Brett Halliday - Marked for Murder

“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?”

“If you can find more than the two bills I left in Tim’s room, I’ll eat it,” Shayne offered blandly.

Painter snapped his notebook shut and started to get up. Shayne detained him by saying, “Wait a minute. I want to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m asking the questions,” Painter told him, but he waited, tight-lipped and unfriendly.

“Have you gotten anywhere on the Rourke shooting?”

“That’s a police matter.”

Shayne said, “All right. But I suggest you check Mrs. Rankin’s fingerprints with the two sets found in Rourke’s apartment.”

“What do you know about them? We haven’t given out-oh-Gentry, of course,” Painter ended viciously.

“Sure. Gentry was a friend of Rourke’s and would like to see the thing cleaned up.”

“I’m running things on this side,” Painter said.

“Have it your way. You take the high road and I’ll take the low road. Just like it used to be.”

Chief Painter strutted out and slammed the door. Helen asked wonderingly, “Isn’t it dangerous to ride a cop like that? Isn’t he the top man here on the Beach?”

“It’s been that way with us since the first case of mine he horned into,” Shayne told her, and sighed heavily.

She laughed softly. “I knew you were a fast worker when I first met you. What do we do now?”

“Get to work. Tell me about Madge Rankin-all about her.”

“I don’t know too much,” Helen said after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ve only been living here a couple of weeks. I liked her. Men were crazy about her, I guess. She twisted them around her little finger, to hear her tell it.”

“Ever hear her mention going around to gambling joints?”

Helen changed her position on the couch so she could face him squarely without turning her head. She frowned thoughtfully, then said, “I don’t think so. I don’t know where she went nights when she was out. Do you really think her murder is tied in with those others?”

“I think Tim was murdered because he was digging into them, and Madge’s letter to Tim indicates that she knew something. It’s reasonable to suppose she was killed to prevent her from talking.”

“Maybe so. But I don’t believe it. Madge wouldn’t be mixed up in anything like that,” Helen maintained stoutly. “If she had any information about those murders she must have just happened to hear it somewhere.” Her long black lashes came down over her tawny eyes to avoid Shayne’s intent gray gaze.

He asked, “Who was paying her rent?”

“How would I know?” Her voice was suddenly sharp.

“You claim she was your friend,” Shayne persisted. “You must have known some of the men she went out with.”

“I didn’t know any that could have been mixed up in those murders,” she said, a trace of annoyance still in her tone.

“Name some of them-the ones at Madge’s party Tuesday night.”

She looked up at him and said, “I told Chief Painter the truth about that. From the sounds I heard when I got home I guess there were three or four fellows in her apartment, but I don’t know who they were.”