Marked for Murder (7 page)

He straightened quickly when he heard the distant angry whine of a police siren shrilling through the quiet night. His gaunt features tightened as the sound came swiftly nearer. A flash of memory warned him that he hadn’t heard Henty click off the switchboard when he had put through his call to Information from Rourke’s telephone.

There was a back door leading out of the bedroom. The key was in the inside lock. Shayne whipped out a handkerchief and dashed into the living-room, put out the lights, and hurried to the front door to scrub off any possible fingerprints of his own. He trotted back to the bedroom, opened the rear door with the handkerchief covering his hand, slid out and closed it.

The door opened onto a flagstone walk hedged with artillery fern and leading to a small garden. Shayne dashed around the house and circled to the front entrance. He had his finger on the bell button of 616 when he heard the siren stop. He jabbed savagely at the button. The door opened and he pushed in, shoving the black-haired girl aside and slamming the door shut.

She had changed from the housecoat to a sports dress of powder blue that accentuated her curves and softened her whole expression. She said, “You certainly changed your mind in a hurry, Redhead.”

Shayne drew in a deep breath and said rapidly, “Madge is in there—dead. I think the police are coming. If you don’t want to get mixed up in this, let me out the back door in a hurry and forget I was here.”

A car raced up outside and they heard it screech to a stop. The girl’s pupils dilated until they almost covered the iris. She wrung her hands and moaned, “Madge? Dead? How did it happen?”

“Murder.” Shayne put an arm around her roughly and hurried her back toward the bedroom.

“Murder? You said the police were coming. Are you a cop?”

“Do I look like a cop? Why would I be running if I were?” He heard footsteps come up on the front porch. He pulled her inside the bedroom and shut the door. “What’s your name?”

“Helen. But I don’t—”

“I’m in a little jam,” Shayne said in a low, savage voice. “You don’t look like a stool. Madge has been dead a couple of days and God knows I didn’t do it, but you know how cops are. I’ll go out the back and you forget I’ve been here. I’ll circle down the alley to my car in the next block and drive up in front. I’ll ring your doorbell—”

He stopped abruptly and listened to the faint ringing of Madge’s doorbell in the other half of the duplex.

“And when you come to the door, call me Mike like you expected me. What’s your phone number?”

“Causeway 1286.” The bell in Helen’s living-room rang shrilly and insistently.

“Go out and answer it. You didn’t answer your phone when I tried to call you twenty minutes ago because you were in the bath.” Shayne gave her a shove. “Go on out and pull it off if you were really a friend of Madge’s.”

Shayne whirled away from her toward the back bedroom door. It was unlocked, and he quietly opened and closed it. He tiptoed down a flagstone walk identical with the one on the other side, ran across the grass to the alley and to his car.

AFTER CIRCLING AROUND for several minutes, Shayne went back to Tempest Street and parked behind a Miami Beach prowl car in front of the duplex. The front door of 614 stood open and both units were brightly lighted. He got out and strode purposefully to the door of 616 and pressed the button.

The door opened almost instantly and Shayne said, “Helen!” in a loud, pleased tone. He was conscious of a man stepping out of 614 to look at him, but he kept his back turned, went inside and put his arms around Helen, held her close, and said, “Glad to see me, honey? After all this time?”

“Sure, Mike.” Her frightened eyes searched his as he bent to kiss her. There were footsteps on the porch behind them.

A gruff voice demanded, “Who’s that guy, Miss?”

Shayne turned with his arm around her to look at a burly policeman blocking the doorway. He scowled and asked Helen, “What are the cops doing here?”

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered, trying to follow his lead. “It’s something about the girl who lives next door.”

“What’re you horning in here for?” Shayne asked angrily.

“Wanta use your phone,” the policeman said, starting forward.

“What’s the matter with the phone in there?”

“Never mind about that.” He pushed on into the room.

Shayne winked and smiled reassuringly as the man went past them to the telephone. He said, “I tried to call you about twenty minutes ago, kid. You didn’t answer. Been two-timing me?” He made his voice harsh and edged with suspicion. The cop had lifted the phone, and sitting with his back to them dialed a number, but he had his head cocked in a listening attitude.

“No, Mike. There hasn’t been anyone else here. I must have been in the tub with the water running.”

The cop said, “Give me the chief.”

Shayne said, “I’d lost your street address so I had to get Information to look it up from your telephone number when you didn’t answer.”

“I got my phone too late to be listed in the last directory,” Helen said. “Shame on you—losing my letter. Suppose somebody should find it.” She laughed softly.

The cop said, “Hudson reporting, Chief. On that call to Six-Fourteen Tempest. Front door was unlocked. There’s a dame in there, Chief. Stiff.”

He listened for a moment and then said, “Martin and I didn’t see anybody when we pulled up. Dame next door has got a visitor just came in.” After a short pause, he said, “You bet,” and hung up.

Shayne turned to the officer and said, “Did you say there’s a—body next door?” with great interest.

“That’s what I said.”

Helen reacted swiftly and satisfactorily with a moan of astonishment and fright. “Is it Madge Rankin?”

