Brett Halliday - Marked for Murder

“That’s it,” said Shayne happily. “Miss Minerva Higgins, Three-Sixteen Larkspur.” He chuckled. “Thanks a million.”

Passing the letter to Shayne the collector said, “Just don’t ever say anything about this.”

“I won’t-and you don’t know how much I appreciate this.” Shayne seized the letter with a sigh of relief and tore it into ribbons while the mailman looked on with an understanding smile.

Shayne strode away, whistling off-key, got in his car, and sat for several minutes drumming his blunt finger tips on the steering-wheel. His thoughts leaped ahead, forming many conjectures and discarding them, searching for a way to get hold of the letter Dilly Smith had written to Walter Bronson, now entrusted to the United States mail.

Plan after plan he threw to the winds as being too dangerous and too likely to fail. At the end of ten minutes or so he hit upon an expedient that had a chance of working. An extremely slim chance, but it was the best plan he could formulate at the moment.

He took one envelope from the box and folded a blank sheet of paper in it, got out and crossed over to another drugstore on the other side of the street. He bought a very soft lead pencil, sharpened it, working the lead down to a rounded edge on the side of the showcase, then addressed the envelope to himself in care of General Delivery, Miami Beach, Florida. He put a very light pressure on the soft lead so that the address could easily be erased if desired, sealed the envelope lightly at the tip of the flap. He hurried back to his car and drove to the main Beach post office where he deposited it.

As the envelope slid into the night slot, Shayne stood for a moment rumpling his unruly red hair, a deep frown between his gray eyes, muscles twitching in his set jaw. Then he suddenly whirled and strode to his car and headed for Miami.

At police headquarters he was lucky enough to find Sergeant Jorgensen sitting idly in a bull session with a group of other officers. Calling him aside, Shayne gave him the license number of the car Dilly Smith was driving. “How long will it take to get the owner’s name?”

Jorgensen glanced at the number. “It’s a Miami license. Five minutes.” He called a younger officer over and gave instructions to check on the number immediately, then asked Shayne, “Getting anywhere, Mike?”

“I’m moving.” Shayne grinned. “Ever hear of a guy named Dilly Smith?”

Jorgensen thought for a moment “I don’t believe so. Think he’d have a record?”

“I doubt it-but check.” Shayne gave him a full description, adding, “God only knows whether he belongs to the name of Smith or not. He’s mixed up in this thing somehow, but I don’t know how far or in what direction.”

Jorgensen said, “Just a minute, Mike,” and went over to talk to one of the other officers. When he came back the young cop returned with the information on the license number. “A nineteen thirty-nine sedan,” he reported, “owned by Dillingham Smith. A sporting-goods salesman. Lives at the Front Hotel here in Miami.” He gave them an address on Northwest 1st Avenue.

Shayne’s eyes were very bright. “That’s a break. Go to work on Dillingham Smith, Jorg, and get every damned thing you can about him. But don’t let your petticoat show.”

The sergeant laughed and said, “We’ll do what we can, Mike. Like I told you.”

“Thanks-and turn anything you get over to Gentry,” Shayne said as he went out.

It was a short drive to the Front Hotel. It was a dreary frame building, and a fat man was asleep behind the desk when Shayne went in the shabby lobby. Shayne drummed on the desk to wake him up.

Blinking sleepily at the detective, the fat man heaved himself up and said, “Room?”

Shayne extracted a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, folded it so that the man could easily see the denomination, and said, “I’m in the market for some information.”

“That’ll buy it, Mister,” the man grunted.

“About one of your customers. Dillingham Smith.”

“Dilly?” He chuckled and his pudgy hand moved hopefully toward the bill. “Sorry, but he ain’t around.”

“He lives here, doesn’t he?”

“Well, sir, he’s got a room. Two-o-seven. But he ain’t been in it for a coupla weeks.”

“Out of town?”

“I wouldn’t know about-”

The man’s voice trailed off when Shayne started to put the bill back in his wallet. “I wouldn’t want to get Dilly in any trouble,” he said.

“Of course not.”

“On the other hand, he didn’t say anything about it being a secret.” There was a sly look in his eyes. He chuckled and added, “O’ course I reckon he wouldn’t exactly want his whereabouts broadcast.”

Shayne held the bill loosely between his thumb and index finger. “I don’t intend to do any broadcasting.”

The fat man considered this for a moment. He said, “You a friend of Dilly’s?”

“Well-we’ve done a little chasing around,” Shayne told him.

“I been sending his mail to the LaCrosse Apartment on Fourteenth Street.”

“Isn’t that a pretty flossy joint?” Shayne dropped the bill on the desk.

“It is that. Yes, sir. For Dilly I’d say it was right up the ladder.” He chuckled again and his fingers closed over the bill.

“Take his stuff with him?”

“Not all of it. Dilly said he didn’t know how permanent it’d be.”

“A dame, eh?”

“Well, sir-it might just be. Dilly’s quite a lady’s man. Likes ’em blond.” He winked a puffy eyelid.

Shayne said, “On second thought, I believe I will take a room for tonight if you’ve got one.”

“Two-fifty-in advance.” He turned a much-thumbed and soiled register around for Shayne to sign.

Shayne signed “Bill Adams, City,” and put $2.50 on the desk. “Call me at six.”

“Yes, sir.” He slid a key across to Shayne and said, “Two-thirty-six. Right at the head of the stairs and to your right.”

Shayne took the key and his box of stationery up the stairs. Number 236 was a small room but surprisingly clean. He looked longingly at the bed, inspected the shower, but turned his back on temptation and went quietly out of the room to number 207.

He tried two skeleton keys on the old-fashioned lock of Dilly Smith’s room door before it opened. He went in, closed it, and turned on the lights. The bed was made but clothing was scattered on the backs of chairs and draped from open drawers of the bureau.

Shayne went directly across to the writing-desk and pulled the one drawer open. He was disappointed to find no old letters, but there was a balled-up sheet of Front Hotel stationery pushed far back in one corner. He smoothed it out and read: Dear Harriet: I’ve been hoping and hoping I’d hear from you before this, but I guess you’ve just decided to forget all about me. That hurts me deeply, for I remember you said you’d never forget me that day when we were leaving the hotel, and laughed about what would happen if anybody ever found our signatures as man and wife.

Of course I’ll never tell anybody because I know how it would be if your husband ever found out, but I thought you might be interested to hear I’ve had a run of bad luck this past month…

The note ended thus, and was dated almost a month previously. Shayne smoothed it out and folded it and put it in his pocket. He searched the bureau drawers, the pockets of a suit that was of poor quality and badly worn, but found nothing.

He went out, locked the door, hesitated for an instant about returning to his room, and went downstairs instead. The fat clerk was again snoring behind the desk.

Shayne went out and walked the short distance to Miami Avenue where he found a liquor store, and returned with a bottle of California brandy. The clerk was still asleep, and Shayne went directly to his room.