Brett Halliday

Marked for Murder

Chapter One: THE SCENT OF SCANDAL

TIMOTHY ROURKE’S TALL LEAN BODY was bent forward from the waist when he loped into the city room of the Courier. His shock of black hair, showing traces of silver, was disheveled from much finger-combing. His dark eyes were narrowed and his thin nostrils flared like a bloodhound’s hot on a scent.

Striding purposefully toward his typewriter, he shed his light coat and began rolling up his shirtsleeves. He sailed his soiled Panama hat over the heads of two fellow workmen and it landed on his desk.

Minerva Higgins, prim and fortyish, a fixture in the Courier office for more than 20 years, glanced up and met Rourke’s eyes. She motioned for him to stop and said in a low voice, “Are you still prying into that mess on the Beach, Mr. Rourke?” Her pale eyes studied his face earnestly through bifocals. “Mr. Bronson wants you to lay off.”

“With three murders committed during the past week? To hell with Bronson.” Timothy Rourke swung around angrily.

Minerva caught his arm. “Don’t forget Bronson’s the boss. He thinks you’re riding Painter too hard—and unjustly.”

“This is one time, by God, when I wish Mike Shayne had never left Miami. Trouble with Painter is, he hasn’t been ridden hard for too long.”

Rourke went on to his desk, dropped his coat over the back of his chair, and slid into it. He rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter and pulled a protective rubber finger tip over the index finger of his right hand. Lowering his gaze to the keys, he began punching them with the single finger, hitting each key methodically and hard, and with a steady speed not much less than that of an experienced touch typist. He wrote, Three men have been murdered in Miami Beach during the last week. The murders have not been solved. No arrests have been made. No arrests are anticipated by those who follow 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…

A tap on his shoulder interrupted him. He turned with his finger poised above the keys and saw Tommy, one of the copy boys, standing beside him. Tommy was round-faced and freckled. He grinned and said, “Boss wants to see you, Tim.”

“Tell him I’m busy,” Rourke growled. “Tell him—”

Still grinning, Tommy shook his head. “He saw you come in, and he wants you right now. He’s chewin’ hell out of his cigar,” the boy ended with a chuckle.

Rourke got up and went across to a closed door with the legend Managing Editor on the upper frosted-glass portion. He opened the door and went in, pulling it shut against the clatter of typewriters and the din of teletype machines.

Walter Bronson sat alone behind a big, bare oak desk, a massive man of 40, bald and heavy-featured. His thick-lidded eyes had a way of regarding his subordinates with brooding but benign severity, as though he accepted and understood their human weaknesses while he deplored them. His lips were pouched around a cigar, his jaws working slowly, ruminatively.

None of his evident perturbation showed in his bland voice when he said, “Come in, Timothy.”

Rourke leaned his shoulder blades against the frosted glass of the closed door, and said impatiently, “Let’s have it in a hurry. I’m doing a story.”

Bronson said, “I just had a call from Chief Painter.”

Rourke’s thin, wide mouth twisted in a grimace. “That’s my story.”

Bronson worked the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “You’re a competent reporter,” he said, “when you stick to reporting. But I’ve been meaning to speak to you about those stories you’ve been running the last few days.”

“Does the truth frighten you?” Rourke made a loose cigarette with brown paper and sack tobacco.

“The truth,” said Bronson sententiously, “will always be welcome in the Courier columns. But our regular staff will continue to write the editorials.”

Rourke lit his sorry cigarette and said flatly, “All right. Your regular staff will continue to write the editorials. I’ll continue to write the truth.” He turned and put his hand on the doorknob.

“Hold it, Rourke.” Bronson didn’t raise his voice but it was heavy with jarring impact. “You insulted Painter in his office this morning.”

Rourke’s eyes glinted. “That’s page-one news. I didn’t know Painter could be insulted. God knows I’ve tried often enough.”

Bronson jabbed a drooling cigar toward Rourke. “You’ve also insulted a lot of other people in the entire greater Miami area with your inflammatory stories about a crime wave; your unjustified statements that Miami is becoming a mecca for hoodlums and gangsters; your thinly veiled implications that graft and corruption are rampant in the Beach police department; your insinuations concerning the activities of a shady gambling syndicate.”

“I suppose the Chamber of Commerce doesn’t like it.” Rourke glowered at his cigarette. It had gone out. He flung it in a wastebasket.

“Precisely,” Bronson went on. “Also the Civic Betterment League and the Ministerial Association. Protests have been pouring in, Rourke, from right-thinking citizens on all sides. The wire services are picking up your stories and featuring them throughout the country. You’re giving Miami a black name just when it’s very important that we have a good press throughout the nation. Our civic leaders envision an unparalleled opportunity for Miami to build and grow as never before. A resurgence of the ‘twenty-six boom, perhaps. People won’t come here if they get the impression they’re likely to be murdered while walking our streets.”

“They are.”

“Nonsense. Three murderous attacks in succession is sheer coincidence. Chief Painter assures me—”

“Chief Painter lies,” said Rourke. He moved forward and put both palms flat on Bronson’s desk. “Hiding our heads in the sand won’t solve this problem, Bronson. I can name you half a dozen gambling spots that have opened on the Beach in the last two months—all operated by the same syndicate. There’s too much loose money around.”

Bronson swiveled his chair slightly and looked away from the hot glare in Rourke’s eyes. “We’ve always had a certain amount of gambling here,” he snapped. “Miami isn’t a blue-law town. The tourists demand it.”

“But this is big-time organized stuff. With everything that goes with it. I tell you they’re moving in. It’s prohibition days all over again, except on a bigger scale. They’re buying protection, forming their own strong-arm mobs.”

“You’re having nightmares,” Bronson scoffed. “I know Chief Painter. He’s honest and incorruptible.”

“He’s honest,” Rourke agreed soberly, “but he’s in a tough spot. The civic leaders over there are putting the pressure on Painter. He’s human and he wants to keep his job. He’s trying to hold the lid on—and kid himself that it isn’t as bad as he knows it is.”

Walter Bronson took his cigar from his mouth and glared at it. A full inch of one end was a soggy, pulpy mass. “I’m afraid you’re exaggerating conditions in your own mind.”

“I was in Miami back in the ‘twenties when Capone’s mob tried to take over,” Rourke said bitterly. “You weren’t.”

Bronson moved a pudgy hand in an impatient gesture. “The situation is entirely different today.”

“You bet it is. It’s worse. We’ve got to open our eyes and stamp it out before it goes any further.”

“That’s a job for the authorities,” Bronson told him.

“It’s a paper’s duty to give its readers the facts.”

“But not one man’s wild fancies.”

Rourke pushed himself erect, circled the desk slowly, and went over to the open window. He said, “Miami Beach is my home, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand by idly and see it taken over by a gang of murdering rats. They’ve got to be stamped out, and the only way to do it is to arouse the citizens to an understanding of the danger.”

Bronson cleared his throat. “I’m the managing editor and I’ll decide this paper’s policy. After you’ve written your story, send in your copy for my okay.”

Rourke hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, then flung the door open and went back to his desk. Glancing over the few lines he had written, his jaw tightened, and he pulled on the rubber finger tip again. Deliberately and methodically, he went on with the story he had started before visiting Bronson’s office.

There were four full pages when he finished. He clipped the sheets together, folded them in the center, and laid them beside his typewriter.

He slid in a fresh sheet of paper and typed, In an exclusive interview this morning with Chief Peter Painter, capable and affable head of the Miami Beach Detective Bureau, this reporter was assured that any fears of a crime wave in the resort city were wholly groundless.

True, there have been three murders within a week but Chief Painter was emphatic in his statement that early arrests are confidently anticipated, and…

When he had completed three pages he called Tommy over, handed him the copy, and said, “Take this in to Bronson for his okay before turning it in to the composing room.”

Tommy said, “Sure, Tim. Are you still ridin’ the Beach racketeers? I bet you’re a better detective than any they got on the police force.”

Timothy grinned and said, “Run along with that stuff, and be sure you get down on your knees when you hand it to the Big Shot.”

He waited until the boy disappeared, then gathered up the folded pages of his original story, and strolled down to the composing room where he handed it to Sam, the grizzled foreman.

“Page one if you can make room for it, Sam.”

Sam spread the sheets out and read the lead. “Hot stuff, eh, Tim? This is getting to be like old times.”

“Yeh. Like old times.” He laid a friendly hand on the older man’s shoulder and turned away, stopped in the doorway to roll and light a cigarette.

The brown cylinder was half-smoked when Tommy came down the steps with Bronson’s okayed copy in his hand. Rourke stopped him and asked, “Old man like it all right?”

“Sure. He quit chewin’ on his cigar while he read it.”

“I’ll take it to Sam. You’d better beat it back upstairs to see if some of the others need you. Pretty close to deadline.”

“Sure.” Tommy took the stairs two at the time. Rourke followed him slowly, tearing the typewritten sheets into narrow strips and stuffing them in his pocket.

Upstairs, he went to his desk and stood for a moment with his hand on the back of his chair, looking soberly at the typewriter on which he had pounded out copy for almost 20 years. It was a lumbering old-fashioned machine, but it suited him and his one-finger punching. He wished he could take it with him. He knew he would have a hell of a time getting accustomed to another typewriter.

He sat down and started gathering his personal belongings from the desk drawers. No one paid any attention to him. He stuffed all the memoranda on stories he had done, and stories he had planned to do, in his pockets. He then rolled a sheet of paper in the typewriter and looked at his watch.

It was 12:18. He typed the date and added, 12:18 p.m. Below that heading he typed, The hell you do. I’ve already quit. He typed his name and left the sheet of paper in the roller.

He got up and put on his coat, strolled out, nodding and lifting his hand casually to two or three who looked up and spoke to him.

The elevator took him down to the ground floor and he walked unhurriedly toward Flagler Street.

Chapter Two: BRISK WORKOUT

IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER TWO O’CLOCK when Timothy Rourke parked his roadster in front of a modest two-story apartment house on Miami Beach. The afternoon air was sun-drenched and humid. He got out and walked around the front of his car, crossed the palm-shaded parkway, and started toward the front of the apartment house.

A man got out of a sedan parked beyond the entrance and sauntered toward him. He was an inch or so above six feet in height and very bony. He wore a Palm Beach suit and a Panama hat, two-toned sports shoes that glistened in the hot sunlight. His features were sharp, and pallid skin stretched tightly over high cheekbones and pointed chin. His eyes were deep-set, with lids wrinkled down and closing them to mere slits.

He met Rourke at the entrance walk and said, “Rourke?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a pal.” The man’s voice was low and husky. “Let’s take a little ride.”

Rourke laughed shortly and started up the walk. The man put long bony fingers on his arm and tightened them. His face had a tired, depressed look. He said, “Get smart, chum,” and bunched his other hand in the side pocket of his coat.

Rourke said, “All right,” and went with him to the sedan.

A man wearing a pink-striped shirt sat behind the steering-wheel. His sleeves were rolled up above hairy forearms, and he wore a black-and-white checkered cap with a stiff bill. His right ear was cauliflowered, and when Rourke opened the back door he turned his head to give a view of a profile almost perfectly flat.

Rourke got in the back seat and left the door open. His tall companion got in beside him and closed the door. He said, “All right, Monk.”

The driver raced the motor and ground the gears getting away in low. His left ear was twisted and stood away from his head at an odd angle. The back of his neck was red with a thick fold of flesh above the pink-striped neckband.

Rourke rolled down his window and settled back with cigarette papers and tobacco.

His companion took out a pack of Camels and growled, “Don’t go fouling up this car with that junk. Take one of these.”

A saturnine grin lighted Rourke’s face. “Thanks,” he said.

