Brett Halliday - Marked for Murder

There was only one glass in the bathroom. He let the water run as cold as it would run, filled the glass, and took it to the small writing-desk. After opening the brandy bottle he took half a dozen envelopes from the stationery box and spread them out before him.

With the half-finished letter Dilly Smith had written to Harriet as a guide, and remembering the glimpse of Smith’s letter to Bronson, he began practicing writing Mr. Walter Bronson, 1832 Magnolia Avenue, Miami Beach, Florida. After each try he took a long drink of brandy and a sip of water.

He wasted seven envelopes before he got one that suited him. This one he put carefully in his pocket, crumpled the others into balls and stuffed them in another pocket, then got up and began stripping off his clothes.

His suit was rumpled and baggy, his shirt and underclothes soiled and sweaty. He hung them up with great care, having no others to replace them for tomorrow.

After profusely lathering his body and showering, he crawled between the clean sheets naked and was asleep within a minute.

The telephone beside Shane’s bed wakened him the next morning. He groped for it sleepily and an unpleasantly alert feminine voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Adams. It’s six o’clock.”

“What the hell,” he growled, and was ready to ask her what she was calling him for if it was Mr. Adams who wanted to get up, but his dazed mind suddenly remembered how he had signed the register. He said, “All right,” and dropped the receiver from lax fingers onto the hook.

He wasn’t awake and he didn’t want to wake up. He never wanted to wake up again. He pulled the covers up around his neck and tried to convince himself there was no good reason why he should wake up.

A vision of Timothy Rourke lying wounded, mortally perhaps, assailed him-and Madge Rankin, murdered in bed. The unknown blond girl who had lured three men to their death-and Dillingham Smith-and Helen Porter.

The plans he had carefully planned last night, for today, crowded his mind and popped his eyes open. He threw back the covers and swung his long legs from the bed in one smooth motion. He padded over to the writing-desk and took a long drink from the brandy bottle, then took a quick cold shower. A stubble of beard had grown on his face since a hasty shave in Jacksonville between trains yesterday morning. He scowled at his reflection in the mirror, dried himself hastily, and went tack to the bedroom.

He grimaced his distaste when he put on the soiled clothes. When he finished dressing he went to the phone and called the hospital and asked about Rourke. His eyes were bleak and a muscle quivered in his gaunt cheek when he got the report. He muttered an oath after he hung up, went to the bed and got his. 38 Colt Gentry had loaned him and slid it under his waistband. He examined the envelope in his breast pocket, patted his side pocket where the discarded ones were balled up, looked around to assure himself that no scrap was left behind, and went out.

A bright-faced young girl was at the desk in the lobby. She smiled and spoke cheerfully. Shayne smiled not so cheerfully and grunted a return of her greeting, and stalked through the door to the police coupe parked outside.

The sun was not yet up and the damp chill of the morning was penetrating. Shayne turned his coat collar up and dragged in long drafts of fresh air. He got in the car and drove to Miami Avenue, turned slowly down it until he came to a small restaurant open for business, and went in.

He picked up a morning Herald from a pile by the cash register, slid onto a stool, and ordered six scrambled eggs with sausage and black coffee.

He spread out the paper and read the front-page account of the discovery of Madge Rankin’s body in her Beach apartment. There was little he didn’t already know in the news story, A mysterious underworld tip was mentioned as the source of information that sent police to the address. Chief Painter was quoted as deriding the possibility of any connection between Madge’s death and the attack upon Timothy Rourke or the three preceding murders.

The Herald politely withheld comment, but mentioned the fact that Madge Rankin, too, had been drilled through the heart at close range with a. 32, quoting Beach authorities as stating that a ballistic test on the death bullet proved it had not been fired by any one of the four different guns that had figured in the previous attacks.

Madge Rankin was described as a voluptuous blond divorcee and it was intimated that her death was probably the result of a love tryst.

Shayne folded the paper, put it aside, and attacked his eggs with the gusto of a healthy man who hadn’t eaten for more than 18 hours. He finished by dunking his toast in a second cup of coffee, and when he stopped at the cash register to pay his bill he asked the proprietor if there was a near-by barbershop that was likely to be open so early.

The proprietor suggested one across the street in the next block, and Shayne found a two-chair shop open with one man sweeping out. He interrupted the man’s work, got a quick shave, and hurried back to the coupe.

He drove across the Causeway to the Beach and was in the post office before the General Delivery window was open. When the window slid up, he asked for Michael Shayne’s mail and received the square envelope with the lightly penciled address which he had mailed to himself the previous evening.

Turning to a counter, he loosened the tip of the pointed flap, pulled out the blank sheet of paper, and then carefully erased the penciled address so that no trace of it was left. He propped the forged address of the preceding night in front of him, and with his fountain pen copied it onto the envelope with canceled stamp and Miami Beach postmark. He then took out his handkerchief and wiped both sides of the envelope to void it of possible fingerprints. He crumpled the seventh envelope and put it in the pocket with the other discarded ones and placed the newly addressed one in his breast pocket.

He went down the hall to an office marked Ass’t Postmaster, entered, and showed his credentials, asked them to give him as nearly as possible the time the first mail delivery might be expected at Walter Branson’s house.

There was a short delay before a clerk came back and said, “That’s route number six. Nineteen thirty-two Magnolia is only a few blocks from the beginning of the route and the carrier should be there in about thirty minutes.”

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and went out. He drove out Ocean Boulevard, parked his car a block and a half south of Bronson’s house at a watching vantage point

His second cigarette was almost smoked when he saw the postman round the corner and start toward the stone gateposts leading into the imposing estate. He started his motor and passed the postman, pulled up to the curb close to the entrance gateway and got out. He stretched and yawned as the man approached, then grinned and said, “Nice morning.”

The postman responded to his grin and said, “It’s a dandy.” He was separating half a dozen letters from the sheaf he held in his hand.

Shayne started up the, curving walk toward the Bronson house, lingering for the man to catch up with him. He suggested casually, “I’ll take Bronson’s mail if it’ll help any. Save you a few steps.”

“Sure. Every few steps count on this job.” He handed Shayne half a dozen letters, swung about and went down the walk whistling cheerily.

Shayne glanced up at the house. He was in clear view of the front door and windows, but he had to take a chance. Turning his back to the house he opened Smith’s letter and quickly read the brief message: Is it worth $25,000 to you if the police don’t find a Colt. 32 automatic serial number 421893 and run a ballistic test on it? If so, run a personal in the Courier saying “yes” and sign the ad “Colt” You’ll hear from me later. The cops get the gun if the ad isn’t in today’s paper.