Brett Halliday - Marked for Murder

Shayne said, “I am.” He looked around disapprovingly. “Haven’t you girls got something else you can do first? Just leave things as they are for a while and do a couple of other rooms.” He took two dollar bills from his wallet and gave one to each. “You don’t have to tell anyone, and I’ll be responsible.”

One maid looked around the disordered room, her eyes popping with incredulity. “You means for us to leave it jes’ like this?”

“That’s right. I’m the one to be pleased, since I’m renting it. You can take your sweeper out if you want.”

They looked at each other and at the bills in their hands and went out without another word.

Shayne went to the telephone and put a call through the switchboard to Will Gentry. “It’s Mike, Will. I’m in apartment four-eleven at the LaCrosse. Can you shoot a fingerprint boy up here double-quick?”

Gentry said that he could and would.

“I’ll wait right here for him. And if you’ve got another man loose, send him to check the baggage rooms at both depots for a big, heavy trunk checked out last Tuesday in time to catch the five-o’clock train. Should be in the name of Mrs. Dillingham Smith, and Mr. Smith checked it. If he can’t get a line on it that way, try the Royal Palm Moving Company. One of their trucks took it to the station Tuesday afternoon.”

Gentry said, “Can do,” and hung up.

Shayne lit a cigarette and prowled around the apartment, not touching anything, but looking hopefully for some discarded article that might have been left behind by Mrs. Smith. There was an almost empty cold-cream jar in the bathroom that looked promising, and a pair of discarded leather pumps in the bedroom closet.

Gentry’s fingerprint man arrived within a few minutes, a young man and alert, who introduced himself as Bill Williams.

Shayne explained what he wanted: “There’s been a couple living here for two weeks, Bill. The wife left Tuesday and the husband stayed on until this morning. As far as I know, no one else except a couple of colored maids have been here. I need a set of the wife’s prints. You know all the places to try, so I won’t try to teach you your business, but there’s a cold-cream jar in the bathroom and a pair of lady’s shoes in the closet that might be interesting.”

“I get you,” Williams said, and opened up his kit.

Shayne went to the big east window and stood staring out while Williams went through the entire apartment with efficient speed.

“That should be about it, Mr. Shayne,” he said after about half an hour. “I’ve segregated what should be the maids’ prints and the husband’s, and I’ve got three clean sets that should be the wife’s.”

“Good enough. Do you want to check the maids to be sure?”

“It’d be best, of course.”

Shayne took a clean sheet of hotel stationery from the desk, slipping one from the center of the stack. He wrote: Darling, It’s terribly lonesome here without you, but I’ll be seeing you before very long, so I guess…

He told Williams to wait for him, and went down the corridor listening for the vacuum sweeper. The door of the apartment being cleaned was open. He went in and handed the paper to the maid and asked, “Have you seen that handwriting before?”

She took the sheet and studied it, screwing up her face, handed it back saying, “I sho cain’t say I has, Mister.”

“Where’s the other maid who was with you?”

“Two dohs down changin’ the bed an’ towels.”

Shayne went two doors down and repeated his experiment with the second maid. She didn’t recognize his handwriting either, but she left another set of prints on the paper. He went back to 411, handed Williams the sheet, and said, “Let’s go down to headquarters.”

A few minutes later they met in Gentry’s office where Williams went to work on the prints.

Gentry said to Shayne, “Here’s the dope on the trunk. It was checked out of the F.E.C. at four-thirty Tuesday to Mrs. Betty Green at Two-Twenty South Gaylord Street, Denver, Colorado. There was an excess weight charge, and it was valued at a hundred bucks. The statement of valuation is signed by D. Smith.”

Shayne’s gray eyes glinted. He turned to Williams and asked, “All set?”

The fingerprint expert nodded. “I’ve verified the maids’ prints. There’s one extra set.”

Shayne asked Gentry, “Can you get that set checked against the fingerprints found in Rourke’s apartment?”

“Sure. No matter how sore Painter is, he won’t refuse that.”

“Do it. And if they check, rush a wire to Denver. Have Miss Betty Green picked up for questioning.”

“But look, Mike. If she left on that five-o’clock train-”

“She could still be the blonde who was waiting in Rourke’s place when he came in all beaten up,” Shayne snapped. “Hell, don’t tell Denver police to charge her with the shooting. Just find out when she left Miami-and so forth. Hold her as a material witness until we find out some things.”

He went out and drove over to the Beach. He found the Sundown Club without too much difficulty. Two cars were in the parking-lot. He parked beside them and went around to the closed front doors, found them locked, and his insistent rapping brought no response. He prowled back along the side of the building and found a small side door that was also locked.

There was an electric button inconspicuously set in the stuccoed wall beside the doorframe, and Shayne pressed it. He waited patiently for a few minutes and pushed it again, held it down for a long time.

He was still holding it down when a man came around the back of the building and toward him. He was a big man who moved with a loose-jointed slouch, his long arms swinging by his sides. He wore a black-and-white checkered cap with a stiff bill, and his bulky torso strained the seams of a garishly striped pink and white shirt. His nose was flattened against his face and his left ear was cauliflowered; the right ear stood out at an odd angle.

He walked up close to Shayne and stopped flat-footed. He asked, “Whatcha want around here now, Bud?”

“Brenner.”

Monk’s breath wheezed in and out loudly between his pulpy lips. “Whatcha want with him?”

“Lucky sent me,” Shayne said impatiently. “Is Hake here or isn’t he?”

“Lucky, huh?”

“Lucky Laverty.”

Monk said, “I dunno,” dubiously.

Shayne shrugged and said flatly, “Next time Brenner wants me he can come hunting.” He turned as though to go away.

“Wait a minute,” Monk protested. “I’ll take yuh in.” He got out a small, flat key and unlocked the door, stepped back, and motioned for Shayne to precede him down the hallway.

Hake Brenner was slowly pacing the richly carpeted floor when Shayne glimpsed him through the open door of his ornate office. He was apparently lost in deep thought and gave no sign that he heard his visitor approach. It was not until Monk ambled through the door after Shayne and said, “Hello, Boss,” that Brenner stopped and turned his cold blue eyes on the redheaded detective.

“Who’ve we got here, Monk?”

“I don’t rightly know, Boss. Friend of Lucky’s, I reckon. I found him prowlin’ around outside lookin’ for a way in, and he says Lucky sent ’im.”

Shayne moved toward a chair near the leather-covered desk in the center of the room. He said, “I guess Lucky told you I’d be around.”

Brenner nodded and took his time walking toward the chair behind his desk. He sat down and said, “You’re Shayne.”

“That’s right.” Shayne toed the chair closer to the desk before sitting down. He took out a pack of Picayunes, shook one partly from the pack, and offered it to the gambler.