The man snapped a silver lighter and held the flame to Rourke’s cigarette, then settled back and pensively studied the polished tips of his shoes.

Monk had turned north and was driving at an easy speed between rows of coco palms and modest bungalows. Presently he turned to cross a bridge onto one of the small man-made islands dotting the shore of the bay. He followed a winding course to a big sprawling one-story clubhouse on the waterfront and pulled into a deserted parking-lot.

Rourke knew this to be the Sunrise Club, formerly a private clubhouse for wealthy householders on the island, now converted into a swanky gambling establishment. He asked, “End of the line?”

The tall man unfolded himself and got out. Rourke followed him to a side entrance in a concrete wall draped with red and purple bougainvillea. Monk plodded along behind them.

Rourke’s self-appointed “pal” unlocked a rear door opening onto a narrow dark passageway. He switched on a ceiling light and went on to a door at the end of the narrow hall and turned the knob. They entered a spacious office carpeted with rich red carpeting. Venetian blinds at the wide windows let slatted sunlight into the room. Walls of robin’s-egg blue rose to meet the warm creamy ceiling centered with a magnificent chandelier.

A tall spare man sat behind a leather-covered desk. His jaw was square, his mouth tight-lipped, but his blue eyes twinkled as he half-rose and nodded pleasantly to Rourke. He said, “It was nice of you to come, Mr. Rourke,” and looked inquiringly at the two men behind the reporter.

“Acted like he was glad to come,” Monk said.

“You and Monk wait outside, Bing. I’ll have you drive Mr. Rourke back presently.”

The pair went out through a side door. Rourke sat down in a chair of blue leather and chromium near the desk. He got out cigarette papers and a sack of tobacco.

His host took the cover from a rosewood humidor and shoved it toward him. “Won’t you try one of these Havanas?”

“No, thanks.” Rourke’s lean face was blandly expressionless. He poured tobacco in the brown paper and on the carpet.

“I presume you know who I am,” said the square-jawed man.

“I presume you’re Brenner.” Rourke licked his cigarette and crimped the end.

“Correct,” Brenner told him with incisive calm. He pulled a desk lighter toward him and lit a cigar. He settled back and looked at the glowing tip with satisfaction, then said, “I’m not one to beat around the bush. You’re stirring up a lot of trouble with your newspaper stories.”

“That,” said Rourke, “was the general idea.”

Brenner sighed. “I’m a reasonable man. Live and let live is my motto.”

Rourke made no reply.

“How much do you earn on the Courier?”

Rourke grinned and crossed his thin legs. “About half what I’m worth.”

“I need a man like you to take care of public relations. I’m going to make you an offer. I’m only going to make it once. Five hundred a week.”

“For ratting on my job?”

Brenner sighed again. “You’re not a damned reformer. You know people are going to gamble. You’re not going to change anything with your newspaper stories,”

“I’ve got you worried,” Rourke told him.

“You’re beginning to cause trouble,” Brenner admitted. “If you keep that stuff up long enough I’ll lose more than five hundred a week in patronage. It’s a business proposition with me.”

“My stories have been about murder,” Rourke reminded him.

“So they have. You’ve done a lot of insinuating.” Brenner pointed the glowing tip of his cigar at him. “People who read your stuff are beginning to believe they’ll be marked for murder if they win anything at my tables.”

“Like the last three,” Rourke agreed without emphasis.

“You’re a fool if you honestly think I had any part in those killings. I don’t have to make my money that way. I know the suckers will be back the next night to drop their winnings.”

“I don’t think you engineered any of the murders, but you’re directly responsible,” Rourke said calmly. “As long as you stay in business, they’ll go on.”

“Five hundred a week,” Brenner said sharply.

“Or else?”

“Or else.”

Rourke took a final drag on his limp cigarette, crushed it out in an ash tray, and said, “I’ve got you on the run. Painter doesn’t like this setup any better than I do. Public opinion has forced him to hold his hand. But I’m changing all that, Brenner. You were a fool to let those three customers be murdered. That’s going to put you out of business.”

“I don’t think so.” Brenner drummed on the desk with long, white, spatulate fingers. “Say it was a mistake,” he went on quietly. “Say I didn’t have things well enough organized. I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Give us the killers,” Rourke suggested. “Including the finger bitch.”

Brenner’s square jaw was set and he said, “You’ve done a lot of nosing around,” through tight lips.

“That’s the only thing that’ll take the heat off.”

After a moment’s consideration Brenner said, “Can’t be done,” almost regretfully, and added, “In the first place, I don’t know anything about it.”

“You offered to see that it doesn’t happen again,” Rourke argued reasonably.

“I can pass the word along,” said Brenner, “but we can’t change what’s already happened.”

“Neither can I change what I’ve written.”

“You’re not quite out on a limb,” Brenner reminded him. “I don’t even demand a retraction. Just drop the line you’ve been pounding on.”

“Suppose I don’t.”

“Then you’ll be out five hundred a week—and you will, anyhow. I can put pressure on your publisher.”

Rourke stood up and said, “You’re a cold-blooded bastard, Brenner. The rackets stunk bad enough before the war.”

Brenner’s smile was cold. “That old line again,” he scoffed.

Rourke’s face was taut and his eyes were murderous. He swung angrily toward the door through which he had entered. The side door opened and Bing hurried in with an early afternoon edition of the Courier in his hand. He was excited. He thrust the paper at Brenner and panted, “Look at this, Boss. It just came.”

Monk came in and got between Rourke and the outer door, his big hands doubled into fists.

Brenner spread the paper out and began reading the front page item. Rourke saw that some of the news had been crowded off to give his story a prominent spot. He had a sudden let-down feeling inside. Up to now he hadn’t thought much about personal danger. In his mind he had characterized Brenner and his ilk as rats and was contemptuous of them, but as he watched the gambler’s face, he wished to God he was out of there.

It was ominously silent in the ornate office. The only sound was Bing’s heavy breathing. Then there was the rustling of the newspaper as Brenner laid it aside. He lifted his cold blue gaze to Rourke and said, “You really spilled your guts this time.” He nodded to Monk.

Monk slugged Rourke. It didn’t appear to be a hard blow. It struck the reporter on the side of the head. He tried to roll with it, and to his surprise found himself rolling all the way to the floor.

Brenner puffed on his cigar and said with sadistic calm, “Work him over, Monk.”

Monk wheezed happily and kicked Rourke in the face. Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth, and he lay very still.

When he came to, he was in the hallway and Monk was sloshing cold water over his head. Rourke groaned and tried to sit up. Monk squatted beside him and said solicitously, “Lemme help you,” and slid a bulky arm under the reporter’s armpits and lifted him to his feet. Rourke began retching. Monk waited until the seizure passed, then dragged him back into Brenner’s office.

Brenner was still sitting behind his desk. He said, “My offer still stands. Only now you’ll have to write a retraction for some of the stuff in today’s paper.”

Rourke licked at his swollen lip and said thickly, “Nuts.”

“You’d better think it over tonight.” Brenner’s voice sounded remote in Rourke’s ears. “Take him out to the car,” the gambler directed Monk, “and drop him somewhere near his apartment.”

Bing and Monk carried him out and put him in the back seat of the sedan. They both got in the front seat and drove away. Rourke lay huddled on the seat. His strength was coming back but he couldn’t think very clearly.

They drove to within a block of the apartment and pulled up to the curb. Bing got out, whistling cheerfully, and dragged Rourke to the pavement, propped him up against the base of a palm tree, and the two men drove away.

Chapter Three: THE HOT-EYED BLONDE

THE MANAGER OF THE APARTMENT HOUSE jumped up from behind the switchboard and exclaimed, “Good heavens, Mr. Rourke!” as the reporter stumbled into the lobby. He hurried forward, his eyes wide and solicitous. “Have you been in an accident?”

“Sort of.” Rourke tried to grin but his puffed lips didn’t work.

The manager was a slim young man with a blond mustache and a bad heart. His name was Mr. Henty. He put his hand under Rourke’s elbow and said, “Here, let me help you. How on earth did it happen?”

Rourke said, “It’s all right—I can make it to my room—I think,” and shook the manager’s hand from his arm. He started doggedly toward the stairway at the back of the lobby leading to the second floor.

Mr. Henty said, “There’s a—ah—I think I should tell you, Mr. Rourke. There’s a young lady waiting in your apartment.”

Rourke stopped with his right hand on the newel post. He turned bloodshot eyes on Mr. Henty and muttered, “Which one?”

“She’s one I haven’t seen before, Mr. Rourke.” Mr. Henty tried to leer evilly, but it turned out a smirk. He made a soft smacking sound with his thin lips. “Very nice, I must say.”

“I’m in a hell of a shape to entertain visitors,” Rourke grunted. He made his way painfully back to the small office and said, “I’ve got to send a telegram right away. I’d better send it from here if I have a visitor in my room.”

“Certainly. I’ll get an operator for you, Mr. Rourke. You’d better sit down here.” He moved a chair convenient to the desk telephone and went to the switchboard.

When the operator answered, Rourke said, “I want to send a telegram to Mike Shayne in New Orleans,” He gave the address and continued: Crime popping Miami Beach. Three murders. Can you take over. Urgent.

“Sign that Tim Rourke,” he ended, hung up, and pulled himself slowly to his feet. He gripped the banister for support when he climbed the stairs and stopped to steady himself outside his apartment door.

He tried the knob and found it was locked. He started to knock, then took out a key ring, and unlocked the door. It opened soundlessly and he stood for a moment blinking stupidly at the disordered living-room. He wasn’t a very neat housekeeper, but he was quite certain he hadn’t left his apartment in such condition that morning.

A typewriter desk with his portable was in the right-hand corner. Papers on the desk were disarranged, the drawers pulled out, and there were more papers scattered on the floor. A magazine stand beyond the desk had been ransacked.

Rourke moved into the room quietly. An archway on the left led into a short hall from which the bathroom and bedroom were entered. Straight ahead through a larger archway was a sunny breakfast nook with a kitchenette opening off it.

He went into the hall and peered through the open door to the bedroom. The first thing he noticed was a pair of long and very shapely legs. The girl’s back was toward him. She was leaning forward, pulling things out of the bottom drawer of his dresser.

Rourke’s eyes weren’t focusing very well. He blinked them a couple of times, cleared his throat, and croaked, “Nice.”

The girl straightened up slowly and whirled to face him with a .32 automatic pistol in her right hand. Golden hair was arranged on top of her head and a bow of ribbon peeked up above the pompadour. Her eyes were elongated and the color of molten copper, the lids fringed with long lashes. She was very pretty and seemed completely self-possessed. Laughter crinkled her lips and she drawled, “Well, fry your face and call it hamburger.”

Rourke said politely, “If you’ll tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help.”

“You must be Tim Rourke.” She held the little gun carelessly with the muzzle pointed down.

A wave of dizziness swept over Rourke and he knew he was going to be sick. He turned and stumbled into the bathroom. He felt weaker but relieved when he was through retching, and turned on the light to look at his face in the mirror above the lavatory.

His left eye was turning a dirty, purplish yellow, and there was a dark bruise on his right cheekbone. His upper lip was cut and blood was caked on his chin and shirt. He stripped to the waist and bathed his face and head in cold water, put Newskin on his cut lip, and combed his hair. He went into the bedroom for a clean shirt and went in the living-room tucking the tail inside his trousers.

The girl sat near the door composedly smoking. A cloth handbag lay in her lap and her skirt was above her knees. She looked up at him and said, “You’re the damnedest guy. You haven’t asked who I am or what I’m doing here.”

