Brett Halliday - Marked for Murder

“And they all left slightly after ten o’clock?”

“I don’t know for sure. I heard the party breaking up about ten o’clock. Maybe one of them stayed on, but the radio was on so loud I couldn’t tell.”

“But you did hear enough to suspect someone stayed on,” Shayne pressed her. “Was it a man or woman?”

“I don’t know. That is, a man, I suppose. Madge wouldn’t likely have any women there. And-” She paused and looked away from him.

“And what?”

“I was just thinking about things. Everything is all cleaned up in there now. No cigarette butts or glasses around. Madge must have cleaned up Tuesday night after the party was over-before somebody shot her. Even the kitchen is cleaned up.”

“You think she cleaned up after they left, and then someone else came,” Shayne said, his eyes intent upon her, trying to adjust his thoughts to hers. “Or one of the men came back.”

“I was thinking that,” she admitted. “She would be more likely to clean up if they all left than if one of them stayed on. You know-she wouldn’t bother if she still had company.”

“That makes sense,” Shayne agreed.

“Say, I just thought of something. You claim you didn’t know Madge. Where’d you get the key you unlocked her door with?”

“That was a skeleton key,” Shayne told her. He grinned at her and took out his key ring to show her. “It’s part of my stock in trade. I had to make you think Madge had given me a key when I told you I was a friend of hers.”

“Anybody could probably get into either one of these front doors with a skeleton key,” she said, looking with interest at the numerous keys. “Darned cheap locks,” she ended in grave disgust.

“Yeh,” Shayne agreed absently. “But Madge must have given somebody a key-somebody she didn’t mind coming in when she was all dressed up in a pair of stockings.” His eyes were bleak, and he stared at the opposite wall.

“You’d think she’d have slipped on a robe-or something,” Helen offered, “but I didn’t see any robe around-nor any clothes.”

“Who does she know well enough to fit that?”

“How in hell would I know?” she blazed in sudden anger. “You’re the damnedest guy-don’t you ever think of anything but asking questions?”

Shayne jerked his eyes around and looked at her, a muscle moving in his cheek. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded.

Then Helen Porter laughed softly and laid her dark head on his shoulder, one arm around his neck. She patted his cheek with her other hand and wriggled closer to him.

The doorbell rang, a long ring followed by several impatient jabs.

Helen jumped up, her eyes startled for a moment. She hesitated, standing perfectly still, then murmured, “Let it ring.”

Shayne stood up, saying, “It might be the cops again. You’d better answer it. I’ll go in the bathroom just in case it isn’t the cops.”

“I’ll get rid of whoever it is.” Her voice was low and excited. She was evidently confused. “Don’t worry, Mike. I’ll get rid of him in a hurry.”

Shayne hurried to the bathroom and pulled the door partially shut. He heard Helen say in a surprised and not-too-pleased voice, “Oh, it’s you, Dilly?”

A man said, “I’ve got to talk to you a minute, Helen. About Madge.” He spoke with a harsh drawl and with suppressed excitement.

Helen said, “You can’t come in, Dilly. What about Madge?”

“That’s what I want to know. I drove by and saw the cops here.”

“Madge has been murdered,” she said flatly. “You’d better go if you don’t want the cops asking you a lot of questions.”

Shayne sauntered into the living-room and asked, “Who’s your friend, Helen? I’d like to talk to him.”

She threw a startled glance over her shoulder at him. “This is Dilly Smith, Mike. Come on in, Dilly, if Mike says so. This is Mike Shayne, a detective, and he’s interested in Madge’s murder too.”

Dilly Smith walked into the room with a slow and measured tread. His face was as round as a full moon, ending with a solid jutting jaw that moved slightly and constantly as he moved his clamped teeth together. His upper lip was too short and his breathing was audible through his parted lips. His nose was broad and flattish and turned up at the end, and his bulky build made him appear shorter than his medium height. His hair was the color of ripened corn silk, his eyes light blue with a candid, ingenuous expression that gave an impression of youthful good nature and appealing honesty.

He said, “A cop?” widening his eyes and corrugating his brow at Shayne.

“Private,” Shayne reassured him quickly. “I just happened to drop in on Helen a few minutes before the police came. Since Madge was a friend of Helen’s, I thought I might solve the case while the cops are running around in circles.” He lounged forward and held out his hand. “Did Helen say your name is Smith?”

“That’s right.” His hand was big and smooth and soft, but he had a rock-crusher grip.

“How’d it happen?” Smith asked Helen. “I talked to Madge on the phone just a couple of days ago. She wanted me to come around but I couldn’t make it till tonight.”

“That must have been Tuesday,” Helen said. “The police say she was murdered Tuesday night. I remember she told me about phoning you.”

“Are you sure you didn’t come to see her that night?” Shayne asked.

“I sure didn’t,” Smith drawled. “She told me she was having a little party, but I couldn’t make it.”

“How well did you know Madge?”

“Pretty well,” he muttered, and glanced at Helen.

Helen went to the couch and sat down. She looked disinterested and said, “Why don’t you run along, Dilly. Mike and I were just-”

“Don’t rush off,” Shayne interrupted hastily. “I’d like to talk to someone who knew Madge well.”

A flush crept into Smith’s chubby face. “I didn’t know her too well,” he protested. “We were just sort of good friends. Who do the cops think killed her?”

“The cops don’t think,” Shayne said. “Did you ever take Madge out to any gambling joints?”

“Mike thinks maybe she was the blond gun moll who killed those three guys,” Helen put in. “Maybe you helped her.”

The color went out of his face. He stopped moving his jaw and set it hard. He sat down in a chair across from the couch and twisted a soft hat around in his hands. He said slowly, “I haven’t seen Madge in two or three weeks,” staring at Helen with light-blue eyes that were wholly expressionless. “I don’t believe Madge ever had anything to do with gambling.”

“Can you give me a line on any other men that knew her?”

“No. Like I said, I didn’t know her so very well.”

“Why did she call you Tuesday afternoon?”

“To-well, to sort of make up.” Dilly Smith swallowed hard and looked at Shayne with appealing and youthful candor. “We sort of had a fight a few weeks ago and she was sore. But Tuesday she said she wanted to see me.” He frowned and looked like a petulant adolescent. “I wish I’d known about it. You mean she’s been there all that time and nobody found her?”

“And I didn’t know it,” Helen said. “I thought she was out having a good time. Isn’t it terrible?”

“It sure is,” Smith agreed. “I’m mighty sorry. I guess there’s nothing I can do.” He pulled himself up from the chair and plodded to the door.

When Smith closed the door on his way out Shayne asked Helen quickly, “Who is he? He looks like a kid-too young to be having a love affair with Madge.”

Helen laughed softly. “He certainly is the fair-haired boy, but Madge told me he was nearly thirty when I kidded her about him.” She shrugged eloquently, dismissing the matter, and said, “Come on and sit down. I’ll fix some more drinks.”