Brett Halliday - Marked for Murder

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.