Brett Halliday - Marked for Murder

“You’re lying,” Helen Porter said low and furiously. “You’ve no proof. Not one iota of proof.”

Shayne glanced at Painter to make sure he was covering Helen. He said, wearily, “Dilly’s already told us how he drove you to the Blackstone at ten-thirty and you slipped up and knocked Mrs. Bronson out cold, shot Tim Rourke, and brought Mrs. Bronson’s gun back. Smith is down at headquarters now. He didn’t tell you he drove back there after bringing you here, and saw Bronson and his wife while you were phoning the police in the hopes she, Bronson, who is a good-looking blonde, would be found up there with Rourke’s body. He didn’t know you planned to kill Madge. When he found out it was you, he spilled everything.

“Even the way he checked that trunk to your supposed friend Betty Green in Denver as a blind to make it look like Mrs. Smith had left Miami before Rourke was shot-and before the police got suspicious and started checking up.”

“That bastard,” she raged. “That white-livered bastard! I knew I should have given it to him, too. And I would have that night when he came asking about Madge if you hadn’t been here.” She glared at Shayne with cold light-brown eyes that could gleam like molten gold when she was trying to have her way with a man.

Shayne got up and turned to Painter who sat rigidly upright with his police pistol unwaveringly on Helen Porter. He said, “That ought to do it. You can check her prints with the ones of Mrs. Smith that we got from the LaCrosse, and those in Rourke’s apartment. Keep an eye on her. I’ll go over to Miss Porter’s place and call a couple of your men to help you take her in.”

“Tell them to lock Smith up tight,” Painter snapped, and added, “Where are you going?”

“It’s only a short walk over to the hospital. I’ll find out about Rourke.”

After he called in to Beach headquarters and asked for a couple of Painter’s men to take Helen in, he went out into the cool night air.

A brisk ten minutes took him to the Flagler Hospital. Chief Gentry was standing by the information desk. Shayne strode over to him, a grin on his face.

“Have you got anything on Rourke?” Shayne asked.

“Only that he’ll pull through by the skin of his teeth. Blood transfusions saved him.” Gentry chuckled. “Tim’s a tough one. He’s had a couple of conscious moments, but they won’t let him talk.”

“How long?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Gentry said.

“I think I’ll stick around a day or so,” Shayne said. “I want to talk to Tim.”

“You getting anywhere on the case, Mike?”

“Plenty,” Shayne said. “I’ll tell you about it while you take me down to Petey’s to get my car.”

Gentry said gravely as they went out the door, “We could use you around here, Mike. Why don’t you come back home?”