“She didn’t tell me her name.” Hudson moistened his thick lips and leered at her. “What’s your friend Madge look like?”

“Why—Madge is blond and sort of tall and slim—and awfully pretty.”

“She ain’t so pretty now, lady,” he growled. “But she’s still got blond hair.”

She blinked her eyes and a mist formed over them. She sank down on the couch and wailed, “It must be Madge. She must have been there all the time—and I thought she was out having a good t-time.”

Shayne hurried to her and sat down beside her, drawing her dark head down on his shoulder. “Now, don’t go blaming yourself, honey. You couldn’t have even suspected.”

“The chief’ll wanta talk to you both,” Hudson said importantly. “See that you stick around.” He stalked out and slammed the door shut.

Helen looked up at Shayne tearfully. “What’s it all about? P-Poor Madge.” She sat up straight and stared into space.

Shayne said, “I don’t know anything yet. How long have you lived in Miami?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Almost five years,” she said. Her hand came up and she brushed his coat where her face had rested against it. “This darned pancake make-up—it rubbed off on your coat. I’m sorry.”

Shayne cocked his eye down and said, “You must lay it on pretty heavy. Just leave it there. It’s good evidence that you and I are—old friends.” He grinned crookedly.

“You know how it is,” she told him. “Everybody down here in Miami tries to look too—too sun-tanned.”

“Now let’s get this thing straight,” said Shayne. “I knew you three years ago. Did you live here then?”

“Of course not. I lived—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Police sirens were shrilling up Ocean Boulevard. Shayne knew he didn’t have much time. “Now listen carefully,” he said. “My name’s Mike Shayne and I’m a private detective. I got a tip there was trouble at Six-Fourteen but I can’t afford to show in it. I traced the address through the phone number, but I’m going to say it was your number and your address. I’ve been in New Orleans for two years and you wrote me there when you moved in here.”

Sirens were whining down to silence outside. Shayne pulled off his hat and tossed it on a table. “You’re in it now, too,” he warned. “If you change your story one bit they’ll be suspicious as hell.”

Heavy feet were pounding up on the porch outside. “They’ll be in here pretty quick. You mentioned a drink—or did you?”

She laughed softly and said, “I didn’t—but I can take a hint.” She stood up. Suddenly she turned to look at him. Her light-brown eyes were narrowed and cold, and she said evenly, “I think you’re okay, Redhead. I hope so. Madge was a good kid and I’m not helping you if—”

Shayne made an impatient gesture. “I just got in from New Orleans a few hours ago. I can prove it. Madge has been dead a couple of days. How about that drink?”

Helen smiled and her eyes opened wide. She said, “Sure, Mike,” and she moved toward the kitchen, swaying her hips provocatively.

Shayne slumped to a more comfortable position, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He ruffled his bristly red hair with blunt, knobby fingers, then lit a Picayune.

He could hear voices and movement through the partition between the two living-rooms. He checked back over his story rapidly and knew it was full of holes, but it would have to do. Above all else he didn’t want to disclose to Peter Painter the truth about the letter he had picked up in Rourke’s box. That was his one ace in the hole. Without that link, Painter would have no proof that Madge’s murder was in any way connected with Rourke. And this thought reminded him that the letter was still in his pocket.

He took it out as Helen came in from the kitchen with a tray holding two tall frosted glasses. She set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch, saying, “All I had was some gin and Tom Collins mixer.”

“That’ll be swell.” He took a glass and started to drink from it. Holding it in the air, he said, “I’m damned. What in hell’s your last name?”

“Porter. You almost slipped up there, Redhead.” Again she narrowed her eyes at him. “Say, are you on the level about being a private dick?”

Shayne asked hastily, “Married?”

She tossed her head and laughed. “I never met a guy I’d want to be tied down to.”

“All right,” Shayne said impatiently. “Would you recognize Madge’s handwriting?”

“I guess so. Why?”

He handed her the letter. “Did she write that?”

Helen studied the envelope for a moment and nodded. “I’m pretty sure she did. Looks like the paper she uses too.”

“It’s the tip that brought me here. We’ve got to get rid of it. Tear it up and flush it down the drain.”

She stepped back from him, holding the letter in both hands, her eyes wary. “I don’t know about that. How do I know—?”

“Open it and read it. I’m not putting anything over on you.”

She pulled the note out and glanced at the brief message, nodded, and began slowly tearing it into small bits, walking back to the bathroom.

Shayne heard the toilet being flushed just as the doorbell rang. He reached for his glass and took a long drink, got up as the bell rang a second time. With the glass in his left hand and a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, he opened the door. He stepped back and said happily, “Come in, Chief.”

Chief Peter Painter stiffened on the threshold, his flashing black eyes going over Shayne. His mouth, beneath a black threadlike mustache, was mobile. He wore a Palm Beach suit that was immaculate, and as he stood there quite evidently trying to master his surprise, Shayne thought that he had not changed. Peter Painter could still strut standing perfectly still.

He said, “Shayne,” as though the mere forming of the single word caused him acute pain.

