Marked for Murder (17 page)

Painter took a few nervous paces around the room, came back to Smith and snapped, “So you decided to keep the gun and blackmail Mr. Bronson?”

“That’s right,” drawled Smith. “I recognized him and I knew he was rich and I thought I could make a good touch. I wrote him a letter Thursday night and told him to put that ad in today’s paper if he wanted to deal. Then when I started over here tonight I got picked up by a couple of Miami cops.”

A look of complete bafflement came over Bronson’s heavy face. He said, “This man is protecting Shayne for some reason. It was Shayne who wrote me that letter demanding money.”

“Have you got the letter?” Shayne asked.

“It’s at home in a safe place.”

“You can check Smith’s and my handwriting and find out soon enough,” Shayne told Painter. “Right now, it seems to me a murder charge is more important.”

“Right,” snapped Painter. He turned to Bronson. “Do you deny Smith’s story of how he came into possession of the pistol?”

“Of course I deny it. I didn’t go near Rourke’s apartment that night. His entire story is preposterous.”

Into the short, dead silence that followed, Shayne said calmly, “Why don’t we ask Mrs. Bronson about the whole thing? She was a pretty good friend of Rourke’s.”

“That’s an outrageous lie,” Bronson broke in hoarsely. “My wife scarcely knew Rourke.”

“Not only that,” Shayne went on, placidly ignoring him, “Bronson started out for Rourke’s apartment that night at nine-thirty with some personal effects in a Manila envelope. If Smith saw him coming out of there with a woman after Rourke was shot, he must have been there. What did the woman look like?” he asked Smith.

“She was a swell blonde. They came down the back stairs and Mr. Bronson got in his car and the woman got in hers. They were parked on a side street. After I picked up the pistol where he dropped it, I followed them in my car. They both drove straight up to Mr. Bronson’s house and turned in the drive.”

Shayne said, “Your wife’s a blonde, Bronson. Did she help you attack Rourke?”

“My wife is ill and has been confined to her room for days,” said Bronson stiffly. His face was gray and he mopped it constantly. “Do I have to sit here and listen to these ridiculous insults to my wife—and these preposterous accusations?”

“Go ahead and tell Painter your wife has been confined to her room only since Wednesday morning,” Shayne said harshly. “Tell him you don’t permit the servants to see her, and though you claim she’s ill with a nervous breakdown, you haven’t called a doctor.”

“Is that right?” Painter snapped at Bronson.

“She simply needed rest,” Bronson protested. “There was no need for a doctor. She’s had these attacks before and always recovers in a few days.”

“Do you always lock her in her room when she has them?” Shayne persisted.

Branson’s heavy lids closed over his eyes and he sank back. “I wanted to protect her,” he moaned. “I’ll tell you the whole truth.”

PAINTER GAVE SHAYNE A SWIFT GLARE of cold hatred, strutted to the swivel chair behind the desk and said, “Now I’m getting somewhere. See that you
do
tell the truth, Bronson. You’ve heard this man say he
saw
you coming out of Rourke’s place with a woman soon after he was shot.”

“Yes.” Walter Bronson wiped his face with a soggy handkerchief. “You’ll have to understand that my wife and I have very little in common. She’s strongly self-willed and for years we’ve more or less gone our separate ways. She likes excitement and a good time, while I’m more interested in my work.”

He paused to moisten his thick lips, then continued, “I was surprised and horrified when I found her in Rourke’s apartment that night. I assure you I had no idea—”

“Let’s get down to facts and skip your personal feelings,” Painter interrupted sharply. “You found her in Rourke’s apartment Tuesday night?”

“Yes. I stopped for a cup of coffee and a sandwich after leaving my office, then drove directly to the Blackstone. I had cleared out Rourke’s desk and had his things with his final check which I intended to deliver to him.

“There was no one in the lobby when I entered. I noticed it was ten-forty by the clock behind the desk. I had the number of Rourke’s apartment and I went up the stairs and found the door standing open. I knocked and pushed it open and—saw my wife kneeling on the floor beside Rourke’s body.

“You can imagine how I felt. I suppose I went out of my head for a moment. Muriel—my wife—was weeping and distraught. Her hands were bloody, and she had received a blow on the left temple that was already causing her eye to blacken. She seemed dazed by it. There wasn’t any weapon in sight, though I saw that Rourke had been shot.”

