Brett Halliday - Marked for Murder

“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-”

“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.