Marked for Murder (13 page)

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.

Brenner said, “No, thanks. They tell me you’re a friend of Timothy Rourke’s.”

Shayne lit a cigarette. “Rourke and I have been friends for a long time.”

“They also say you’re smart.” Brenner’s cold gaze remained steadily on his visitor. His tight lips scarcely moved when he spoke.

“And tough,” Shayne added indifferently.

Hake Brenner’s fist pounded the desk and the fine leather resounded with a dull thud. “I hate what happened to Rourke as much as you do. And those other killings—good God, man! Don’t you see what they’ve done to my business? I’ve been closed since that story of Rourke’s appeared Tuesday afternoon.”

“You had plenty of reason to shut him up.”

“Sure I did. But I had better sense. Hell, Rourke and I came to an understanding that afternoon.”

Shayne looked down at his cigarette to hide the flare of anger in his eyes. “What sort of understanding?”

“He had his price,” Brenner purred, “just like any other man. We made a deal.”

“Did you see him here?” Shayne asked casually.

“Right here in this office. I’m a business man. I can’t afford trouble. I’m always ready to make a deal—with anybody.” His tone was speculative and inviting.

“Who gunned Rourke?”

“I wish I knew, Shayne. I wish to God I knew.” Brenner ran his palm carefully over his sleek hair. He sounded sincere and perplexed. “Whoever did it put the heat on me plenty. That blood-crazy blonde is my guess. Find her—and I swear I’ll help you put her away, but good. After I get things fixed with Rourke—blooie!
She
stirs everything up again by feeding him lead.”

Shayne nodded. Brenner’s plaint sounded plausible. He asked, “Who is she?”

Brenner spread out his well-kept hands. “You got me, Shayne.”

Shayne said, “Nuts. You know who goes to your clubs and what goes on there. If Rourke could dig up all the dope he printed, you had better ways of getting more dope on her.”

“I swear I didn’t know what was going on. I can’t ride herd on every blonde that makes a midnight pickup in all three of my places.”

“Who is she?” Shayne repeated flatly.

“I told you I don’t know.” Brenner reached for a cigar.

“Do you know a blonde named Madge Rankin?”

Brenner was putting flame to his cigar with a desk lighter. He hesitated a moment before asking, “The dame they found dead last night?”

“That’s right. Dead since last Tuesday.”

“Only what I read about her in the paper,” Brenner said.

“Or a guy named Dilly Smith?” Shayne watched Brenner’s square face for a change of expression, but saw only a quizzical look of deep thought as though the gambler were honestly trying to place the name.

“No.” He met Shayne’s gaze squarely.

“Or a woman named Betty Green?”

“No.” The answer came swiftly.

“Or Mrs. Walter Bronson?”

Shayne saw a startled look in Hake Brenner’s eyes before he could turn them away. He shifted uneasily in his chair. “The editor’s wife?”

“A good-looking blonde,” Shayne reminded him.

“I never saw her that I know of.”

“But you do know Bronson,” Shayne persisted.

“I’ve met him.” Brenner was composed and aloof again.

“You’re not a hell of a lot of help.”

Brenner waved his glowing cigar and said affably, “I’m sorry. I wish I could be. I give you my word—” The telephone on his desk rang. He picked it up and said, “Brenner.”

His square jaw tightened. He glanced swiftly at Shayne and away. Shayne looked at his watch. It was exactly 11:03.

Brenner said into the instrument, “I see. Maybe I can take care of it for you a lot easier than that.” He listened a moment longer, then said, “Call me later,” and hung up.

His eyes were as hard as agates as they studied Shayne. “I’ve heard a lot about you here in Miami and on the Beach. Who’s paying you for this job?”

“Nobody—yet.”

“You never took a job in your life unless there was a payoff.”

“Things turn up,” Shayne said. “I’ve got a hunch the
Courier
may offer a good-sized reward.”

“Is it more than a hunch?”

“Could be.”

Brenner pushed a button on his desk and dim light shone on a small instrument on his left. He said, “Come in, Bing, you and Monk both,” without raising his voice. The light went out.

A tall bony man with sharp features came in through the side door, followed by Monk. He looked at Shayne without interest, then turned to Brenner and said, “Yeh, Boss.”

Shayne remained seated, but uncrossed his legs. Brenner said, “Frisk him.” Monk moved around behind Shayne and Bing advanced hesitantly. Shayne got up and pulled his Police Positive .38 in one motion. He trained the muzzle on Brenner and said, “Back your monkeys off me,” moving slowly backward to bring Monk into his line of fire.

Brenner said, “Hold it, boys,” and sighed deeply.

Shayne said to Monk, “Get over there with your gang.”

Monk sidled around and stood beside Bing who had stopped in his tracks near the desk at Brenner’s command.

Shayne said, “I’ve listened to a lot of your lip without believing much of it, Brenner. You didn’t make a deal with Rourke Tuesday afternoon. He hated the guts of a rat like you. So you’re not clean on that shooting. Maybe you didn’t arrange it. I don’t know. But you did have your boys beat him up that afternoon when he refused to play with you. You’re going to pay for that. And if you did have him blasted you’ll burn.”

Backing toward the door through which he had entered, Shayne continued, his gun still trained on Brenner, “I’m going out now, but I’ll be seeing you some more.” He pulled the office door shut and went down the hall swiftly and outside into the hot sunlight.

He kept the borrowed .38 convenient until he pulled out of the parking-lot. A block away he put it back in his waistband and mopped sweat from his face. Trade winds from the ocean cooled his damp body and cleared his mind as he drove.

He didn’t have much on Hake Brenner except the beating Rourke had received Tuesday afternoon. That was clear enough now. Brenner had propositioned Rourke and when he got no for an answer, he had Bing and Monk work him over. What further action he had taken was anybody’s guess. Brenner was a business man, and there wasn’t the slightest doubt he would prefer to avoid shooting trouble if possible. On the other hand, he wouldn’t hesitate to send his torpedoes after Rourke if he thought that was the only way to shut him up.

Shayne crossed the bridge over the waterway onto the peninsula and turned north toward Tempest Street. Five minutes later he pulled up in front of the stuccoed duplex.

A
For Rent
sign was already set up in front of the half occupied by Madge Rankin. It advised prospective tenants to contact John Wiseman, Realtor, at a Miami Beach address.

Shayne went up the walk and rang Helen Porter’s bell. She opened the door almost at once and smiled when she saw him. Her lustrous dark hair was combed back smoothly and she was freshly rouged and made up with a deep suntan powder. She looked much daintier than last night, and her light-brown eyes sparkled excitedly as she invited him in.

“I’ve been hoping you’d come, Mike. What’s been happening? What have they found out about Madge?”

“Not much—to both questions.”

She caught his arm and pressed close to him as they walked across to the couch. A faint and seductive perfume floated to his nostrils. Helen said, “I didn’t go to sleep for a long time last night,” in a scolding voice, then laughed softly.