Marked for Murder (11 page)

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 coupé 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 coupé.

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.

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 exposé 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.”

Bronson’s expression did not change even so much as the flicker of an eyelash. He calmly drew on his cigar, then asked, “The—er—weapon that figured in the attack on Rourke?”

“We’ll know more about that after we make a ballistic test on a bullet fired from it.” Shayne shrugged and got up.

Mr. Bronson detained him by asking, “You say the police know nothing about this clue?”

“Not yet.”

Bronson was breathing heavily and his eyes were low-lidded. “Perhaps Chief Painter has been negligent,” he said with sudden friendliness. “Would you be interested in a retainer?”

“I’ll be frank with you, Bronson,” said Shayne grimly. “For once in my life I’m more interested in solving a case than in getting paid for it. I won’t work any harder for a fee than without one, so you might as well save your money. I’m out to get the guy who shot Tim Rourke.”

“Come now, Mr. Shayne. That doesn’t sound like the things I’ve heard about you. I may as well tell you I’ve been considering a public reward through the
Courier.
Quite a substantial reward, since the integrity of the press is involved. Perhaps twenty-five thousand.”

Shayne got it then. He got it very suddenly. He thought fast and played along in a hurry. “Why don’t you try an ad in the personal column?”

“Perhaps I will, Mr. Shayne.” He looked up at Shayne with a stony stare. “If that’s all you have to say to me now—”

“That’s all—right now,” Shayne said, and walked out through the living-room. He strode out rapidly and got in his car, frowning over the figure Bronson had offered. He didn’t know whether it was good or bad to have Walter Bronson think he was the originator of the note demanding 25 grand to keep still about a certain .32 automatic. It opened up a lot of possibilities, but he couldn’t yet foresee where they might lead.