Rourke went over and stretched out on the couch. “I learned a long time ago,” he said lazily, “that the surest way to get a woman to tell something is to pretend you aren’t curious. It infuriates them.”

She laughed and said again, “You’re the damnedest guy,” and added, “You can call me Betty.”

Rourke said, “Thanks, Betty. I will. Did you find what you were looking for?” His eyes roamed over the litter of papers on the floor in front of his desk.

Betty’s eyes were cold. In the brighter light of the living-room they looked light brown instead of molten gold. She said, “No, I didn’t. What is this stuff? Are you writing a book?”

“I’ve been writing one for twenty years.”

She crushed out her cigarette and smoothed her skirt until it almost covered her knees. “A friend sent me here,” she volunteered. “He figured I could get into your apartment easier than he could.”

“He figured correctly,” Rourke assured her.

“This friend of mine doesn’t like the stuff you’ve been writing in the paper. He wondered how much you know and what you’re just guessing at. He thought maybe I could find some dope on it here.”

“I don’t work here,” Rourke explained. “All my stuff is at the newspaper office.”

“I was to tell you for him,” said Betty, “you’d better lay off.”

“No bribes?”

She laughed and got up, swaying her hips provocatively. Rourke noticed that her handbag was unclasped and hanging open. The automatic inside was undoubtedly accessible. She came across to the couch and stood close to him. Looking down at him, her elongated eyes were once again like hot molten gold. She said, “We might figure out something, but I wouldn’t want my friend to know about it.”

“Which one of your friends beat me up?” he asked wearily, turning his eyes away from hers.

She said, “I wouldn’t know,” casually, and went back to her chair. “What makes you think it was a friend of mine?”

“He didn’t like the stuff I’ve been writing in the paper either.”

“Lots of people don’t. If the cops don’t worry about a couple of knockovers, why don’t you let it ride?”

“Maybe I will.” Rourke grimaced and touched his bruised cheek tenderly.

The girl bent forward, her body tense. Her face was not so pretty when she said, “You’ve just been doing a lot of guessing, anyhow. You don’t know a damned thing.” She waited breathlessly for his answer, and when he didn’t say anything, she demanded harshly, “Do you?”

Rourke was thinking fast. He knew she hadn’t read his latest story in the afternoon paper. He felt a lot better about the gun in her bag now. As long as she thought he had just been guessing—

He said, “I’m a pretty good guesser.”

Rourke gasped audibly when she ran her hand into the open bag. He relaxed when she brought out a pack of cigarettes and matches. She lighted the cigarette, got up, and walked to the window and stood staring out for a moment. She whirled around and said, “My friend’s pretty sore about it. You’re lucky it is only guessing, and if you’re smart you’ll give up the idea.”

Rourke said, “I’ve got an idea you could persuade me.

She stood looking steadily at him. She appeared to be neither flattered nor displeased as she considered his offer. Then she walked slowly toward him, saying, “I wouldn’t mind trying.”

“When I’m in better shape,” Rourke said hastily. He pulled himself up from the couch and started unsteadily toward the kitchen. “What I need is a drink. Have one with me?”

“Sure. I want you to get in good shape.” Her eyes, half-covered by long lashes, looked darker now, as though, like a chameleon, she could change their color at will. She opened them wide and he saw a hot glow in them.

Rourke felt a strange hypnosis creeping over him. He stared at her for a full half-minute before proceeding to the kitchen. She was tremendously attractive, and he had an idea she was a murderess.

He returned with a bottle of whisky and two glasses, poured two drinks, handed one to her, and poured the other down his parched throat. He poured the small glass full again and drank it, then stretched out on the couch again.

Betty went back to her chair and sat down, crossed her sleek long legs, and sipped the whisky.

Two heavy slugs of liquor on an empty stomach dulled Rourke’s sensibilities. Or perhaps it was that sultry glow in Betty’s eyes. The hypnosis he had felt before drinking was growing. He tried to close his eyes against it, but the lids wouldn’t come down. Then he didn’t care. He felt himself sinking into a sort of torpor. It was pleasant and he didn’t want to fight against it.

The girl’s voice came to him from a great distance, warm, like the glow in her eyes, and caressing. “You can have anything you want from me, Tim.”

“There’s only one thing a man would want from you,” he said thickly. He tried to raise his head but its weight was too much.

“You won’t write any more of those stories, will you, Tim?”

“No,” he murmured.

She said, “You’re sweet.”

Rourke heard her snap her purse shut, heard her get up from her chair, and come toward him. When she stood over him he saw that she was smiling and her golden eyes were bright as though with secret amusement. He asked falteringly, “How can I get in touch with you? I don’t even know your last name.”

“But I know yours. I’ll call you. Tomorrow night—if you keep your word not to write any more stories.”

“Tomorrow night’s a long ways off,” he protested. “Why don’t you stick around?”

She laughed with soft amusement. “Did you look at yourself in the mirror?”

“Yes—I wouldn’t be very good at playing post office.” His hand came up slowly and touched his split lip.

She bent down and kissed him gently and said, “Take care of yourself until tomorrow night, Tim. You won’t be sorry.”

He heard her move across the room to the door, open it, and close it as she went out.

He lay inert for a while and let his semi-conscious state have its way with him, forcing his eyes to stay open in order not to lose consciousness altogether. Thoughts of the day’s events kept swarming dully through his mind.

He turned over and pushed himself up from the couch, staggered through the archway to the bathroom. His lips burned and he rubbed the back of his hand across them roughly, breaking the Newskin and starting the blood afresh. He looked stupidly at the blood on his hand.

In the bathroom he stripped off his clothes and got into a tub of cold water. He stayed in the tub a long time, felt better after he got out and toweled his thin body. He dressed in clean clothes and kept putting Betty out of his mind.

He went to the kitchen and fixed a pitcher of ice water and drank two glasses. The water soothed his stomach. He poured another glass brimming full and took it in the living-room with him.

A great weariness came over him as he sank on the couch again. He looked around at the littered room, but was too enervated to pick up the papers. He poured another small drink and sat there wondering whether Betty had read the afternoon paper yet. He shuddered a trifle as he wondered, and staring with unfocused eyes into space, he tried to sort things out in his mind.

He didn’t realize how jumpy he was until he heard a soft rapping on the door. It had grown almost dark in the apartment, and an involuntary muscular reaction brought him to his feet in one movement, his eyes wide and staring at the door. He felt his bruised cheek twitching as the rapping was repeated, soft and insistent.

Curiosity sobered him a little. He got up, squared his shoulders determinedly, went to the door, and opened it. He said, “For God’s sake, Muriel, you shouldn’t have come here,” to the woman who slipped inside with, lithe grace and turned to face him.

“Close the door—quickly,” she breathed. Her big round eyes, as blue as spring violets, were terrified.

Chapter Four: TIM’S PROTECTOR

“I HAD TO COME, TIM.” Muriel Bronson’s voice was warm with passion and with excitement. She put both hands on his shoulders, pressed her body against him, and lifted her red lips invitingly. Rourke’s face remained grimly displeased, but he kissed her. She tightened her fingers on his shoulders, swayed back, and cried, “Your face! Darling, what happened?”

He laughed shortly and released her to turn on the lights. “I’m a little bunged up.”

Mrs. Walter Bronson gasped when she saw his face dearly in the light. “What happened, darling? Walter didn’t—he hasn’t been here?”

“Why do you ask that?” Rourke demanded.

“He was so terribly angry this afternoon—about that story you slipped past him in the first edition. It was distributed and sold on the streets before he caught it. He was still raving when he left the house a while ago and I thought—I wondered—”

“You thought he was coming here?” Rourke asked harshly. “So you hurried over to fix everything up. That was a hell of a bright idea. You promised me you wouldn’t come here again.”

“I didn’t think he was coming here, Tim. He doesn’t even know your address. Don’t you remember? I told you weeks ago about asking him casually.”

“If he doesn’t know my address what made you think he’d been here? Besides, he could find out in a hurry.” He swung around and went to a window and flung it open. The room was suddenly hot and stuffy after being closed all day. The cool evening breeze soothed his burning face, and clean air in his lungs was reviving.

“It was just my first thought when I saw you’d been fighting,” she said petulantly. “He frightened me with his raving at dinner, and I guess it was uppermost in my mind.” She went over to stand near him, carefully avoiding being seen through the window. Her big eyes were limpid with anxiety. She touched his cheek gently and murmured, “Who did it to you, sweet?”

Her childlike petulance and throaty voice had once charmed him to burning passion, qualities he believed she reserved solely for him. Outwardly, she was cold and patrician, her tall, willowy body always exquisitely groomed, her blond-gold upswept coiffure accentuating her classic features.

Now, as he looked at her, he felt only disgust that a woman of 35 should spend all her time trying to look 25, and succeeding. That she should hang onto Walter Bronson and his money while she ensnared other men with her charm and beauty and exotic perfume, or repel them with her hauteur when it pleased her.

Rourke wanted to laugh loudly and derisively at himself. In the beginning, he had thought it amusing to cuckold the overbearing managing editor whom he disliked. Later, after the first fire burned out and he learned that Muriel Bronson was a wanton at heart, incapable of faithfulness to one man, they had seen each other less frequently.

Rourke had been gazing out the window. He turned to her again and she drew back a step when she saw his eyes. “Tim—why are you looking at me like that! Why don’t you tell me who—?”

“A couple of other guys who didn’t like my story, either.” His tone was sharp.

Her violet eyes hardened and she turned away from him. “It was a silly story to write, Tim. I’m sure a lot of people didn’t like it.” She went to a chair where she had dropped her purse when she came in. Her fingers fumbled as she picked it up and it fell to the floor with a dull thud.

Rourke whirled around, frowning. He took three long strides and reached the purse before she could pick it up. “What have you got in there? A brick?” He tested the weight of the bag speculatively, studying her face intently.

She said lightly, “Don’t be a goof. Why would I be carrying a brick in my purse?”

“I wonder.” He opened the bag and took out a .32 Colt automatic and regarded it stonily. “What is this strange power I have over women that sends them gunning for me?”

Muriel laughed and tossed her golden head. “Women?”

“Women. I just got rid of another one who pulled a gun on me.”

“Don’t be absurd. I haven’t pulled a gun on you. That happens to be Walter’s pistol.”

“What’s it doing in your bag?”

“You’re so droll, darling. I do believe you suspect I came here to force my attentions on you at gun-point. I assure you I’m not that hard pressed.”

“What’s it doing in your bag?” he demanded again.

“If you must know—to protect you.”

“From your husband?” Rourke asked derisively.

“Don’t joke about it, Tim,” she said earnestly. “Walter was dreadfully upset. I didn’t know what he might do if you happened to be back at the office tonight when he got there. I remembered that pistol being in his bureau drawer and I slipped it out and hid it in my purse. Don’t be angry with me.” She moved close to him and caught his arm, her violet eyes appealing to him, her red lips pouted. “It was just a precaution for your sake. I never saw Walter so angry.”

Rourke laughed shortly, dropped the automatic back in her purse, and tossed it on the chair. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“Don’t say that, darling. You do know I care. I’ve been attracted to you ever since that first day when you walked into Walter’s office and I knew why God sent us to Miami.”

Rourke patted her shoulder and muttered, “I’m not in very good shape tonight.” He went over to the couch and sat down heavily.

Muriel Bronson sat down in the chair Betty had occupied an hour or so before. She lit a cigarette, put the match in an ash tray, picked up the small glass from which Betty had drunk. She said, “I see lipstick on this glass. Why don’t you offer me a drink? I suppose,” she continued jealously, “you got her drunk, made love to her, and she decided not to shoot you? Who was she?” There was a feline glint in the depths of her dark eyes.

