Brett Halliday - Marked for Murder

“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 coupe 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.