Marked for Murder (8 page)

“You told her you’d lost her address and had to get it from Information.”

Shayne turned to Painter. “There’s your verification of the whole thing. I hadn’t had time to fix up anything with Helen when your man overheard that conversation. You can see that Henty just got the wrong address when he eavesdropped.”

“Get out,” Painter said to Hudson.

Hudson looked startled. He mumbled, “Yes, sir,” and got out.

Shayne settled back on the couch and slid an arm around Helen. She snuggled against him and they picked up their drinks.

“Not in a month of Sundays,” Painter raged, “will you ever make me believe you landed here beside a corpse by mere accident. I don’t know how this Porter woman figures in it, but you’re in cahoots somehow.”

“Sure,” Shayne chuckled, “I killed the girl by remote control from New Orleans because I didn’t feel she was the right sort of neighbor for Helen.”

Painter glared at Helen for a moment, and then, “Maybe you killed the girl,” he said stonily, “and got Shayne up here in a hurry to keep you from hanging for it.”

Helen jerked herself erect, her light-brown eyes blazing. “Why, you—!”

Shayne held her tighter and whispered something in her ear. Helen subsided, drained her glass, and set it on the table with a sharp thud.

Painter set his thin lips in a bitter line, took a small black notebook from his pocket, and held a pencil poised above it. “Your full name,” he said to Helen.

“Helen Porter.”

“Miss or Mrs.?”

“Miss.”

“Age?”

“You guess, Inspector.”

He scowled and asked, “Occupation?”

She said, “I have a small income.”

“From what?”

“Investments. Bonds and stuff.” She waved one hand airily.

Painter said, “Humph. Live alone here?”

“I live alone and love it.”

Painter said, “Humph,” again. “What’s the name of the woman next door?”

“Madge Rankin.”

“Miss or Mrs.?”

“Mrs. I think she was divorced.”

“Age?”

“Around thirty, I guess. You couldn’t tell about Madge. She was the kind that—”

“Occupation?” Painter interrupted curtly.

“She was—retired, too.”

“On a small income from investments, bonds, and things?” Painter asked with heavy sarcasm.

“That’s right, Inspector. How’d you ever guess?”

Shayne chuckled and Painter made a funny noise in his throat. He asked, “Did she live alone and love it also?”

“She lived alone. I guess that’s the way she liked it.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Last Tuesday evening. She had a sort of party—” Helen hesitated.

“What kind of party?”

“Just some friends, I guess. I didn’t see who was there. They started whooping it up about nine o’clock—had the radio going real loud. I didn’t butt in because I wasn’t invited.”

“How long did the party last?”

“I don’t know for sure. Not very late. I heard some of them leaving about ten o’clock, but the radio stayed on loud for a while longer.”

“Did you hear a shot?”

“Of course not. I’d have known something had happened to her if I had.”

Shayne asked Painter, “Was the girl shot with a thirty-two?”

Painter frowned at the interruption, nodded curtly, and started to ask Helen another question.

“Through the heart from close up?” Shayne persisted.

Painter said with cold anger, “That could be a coincidence. It doesn’t prove there’s any connection between her death and the others.”

“Certainly not,” Shayne agreed happily. “Just an epidemic.”

Painter went on with his interrogation of Helen Porter. “You didn’t see Mrs. Rankin again?”

“No. I thought she was sleeping late the next morning. Then I decided she must have gone out with some of her friends to spend the night—or something.”

“Did she often do that?”

“Sure. She’d be gone two or three days at the time, so I didn’t think anything about it. I knew Madge could take care of herself.”

“You didn’t try the front door and find it unlocked?”

“I didn’t try the front door,” said Helen calmly.

“About this party you say she had Tuesday night. Were there men present?”

“I guess there were some men. I told you I didn’t go in.”

“How did your friend dress when she gave parties like that?”

“She was a pretty swell dresser. When Madge got fixed up and stepped out, men looked at her all right.”

“But for a party costume,” Painter insisted, “would she be likely to wear only a pair of black stockings?”

“That,” said Helen coyly, “would depend on what kind of party she was having.”