“I don’t know,” Tim snapped. He picked up the bottle, of whisky, took it over, and set it on the table. “Here, I’ll get a clean glass from the kitchen.” He took the soiled glass with him.

“You’re lying, Tim,” she flung at him through the archway.

When he brought the fresh glass back he poured a drink in it, and said, “How about a cigarette?” She gave him one. He took it with him to the couch, lit it, and said, “Let’s have it, Muriel. Why did you come here tonight?”

“To see you, darling.”

Rourke made an impatient gesture. “You haven’t seen me for weeks. Why the sudden urge tonight?”

“I’ve already told you,” she said stubbornly.

“So you dashed over here,” he said harshly, “with your husband’s gun to protect me from him. Good Lord, do you think it’ll help matters any if he comes and finds you here?”

“I told you he didn’t know your address,” she insisted.

“Then why were you worried?”

“For fear you might go to the office. That’s where Walter has gone.”

“You could have telephoned me.”

“I wanted to see you.” Her voice was soft and persuasive. She finished her drink, poured another, and went over to sit beside him on the couch. “Why don’t you take a drink with me? You did with her. Don’t you care for me any more?” She ran her fingers through his thick hair at the back of his neck.

“We haven’t seen each other for over four weeks. You’ve probably had three other men since I saw you.”

“That’s a lie.” She kept her voice softly good-natured. “There hasn’t been anyone else since you and I met. You’re the one who—”

“Let’s not kid each other,” Rourke told her brutally. “That’s finished. It was swell while it lasted. Let’s not ruin it now by trying to blow on some dead embers.”

“You’ve been hurt and you’re tired and in a belligerent mood. Why don’t you relax?” She drew his head down to rest on her shoulder. “Why do you insist on attacking windmills?”

Rourke resisted the pressure of her hand, the persuasiveness of her voice, the exotic perfume. “Meaning my campaign against the gambling racketeers and murder?”

“Meaning the way you keep Walter upset all the time. Why can’t you let such things alone? Solving crimes is for the police.”

Rourke straightened up and said, “So Walter sent you here to persuade me.”

Muriel laughed lightly. “Goodness, no. He doesn’t know I even know you.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Rourke growled. “The way you look at me when you come in the office—”

“He doesn’t notice how I look at men,” she scoffed. “He hasn’t noticed for years. But I think if you’d give it up and apologize to Walter for the trick you played on him today, he’d forgive you and give you your job back.”

“There are plenty of other jobs.”

“But not in Miami, Tim. He said this afternoon he’d fix it so you couldn’t go to work on any paper in Miami.” She pressed close to him and whispered, “Oh, Tim, I couldn’t stand it if you had to leave—”

“Nuts. I told you it was all ended.”

“I know you told me. But I don’t believe it unless—kiss me, Tim, darling, and then tell me it’s over.”

Rourke kept his face turned straight ahead. “It won’t work, Muriel. It’s dead.”

“Promise me you’ll give up your silly one-man reform campaign and go back to work for Walter.”

He asked coldly, “What’s the matter? Will it cramp your style if I force the gambling joints to close? I hear you’ve been giving some of Brenner’s games a play.”

“So I have,” she admitted calmly. “Yes, if you want to know the truth. I need a chance to win back some of the money I’ve lost. I’ve just hit a winning streak and now you want to close them up.”

He turned to scowl at her. “How deeply are you in?”

“Awfully deep,” she confessed with a sigh. “Walter doesn’t know yet. He’d be terribly angry if he did. He won’t have to know if I could just have a few more good nights.”

Rourke said, “You’re like all the others. For God’s sake get wise to yourself. If you read my story this afternoon you know what happens to people who win at Brenner’s clubs.”

“Those were all men,” she reminded him. “I’m not going to let a blond gunwoman entice me out into a car on a deserted street to be killed and robbed.”

“But you mightn’t put up such a struggle against a blond gunman.”

“Do you suspect who the murderer is?”

It seemed to Rourke there was suppressed alarm in her voice. He looked at her quickly, but her facial expression told him nothing. He said, “I’ve got a pretty good hunch. I’m not stopping until the joints are closed down and those rats run out of town.” All at once he felt tired and defeated. He remembered he hadn’t eaten any lunch. He muttered, “You’d better go, Muriel. I’m going to fix myself something to eat and go to bed.”

“Haven’t you had your dinner?”

“Nor any lunch either.”

“You poor darling. You must be starved.” She jumped up quickly and said, “Settle back and rest while I raid the refrigerator and fix something.”

“There’s nothing but bacon and eggs—and some stale bread.”

“I’ll fix that. With a pot of coffee.”

Rourke sent a scowl after her as she disappeared into the kitchenette. Muriel had become an enigma during the short period of her visit. First, making love to him; then violent jealousy; showing alarm over his supposed knowledge of the murderer, and now maternally solicitous of his well-being.

He let his head rest against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Despite his stubborn intentions, he caught himself drowsily thinking that she was intrinsically a pretty swell person. Under other circumstances, married to another man, Muriel could certainly have been a happy and contented wife. It wasn’t her fault that she had the soul of a courtesan. She had a curious lack of morals that was attractively simple and childlike.

Lazily, he turned to an analysis of himself. How much of his crusading fervor was attributable to genuine indignation, and how much to other factors? Such as his dislike for Walter Bronson and a desire to put something over on him? What about his dislike of Peter Painter? Did that date back to the times when Mike Shayne ferreted out killers under Painter’s incapable nose and turned over front-page stories to him for a scoop? Was his desire to stir up a stink merely to give him a feeling of importance?

Hell, if a man went honestly digging into his own soul for motives he was likely to come up with some pretty painful results.

He could smell the rich aroma of coffee from the kitchen and hear the sizzle of frying bacon. He let himself relax and stop thinking altogether. He was hungry as a bitch suckling 16 pups, and it was pleasant to have a beautiful woman in the kitchen preparing food for him.

He was half-asleep when Muriel called cheerfully, “Come and get it,” from the breakfast nook. She had a big plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, delicately browned buttered toast, and a cup of strong coffee ready for him, with only a cup of black coffee for herself. She looked youthful and attractive as she sat across the small table from him with her cheeks flushed and her eyes alight.

Leaning forward with her elbows on the table and her chin cupped in her palms, she asked, “Are you still angry with me for coming here, Tim?”

“Not after tasting this food.” He took a swig of coffee and wondered why the devil he couldn’t make it taste right. “If your husband catches you here I’ll tell him I’m giving you a tryout for a job as my cook.”

She frowned and her eyes were grave for a moment. Then she laughed and said, “He can’t possibly know I’m here. I waited until he went back to the office, and I parked my car on the side street and came up the back stairway. No one saw me.”

Rourke scraped up the last of his eggs and pushed the plate back with a satisfied sigh. “Bronson is the least of my worries,” he said. “Just so you’ve got his gun safe. Is there more coffee?”

“Plenty.” She took his cup into the kitchen for a refill, came back, and said tenderly, “I’ll take it in the living-room where you can be more comfortable.” She preceded him through the archway, drew up a small table beside the couch for him, then went back to gather up the dishes and put them in the sink.

Rourke rolled a cigarette and enjoyed his second cup of coffee. Muriel came back and sat on the floor beside him, looked up into his eyes, and said, “I love you, Tim. I wish you wouldn’t doubt that.”

The white line of her throat was as smooth and clean as a young girl’s. He put his knuckles against her cheek and laughed. “Up from your position of adoration, woman. Is this a proposal?”

“It could be,” she said quietly. She sprang up and went lithely toward the bathroom, holding herself proudly erect.

Watching her, he thought that life was sometimes funny as hell.

Chapter Five: SHAYNE NOSES OUT THE NEWS

LUCY HAMILTON LOOKED UP from her typewriter when Michael Shayne stalked into the reception room of his office in downtown New Orleans. She was smiling and her red lips formed to call a cheery greeting.

Instead, she pushed her chair back, half-arose, and cried, “What on earth, Michael? Why are you looking like that?”

Shayne’s face was set in harsh and strained lines. His gray eyes were cold with a blank, unseeing expression. A folded newspaper was crushed in his big right hand. He advanced to the wooden railing separating Lucy’s desk from the rest of the reception room and ordered curtly, “Get the airport. See about a plane to Miami.”

“What’s happened? What is it?” she asked, her right hand reaching into the top desk drawer and bringing out the telephone directory. She rapidly thumbed through the pages for the number and picked up the receiver. Dialing, she asked, “When shall I say you’re going, Michael?”

“On the very first plane that can take me,” Shayne told her. “Tell them it’s police business.”

When the airport answered and Lucy made an urgent plea for a seat on the first plane leaving, she kept her anxious brown eyes upon her employer’s grim face.

Shayne relaxed his fingers on the newspaper and smoothed it out. His gaze brooded down on the small headline on the second page: Crusading Reporter Near Death. The paragraph below was a wire service item datelined Miami, Florida.

Lucy sighed and cradled the receiver. “Not a chance this week. They’re booked solidly.”

“Try the railroad.” Shayne’s voice was flat and even, warding off further questions and stifling her sympathy.

Lucy bit her lip and swallowed the words she was going to say. She looked up another number, dialed it, while Shayne stood flat-footed before her, waiting, reading the words of the short item over and over, though he already knew them by heart.

Lucy talked a little longer over the telephone this time, but when she hung up she said, “Nothing for at least two weeks unless there happens to be a last-minute cancellation. Do you want me to—?”

“When does the next train leave?”

“There’s one in twenty minutes, but you can’t possibly get a reservation. I even asked about the day coach. They doubt whether there’ll be a seat.”

Shayne said, “I’ll take my chance on that. Twenty minutes? I won’t have time to pack anything.”

Lucy stood up, her tall slim body very straight, her eyes soberly studying the detective. She said severely, “You’re not going to dash off to Miami like that. You can’t do it. Mrs. Caruthers is waiting in your office. She had a nine o’clock appointment. And you’re to see Mr. Heinz today about that theft. And there’s the Erskine case—” Her voice trailed off when she realized that he wasn’t listening to her, that he was looking through her as though he didn’t know she was there. He had walled himself off from everything in the world except the newspaper in his hand.

Shayne shifted the folded paper to his left hand and worried his left ear lobe between right thumb and forefinger. “You take care of things here, Lucy,” he said absently. “What time does that train reach Miami?”

“Six-thirty tomorrow evening. But I can’t take care of things. You know you’ve—”

“Take a wire,” Shayne snapped. Chief of police Will Gentry, Miami, Florida. Arriving six-thirty tomorrow evening. Have all dope on Rourke ready. Mike Shayne. “Got that?”

“All dope on Rourke?” Lucy looked up from her notebook questioningly.

He spelled the name for her and added in a strangely gentle voice, “You remember Timothy Rourke. The reporter who flew that stuff here on the Margo Macon case.”

“Of course I remember. Is he—?”

Shayne nodded. “Shot last night. He isn’t expected to live.” He looked down at the newspaper as if for confirmation.

“Oh—I’m sorry. But do you have to dash off like this? Can’t the Miami police—?”

The door opened unceremoniously and a telegraph boy entered. He said, “Telegram for Michael Shayne.”

Shayne took the message and tore it open. He read: Crime popping Miami Beach. Three murders. Can you take over. Urgent. Tim Rourke.

Shayne uttered a sharp oath and crushed the message in his hand. He said to Lucy, “It’s a message from Tim—evidently sent before he was shot in his apartment on Miami Beach. I’ve just about got time to get a taxi to the depot. Get that wire off to Gentry right away.”

As he turned toward the door Lucy caught his arm and said earnestly, “Promise me you’ll be careful. You frighten me—looking like that.”