Walter Bronson ran his hand over his face and pressed his fingers against his eyes. “My only thought was to get Muriel away from there before she was discovered,” he went on earnestly. “She insisted that she hadn’t shot him, but didn’t know exactly what happened. It was wrong of me, but—she is my wife.

“I got hold of her and helped her out the door and she indicated the back stairway. We went down without being seen, and she was getting hold of herself by that time and insisted she was able to drive her own car. She promised to drive straight home, and I helped her in and went back to my car and followed her. I wasn’t aware that we had been trailed home. The servants were in bed, and we went up to our suite without being seen.” He paused to draw in a deep, tragic breath.

“So you didn’t carry any gun down from the apartment with you and drop it outside?” Painter barked.

“I did not. I didn’t know until we reached home that Muriel had taken my pistol with her to Rourke’s apartment—and that it was mysteriously missing from her handbag.” Bronson stopped speaking, as though from sheer exhaustion.

Painter fumed at Dilly Smith, “Then you lied about where you found the gun. You’d better come clean or—”

“Let Bronson finish,” Shayne interrupted impatiently. “I’m sure he has a lot more to tell us.”

“Naturally I demanded an explanation as soon as we were home,” Bronson resumed. “Muriel was hysterical. She admitted that she had—gone around with Rourke for months, and had gone to his apartment after I left for the office that evening. She admitted taking my pistol, claiming that she feared I might take it with me if she didn’t and do some harm to Rourke. I was exceedingly upset over the way he had disobeyed my orders that day.” His voice trembled and he paused again.

“That
was when we discovered the pistol was missing,” he went on wearily. “It wasn’t in her handbag where she said she had seen it last. She said she tossed her bag with the gun in it on a chair in the living-room of Rourke’s apartment.”

“Tell us exactly what your wife told you about the whole thing,” Painter ordered.

“I will. I realize now that I should have come to you at once. She told me about finding Rourke alone and nursing some bruises he had received that afternoon in a sort of brawl. The entire place was in state of disorder, she said, as though it had recently been searched.”

Shayne drew in a sharp, audible breath at that piece of news. He muttered, “Torn up by his earlier blond visitor?”

Painter flashed a scornful look at Shayne and said, “Go on, Bronson.”

“I presume so. Muriel told me that Rourke admitted having an earlier visitor. She claimed that she, herself, cooked him some bacon and eggs because he was in no condition to go out, and that they had a few drinks after that.

“She was in the bathroom when she heard Rourke answer the door and admit someone. She stayed in the bathroom, afraid it might be me and that I’d discover her there, but she could hear nothing but very low voices in the living-room. Then she remembered her handbag and her whisky glass in plain sight and decided to brazen it out.

“The light in the hallway outside the bathroom was out, she said, and as she stepped out she was struck a stunning blow on the side of her head. It knocked her unconscious for a few minutes. She didn’t know how long. She was dazed when she came to, and she stumbled into the living-room and found Rourke sprawled out on the floor. She knelt beside him and examined his wound, and it was at that moment I arrived.”

Painter turned slightly to throw a grudgingly inquiring glance at Shayne. Shayne arched his ragged brows and grinned. Painter turned back to the
Courier
editor and demanded, “Did you actually believe that wild story?”

The fight was gone out of Bronson. “I don’t know,” he said heavily. “God knows I wanted to believe it. But when she told me about the missing pistol, I realized with horror that it might actually have been the gun used to shoot Rourke if her story was true. I knew if it was found it could be traced to me. I realized that my secretary could testify that I had obtained Rourke’s address from her and left the office with the intention of seeing him. When I saw the paper next morning and learned that the weapon had been identified as a thirty-two Colt automatic, I felt positive my pistol had been used.

“I realized there’d be enough questions asked without having to explain how Muriel received the blow on her head and the black eye, and, in fact, I was also worried lest she call the police and tell them everything. She was in such a state of hysteria she didn’t care what happened to her—or to me. I can’t believe she actually loved Rourke, but she’s always been one to dramatize herself.

“That’s why I insisted that she stay in her room and out of sight of the servants, and why I locked the door to keep them out. Friday morning when I received that threatening letter through the mail, I was frantic.” He stopped talking and looked at Shayne.

