Brett Halliday - Marked for Murder

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.

“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?”