“If that telegram had been delivered to me when it should have, I’d be halfway to Miami by now,” Shayne grated. Then looking into Lucy’s upturned face he said gently, “Don’t worry about me. Do the best you can with things here.” He kissed her lips and said, “Good-by”

She followed him into the hall, calling, “When will you be back, Michael?”

“When Tim Rourke’s murderer is in jail,” he flung over his shoulder, and long-legged it to the elevator.

The afternoon was fading imperceptibly into the long tropical twilight period when Shayne stepped from the train in Miami. His clothes were rumpled and he was weary after more than 30 hours in a day coach, but his nostrils flared and his gray eyes brightened as he dragged in a deep breath of the warm evening air.

With no luggage to delay him he thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets and strolled along the brick walk, his eyes straying around looking for a familiar face. Tourists poured from every car of the long train, and there were those waiting to greet friends, craning their necks, and some standing on tiptoe for a better view.

The thought struck Shayne suddenly that he had few friends in Miami. It had been part of his job not to become widely known and to keep his picture out of the local papers. A muscle twitched in his angular jaw and his eyes grew bleak. Timothy Rourke had been the only close friend he had made in all the years he practiced here.

He stopped strolling and looking around. His long legs swung out in a purposeful stride. Just before he reached the taxi area he felt a strong grip on his arm and turned to see the bronzed and smiling face of a trim Miami policeman.

Shayne exclaimed, “Sergeant Jorgensen.”

The young officer stepped back and gave a snappy salute before saying cordially, “Mike Shayne—welcome home. The chief sent me down to meet you. How does it feel to be back in God’s country?”

“Plenty good.” Shayne fell into step with the sergeant toward a prowl car parked beyond the waiting taxis. “How’s Tim Rourke?”

Jorgensen’s face was grave. “Not so good, I guess. I haven’t heard since noon. He was holding his own then.” He opened the door for Shayne, slammed it shut, and went around to get under the wheel. “We’re stymied on it with Painter in charge.”

“Still strutting like a damned peacock and getting nowhere, eh?” Shayne’s voice was bitter.

“Still keeps his nails manicured,” said Jorgensen sourly, “but I’m wondering if he’s keeping his hands clean, Shayne. There’ve been some pretty rotten deals over on the Beach lately.” He started the motor and as they drove away he added, “Painter’s not a bad dick when he wants to be. I guess he’s really doing his best on this case. I’ve an idea pressure is being put on him from all sides nowadays.”

“He never liked Rourke,” Shayne reminded him grimly.

“No. Tim used to get in his hair plenty. You and Tim both,” Jorgensen added with a chuckle.

“No arrests yet?” There was sharp concern in Shayne’s voice.

“Nope. The field’s wide open.” Jorgensen turned east on Flagler Street. “All of us on this side of the bay will be pulling for you.”

Shayne sat slouched in the seat staring out at the familiar scenes he had not seen for nearly two years. He said gruffly, “Thanks—I know,” in answer to the sergeant’s offer.

Memories, fleeting and queerly hurting memories, tugged at him as they rode down Flagler toward police headquarters. Nothing had changed. Miami was still the Magic City. It might have been yesterday that he and Rourke had chased a disappearing corpse around Miami’s streets.

Sergeant Jorgensen made a sharp turn to the right and pulled up in front of police headquarters. “The chief’s waiting for you in the same old office.”

“Thanks, Jorg. See you around.” He got out and circled the car and went in a side door. The dreary hallway heading to Gentry’s office retained its remembered odor, and the door was hospitably ajar as it had always been.

Chief Will Gentry sat behind the same scarred oak desk, and Shayne received an immediate and fleeting impression that he was chewing on the same black cigar that had been in his mouth the last time he saw him. At least, it smelled the same. Gentry’s face looked a little heavier, a little more florid, but the twinkle in his eyes was the same, his handshake as firm as ever.

Gentry rumbled, “It’s good to see you again, Mike, though I don’t like the way we had to bring you back to Miami.” He chuckled and added, “Anyway, I’m glad it’s Painter’s hair you’re getting into instead of mine.”

Shayne grinned, then sobered, and asked, “How’s Tim?”

“I just checked with Dr. Fairweather at the Flagler Hospital. Tim’s holding his own, Mike.”

“Bad?” Shayne lowered one hip to the desk corner and lit a cigarette.

“Plenty bad.” Gentry sank back in his swivel chair and purled on his cigar. “A thirty-two slug struck close to his heart and another one drilled a lung. Anybody but a black Irishman would be dead.”

“What’s being done for him?”

“Transfusions and injections. He’s in a coma—hasn’t regained consciousness at all. Dr. Fairweather assured me everything was being done, but he didn’t offer much hope, Mike,” Gentry ended solemnly.

Shayne got up and paced the length of the office, came back, and pulled up a chair to face Gentry across the desk. Dropping his rangy body into it he asked, “What did you get from Painter?”

“Had a talk with him yesterday morning and got everything I could without telling him who it was for.”

Shayne grinned briefly in acknowledgment of the chief’s tact. “He won’t like me popping up.”

“He won’t like it,” the chief agreed drily. “Particularly if you crack it while he’s running around in circles. He’s had it kind of quiet and easy with you in New Orleans.”

“Let’s have what you’ve got,” Shayne said. Gentry took some scribbled notations from a drawer, glanced at them, and explained, “I’ll give you the bare facts first. A woman called the Beach police at ten-forty Tuesday night and told them to go to number 2-D at the Blackstone Apartment House in a hurry. She sounded frightened and hung up. When Painter’s men got there Tim was lying on the floor a couple of feet inside the door with two slugs in him. The place had been ransacked as though someone had searched for something. A woman had been there—fresh powder spilled on the lavatory and a piece of tissue with rouge where she’d wiped the excess off her lips.

“Half-empty whisky bottle on the floor beside the sofa with the cork out. Two water glasses that had been used for whisky. Dishes in the sink showing one person had eaten bacon and eggs for dinner, and two people had drunk coffee. Woman’s fingerprints on the extra cup and on the dishes along with Rourke’s—as though he’d eaten and she cleaned up. Same prints on the extra glass in the living-room.

“But they found another set of women’s prints all over the place. Looks as if the second one turned the place inside out. The gun was a Colt automatic, two empty shells found on the floor where they’d been ejected. And—that’s about it.” Gentry pushed the notations aside and spread out his pudgy hands.

“Shot from close up?”

“Close enough for powder burns.”

“What about the position of the body and direction of the bullets? Was he shot by someone coming through the door or in the room with him?”

“That’s hard to say. The medical examiner thinks he may have twisted and dragged himself a couple of feet. There was a lot of blood smeared around and there wasn’t a rug near the door. They couldn’t determine whether he moved toward the door or away from it. Knowing Tim, I’d say he’d thresh around trying to do something as long as he was conscious.”

“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.

Chapter Six: A TOUGH CROP TO FIGHT

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.

At 2:15, his car was discovered by the police, parked on Ocean Boulevard. Jordan’s body was in the front seat. He had been shot through the heart with a .32 caliber automatic that had been pressed against his right side. His wallet was empty. The blonde had disappeared.

So much for Mr. Peter Jordan, Number One of the three murder victims during the past week. In their “official investigation” Chief Painter’s men have uncovered none of the facts cited above. They found a body in an automobile and no trace of the killer.

Two nights later, among hundreds who swarmed into the swanky Sundown Club (under the same management as the Oceanview) was a lad named Jim Crowley. He was an honorably discharged veteran of this war, recently married, and visiting Miami Beach for a period of rest and rehabilitation.

Jim Crowley had learned to shoot craps in the army. He was unfortunately lucky at one of the crap tables in the Sundown Club on Wednesday night, building up an original roll of less than $100 into a sum estimated by various envious witnesses to be about $9,000.

Shortly past midnight, Jim Crowley drifted into the barroom for a nightcap on the house. He had several nightcaps and fell into conversation with a young lady of striking blond beauty. They left the Sundown Club together in a car which Crowley had borrowed from a friend for the evening. Two hours later the car was discovered by police, parked on an obscure side street less than ten blocks from the Sundown Club. Crowley’s body was in the front seat. He had been shot through the heart with a .32 caliber automatic that had been pressed against his right side. There was a stain of lipstick on his mouth. His wallet was empty. There was no trace of the blonde.

Jim Crowley was Number Two in this series of “unrelated killings” (a direct quote from Chief Painter). Because the bullets taken from the two bodies were not fired from the same gun. Chief Painter is not aware that Jim Crowley was gambling that night at the Sundown Club and had the misfortune to win a pile of money. He refuses to credit the existence of a blond girl.

Murder Number Three occurred Friday night. The opening scene is at the very exclusive (you have to have a few dollars in your pocket to gain admission) Tip Top Club (under the same management as the Oceanview and Sundown). The man marked for murder was Mr. Harvey J. Hazard, a business man from Miami, well known throughout the city as a wealthy widower and a “sport.”

Like his predecessor, Mr. Jordan, Harvey Hazard was unlucky at the roulette table, winning several thousand which swelled his large original investment to well over $10,000. With this sum in his pocket, Hazard visited the bar and hoisted a few on the house, speaking jovially to various acquaintances.

A few of them noticed him in intimate conversation with a young lady of striking blond beauty.

They left the Tip Top Club together at a few minutes before two o’clock in Mr. Hazard’s convertible roadster.

Less than an hour later, Mr. Hazard’s convertible roadster was found parked near the Beach entrance to the Venetian Causeway. Hazard’s body was slumped under the wheel. A striking dissimilarity from the two previous killings was noted by the alert Beach detectives in that Hazard had been shot twice with a .32 automatic pressed against his right side. One of the bullets had penetrated his heart. His money was gone. And so was the ubiquitous blonde. Neither of the bullets matched either of the two death slugs dug out of the hearts of Peter Jordan and Jim Crowley. Thus, it is obvious to Chief Peter Painter that none of the three murders are in any way related.

These are the facts. They are easily ascertained by anyone aware that the Oceanview, Sundown, and Tip Top Clubs are operating openly on the Beach in defiance of (or in connivance with) the authorities pledged to stamp out such illegal practices. The truth of the above statements can be verified by anyone who cares to examine the affidavits in this reporter’s possession.

Chief Painter is not interested in these facts. He blandly denies the existence of the three clubs named in this column. He is not aware that a man named Brenner manages these three establishments for the syndicate that financed them.

The Courier makes no accusations. It presents the facts for the information and the consideration of any persons who may be interested. We believe in Miami and we believe in the future of the Greater Miami Area. That great future lies in the hands of the public, and not in the hands of a selfish few who condone murder as an inevitable concomitant of the way of life they would force upon us.

Shayne finished reading the story with a low whistle. He leaned back and muttered, “The Courier ran this the day Rourke was shot?”

“In the Blue-Flash edition. The first one to hit the street about two-thirty. And only in that one edition,” Gentry added with a slow grin. “The managing editor caught the story and killed it in all the later editions.”

“Had Rourke been writing much stuff like this?”

“He’s been pounding on that line for several days,” Gentry admitted. “Needling Painter and hinting that those three murders were tied up with the new and growing gambling racket on the Beach. Nothing like this last story,” he added hastily. “This was the first time he took his gloves off and named names, or gave any of those facts he’d dug up.”

“The damned fool,” Shayne muttered hoarsely. “He should have had sense enough to know they’d go gunning for him if he started giving names and descriptions to the paper before the murders were solved. What’s got into him, Will? Was he imagining things, or is it getting that bad?”

“It’s getting bad, Mike,” Gentry told him soberly. “We’ve had our hands full the last few months. It’s been getting bad,” he repeated. “We’ve held things down pretty well on this side of the Bay, but you know the Beach has always been inclined to wink both eyes at stuff like that. You can’t blame Painter too much. He’s got a job to hang onto.”

