Brett Halliday - Marked for Murder

“What about prints on the door?”

“Both knobs were wiped clean of prints,” Gentry said with a deep sigh.

“How close do they set the time?”

“Around ten-thirty. Not more than ten minutes either way.”

“Any witnesses who heard the shots?”

“Painter hasn’t found anybody, yet,” Gentry rumbled.

“What sort of apartment is the Blackstone? Tim wasn’t living there when I left.”

“Two stories. No elevator. A back stairway leading up from the alley, and front stairs leading off the lobby. One man for manager, switchboard operator, and janitor. He was behind the switchboard when Rourke came in about four o’clock. Tim had been beaten pretty badly, Mike. Henty-that’s the manager-wanted to help him upstairs, but Rourke said he could make it. He had a black eye and a split lip that was bleeding. They found the bloody shirt and tie in his bedroom.

“He had a visitor when he got home. A swell blond dish, according to Henty. She arrived about two-thirty and asked to be allowed to wait for Tim in his apartment. Henty claims he’d never seen this particular girl before. He didn’t see her leave, but from about ten-twenty to ten-forty Henty says he was in the back working on the air-conditioning unit. Anybody could have entered or left through the lobby during that time-and by the back stairs any time.”

Shayne ground out his Picayune and lit another. He blew a puff of smoke toward Gentry. “That the only time she could have left the front way without him seeing her?”

Gentry coughed into the puff of smoke, glared at the Picayune, and demanded, “What are they smoking in New Orleans these days?”

Shayne grinned. “It’s only a Picayune. People down there like them better than tobacco. Was Henty in the lobby all the time from four until ten-twenty?”

“Hell, no,” Gentry growled. “You know how it is with one man handling everything in a place like that. He admits to being in and out a dozen times-for periods varying from a couple to ten minutes.”

“So the blonde could have left any time. On the other hand, Tim may have been beat up too badly to keep a blonde occupied long.”

“He was pretty badly beaten,” Gentry said judicially, “but you know how Tim was about blondes.”

“I know,” Shayne agreed. “Anything else?”

“Not in the line of actual, known facts. Seems Rourke left the office about twelve-twenty after turning in his copy for the day. No one knows where he went or what he did between that time and four when he turned up at his place with a shiner and a bleeding lip. His heap is parked in front, but there are no bloodstains on it. Henty thinks he noticed Tim drive up and park about two o’clock, but when he didn’t come in, decided he must have been mistaken. Later, he decided it was Rourke’s roadster all the time.”

Shayne dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and toed it out. His face was a grim, preoccupied mask. “If the blonde was a new number, who’s Tim been seeing lately?”

“Another blonde,” Gentry told him with a grin. “He’s been living at the Blackstone about four months, and Henty says he has seen only one woman around 2-D all that time. He describes her as something of a looker, in her mid-twenties, and with plenty on the ball.”

“No other dope on number-two blonde?”

“No. Henty claims she hasn’t been around recently, or has been using the back stairway. That’s about all there is, Mike.”

“It’s not a hell of a lot,” Shayne said shortly. “One blonde fixed his supper and drank coffee and whisky with him. Another blonde searched his room. Did the first one kill him and leave, and the other one arrive later and search the place? Or did she feed him and leave while he was still alive?”

“That sounds best. Though the second one could have come in and found him shot, knew there’d be an uproar and an investigation, and searched the place in a hurry to get her letters or anything she didn’t want the police to find-and then put in the emergency call.”

“It could add up that way,” Shayne agreed. “Damn it, Gentry, hasn’t Painter dug up any leads? The dispatch I read sounded as if Tim was putting on a one-man crusade to clean up the town and was shot on that account. And the telegram I had from him said there were three murders.”

Gentry looked up, surprised. “Tim telegraphed you?”

“Yeh. I got the message after I’d read about him being shot. He didn’t say anything about personal danger. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t seen the newspaper item.”

“I’m coming to that,” Gentry said patiently. “I wanted you to get the physical picture in your mind before we started digging into possible motives.” He chewed thoughtfully on his damp cigar, took it out of his mouth, and tossed it aside at a brass spittoon. His aim was no better than it had been two years ago.

“The attempt to murder Rourke actually goes back to three other murders, Mike. When you solve those you should know pretty well what happened in Tim’s apartment Tuesday night. Here’s the last story Tim wrote in the Courier. It was published Tuesday afternoon, and gives you a pretty fair background.” He passed a folded newspaper to Shayne and settled back with a fresh black stogie.

Shayne spread the newspaper out on Gentry’s desk and spotted Rourke’s by-lined story prominently displayed on the front page. He read:

Three men have been murdered in Miami Beach during the past week. The murders have not been solved. No arrests have been made. No arrests are anticipated by those who know the record of the Miami Beach detective bureau under the leadership (sic) of Chief Peter Painter.

In an exclusive interview with Chief Painter this morning, this reporter offered to furnish Miami Beach detectives evidence conclusively indicating that these three deaths are a direct outgrowth of the operations of a criminal ring which threatens to engulf the entire Greater Miami Area in a wave of terrorism unparalleled in our history.

This information and assistance was refused by Chief Painter. With his own so-called “investigation” bogged down by a lack of clues and the chief’s stubborn insistence that there is no crime wave in his bailiwick, citizens of Miami Beach can look, forward to a continuation of these terroristic killings, encouraged and abetted by official complacency which refuses to look facts in the face.

In these columns the Courier has repeatedly warned its readers of the dangers they face so long as certain selfish civic and business leaders continue to keep the lid clamped tightly on the truth, and continue to encourage the growing power of the criminal elements which threaten us.

So that the public may know and be warned, the factual evidence offered to Chief Painter and refused consideration by him this morning is herewith presented in detail. Read the truth and draw your own conclusions.

The first victim in this series of related murders was Peter Jordan, 42, a minor executive of one of the Beach hotels. Monday night, Peter Jordan drove unaccompanied to the Oceanview Club, one of the three recently renovated establishments on the Beach where large-scale gambling openly flourishes.

During the evening, Peter Jordan was consistently lucky at one of the four ornate roulette tables which may be viewed by anyone who cares to visit the club. It was Mr. Jordan’s misfortune to win about $6,000,

At approximately 11:30, he cashed in his chips and went into the large bar where suckers are assuaged with free drinks. There he was accosted by a young lady of striking blond beauty. This couple had a few drinks on the house and reached some agreement whereby they went out together in Mr. Jordan’s automobile.