Marked for Murder (6 page)

“Things have changed in the two years you’ve been away.”

Shayne nodded. He rubbed his square jaw reflectively. “I guess they have.”

Lucky Laverty turned his gaze away from Shayne’s cold eyes. He said, “Deal the cards,” to the man with the pink bald head.

Shayne turned and went out. A couple of the punks from the bar had dragged Bug-eyes up to a chair at the table and he had his jaw in both hands and was working it from side to side and moaning. The punks shrank back and looked at Shayne with scared eyes as he stalked past them.

At the bar, Shayne ordered a double shot of brandy. The bartender slopped out a double shot and said, “That’s a buck, Mister.”

Shayne drank slowly. When he finished he set the glass down and said, “It’s on Lucky.” He went out and got in the coupé, took his time about starting the motor and driving away.

No one came out of the barroom. Insofar as he could tell, no one followed him.

SHAYNE TURNED EAST on 13th Street and drove across Biscayne Boulevard onto the County Causeway leading across Biscayne Bay. A shimmering serpentine of lights marked the curving road, the glow reflecting in the rippling water.

A gentle breeze came through the window, cool and moist, heavy with the indefinable fragrance of tropical flowers mingled with the clean smell of salt sea air. An impossibly large and implausibly golden moon floated in the velvety blue of the night above the peninsula directly ahead, making a moon path on the bay. Shayne relaxed at the wheel of the police coupé, slowed his speed to 20 miles an hour, and reacquainted himself with the beauty of the tropical night.

Fleetingly, he found it good to be home again. He felt a surge of strength and assurance which had been lacking of late. Somehow, his work in New Orleans didn’t seem important now. He had a feeling of having marked time for nearly two years. It had been a long time since this sense of urgency pounded through him.

In a sudden flash of clarity he realized that was the ingredient lacking in nearly all his New Orleans cases. There had been no personal stress driving him on. In retrospect, they seemed dull and uninteresting after his years in Miami where every case had found him behind the eight ball fighting his way out.

Now, he was behind the eight ball again, and it was a good feeling. The brief interview with Lucky Laverty had raised his spirits immeasurably, and given the impetus he needed. The odds were stacked against him again, and that, by God, was the way he liked it.

He hit the east end of the Causeway and rolled east two blocks, made a left turn, and drove directly to the Flagler hospital. He parked the coupé and went in, stopped at the information desk to ask the number of Timothy Rourke’s room.

The girl told him 312, and he went up in an elevator. He started down the cool, silent hall and his number twelves sounded loud on the tiled floor. He saw the familiar uniform of a Beach cop on a man seated on a chair outside a door, but the officer’s face was unfamiliar.

Stopping in front of room 312, he started to open the door. The officer stood up and drawled, “Hold it. No admittance.”

Shayne said, “I’m looking for Tim Rourke.”

“No visitors allowed.”

“Whose orders?”

“The chief’s. Who are you?”

“Don’t you recognize a dick when you see one?” Shayne asked.

The cop looked him over carefully. Shayne tipped his hat back and scowled. The cop shook his head. “I never saw you before.”

“I’m private.”

“Maybe so. That don’t let you in.”

“The hell it doesn’t. I’ve come a couple of thousand miles to see Tim and no damned flatfoot is going to keep me out.”

“Let me see your tin.”

Shayne drew out his wallet and flipped it open to show his Florida identification. The cop frowned at it, looked up at him in surprise, and said, “Michael Shayne, eh? I’ve heard about you.”

“That flatters hell out of me,” said Shayne. He replaced his wallet, jerked the door open, and went in. The cop’s mouth dropped open and he took a step forward, but paused doubtfully as Shayne closed the door firmly behind him.

A pretty blond nurse got up from her chair beside the bed. She looked trim and competent and tired. Shayne advanced on tiptoe and looked down at Timothy Rourke lying on his back. His eyes were closed and his breathing unnaturally loud and irregular. His face was pallid and the bruises stood out in bold purplish relief. Shayne was shocked to see how old he looked—only the husk of the vigorous man he had known—as though all vitality and life had been drained out of his strong lean body.

Shayne had his hat off and clenched tightly in his hand. He stood flat-footed beside the head of the bed for a full minute before turning to look at the nurse who stood close to him.

She put her hand on his forearm and led him aside to the shuttered window. She asked, “Are you a close relative?” in a low voice.

Shayne said, “Tim was my best friend. How is he doing?”