Shayne lit another Picayune, disregarding Gentry’s shudder of revulsion. “So Rourke had been riding this line for days, and then suddenly comes up with this broadside. No wonder they killed the story after one edition.”

“The way I get it,” said Gentry, “that story was a sort of slap in the face for Walter Bronson, the managing editor. He and Rourke have tangled several times in the past when he tried to hold Tim down, and it seems he read the riot act to Tim Tuesday morning. So Tim faked a tame story for his okay and sneaked this one in instead. He knew it’d be the last he’d write for the Courier, so he made it good and hot.”

“Walter Bronson,” said Shayne meditatively. “I thought Wilcox was the Courier editor.”

“They fired Wilcox about a year ago and imported Bronson from New York. He’s a big shot, I guess. I never met him myself, but I’ve heard Tim’s gripes. He bought a big place on the Beach, makes speeches at the Chamber of Commerce—” Gentry waved a beefy hand to indicate more of the same.

“No wonder he tried to gag Rourke.”

“Jimmy Dolan says Bronson was sore as hell about that story. Rushed out to fire Rourke and found a note in Tim’s typewriter telling him where to stick his job.”

Shayne chuckled. “Tim never did give a damn. I’ve had to hog-tie him a couple of times to keep him from going off half-cocked with a front-page story before the time was ripe. Always sticking his neck out.”

“Seems to me,” said Gentry, “I remember your neck being on the block a couple of times—and the ax raised.”

Shayne arched a bushy red brow at Gentry and went on gravely, “You say this thing hit the streets at two-thirty? Sometime between noon and four o’clock Tim took a hell of a beating. And by ten-thirty that night he had a couple of slugs inside him.”

“That’s right,” Gentry said quietly. “From a thirty-two fired from close enough to leave powder burns. The slugs don’t check with any one of the bullets taken from the other three murder victims.”

“Someone must have a big supply of thirty-twos,” Shayne grunted. “A new gun for every job. This blonde—could she be the gal who came to visit Rourke while he was out getting himself beat up?”

“Could be. Maybe she arranged it, thinking she wouldn’t get caught in his apartment. The manager said she was blond and beautiful.”

Shayne’s blunt finger tips drummed impatiently on the chair arm. “Even Painter couldn’t ignore a story like this. It must have pushed him into doing something.”

Gentry shrugged heavily. “None of those three clubs were open for business Tuesday night. Painter made a lot of noise about personally leading a raiding party on all of them about midnight, and they were locked tight.”

“Tipped off?”

“That story was plenty of tip-off,” Gentry pointed out mildly. “Brenner was smart enough to know a raid was overdue.”

“Who is Brenner?”

“I don’t know too much about him. Strictly from the grapevine, he was one of the big betting operators. Fixed a few races, maybe. Generally knew where the smart money was going. They say he’s gathered together quite a bunch of gun-quick lads for this Beach gambling deal.”

“And blond gun molls?”

“I don’t know about that. I’d say Brenner is fronting for some big money.”

“Who?”

“That’ll take some digging.”

“How do you make it, Will? Rourke, I mean.”

“About the same as you do, I guess.” He gestured toward the newspaper. “There’s enough dynamite with the fuse lighted to get a dozen reporters gunned. Brenner and his backers wouldn’t like that sort of stuff, and Blondie and her mob wouldn’t be too happy about that publicity. Tim mentions affidavits. His room was thoroughly searched.”

Shayne said angrily, “The damned fool asked for it all right. How about the syndicate he mentions?”

“I don’t know anything about it. I think it was mostly guesswork. There had to be a lot of pressure on Painter to let the joints run, and some of it must have hit Bronson, too, to make him clamp down on Rourke. After all, stuff like that is damned good for circulation.”

“How can I get to Brenner?”

“I think he has an office at the Sundown, but I understand all three clubs are closed. If you’re smart you’ll stay away from Brenner.”

Shayne’s face hardened and he didn’t say anything.

“I know you won’t be smart,” Gentry admitted, “but I’ve got to warn you, Mike. This isn’t quite like the old days. This new crop is far more vicious. Once word gets around that Mike Shayne is horning in there’ll be a lot of fast triggers looking for you. And you’ll be on your own across the Bay. You know how Painter’s going to take it.”

“Yeh. I know how Painter’ll take it.”

“You can’t walk into the middle of it like you used to and blast ‘em apart,” Gentry warned heavily. “These three gambling-house murders are only a small part of the whole thing. Rourke concentrated on them because they were a definite springboard.”

Shayne said stubbornly, “I’ve always been able to take care of myself.”

“Sure. I could have written that line for you.” He sighed and puffed gently on his half-smoked cigar. “How’ve things been with you in New Orleans?”

“So-so. I’ve gotten soft with a lot of easy stuff.”

“Why’d you ever leave Miami, Mike? I know you followed a case to New Orleans, but we expected you’d come back.”

Shayne said, “Everything in Miami reminded me of Phyllis. And now if Rourke kicks off, everything here is going to remind me of him.” He drew in a long breath and his gray eyes became very bright. “God! The times Tim and I had.” He shook his red head, then asked casually, “You got an extra gat I could borrow?”

Chief Gentry looked surprised. “You never used to pack one. I always thought—”

“I’ve still got my Florida license,” Shayne interrupted. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I’d still like to try walking into the middle of it.”

Gentry opened a drawer and brought out a .38 Police Positive and laid it on the desk. Shayne picked it up, thumbed the hammer back enough to release the cylinder, and spun it to see that it was loaded all around. He unbuttoned the two bottom buttons of his shirt, thrust the gun inside and under his waistband.

Shayne stood up and said, “Thanks, Will. One more favor. Is there a spare heap around?”

“Sure. Jorgensen will fix you up.” Gentry got up and held out his hand. “Keep your nose clean, Mike. And let me know.”

Shayne said, “I will—and thanks again,” and went out to look for Sergeant Jorgensen.

Chapter Seven: HIS CARDS ON THE TABLE

SHAYNE FOUND JIMMY DOLAN and a few others of the staff lolling at their desks and listening to the clatter of the teletypes in the Courier office. Dolan was a wiry little Irishman with a big mouth, a crooked nose, and a soft heart. He was an ex-lightweight of Benny Leonard’s era, and did a sports column for the Courier.

He jumped up from his desk and came forward with a grin splitting his face, his feet and fists simulating a boxer’s, exclaiming, “It’s Mike Shayne in the flesh and a sight for sore eyes. If Tim could see you—”

“They say Tim’s bad,” Shayne answered, engulfing the sports writer’s smaller hand in his big palm.

“Mighty bad, Mike. I went to see him this afternoon. Laid out like dead with a pretty nurse tending him. If he’d open his eyes and see her, he’d be up and about his business in a hurry. She’s a cute blonde, and you know how Tim is about—”

“Blondes,” Shayne finished for him. “Did you talk to the nurse about his condition?”

“I told her I was official, see? From the office here, and she said they’d operate on him tomorrow morning if he was in shape. They’ve been filling his veins full of blood fast as it leaked out, and gave him some stuff for his heart. Now if they can just get him to come to, Tim would fight it out himself, but—”

“Do you know anything about those murders he was investigating?” Shayne interrupted. He had been on the listening side in conversations with Jimmy Dolan before.

“Not a thing, Mike.” Dolan shook his graying head disconsolately. “You know what a tight mouth he was on a story like that.” He led the way back to his desk and pulled up a chair for Shayne, got out a short-stemmed, foul-smelling briar, and began filling it from a zippered pouch, pressing the rough-cut down firmly in the bowl with a stubby thumb.

“I’m wondering about his pipelines,” Shayne said, as Dolan lit his pipe. “If I could get a lead in that direction I might learn something.”

“He had plenty, but no man ever knew who they were.”

“He mentioned affidavits in his last story. Any chance something like that would be stashed here in the office?”

Dolan didn’t answer until he had worried his pipe into burning evenly. He said, “Yes and no, Mike. I’d say the stuff might have been here once, but it isn’t now.”

“Did Tim take it with him? I understand he resigned.”

“Yep. It was like this, Mike. When the Old Man saw the Blue Flash, he saw red. Came stamping out of his office like a mad bull and yelling for Rourke. He went over to Rourke’s desk and started pawing through the drawers.” Dolan stopped to chuckle. “Then he saw the sheet of paper Tim left in his typewriter. Yessir, Tim beat him to the last punch. Walked out without saying a word to anybody.”

“Did he clean out his desk?” Shayne asked.

“Tim? I don’t know. I saw him putting some things in his pockets before he walked out. But some of the boys said Bronson came back to the office after supper last night and went through Tim’s desk and cleaned it out good.”

“How late after supper?”

“Eight or nine o’clock. Minerva could give you the dope on that. You remember Minerva.”

Shayne nodded. “What kind of a heel is Bronson?”

Dolan looked cautiously about him, lowered his voice, and said, “A puffed-up adding machine. Thinks he’s a tin God on wheels, likes to crack a whip just to hear it crack.”

“Why did he oppose Tim’s writing the stuff he’d been writing? Rourke had sense enough to steer clear of libel. And a campaign like that always jumps circulation.”

“Bronson claimed he thought it was bad for the community. Give people the wrong idea about Miami and scare the northern investors away. His henchmen didn’t like the stink.”

“Henchmen?” Shayne’s left brow arched quizzically.

“His big-shot friends—the Chamber of Commerce, and so forth.” Dolan took the gurgling pipe from his mouth and spat in the direction of the spittoon.

“Do you think he had any other reason for trying to muzzle Rourke?”

Dolan looked up quickly, his faded eyes keen and speculative. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing you can chew on.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Bronson lived on balance sheets and statements of profit and loss. He was imported from New York to build up circulation.”

Shayne nodded. He started to get up, then settled back. “One thing more, Jimmy. What’s the inside dope on Tim’s love life?”

Dolan chuckled knowingly. “Let’s see. You left about two years ago. That would be Jessie’s time. Remember Jessie Newton?”

Shayne nodded.

“That burned out two or three months after you left. Then there was a cute little redhead—about twenty and hot as a firecracker from the way she acted. They were pretty thick for a time and it’s my guess she burned him out. She disappeared and we began to see Tim around again. And she’s the last as far as I know. That’s been about a year ago. If he had anything on the string after the redhead, he was keeping it mighty quiet around the office.”

Shayne said, “He never used to bother to keep it quiet.”

“I know. Tim always paraded his dolls around the office. It doesn’t seem reasonable he’d be true to the redhead a year after they broke up, now does it?”

“That’s not like Tim,” Shayne said casually, then asked, “How do you go about getting in touch with Brenner?”

“Hake Brenner?” Dolan wrinkled his forehead. “I wouldn’t try to find out if I was you, Mike. If he finds out why you’re in Miami—”

“I can’t get anywhere by walking around in circles,” Shayne remonstrated.

“You’ll get farther than you will by riding around in a hearse.”

“I still want to see Brenner.”

“You might ask Laverty. I’ve heard he and Brenner used to be pals.”

“Lucky Laverty?”

“You’ll find him around.”

“Is Minerva here?” Shayne asked.

“Minerva’s always around, sour-pussed as ever.”

Shayne got up and said, “Thanks, Dolan,” and went across to the managing editor’s private office. The door stood open and the light was on. Minerva’s cubbyhole opened off to one side. She was sitting erect at her desk typing, her sharp, plain features weary and her gray hair untidily piled in a bun at the back of her head. She wore a black skirt and a crisp white shirtwaist and low-heeled shoes.

She looked up as Shayne came toward her and she stopped typing.

