Marked for Murder (5 page)

“I’ve still got my Florida license,” Shayne interrupted. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I’d still like to try walking into the middle of it.”

Gentry opened a drawer and brought out a .38 Police Positive and laid it on the desk. Shayne picked it up, thumbed the hammer back enough to release the cylinder, and spun it to see that it was loaded all around. He unbuttoned the two bottom buttons of his shirt, thrust the gun inside and under his waistband.

Shayne stood up and said, “Thanks, Will. One more favor. Is there a spare heap around?”

“Sure. Jorgensen will fix you up.” Gentry got up and held out his hand. “Keep your nose clean, Mike. And let me know.”

Shayne said, “I will—and thanks again,” and went out to look for Sergeant Jorgensen.

SHAYNE FOUND JIMMY DOLAN and a few others of the staff lolling at their desks and listening to the clatter of the teletypes in the
Courier
office. Dolan was a wiry little Irishman with a big mouth, a crooked nose, and a soft heart. He was an ex-lightweight of Benny Leonard’s era, and did a sports column for the
Courier.

He jumped up from his desk and came forward with a grin splitting his face, his feet and fists simulating a boxer’s, exclaiming, “It’s Mike Shayne in the flesh and a sight for sore eyes. If Tim could see you—”

“They say Tim’s bad,” Shayne answered, engulfing the sports writer’s smaller hand in his big palm.

“Mighty bad, Mike. I went to see him this afternoon. Laid out like dead with a pretty nurse tending him. If he’d open his eyes and see her, he’d be up and about his business in a hurry. She’s a cute blonde, and you know how Tim is about—”

“Blondes,” Shayne finished for him. “Did you talk to the nurse about his condition?”

“I told her I was official, see? From the office here, and she said they’d operate on him tomorrow morning if he was in shape. They’ve been filling his veins full of blood fast as it leaked out, and gave him some stuff for his heart. Now if they can just get him to come to, Tim would fight it out himself, but—”

“Do you know anything about those murders he was investigating?” Shayne interrupted. He had been on the listening side in conversations with Jimmy Dolan before.

“Not a thing, Mike.” Dolan shook his graying head disconsolately. “You know what a tight mouth he was on a story like that.” He led the way back to his desk and pulled up a chair for Shayne, got out a short-stemmed, foul-smelling briar, and began filling it from a zippered pouch, pressing the rough-cut down firmly in the bowl with a stubby thumb.

“I’m wondering about his pipelines,” Shayne said, as Dolan lit his pipe. “If I could get a lead in that direction I might learn something.”

“He had plenty, but no man ever knew who they were.”

“He mentioned affidavits in his last story. Any chance something like that would be stashed here in the office?”

Dolan didn’t answer until he had worried his pipe into burning evenly. He said, “Yes and no, Mike. I’d say the stuff might have been here once, but it isn’t now.”

“Did Tim take it with him? I understand he resigned.”

“Yep. It was like this, Mike. When the Old Man saw the Blue Flash, he saw red. Came stamping out of his office like a mad bull and yelling for Rourke. He went over to Rourke’s desk and started pawing through the drawers.” Dolan stopped to chuckle. “Then he saw the sheet of paper Tim left in his typewriter. Yessir, Tim beat him to the last punch. Walked out without saying a word to anybody.”

“Did he clean out his desk?” Shayne asked.

“Tim? I don’t know. I saw him putting some things in his pockets before he walked out. But some of the boys said Bronson came back to the office after supper last night and went through Tim’s desk and cleaned it out good.”

“How late after supper?”

“Eight or nine o’clock. Minerva could give you the dope on that. You remember Minerva.”

Shayne nodded. “What kind of a heel is Bronson?”

Dolan looked cautiously about him, lowered his voice, and said, “A puffed-up adding machine. Thinks he’s a tin God on wheels, likes to crack a whip just to hear it crack.”

“Why did he oppose Tim’s writing the stuff he’d been writing? Rourke had sense enough to steer clear of libel. And a campaign like that always jumps circulation.”

“Bronson claimed he thought it was bad for the community. Give people the wrong idea about Miami and scare the northern investors away. His henchmen didn’t like the stink.”

“Henchmen?” Shayne’s left brow arched quizzically.

“His big-shot friends—the Chamber of Commerce, and so forth.” Dolan took the gurgling pipe from his mouth and spat in the direction of the spittoon.

“Do you think he had any other reason for trying to muzzle Rourke?”

Dolan looked up quickly, his faded eyes keen and speculative. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing you can chew on.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Bronson lived on balance sheets and statements of profit and loss. He was imported from New York to build up circulation.”