Shayne said, “Come on in,” affably, and lounged toward the couch.

Helen Porter re-entered the room. Shayne introduced her to Painter and said, “Come on and get your drink, honey, before the ice melts.” He sat down and patted a place beside him.

Chief Painter moved into the room and stood facing them. He said, “Shayne, by God,” with a passionate intonation, then added bitterly, “I might have known when that apartment-house manager called me it’d be you. When we got out here and found a corpse—hell, it had to be you.”

“That’s right.” Shayne grinned and took one of Helen’s hands in his. “I always did manage to get ahead of you in the old days.”

“Who is she, Shayne? What’s your connection with her?”

“With Helen Porter? She’s an old friend.”

“I’m talking about the woman in Six-Fourteen.”

“I don’t know anything about her. Helen says her name is Madge.”

“Don’t give me that. You tried to call her before coming over here.”

Shayne rumpled his brow and looked perplexed. “Tried to call her? The dead woman? You’re nuts. I tried to call Helen but she was in the tub and didn’t hear the phone ring.”

“Do you deny that you’re the man who broke into Rourke’s apartment by impersonating an officer?” Painter folded his arms. His tone was that of a man fighting to keep a tight rein on his temper.

“I went to Tim’s apartment for a look around,” Shayne admitted quietly. “I used his telephone to try to call Helen.”

“Causeway 3842?” Painter snapped.

“Causeway 1286,” Shayne corrected. “That’s Helen’s number.”

Helen nodded. She was sitting very close to Shayne, erect and anxious, looking from one speaker to the other, frowning a little as though straining to understand what they were sparring about

“But you asked Information for the address after the number didn’t answer. She told you Six-Fourteen Tempest. The number there is Causeway 3842.”

“I don’t know anything about that.” Shayne shrugged and took a long drink from his glass. “Information gave me the address as Six-Sixteen Tempest. That’s
Helen’s
address.”

“Mr. Henty said Six-Fourteen Tempest when he called me on the phone,” Painter said with dangerous calm. “He suspected something wrong when he noticed Rourke’s mail gone from the box. He listened in on your call and he told me Six-Fourteen. Why else do you think the radio car stopped here and went in to find the body?”

“Sounds like a crazy coincidence,” Shayne said. “Either Henty made a mistake or you misunderstood him.”

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t know anything about the dead woman? That you didn’t try to phone her? That it just
happens
you popped up here next door to a corpse a few hours after you reached Miami?”

“The damnedest things happen to me,” Shayne marveled. “Sometimes it seems like I’ve got a natural affinity for corpses.”

“It’s a put-up job,” Painter snorted angrily. “You planned it with this young lady to avoid telling your real connection with the dead woman.”

Shayne looked pained. “I hadn’t seen Helen for almost three years until today.”

“You’ve had plenty of time to coach her since you’ve been here.” Painter strutted six steps away from them and back, then demanded of Helen, “Do you deny he fixed up this lie with you?”

“Wait a minute.” Shayne sprang up. “I’ve let you throw your bantam weight around because I thought maybe after two years we could get along together. Call in your man Hudson if you want to find out the truth. He was here when I arrived—he and his partner. Ask him which door I came to. Ask him if I expected to find a dead woman here—or came to see Helen.”

Painter’s black eyes were sulphurous with rage. He drew his thumbnail across his mustache, went to the front door, and barked, “Hudson!”

The patrolman came in after a few minutes. Painter said, “I want you to tell me exactly what happened and what you and Martin did when you answered this call.”

“We got it over our car radio while we were cruising along Ocean Boulevard. We whipped it over here in not more’n three minutes. Six-Fourteen was dark, but this side was lighted. Martin rang the bell and when nobody answered, I rang this lady’s bell. I asked her about next door, and she said she thought the lady was out, hadn’t seen her around for a couple of days. Then Martin tried the door and found it was unlocked.

“We went in and turned on the lights. We found the stiff in the bedroom. I knew we better not use the phone in there on account of fingerprints, maybe, and I left Martin there and came over here to call you and report. I heard a car pull up and park behind ours just before I rang the bell, so I ducked back and waited to see what he wanted.” He nodded toward Shayne.

“It was him. He came up and rang this lady’s bell. She opened the door and he grabbed her and asked was she glad to see him after all this time. She laughs and says ‘Sure, Mike,’ and he kisses her. They were still kissin’ when I walked in.” Officer Hudson stopped to mop sweat from his face.

Painter said, “Go on,” sharply.

“Well, that’s about all, Chief. I come in and says I want to use the phone and he gets sort of wringy and asks what’s the matter with the phone next door, but I didn’t tell him anything. I just went on and called in to report the body.”

When Hudson stopped talking, Painter whirled on Shayne and snapped, “None of that proves a damn thing, Shayne.”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne interjected. “Did you hear me say anything else, Hudson? While you were dialing?”

Hudson wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t know. Nothing much. You were sort of sore and asked her was she too busy with some other guy when you tried to phone her, and she says no she must have been in the tub—or something like that.”

“What else did you hear while you were waiting for Painter to answer the phone?” Shayne demanded.