Painter snapped his notebook shut, put it in his pocket, and said to Helen, “I’ll ask you to come in and identify the body.”

“Do I have to?” Helen shuddered.

“It’s just routine,” Shayne told her. He got up and drew her up with him. “Come on. We don’t want Chief Painter accusing us of lack of co-operation.”

“Not you,” Painter snapped to Shayne. “According to your say-so you don’t know anything about it, and I don’t want you messing into it. I’ll have some more questions for you after the body is identified.”

Shayne patted Helen’s shoulder and said, “Run along with Painter and get it over while I mix a couple of drinks. Or shall I make it three, Chief?”

Painter said, “You know I never touch the stuff while on duty.”

Shayne grinned and said genially, “You ought to try it sometime. You might get a few ideas.”

Painter stiffened and strutted out the open door with Helen following him.

Shayne took the empty glasses to the kitchen to look for the gin and mixer.

HELEN PORTER WAS AN UNTIDY HOUSEKEEPER. The kitchen sink was littered with dishes, the drainboard piled with apple and orange peelings, and an ice tray was sitting out, the unused cubes partially melted. The gin and the uncorked bottle of mixer sat side by side on the small electric stove.

Shayne rinsed out the two glasses, looked around for a jigger to measure the gin, but found none. A small cheese glass with part of the original paper around it that read
Roquefort
was beside the bottle. It smelled of gin. That explained why his drink had tasted more ginny than Tom Collinsy.

He started methodically mixing the drinks, his mind preoccupied with Painter and the dead girl. When he finished, he took the tall frosted glasses into the living-room, set them on the table, and made himself comfortable on the couch.

Madge Rankin was a blonde. There were too damned many blondes popping up in the case, he thought dispiritedly. The one Rourke had ridden so hard in his last newspaper story; the one who visited his apartment Tuesday afternoon; Mrs. Walter Bronson, who, according to Minerva, was interested in Rourke. And now a dead blonde in the bedroom next door.

Madge Rankin could hardly have been Rourke’s afternoon visitor. Her letter to him had been postmarked 5:00 p.m. on Tuesday. It was not reasonable to suppose that Madge was the gun-toting blonde, unless she had decided to sell out her confederates in the murder racket.

There were two sets of fingerprints in Rourke’s apartment. One of them was evidently left by his afternoon visitor; the other by whom? Madge? Suppose that after mailing her letter she became impatient—or afraid—and went around to see him?

There were a hell of a lot of things, Shayne told himself morosely, that he didn’t know about the case. He mentally cursed Mr. Henty’s suspicious mind and his habit of eavesdropping over the telephone. If he had had a little time to look over the murder setup in 614, check Madge’s possessions—get her fingerprints—

Helen’s entrance interrupted his thoughts. She was alone. Her face was damp and grayish, as though she might be on the verge of nausea. Her eyes were dull amber slits between her black lashes, and her mouth was twisted with anger or extreme distaste.

She went hastily to the table and snatched up one of the glasses. “God! I need that,” she said. “I hope you weren’t too easy on the gin.”

“Was it pretty bad?” Shayne asked gently.

She drank half the contents of the glass, shuddered, and said, “Horrible. It’s the first time I ever saw a—a dead person. It gave me the creeps. Poor Madge—lying there like that.” She sat down beside Shayne. “Madge was always so full of fun. She used to say what was the use of living if you couldn’t have fun, and believe me she did.”

Shayne said, “Try to forget about her.”

“I’ll be a long time forgetting her. What gets me is thinking she was in there like that since Tuesday night—that little sawed-off cop says—and me thinking—”

“You couldn’t have helped her,” Shayne said harshly. “The only thing you can do now is help get whoever did it.”

“Yes—that’s right,” she said slowly. She turned to look at Shayne. “There are lots of things I don’t want to tell the cops. Things that might help.”

Shayne said, “You can tell me.”

“Maybe I can. How do you figure in it?”

“You saw that note before you tore it up. The way I traced her here.”

Helen nodded, watching his face with calculating eyes.