Shayne grinned. He thought he saw a glint of tears in her eyes. Her tight, unrouged lips loosened and trembled undeniably. He said, “Minerva! As gorgeous as ever,” and was beside her chair.

She blinked her eyes and a tear rolled down her cheek. He tipped her chin up and planted a hearty kiss on her unresponsive lips. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about Tim.”

“That good-for-nothing,” she sniffed. “Why would I worry about him?”

“Why, indeed,” said Shayne cheerfully. “You always said he’d come to no good end.” He sat down on one corner of her neat desk. “How do you like your new boss?”

She said, “Did you come back to—to—?”

“Why else? You can help me, Minerva.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Shayne. Tim was saying only yesterday you ought to be here to get after that mess on the Beach.” Her voice was prim again and she rearranged her features.

“I’m wondering about any stuff that might have been in Tim’s desk. He claimed he had some affidavits, according to his story.”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Bronson cleaned out his desk that evening.”

“What did he do with the stuff?”

“Put it in a big Manila envelope and took it away with him.” She looked down at the typewriter keys and continued, “He’d had me draw a check to Timothy that afternoon, and he took that with him too. I think he planned to see him. At least he had me look up his address in the file.”

“What time did Bronson leave here?”

“It must have been about nine-thirty.”

“Was he still sore at Rourke?”

“He doesn’t confide such things to me.”

“Don’t kid me, Minerva. A man doesn’t have to confide things for you to know them. Tim used to say you knew it when he was just thinking about going out on a binge.”

She looked up and smiled fleetingly. “Mr. Bronson said some terrible things about Timothy that afternoon. He had cooled off by evening, but I don’t think he had forgiven him.”

“Has your sixth sense by any chance given you an inkling as to who Tim’s latest flame is? A blond babe with plenty of oomph?”

Minerva didn’t answer at once. She turned her eyes away from Shayne’s intent gray gaze and her thin mouth tightened. After a moment she said, “Mr. Shayne, I’ve never been disloyal to an employer. I’ve tried to stay out of all this, but Timothy has always been a sort of pet of mine. Now that he—he’s had this terrible thing happen to him, and all because he was trying to do his duty as he saw it, I’m willing to do what I can to help find his—the person who shot him.”

“Good girl! Now what about Tim’s latest?”

She hesitated again, and the strain of her indecision showed plainly in her expression. Then she began in an apologetic voice: “I’m not accustomed to gossiping, Mr. Shayne, but a woman is a fool to come around with her eyes blazing at a man and expect another woman not to suspect it.” She paused, then blurted out, “That’s exactly what Mrs. Bronson does—to Timothy. And she makes it a point to come here when she knows Mr. Bronson is out.” She leaned toward Shayne and almost whispered, “She goes over to his desk and hangs over him. Timothy tries not to pay any attention to her except to be courteous, but—I wonder if he’s just courteous to her—at other times. He hasn’t brought a girl around here for a long time. Not since right after the Bronsons came.”

“And Mrs. Bronson is a blonde?” Shayne asked casually. There was no change in his expression.

“And very beautiful. She looks much younger than I’m sure she is. Another woman can always tell that, too.”

“Where do the Bronsons live?”

“On the Beach.”

“I mean the address,” Shayne amended.

“Eighteen thirty-two Magnolia Avenue,” she told him. An odd flush rose in her pale cheeks and she said hastily, “You won’t even breathe I told you anything, will you, Mr. Shayne?”

“You know you don’t have to worry about that, Minerva,” Shayne said gravely. He got up and stood looking down at her slight figure. “Don’t worry about Tim. He’ll be back to devil you again. And thanks.”

He strolled out, waved to Jimmy Dolan, and went out to the elevator.

Outside, he got in the police coupe Sergeant Jorgensen had found for him and drove to Miami Avenue. He turned north a few blocks and stopped in front of a small barroom squeezed in between a delicatessen and a pawnshop, and went in.

Half a dozen men were lounging at the bar. The bartender was a stranger to Shayne. Lucky Laverty was nowhere in sight. Two of the men at the bar were roughly dressed laborers, the others thin-faced punks.

Shayne went behind them toward a closed rear door. A man was seated at a table with a glass of beer. He was wearing a purple-striped shirt with bright suspenders and tight-waisted pants flaring into big legs at the bottom. He was about 25, with a slack mouth and protuberant eyes. He watched Shayne approach, pushed back his beer, and got up when Shayne went toward the door without looking at him.

He got in front of Shayne, muttering menacingly, “Where you think you’re goin’, bub?”

“In to see Lucky Laverty,” Shayne said mildly.

“Like hell. Not without—”

“Scram.” Shayne swung him aside with a sweeping motion of his right arm, and started on.

The doorkeeper crouched with a sobbing snarl, and naked steel flickered toward Shayne. Shayne drove the side of his big hand hard against the thrusting wrist and a knife spun to the floor. He hit the doorman on the point of his chin with a looping left, and he subsided quietly.

Shayne opened the door and went into a small back room thick with tobacco smoke. A green-shaded drop-light glared above a round poker table surrounded by five players. There were chips and cards on the table, and a fat man with a pink bald head was dealing stud. He slapped a card down and looked at Shayne, as did the others.

Shayne glanced around the circle of intent faces and let his gaze come to rest on Lucky Laverty’s face. Lucky was a well-built man with dark, strong features as inexpressive as chiseled granite. There was a withdrawn, remote look about him, not so much aloofness as carefully studied immobility.

Shayne said, “I wanted to see you, Lucky.”

“You’re seeing me.” The words were quiet and low-toned, as lacking in inflection as though produced by some mechanical contrivance. The other four men continued to stare at Shayne. He knew two of them. One was Whitey Buford. The other was Nig Carlton. Neither of them liked him.

“About Tim Rourke,” Shayne said.

Lucky kept on looking at him and didn’t bother to reply. Whitey was partially hopped up. His eyes flickered and demanded of no one in particular, “Where’s Bug-eyes? Lettin’ a Shamus walk in here.”

Shayne kept his eyes steadily on Lucky. He said, “Bug-eyes pulled a shiv on me. Things have changed in two years.”

“Things have changed,” Lucky said.

“But I haven’t.”

The other men glanced around at each other, then back at Shayne, but Lucky Laverty kept his staring eyes steadily upon the detective.

“Pass that word around,” Shayne said quietly. “To your friend Brenner and anybody else that may be interested.”

Lucky said, “You’re making a mistake, Shayne. Rourke didn’t get it on this side of the Bay.”

“I hear he was digging into stuff you didn’t want opened up.”

“So?”

“Such as blond gun molls and maybe whoever was working the racket with them.”

Nig Carlton pushed his chair back and got up. He had black kinky hair covering a bullet head, and a barrel-like torso. He breathed loudly through his open mouth, as though his nasal passages were obstructed. He growled, “Lemme throw ‘im out, Boss.”

Lucky said, “Sit down, Nig.”

Nig sat down reluctantly, his small, close-set, and inflamed eyes glaring at Shayne.

Lucky asked, “Is that all?”

The trenches deepened in Shayne’s gaunt cheek. He said in an oddly gentle voice, “Are you sure you want it this way, Lucky?”

“Things have changed in the two years you’ve been away.”

Shayne nodded. He rubbed his square jaw reflectively. “I guess they have.”

Lucky Laverty turned his gaze away from Shayne’s cold eyes. He said, “Deal the cards,” to the man with the pink bald head.

Shayne turned and went out. A couple of the punks from the bar had dragged Bug-eyes up to a chair at the table and he had his jaw in both hands and was working it from side to side and moaning. The punks shrank back and looked at Shayne with scared eyes as he stalked past them.

At the bar, Shayne ordered a double shot of brandy. The bartender slopped out a double shot and said, “That’s a buck, Mister.”

Shayne drank slowly. When he finished he set the glass down and said, “It’s on Lucky.” He went out and got in the coupe, took his time about starting the motor and driving away.

No one came out of the barroom. Insofar as he could tell, no one followed him.

Chapter Eight: CORPSE IN BLACK STOCKINGS

SHAYNE TURNED EAST on 13th Street and drove across Biscayne Boulevard onto the County Causeway leading across Biscayne Bay. A shimmering serpentine of lights marked the curving road, the glow reflecting in the rippling water.

A gentle breeze came through the window, cool and moist, heavy with the indefinable fragrance of tropical flowers mingled with the clean smell of salt sea air. An impossibly large and implausibly golden moon floated in the velvety blue of the night above the peninsula directly ahead, making a moon path on the bay. Shayne relaxed at the wheel of the police coupe, slowed his speed to 20 miles an hour, and reacquainted himself with the beauty of the tropical night.

Fleetingly, he found it good to be home again. He felt a surge of strength and assurance which had been lacking of late. Somehow, his work in New Orleans didn’t seem important now. He had a feeling of having marked time for nearly two years. It had been a long time since this sense of urgency pounded through him.

In a sudden flash of clarity he realized that was the ingredient lacking in nearly all his New Orleans cases. There had been no personal stress driving him on. In retrospect, they seemed dull and uninteresting after his years in Miami where every case had found him behind the eight ball fighting his way out.

Now, he was behind the eight ball again, and it was a good feeling. The brief interview with Lucky Laverty had raised his spirits immeasurably, and given the impetus he needed. The odds were stacked against him again, and that, by God, was the way he liked it.

He hit the east end of the Causeway and rolled east two blocks, made a left turn, and drove directly to the Flagler hospital. He parked the coupe and went in, stopped at the information desk to ask the number of Timothy Rourke’s room.

The girl told him 312, and he went up in an elevator. He started down the cool, silent hall and his number twelves sounded loud on the tiled floor. He saw the familiar uniform of a Beach cop on a man seated on a chair outside a door, but the officer’s face was unfamiliar.

Stopping in front of room 312, he started to open the door. The officer stood up and drawled, “Hold it. No admittance.”

Shayne said, “I’m looking for Tim Rourke.”

“No visitors allowed.”

“Whose orders?”

“The chief’s. Who are you?”

“Don’t you recognize a dick when you see one?” Shayne asked.

The cop looked him over carefully. Shayne tipped his hat back and scowled. The cop shook his head. “I never saw you before.”

“I’m private.”

“Maybe so. That don’t let you in.”

“The hell it doesn’t. I’ve come a couple of thousand miles to see Tim and no damned flatfoot is going to keep me out.”

“Let me see your tin.”

Shayne drew out his wallet and flipped it open to show his Florida identification. The cop frowned at it, looked up at him in surprise, and said, “Michael Shayne, eh? I’ve heard about you.”

“That flatters hell out of me,” said Shayne. He replaced his wallet, jerked the door open, and went in. The cop’s mouth dropped open and he took a step forward, but paused doubtfully as Shayne closed the door firmly behind him.

A pretty blond nurse got up from her chair beside the bed. She looked trim and competent and tired. Shayne advanced on tiptoe and looked down at Timothy Rourke lying on his back. His eyes were closed and his breathing unnaturally loud and irregular. His face was pallid and the bruises stood out in bold purplish relief. Shayne was shocked to see how old he looked—only the husk of the vigorous man he had known—as though all vitality and life had been drained out of his strong lean body.

Shayne had his hat off and clenched tightly in his hand. He stood flatfooted beside the head of the bed for a full minute before turning to look at the nurse who stood close to him.

She put her hand on his forearm and led him aside to the shuttered window. She asked, “Are you a close relative?” in a low voice.

Shayne said, “Tim was my best friend. How is he doing?”

“They operated on him two hours ago. It was the only chance to save him. He’s doing better than the doctor hoped,” she told him frankly.

“Will he get well?”

