Brett Halliday - Marked for Murder

Shayne memorized the serial number while he was crumpling the envelope into his side pocket and reaching in his breast pocket for the envelope he had carefully prepared at the post office.

He slid Smith’s letter into the envelope, licked the flap lightly, and pressed it hard against his palm. After scrubbing both sides of it against the front of his coat he placed it among the other letters. The entire operation had taken less than a minute.

Turning again toward the house he looked and listened. There was no sound or sign that he had been detected. He walked on to the front door, found a metal mail slot beside it, and slid the letters into it.

He put his finger on the door button and chimes rang out through the house. A chubby maid with flaxen hair and rosy cheeks opened the door after a time.

Shayne said, “I want to see Mr. Bronson.”

She hesitated briefly, looking far up at Shayne’s set face with very blue and uncertain eyes. “Mr. Bronson is having breakfast right now. I’m afraid he wouldn’t like being disturbed.”

“My business with Bronson is urgent,” Shayne persisted.

“Then-I’ll take your card to him. Maybe he’ll see you.”

“I haven’t a card with me,” Shayne told her. He had his big foot in the doorway and moved forward as he asked, “Where will I find Bronson?”

“He always has breakfast in the sunroom when it isn’t raining,” she stammered.

Shayne went on through the big living-room with an imposing fireplace in the middle of the opposite wall. The fireplace was flanked on either side by a pair of French doors which stood open.

He found Walter Bronson seated in a leather chair in the glassed-in sun porch. Potted palms rose from the tiled floor, and exotic ferns drooped from brightly painted pots in wall brackets. A breakfast table was set up between two of the palms near the east windows and pale sunlight glittered on a silver coffee service and an array of oval serving-dishes covered with silver domes. Bronson was alone at the table.

He was in the act of forking a piece of toast with a poached egg on it when Shayne said, “Good morning, Mr. Bronson.”

The brightness of the room accentuated the editor’s heavy features and the shining baldness of his head. He looked at Shayne with stern disapproval and turned away to complete the transfer of the toast and egg to his plate. He replaced the silver cover on the serving-dish. Still disregarding his visitor, he lifted another silver cover and forked out three slices of bacon.

Shayne strolled over to the table and said, “I want to talk to you, Bronson.”

Bronson’s puffed lids rolled up and he looked at Shayne with red-veined eyes. He said fretfully, “Didn’t Agnes explain to you that I never see anyone at breakfast? Who are you?”

“You’re seeing me.” He reached behind him and pulled up a chair and sat down. “My name is Shayne.”

Bronson crunched noisily on a crisp slice of bacon and slid a quarter of the egg and toast into his mouth. He didn’t look up or say anything.

Shayne leaned back and crossed his legs, got a Picayune and lit it, and blew a puff of smoke toward the canary-yellow ceiling. He tossed the match into the big palm pot and said, “Michael Shayne.” He continued gravely, “I’m a detective, and I want to ask you some questions about Tim Rourke.”

Bronson chewed and swallowed, his triple chins quivering. He took a sip of coffee and said, “That’s preposterous. I’ve told Chief Painter everything I know.”

“Did you tell him you went to Tim’s apartment directly from your office Tuesday night?”

Bronson laid down his knife and fork. “I did no such thing.”

“I can prove you did.”

“You can prove nothing,” Bronson sputtered. “Confound it, man, you’ll give me indigestion, upsetting my breakfast this way. If Painter wants any further information why didn’t he come himself?”

“Did you find those murder affidavits in Rourke’s desk that night?”

“I did not,” said Bronson irritably, and filled his mouth again.

“What was in the Manila envelope you carried away with you?”

Bronson’s face reddened and he seemed about to choke with rage and improperly masticated food. He poured half a glass of water down his throat and said, “I’ve been over all that ground with Painter. He has the envelope intact. I explained to him that I brought them home with me, planning to see Rourke the next morning.”

“Was Tim already shot and nearly dead when you reached his apartment?”

Bronson stared icily at Shayne for a moment, picked up his knife and fork and started eating again, disregarding Shayne and his leading question.

The maid came in with some letters on a silver tray. She placed the tray beside Bronson’s plate and murmured, “Excuse me, the mail, sir,” and hurried away.

Bronson glanced aside at the tray and poked at the letters with a fat forefinger. He frowned at the one in a big square white envelope, studied it for a moment, and went on with his breakfast. He cleaned his plate, finished one cup of coffee, and poured another from the tall urn, added a liberal portion of thick cream, stirred in two heaping teaspoonfuls of sugar, then slit open three of the envelopes with the letter opener on the tray. He didn’t open the one Shayne was interested in. He ignored the detective’s presence in the room and glanced cursorily through the letters.

After laying the three aside, he opened Dilly Smith’s letter. Shayne leaned his head back and let smoke dribble from his nostrils, watching Bronson’s face with slitted eyes.

The editor took a long time reading it. His expression did not change. He refolded the letter and replaced it in the envelope, tucked it in his pocket. He leisurely sipped his coffee and looked at Shayne in the manner of one whose patience is entirely exhausted. He said gruffly, “Did you say you were a detective?”

Shayne nodded. “And a friend of Tim Rourke’s,” he amplified.

Bronson took a cigar from his vest pocket and lit it, pushed his chair back a little from the table, and turned to face Shayne. “I believe I’ve heard your name in connection with various unsavory exploits more or less outside the law here in Miami,” he said.

“More or less,” Shayne agreed quietly.

“I’m quite sure Chief Painter is doing everything that can be done to arrest the man who shot Rourke.”

“Why were you so hell-bent on keeping Rourke’s expose out of your paper?”

Bronson looked pained. “I don’t feel that my editorial policy is a matter for discussion.”

“The person who shot Rourke didn’t want that stuff printed either,” Shayne told him harshly.

“Are you insinuating that I-that I-?” Bronson choked over the enormity of the insinuation.

“You were sore as hell that night,” Shayne said coldly. “You got Rourke’s address from your office file and started out at nine-thirty with his pay check and personal belongings to give them to him. Why didn’t you?”

“I’ve explained to Chief Painter that I changed my mind and came directly home.”

“You didn’t reach here until after ten-thirty.” Shayne tried a shot in the dark, but it produced no effect.

Bronson waved his cigar and said, “I didn’t notice the exact time I arrived.”

“You left your office at nine-thirty.”

“Then I must have reached home not later than ten,” said Bronson. “I regret the attack on Rourke very deeply. If you can convince me that a private detective might prove useful in solving the case, I might consider retaining you.”

Shayne grinned and said lightly, “I’m on the trail of a few clues Painter has overlooked. One of them is a Colt automatic. Serial number four-two-one-eight-nine-three.”