“They operated on him two hours ago. It was the only chance to save him. He’s doing better than the doctor hoped,” she told him frankly.

“Will he get well?”

“You’ll have to talk to Dr. Fairweather.” The nurse hesitated, then said, “We’re not supposed to discuss our cases, but he has a fighting chance. His constitution is very strong. Every hour he holds on is encouraging.”

“How can he fight when he’s lying there unconscious?” Shayne demanded fiercely.

“It would be dangerous for him to return to consciousness right now,” she answered. “Dangerous for him to move a muscle of his body.”

“How long before he’ll be allowed to wake up?”

The nurse moved her head slowly from side to side. “He hasn’t been conscious since he has been here. Perhaps that’s best no matter which way the tide turns.”

Shayne turned around and looked again at the inert figure on the bed. He said, “Will you let me know when he comes out of this? I can be reached at Will Gentry’s office, police headquarters in Miami.”

“If I can get the doctor’s permission.” She jotted down the information he gave her and asked, “Your name?”

“Michael Shayne. Tell Tim I’ve come—when he wakes up. He’ll understand.”

He went out and strode past the guard at the door to the elevator and went down. Outside the hospital, he drew in a long breath and let it out explosively, then got in the coupé and circled back toward the business section of Miami Beach.

Fifteen minutes later he parked in front of the Blackstone Apartments. The small lobby was empty when he went in. Remembering that the manager was also janitor and general repairman, he went over to the desk and leaned on it. He smoked a Picayune and waited. There was a double row of mail pigeonholes behind the desk. He idly glanced at them through a haze of smoke.

He frowned as he noticed three letters wedged in the box numbered 2-D, the number Gentry mentioned as Rourke’s apartment. Glancing around to assure himself there was no one in sight, he circled the counter and took the letters from 2-D.

He slipped them into his coat pocket, came back, and went directly to the stairway. He went up and found Rourke’s apartment, turned the knob tentatively, and then unlocked the door with a key from his ring. Stepping inside, he closed the door quietly.

The apartment was dark, with the musty smell of being closed. There was no transom through which light could shine, so he felt along the wall for the switch and pressed it. The room was in the depressing state of upheaval the homicide boys had left it.

Shayne’s ragged red brows crawled down in a scowl as he studied the rusty stains on the floor that had been Rourke’s blood. Stepping over the spot, he went through the breakfast nook, glanced in the kitchen, returned, and went through the small archway and stopped in the bedroom door.

Turning on the light, he took a quick look around. He had no real hope of finding a clue that the police had overlooked. Even Painter’s crew knew how to search a place thoroughly. He glowered at the upset condition of the room, noted that the bedcovers were turned back and rumpled. He had forgot to ask Chief Gentry how Rourke was dressed when he was shot.

Turning off the light, he went into the living-room, got Rourke’s mail from his pocket, and looked at it. Two of the letters were bills from local department stores. He discarded them and studied the third. It was a square envelope of heavy, creamy paper, addressed in heavy sprawled handwriting that might have been a man’s, but looked more like that of a woman who was excited or in haste or intoxicated. It was postmarked Miami Beach, 5:00 p.m. the preceding Tuesday afternoon. There was no return address.

Shayne handled it gingerly to preserve the faint possibility of fingerprints, sliding a key under the pointed flapper and working it open. He drew out a single sheet of folded heavy paper such as can be bought in any drugstore. There was no salutation, no date. It read:
If
you are in the market to buy some information for your paper, call CA 3842.

It had been mailed on the afternoon before Rourke was shot. A few hours after the Blue-Flash edition of the
Courier
went on sale.

Shayne carefully refolded the note and slid it back into the envelope. He sat down on the sofa and let his eyes brood around the room. He shook his head angrily, went to the telephone, picked it up, and put it to his ear.

A voice came over the wire immediately, breathless and excited. “Is this 2-D?”

Shayne said gruffly, “Sure. The police. You weren’t in the lobby when I came up for another look around. Connect me with Causeway 3842.”

Mr. Henty said, “Yes, sir,” with evident relief. There was a click and then a telephone started ringing. Shayne listened to it ring eight times. Mr. Henty broke in apologetically, “That number doesn’t seem to answer, officer.”

Shayne said, “Get me Information.”

Henty connected him with Information and Shayne said, “I’d like to get the address of this telephone number… Causeway 3842.”

It took her a couple of minutes to check. She said, “The address is Six-Fourteen Tempest Street.”