Shayne nodded. He started to get up, then settled back. “One thing more, Jimmy. What’s the inside dope on Tim’s love life?”

Dolan chuckled knowingly. “Let’s see. You left about two years ago. That would be Jessie’s time. Remember Jessie Newton?”

Shayne nodded.

“That burned out two or three months after you left. Then there was a cute little redhead—about twenty and hot as a firecracker from the way she acted. They were pretty thick for a time and it’s my guess she burned him out. She disappeared and we began to see Tim around again. And she’s the last as far as I know. That’s been about a year ago. If he had anything on the string after the redhead, he was keeping it mighty quiet around the office.”

Shayne said, “He never used to bother to keep it quiet.”

“I know. Tim always paraded his dolls around the office. It doesn’t seem reasonable he’d be true to the redhead a year after they broke up, now does it?”

“That’s not like Tim,” Shayne said casually, then asked, “How do you go about getting in touch with Brenner?”

“Hake Brenner?” Dolan wrinkled his forehead. “I wouldn’t try to find out if I was you, Mike. If he finds out why you’re in Miami—”

“I can’t get anywhere by walking around in circles,” Shayne remonstrated.

“You’ll get farther than you will by riding around in a hearse.”

“I still want to see Brenner.”

“You might ask Laverty. I’ve heard he and Brenner used to be pals.”

“Lucky Laverty?”

“You’ll find him around.”

“Is Minerva here?” Shayne asked.

“Minerva’s always around, sour-pussed as ever.”

Shayne got up and said, “Thanks, Dolan,” and went across to the managing editor’s private office. The door stood open and the light was on. Minerva’s cubbyhole opened off to one side. She was sitting erect at her desk typing, her sharp, plain features weary and her gray hair untidily piled in a bun at the back of her head. She wore a black skirt and a crisp white shirtwaist and low-heeled shoes.

She looked up as Shayne came toward her and she stopped typing.

Shayne grinned. He thought he saw a glint of tears in her eyes. Her tight, unrouged lips loosened and trembled undeniably. He said, “Minerva! As gorgeous as ever,” and was beside her chair.

She blinked her eyes and a tear rolled down her cheek. He tipped her chin up and planted a hearty kiss on her unresponsive lips. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about Tim.”

“That good-for-nothing,” she sniffed. “Why would I worry about him?”

“Why, indeed,” said Shayne cheerfully. “You always said he’d come to no good end.” He sat down on one corner of her neat desk. “How do you like your new boss?”

She said, “Did you come back to—to—?”

“Why else? You can help me, Minerva.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Shayne. Tim was saying only yesterday you ought to be here to get after that mess on the Beach.” Her voice was prim again and she rearranged her features.

“I’m wondering about any stuff that might have been in Tim’s desk. He claimed he had some affidavits, according to his story.”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Bronson cleaned out his desk that evening.”

“What did he do with the stuff?”

“Put it in a big Manila envelope and took it away with him.” She looked down at the typewriter keys and continued, “He’d had me draw a check to Timothy that afternoon, and he took that with him too. I think he planned to see him. At least he had me look up his address in the file.”

“What time did Bronson leave here?”

“It must have been about nine-thirty.”

“Was he still sore at Rourke?”

“He doesn’t confide such things to me.”

“Don’t kid me, Minerva. A man doesn’t have to confide things for you to know them. Tim used to say you knew it when he was just thinking about going out on a binge.”

She looked up and smiled fleetingly. “Mr. Bronson said some terrible things about Timothy that afternoon. He had cooled off by evening, but I don’t think he had forgiven him.”

“Has your sixth sense by any chance given you an inkling as to who Tim’s latest flame is? A blond babe with plenty of oomph?”

Minerva didn’t answer at once. She turned her eyes away from Shayne’s intent gray gaze and her thin mouth tightened. After a moment she said, “Mr. Shayne, I’ve never been disloyal to an employer. I’ve tried to stay out of all this, but Timothy has always been a sort of pet of mine. Now that he—he’s had this terrible thing happen to him, and all because he was trying to do his duty as he saw it, I’m willing to do what I can to help find his—the person who shot him.”

“Good girl! Now what about Tim’s latest?”

She hesitated again, and the strain of her indecision showed plainly in her expression. Then she began in an apologetic voice: “I’m not accustomed to gossiping, Mr. Shayne, but a woman is a fool to come around with her eyes blazing at a man and expect another woman not to suspect it.” She paused, then blurted out, “That’s exactly what Mrs. Bronson does—to Timothy. And she makes it a point to come here when she knows Mr. Bronson is out.” She leaned toward Shayne and almost whispered, “She goes over to his desk and hangs over him. Timothy tries not to pay any attention to her except to be courteous, but—I wonder if he’s just
courteous
to her—at other times. He hasn’t brought a girl around here for a long time. Not since right after the Bronsons came.”