“Did you notice whom it was addressed to?” Shayne asked.

“No. I was too excited, I guess.”

“To Timothy Rourke.”

“That newspaper reporter?” Comprehension flashed over Helen’s face. “The one that got shot Tuesday night? After he wrote up those murders and the blonde and the gambling joints?”

“That’s the one,” Shayne told her soberly. “Tim Rourke was my best friend. That’s why I hurried here as soon as I heard he’d been wounded.”

Helen’s eyes widened. “That note! Madge told him she had some information for his paper. Do you think that was why she was murdered?”

“Until we get a better motive we can guess that’s why she was killed. Drink up, and I’ll fix you another one.

Helen emptied her glass. Her eyes were shrewd and probing. “The cops don’t know about that letter. They’ll go around in circles looking for a motive.”

“Painter would go around in circles anyhow,” Shayne told her. “He always has. My God—look at the facts. There’ve been three murders in a week and what did he do about them? Rourke had to dig up all the facts to prod him into action.”

Helen said slowly, “Maybe you’re on the level—but I don’t know.”

Shayne said, looking steadily into her eyes, “You’d better make up your mind in a hurry, Helen. Painter is coming back to ask me a few more questions.”

“I—don’t know,” she breathed, twisting her empty glass in her hands. “If I tell them I tore up that letter.”

Shayne’s deeply trenched face looked harried and tired. “You don’t have to tell them. I’ll say I tore it up.” He hesitated briefly, then said angrily, “If you don’t trust me I don’t want you to go on with this. You don’t have to. Tell them I threatened you, forced you to play along with me. That I was holding a gun on you all the time. You can clear yourself that way. I’ve got a gun I could have held on you.”

“What’ll they do to you if I tell them?” she asked.

“Not much. Painter will throw an obstruction of justice charge at me and lock me up, but it won’t stick. I’ll be out in a couple of weeks—after Madge’s murderer has had time to make a clean getaway.”

“Why are you—making it easy for me to give you away?” she asked in a troubled voice.

“Because I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret later. I never ask favors. You’ve got to be sure you’re doing it because you believe me and want to.”

She turned to him and her eyes held a metallic glint as she put a palm on each side of his gaunt cheeks. She pulled his face toward her and pressed her mouth against his. Then she smiled and said, “I’d like to play it your way, Mike.”

The doorbell rang. She picked up her glass and went to the kitchen, saying, “You answer it. It’s probably your friend, the chief.”

Shayne went to the door and let Painter in. His eyes darted around the room and he asked, “Where is she?”

“Helen? She’s out in the kitchen mixing herself a love potion.” Shayne went back to the couch, sat down, and crossed his long legs. “Have a seat,” he invited.

Painter sat down on the edge of a chair across from the couch. “What are you doing in Miami, Shayne?” he asked bluntly.

“The same thing I used to do before I left—solving your murder cases for you.”

Painter’s teeth ground audibly. Helen came in with a fresh drink and sat down beside Shayne.

“When did you reach Miami?” Painter queried.

“On the six-thirty train. I left New Orleans as soon as I heard about Tim.”

“Very touching,” Painter grated. “What have you been doing since six-thirty?”

“Nosing around—Talking to a few people.”

“Where? And to whom?” Painter took out his pencil and notebook.

Shayne grinned and said, “If I disclosed my methods you might learn as much about detecting as I know.”

“I can arrest you for stealing Rourke’s mail and breaking into his apartment,” said Painter, infuriated. “That’s a Federal offense.”

“For carrying his mail up to his room and leaving it there?” Shayne asked incredulously.

“I’ve had a report on that. There are only two letters in Rourke’s room. Where’s the third one you took out of his box?”

“Only two of them were for Tim. The other one was for somebody in apartment 4-D. I just stuck it in the right cubbyhole for Henty.”

“Henty is positive there were three letters for Rourke.”

“Henty?” Shayne laughed derisively. “The guy who couldn’t even remember the correct street number after listening in on a private telephone call. You’ll have to do better than that, Painter.”

“You deny there were three letters for Rourke?”