Peter Painter that none of the three murders are in any way related.

These are the facts. They are easily ascertained by anyone aware that the Oceanview, Sundown, and Tip Top Clubs are operating openly on the Beach in defiance of (or in connivance with) the authorities pledged to stamp out such illegal practices. The truth of the above statements can be verified by anyone who cares to examine the affidavits in this reporter’s possession.

Chief Painter is not interested in these facts. He blandly denies the existence of the three clubs named in this column. He is not aware that a man named Brenner manages these three establishments for the syndicate that financed them.

The
Courier
makes no accusations. It presents the facts for the information and the consideration of any persons who may be interested. We believe in Miami and we believe in the future of the Greater Miami Area. That great future lies in the hands of the public, and not in the hands of a selfish few who condone murder as an inevitable concomitant of the way of life they would force upon us.

Shayne finished reading the story with a low whistle. He leaned back and muttered, “The
Courier
ran this the day Rourke was shot?”

“In the Blue-Flash edition. The first one to hit the street about two-thirty. And
only
in that one edition,” Gentry added with a slow grin. “The managing editor caught the story and killed it in all the later editions.”

“Had Rourke been writing much stuff like this?”

“He’s been pounding on that line for several days,” Gentry admitted. “Needling Painter and hinting that those three murders were tied up with the new and growing gambling racket on the Beach. Nothing like this last story,” he added hastily. “This was the first time he took his gloves off and named names, or gave any of those facts he’d dug up.”

“The damned fool,” Shayne muttered hoarsely. “He should have had sense enough to know they’d go gunning for him if he started giving names and descriptions to the paper before the murders were solved. What’s got into him, Will? Was he imagining things, or is it getting that bad?”

“It’s getting bad, Mike,” Gentry told him soberly. “We’ve had our hands full the last few months. It’s been getting bad,” he repeated. “We’ve held things down pretty well on this side of the Bay, but you know the Beach has always been inclined to wink both eyes at stuff like that. You can’t blame Painter too much. He’s got a job to hang onto.”

Shayne lit another Picayune, disregarding Gentry’s shudder of revulsion. “So Rourke had been riding this line for days, and then suddenly comes up with this broadside. No wonder they killed the story after one edition.”

“The way I get it,” said Gentry, “that story was a sort of slap in the face for Walter Bronson, the managing editor. He and Rourke have tangled several times in the past when he tried to hold Tim down, and it seems he read the riot act to Tim Tuesday morning. So Tim faked a tame story for his okay and sneaked this one in instead. He knew it’d be the last he’d write for the
Courier,
so he made it good and hot.”

“Walter Bronson,” said Shayne meditatively. “I thought Wilcox was the
Courier
editor.”

“They fired Wilcox about a year ago and imported Bronson from New York. He’s a big shot, I guess. I never met him myself, but I’ve heard Tim’s gripes. He bought a big place on the Beach, makes speeches at the Chamber of Commerce—” Gentry waved a beefy hand to indicate more of the same.

“No wonder he tried to gag Rourke.”

“Jimmy Dolan says Bronson was sore as hell about that story. Rushed out to fire Rourke and found a note in Tim’s typewriter telling him where to stick his job.”

Shayne chuckled. “Tim never did give a damn. I’ve had to hog-tie him a couple of times to keep him from going off half-cocked with a front-page story before the time was ripe. Always sticking his neck out.”

“Seems to me,” said Gentry, “I remember your neck being on the block a couple of times—and the ax raised.”

Shayne arched a bushy red brow at Gentry and went on gravely, “You say this thing hit the streets at two-thirty? Sometime between noon and four o’clock Tim took a hell of a beating. And by ten-thirty that night he had a couple of slugs inside him.”

“That’s right,” Gentry said quietly. “From a thirty-two fired from close enough to leave powder burns. The slugs don’t check with any one of the bullets taken from the other three murder victims.”

“Someone must have a big supply of thirty-twos,” Shayne grunted. “A new gun for every job. This blonde—could she be the gal who came to visit Rourke while he was out getting himself beat up?”

“Could be. Maybe she arranged it, thinking she wouldn’t get caught in his apartment. The manager said she was blond and beautiful.”

Shayne’s blunt finger tips drummed impatiently on the chair arm. “Even Painter couldn’t ignore a story like this. It must have pushed him into doing something.”

Gentry shrugged heavily. “None of those three clubs were open for business Tuesday night. Painter made a lot of noise about personally leading a raiding party on all of them about midnight, and they were locked tight.”

“Tipped off?”

“That story was plenty of tip-off,” Gentry pointed out mildly. “Brenner was smart enough to know a raid was overdue.”

“Who is Brenner?”

“I don’t know too much about him. Strictly from the grapevine, he was one of the big betting operators. Fixed a few races, maybe. Generally knew where the smart money was going. They say he’s gathered together quite a bunch of gun-quick lads for this Beach gambling deal.”

“And blond gun molls?”

“I don’t know about that. I’d say Brenner is fronting for some big money.”

“Who?”

“That’ll take some digging.”

“How do you make it, Will? Rourke, I mean.”

“About the same as you do, I guess.” He gestured toward the newspaper. “There’s enough dynamite with the fuse lighted to get a dozen reporters gunned. Brenner and his backers wouldn’t like that sort of stuff, and Blondie and her mob wouldn’t be too happy about that publicity. Tim mentions affidavits. His room was thoroughly searched.”

Shayne said angrily, “The damned fool asked for it all right. How about the syndicate he mentions?”

“I don’t know anything about it. I think it was mostly guesswork. There had to be a lot of pressure on Painter to let the joints run, and some of it must have hit Bronson, too, to make him clamp down on Rourke. After all, stuff like that is damned good for circulation.”

“How can I get to Brenner?”

“I think he has an office at the Sundown, but I understand all three clubs are closed. If you’re smart you’ll stay away from Brenner.”

Shayne’s face hardened and he didn’t say anything.

“I know you won’t be smart,” Gentry admitted, “but I’ve got to warn you, Mike. This isn’t quite like the old days. This new crop is far more vicious. Once word gets around that Mike Shayne is horning in there’ll be a lot of fast triggers looking for you. And you’ll be on your own across the Bay. You know how Painter’s going to take it.”

“Yeh. I know how Painter’ll take it.”

“You can’t walk into the middle of it like you used to and blast ’em apart,” Gentry warned heavily. “These three gambling-house murders are only a small part of the whole thing. Rourke concentrated on them because they were a definite springboard.”

Shayne said stubbornly, “I’ve always been able to take care of myself.”

“Sure. I could have written that line for you.” He sighed and puffed gently on his half-smoked cigar. “How’ve things been with you in New Orleans?”

“So-so. I’ve gotten soft with a lot of easy stuff.”

“Why’d you ever leave Miami, Mike? I know you followed a case to New Orleans, but we expected you’d come back.”

Shayne said, “Everything in Miami reminded me of Phyllis. And now if Rourke kicks off, everything here is going to remind me of him.” He drew in a long breath and his gray eyes became very bright. “God! The times Tim and I had.” He shook his red head, then asked casually, “You got an extra gat I could borrow?”

Chief Gentry looked surprised. “You never used to pack one. I always thought—”