“And Mrs. Bronson is a blonde?” Shayne asked casually. There was no change in his expression.

“And very beautiful. She looks much younger than I’m sure she is. Another woman can always tell that, too.”

“Where do the Bronsons live?”

“On the Beach.”

“I mean the address,” Shayne amended.

“Eighteen thirty-two Magnolia Avenue,” she told him. An odd flush rose in her pale cheeks and she said hastily, “You won’t even breathe I told you anything, will you, Mr. Shayne?”

“You know you don’t have to worry about that, Minerva,” Shayne said gravely. He got up and stood looking down at her slight figure. “Don’t worry about Tim. He’ll be back to devil you again. And thanks.”

He strolled out, waved to Jimmy Dolan, and went out to the elevator.

Outside, he got in the police coupé Sergeant Jorgensen had found for him and drove to Miami Avenue. He turned north a few blocks and stopped in front of a small barroom squeezed in between a delicatessen and a pawnshop, and went in.

Half a dozen men were lounging at the bar. The bartender was a stranger to Shayne. Lucky Laverty was nowhere in sight. Two of the men at the bar were roughly dressed laborers, the others thin-faced punks.

Shayne went behind them toward a closed rear door. A man was seated at a table with a glass of beer. He was wearing a purple-striped shirt with bright suspenders and tight-waisted pants flaring into big legs at the bottom. He was about 25, with a slack mouth and protuberant eyes. He watched Shayne approach, pushed back his beer, and got up when Shayne went toward the door without looking at him.

He got in front of Shayne, muttering menacingly, “Where you think you’re goin’, bub?”

“In to see Lucky Laverty,” Shayne said mildly.

“Like hell. Not without—”

“Scram.” Shayne swung him aside with a sweeping motion of his right arm, and started on.

The doorkeeper crouched with a sobbing snarl, and naked steel flickered toward Shayne. Shayne drove the side of his big hand hard against the thrusting wrist and a knife spun to the floor. He hit the doorman on the point of his chin with a looping left, and he subsided quietly.

Shayne opened the door and went into a small back room thick with tobacco smoke. A green-shaded drop-light glared above a round poker table surrounded by five players. There were chips and cards on the table, and a fat man with a pink bald head was dealing stud. He slapped a card down and looked at Shayne, as did the others.

Shayne glanced around the circle of intent faces and let his gaze come to rest on Lucky Laverty’s face. Lucky was a well-built man with dark, strong features as inexpressive as chiseled granite. There was a withdrawn, remote look about him, not so much aloofness as carefully studied immobility.

Shayne said, “I wanted to see you, Lucky.”

“You’re seeing me.” The words were quiet and low-toned, as lacking in inflection as though produced by some mechanical contrivance. The other four men continued to stare at Shayne. He knew two of them. One was Whitey Buford. The other was Nig Carlton. Neither of them liked him.

“About Tim Rourke,” Shayne said.

Lucky kept on looking at him and didn’t bother to reply. Whitey was partially hopped up. His eyes flickered and demanded of no one in particular, “Where’s Bug-eyes? Lettin’ a Shamus walk in here.”

Shayne kept his eyes steadily on Lucky. He said, “Bug-eyes pulled a shiv on me. Things have changed in two years.”

“Things have changed,” Lucky said.

“But I haven’t.”

The other men glanced around at each other, then back at Shayne, but Lucky Laverty kept his staring eyes steadily upon the detective.

“Pass that word around,” Shayne said quietly. “To your friend Brenner and anybody else that may be interested.”

Lucky said, “You’re making a mistake, Shayne. Rourke didn’t get it on this side of the Bay.”

“I hear he was digging into stuff you didn’t want opened up.”

“So?”

“Such as blond gun molls and maybe whoever was working the racket with them.”

Nig Carlton pushed his chair back and got up. He had black kinky hair covering a bullet head, and a barrel-like torso. He breathed loudly through his open mouth, as though his nasal passages were obstructed. He growled, “Lemme throw ’im out, Boss.”

Lucky said, “Sit down, Nig.”

Nig sat down reluctantly, his small, close-set, and inflamed eyes glaring at Shayne.

Lucky asked, “Is that all?”

The trenches deepened in Shayne’s gaunt cheek. He said in an oddly gentle voice, “Are you sure you want it this way, Lucky?”