Shayne thanked her and hung up. He stood by the telephone for a moment tugging at his left ear lobe, his gray eyes looking at the scattered sheets of typescript on the floor. That would be part of Rourke’s novel—the one he had been working on for ten years.

A grim smile tightened his wide mouth. TGAN, Rourke had factitiously referred to his novel. The Great American Novel that every newspaperman dreams of writing. Shayne recalled the time when another newspaperman named Clyde Brion Davis had published a novel by that title, and how angered Rourke had been. He had demanded to know what in hell that left a damned reporter to dream about.

Shayne jerked his thoughts back from the past, went out of the apartment and closed the door. He went downstairs and Mr. Henty jumped up from his chair at the switchboard. His eyes widened when he saw Shayne. He gulped and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He stammered, “You’re not—that is, I don’t—uh—are you the man who was just in 2-D?”

“That’s right,” said Shayne, moving toward the door without breaking his stride. “Special investigator called in by Chief Painter. I’ll want to have a talk with you later.”

He drove away trying to recall the location of Tempest Street. He knew it was out north toward the Roney Plaza, so he followed Ocean Boulevard, scanning the street signs as he went. He found it about a dozen blocks north of 5th Street and turned to the left, driving slowly and checking house numbers.

Number 614 proved to be one side of a one-story stuccoed duplex house set discreetly back from the street behind a hedge of flowering oleanders. He drove on to the next block before parking, and walked back. Number 614 showed no light in the windows. The other half of the duplex was 616, and the curtained front windows were lighted. He went up the path and onto the porch serving both entrances and rang the bell of darkened 614.

A curtain at one of the lighted windows on the other side fluttered. He turned his head to see a girl peering out at him. He kept on ringing the bell without result, looked down at the common door lock and began fishing in his pocket for his key ring with his other hand.

The window curtain dropped back into place. A moment later the front door of number 616 opened and a girl looked out at him. She had jet black hair and heavy black brows and an oval face. Long black lashes fringed the lids of her light-brown eyes. She wore a flowered hostess gown of cool green material and a smile of welcome. She said, “You won’t get anywhere ringing Madge’s bell, Redhead. Why don’t you come on in here?” Her lips were very red and her complexion looked sun-tanned.

Shayne said, “Where’s Madge?”

“I don’t know, but she’s not at home. Hasn’t been for a couple of days. Out partying, I guess.”

Shayne jingled his key ring and frowned as he picked out a key. He tried out a puzzled look that was successful, and said, “That’s funny. I had a date with her tonight. Made it last Tuesday.”

The dark-haired girl laughed softly. “Madge must have been drunk when she made it and forgot all about it.” She looked up at his face and studied it under the dim porch light. “I haven’t seen you here before, have I?”

Shayne grinned and inserted a chosen key in the lock of 614. “I’m an old friend of Madge’s. Just got back in town. She gave me a key when I ran into her on Tuesday.” He turned it in the lock and hoped it would work. It did. It required a little pressure but it turned. He said over his shoulder as he opened the door, “I guess I’ll go in and wait a little while, anyhow.”

“You can wait for her in my house and I’ll fix you a drink,” said the girl in a husky, persuasive voice. “I’m not doing a thing this evening.”

“I’ll take you up on that if Madge doesn’t show up soon.” He went on in and closed the door.

He could hear an electric clock purring on the mantel and an electric refrigerator running. He felt along the wall and found a light switch and looked around the small neat living-room furnished with wicker furniture upholstered in gay cretonne. He went on to the dinette and kitchen, turning on lights as he went. There was no sound except the humming refrigerator.

Returning to the living-room he opened a door leading to a hall. The bathroom door was open, and to the left another door was partly open. There was a faint fragrance in his nostrils, mingled with the scent of another odor, an acrid odor that was almost imperceptible in the still, close air.

Shayne’s wide nostrils flared and he felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He pushed the bedroom door wide open, turned on the light, and looked somberly down at the corpse of a girl lying half off the bed. She wore a pair of black net stockings, the tops rolled above her knees. The rest of her slim young body was nude. She lay on her stomach with her right arm and leg trailing off the bed, her left leg stretched straight and taut with the toes straining toward the footboard. Her left arm encircled a pillow, and there was dried blood on the pillow and on the sheet beside her breast.

Shayne took two steps forward and touched her bare shoulder with the tip of his index finger. The flesh was cold and hard. He pressed down hard, and knew that she had been dead at least 24 hours.