“You were there when the letter arrived,” he said. “You mentioned the serial number. From that hint I was positive you were taking a roundabout way of letting me know you had the pistol in your possession.”

Shayne grinned and shook his head. “You’ve got a bad habit of jumping to conclusions, Bronson. Smith wrote that letter and mailed it Thursday night. I watched him do it and got the serial number.”

“How’d you manage that?” Smith drawled. “I left you at Helen’s house. I didn’t see you anywhere around when I was writing the letter.”

Shayne grinned widely. “Maybe I have a secret power to make myself invisible.” He asked Bronson, “Why did you call Brenner to try to borrow the money from him?”

“Because I didn’t have that much money,” Bronson confessed. “Contrary to general belief, I’m not a wealthy man. My wife—” He paused gloomily and licked his lips.

“Has she been gambling with your money?” Shayne asked.

“Yes,” the editor admitted despondently. “I knew she’d been frequenting Brenner’s clubs, but I hadn’t realized how deeply she had plunged until she told me Tuesday night.”

“So you figured you had twenty-five grand coming from him?”

“I suppose so.” Bronson was quietly thoughtful for a moment. When he resumed his recital his voice grew more and more spirited. “Not only had my wife lost more than that amount at his tables,” he said, “but I felt the entire situation was his fault. He was also under a certain obligation to me for doing my best to prevent Rourke’s article from being printed. He had offered me money before, but I had refused because I felt I was only doing my duty toward the community.” He signed heavily and added, “In this dire extremity I had to turn to him.”

“And you went to him at three o’clock and told him the whole story?” Shayne asked.

“Yes. Brenner pointed out that paying blackmail was never a sure way of ending such a situation, and suggested that I conceal two of his men in the back of my car and have them take care of the extortionist for good. I—agreed. I saw no other way out. I don’t understand how
you
made the contact there on the Boulevard, Shayne, with a police car to protect you when it was actually this man Smith, here, who had my pistol in his possession.”

Shayne looked over at Painter, who appeared to be in a deep quandary. He said, “Chief Painter was working hand in glove with me on the whole deal. We let you go ahead with your plan to rub me out so we’d have definite charges against Brenner’s men and force you into these admissions.”

“That’s right,” said Painter quickly. “I stalled by pretending I didn’t know anything about it until I got a ballistic report on your gun.”

“Have you suspected,” Shayne asked very quietly, “that your wife may just possibly be the blonde who knocked off those other three men—and the Rankin woman?”

Bronson started violently and exclaimed, “Good God—no! It’s impossible. I’ve told you the entire story. There’s no reason to suspect my wife of anything else.”

“But you do halfway suspect her of lying to you about the way Rourke got shot,” Shayne said calmly. “You don’t know yet whether she did it or not. What possible motive would she have had for shooting him unless he had learned she was a murderess and threatened to expose her?”

“No!” cried Bronson brokenly. “No. It’s too monstrous. It can’t be.”

“It isn’t a nice thought for a husband,” Shayne agreed. He said to Painter, “Shouldn’t we have Mrs. Bronson in to verify all this stuff her husband has been telling us?”

“By all means,” said Painter pompously. He pressed a button on his desk. A man appeared promptly in the doorway. “Take a couple of men to Walter Bronson’s house and pick up Mrs. Bronson. You’ll find her locked in her upstairs suite.”

“It isn’t locked now,” Bronson muttered. “I didn’t think it was necessary when I left at nine o’clock.”

Painter nodded to the man. He hurried away. Shayne leaned back and yawned. “That brings us to Mr. Smith and the lies he told about finding the pistol where Bronson dropped it.” Shayne regarded Smith for a moment. A sullen look was on his face and his skin looked slightly jaundiced. Smith was breathing through his mouth audibly.

Painter swung on Smith. “You’d better tell us the truth now,” he grated.

“I have.” His round light-blue eyes showed fright. “The way I figure it,” he drawled, “if he’s telling the truth, maybe it was his wife that dropped the gun. I couldn’t see for sure. Maybe I just thought it was him.”

“There’s an unusually bright moon,” Shayne reminded him. “But we’re interested in a few other things beside the gun. Who’s the blonde who was registered as your wife at the LaCrosse?”