“You’ll have to talk to Dr. Fairweather.” The nurse hesitated, then said, “We’re not supposed to discuss our cases, but he has a fighting chance. His constitution is very strong. Every hour he holds on is encouraging.”

“How can he fight when he’s lying there unconscious?” Shayne demanded fiercely.

“It would be dangerous for him to return to consciousness right now,” she answered. “Dangerous for him to move a muscle of his body.”

“How long before he’ll be allowed to wake up?”

The nurse moved her head slowly from side to side. “He hasn’t been conscious since he has been here. Perhaps that’s best no matter which way the tide turns.”

Shayne turned around and looked again at the inert figure on the bed. He said, “Will you let me know when he comes out of this? I can be reached at Will Gentry’s office, police headquarters in Miami.”

“If I can get the doctor’s permission.” She jotted down the information he gave her and asked, “Your name?”

“Michael Shayne. Tell Tim I’ve come—when he wakes up. He’ll understand.”

He went out and strode past the guard at the door to the elevator and went down. Outside the hospital, he drew in a long breath and let it out explosively, then got in the coupe and circled back toward the business section of Miami Beach.

Fifteen minutes later he parked in front of the Blackstone Apartments. The small lobby was empty when he went in. Remembering that the manager was also janitor and general repairman, he went over to the desk and leaned on it. He smoked a Picayune and waited. There was a double row of mail pigeonholes behind the desk. He idly glanced at them through a haze of smoke.

He frowned as he noticed three letters wedged in the box numbered 2-D, the number Gentry mentioned as Rourke’s apartment. Glancing around to assure himself there was no one in sight, he circled the counter and took the letters from 2-D.

He slipped them into his coat pocket, came back, and went directly to the stairway. He went up and found Rourke’s apartment, turned the knob tentatively, and then unlocked the door with a key from his ring. Stepping inside, he closed the door quietly.

The apartment was dark, with the musty smell of being closed. There was no transom through which light could shine, so he felt along the wall for the switch and pressed it. The room was in the depressing state of upheaval the homicide boys had left it.

Shayne’s ragged red brows crawled down in a scowl as he studied the rusty stains on the floor that had been Rourke’s blood. Stepping over the spot, he went through the breakfast nook, glanced in the kitchen, returned, and went through the small archway and stopped in the bedroom door.

Turning on the light, he took a quick look around. He had no real hope of finding a clue that the police had overlooked. Even Painter’s crew knew how to search a place thoroughly. He glowered at the upset condition of the room, noted that the bedcovers were turned back and rumpled. He had forgot to ask Chief Gentry how Rourke was dressed when he was shot.

Turning off the light, he went into the living-room, got Rourke’s mail from his pocket, and looked at it. Two of the letters were bills from local department stores. He discarded them and studied the third. It was a square envelope of heavy, creamy paper, addressed in heavy sprawled handwriting that might have been a man’s, but looked more like that of a woman who was excited or in haste or intoxicated. It was postmarked Miami Beach, 5:00 p.m. the preceding Tuesday afternoon. There was no return address.

Shayne handled it gingerly to preserve the faint possibility of fingerprints, sliding a key under the pointed flapper and working it open. He drew out a single sheet of folded heavy paper such as can be bought in any drugstore. There was no salutation, no date. It read: If you are in the market to buy some information for your paper, call CA 3842.

It had been mailed on the afternoon before Rourke was shot. A few hours after the Blue-Flash edition of the Courier went on sale.

Shayne carefully refolded the note and slid it back into the envelope. He sat down on the sofa and let his eyes brood around the room. He shook his head angrily, went to the telephone, picked it up, and put it to his ear.

A voice came over the wire immediately, breathless and excited. “Is this 2-D?”

Shayne said gruffly, “Sure. The police. You weren’t in the lobby when I came up for another look around. Connect me with Causeway 3842.”

Mr. Henty said, “Yes, sir,” with evident relief. There was a click and then a telephone started ringing. Shayne listened to it ring eight times. Mr. Henty broke in apologetically, “That number doesn’t seem to answer, officer.”

Shayne said, “Get me Information.”

Henty connected him with Information and Shayne said, “I’d like to get the address of this telephone number… Causeway 3842.”

It took her a couple of minutes to check. She said, “The address is Six-Fourteen Tempest Street.”

Shayne thanked her and hung up. He stood by the telephone for a moment tugging at his left ear lobe, his gray eyes looking at the scattered sheets of typescript on the floor. That would be part of Rourke’s novel—the one he had been working on for ten years.

A grim smile tightened his wide mouth. TGAN, Rourke had factitiously referred to his novel. The Great American Novel that every newspaperman dreams of writing. Shayne recalled the time when another newspaperman named Clyde Brion Davis had published a novel by that title, and how angered Rourke had been. He had demanded to know what in hell that left a damned reporter to dream about.

Shayne jerked his thoughts back from the past, went out of the apartment and closed the door. He went downstairs and Mr. Henty jumped up from his chair at the switchboard. His eyes widened when he saw Shayne. He gulped and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He stammered, “You’re not—that is, I don’t—uh—are you the man who was just in 2-D?”

“That’s right,” said Shayne, moving toward the door without breaking his stride. “Special investigator called in by Chief Painter. I’ll want to have a talk with you later.”

He drove away trying to recall the location of Tempest Street. He knew it was out north toward the Roney Plaza, so he followed Ocean Boulevard, scanning the street signs as he went. He found it about a dozen blocks north of 5th Street and turned to the left, driving slowly and checking house numbers.

Number 614 proved to be one side of a one-story stuccoed duplex house set discreetly back from the street behind a hedge of flowering oleanders. He drove on to the next block before parking, and walked back. Number 614 showed no light in the windows. The other half of the duplex was 616, and the curtained front windows were lighted. He went up the path and onto the porch serving both entrances and rang the bell of darkened 614.

A curtain at one of the lighted windows on the other side fluttered. He turned his head to see a girl peering out at him. He kept on ringing the bell without result, looked down at the common door lock and began fishing in his pocket for his key ring with his other hand.

The window curtain dropped back into place. A moment later the front door of number 616 opened and a girl looked out at him. She had jet black hair and heavy black brows and an oval face. Long black lashes fringed the lids of her light-brown eyes. She wore a flowered hostess gown of cool green material and a smile of welcome. She said, “You won’t get anywhere ringing Madge’s bell, Redhead. Why don’t you come on in here?” Her lips were very red and her complexion looked sun-tanned.

Shayne said, “Where’s Madge?”

“I don’t know, but she’s not at home. Hasn’t been for a couple of days. Out partying, I guess.”

Shayne jingled his key ring and frowned as he picked out a key. He tried out a puzzled look that was successful, and said, “That’s funny. I had a date with her tonight. Made it last Tuesday.”

The dark-haired girl laughed softly. “Madge must have been drunk when she made it and forgot all about it.” She looked up at his face and studied it under the dim porch light. “I haven’t seen you here before, have I?”

Shayne grinned and inserted a chosen key in the lock of 614. “I’m an old friend of Madge’s. Just got back in town. She gave me a key when I ran into her on Tuesday.” He turned it in the lock and hoped it would work. It did. It required a little pressure but it turned. He said over his shoulder as he opened the door, “I guess I’ll go in and wait a little while, anyhow.”

“You can wait for her in my house and I’ll fix you a drink,” said the girl in a husky, persuasive voice. “I’m not doing a thing this evening.”

“I’ll take you up on that if Madge doesn’t show up soon.” He went on in and closed the door.

He could hear an electric clock purring on the mantel and an electric refrigerator running. He felt along the wall and found a light switch and looked around the small neat living-room furnished with wicker furniture upholstered in gay cretonne. He went on to the dinette and kitchen, turning on lights as he went. There was no sound except the humming refrigerator.

Returning to the living-room he opened a door leading to a hall. The bathroom door was open, and to the left another door was partly open. There was a faint fragrance in his nostrils, mingled with the scent of another odor, an acrid odor that was almost imperceptible in the still, close air.

Shayne’s wide nostrils flared and he felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He pushed the bedroom door wide open, turned on the light, and looked somberly down at the corpse of a girl lying half off the bed. She wore a pair of black net stockings, the tops rolled above her knees. The rest of her slim young body was nude. She lay on her stomach with her right arm and leg trailing off the bed, her left leg stretched straight and taut with the toes straining toward the footboard. Her left arm encircled a pillow, and there was dried blood on the pillow and on the sheet beside her breast.

Shayne took two steps forward and touched her bare shoulder with the tip of his index finger. The flesh was cold and hard. He pressed down hard, and knew that she had been dead at least 24 hours.

He straightened quickly when he heard the distant angry whine of a police siren shrilling through the quiet night. His gaunt features tightened as the sound came swiftly nearer. A flash of memory warned him that he hadn’t heard Henty click off the switchboard when he had put through his call to Information from Rourke’s telephone.

There was a back door leading out of the bedroom. The key was in the inside lock. Shayne whipped out a handkerchief and dashed into the living-room, put out the lights, and hurried to the front door to scrub off any possible fingerprints of his own. He trotted back to the bedroom, opened the rear door with the handkerchief covering his hand, slid out and closed it.

The door opened onto a flagstone walk hedged with artillery fern and leading to a small garden. Shayne dashed around the house and circled to the front entrance. He had his finger on the bell button of 616 when he heard the siren stop. He jabbed savagely at the button. The door opened and he pushed in, shoving the black-haired girl aside and slamming the door shut.

She had changed from the housecoat to a sports dress of powder blue that accentuated her curves and softened her whole expression. She said, “You certainly changed your mind in a hurry, Redhead.”

Shayne drew in a deep breath and said rapidly, “Madge is in there—dead. I think the police are coming. If you don’t want to get mixed up in this, let me out the back door in a hurry and forget I was here.”

A car raced up outside and they heard it screech to a stop. The girl’s pupils dilated until they almost covered the iris. She wrung her hands and moaned, “Madge? Dead? How did it happen?”

“Murder.” Shayne put an arm around her roughly and hurried her back toward the bedroom.

“Murder? You said the police were coming. Are you a cop?”

“Do I look like a cop? Why would I be running if I were?” He heard footsteps come up on the front porch. He pulled her inside the bedroom and shut the door. “What’s your name?”

“Helen. But I don’t—”

“I’m in a little jam,” Shayne said in a low, savage voice. “You don’t look like a stool. Madge has been dead a couple of days and God knows I didn’t do it, but you know how cops are. I’ll go out the back and you forget I’ve been here. I’ll circle down the alley to my car in the next block and drive up in front. I’ll ring your doorbell—”

He stopped abruptly and listened to the faint ringing of Madge’s doorbell in the other half of the duplex.

“And when you come to the door, call me Mike like you expected me. What’s your phone number?”

“Causeway 1286.” The bell in Helen’s living-room rang shrilly and insistently.

“Go out and answer it. You didn’t answer your phone when I tried to call you twenty minutes ago because you were in the bath.” Shayne gave her a shove. “Go on out and pull it off if you were really a friend of Madge’s.”

Shayne whirled away from her toward the back bedroom door. It was unlocked, and he quietly opened and closed it. He tiptoed down a flagstone walk identical with the one on the other side, ran across the grass to the alley and to his car.

Chapter Nine: JOHNNY ON THE SPOT

AFTER CIRCLING AROUND for several minutes, Shayne went back to Tempest Street and parked behind a Miami Beach prowl car in front of the duplex. The front door of 614 stood open and both units were brightly lighted. He got out and strode purposefully to the door of 616 and pressed the button.

The door opened almost instantly and Shayne said, “Helen!” in a loud, pleased tone. He was conscious of a man stepping out of 614 to look at him, but he kept his back turned, went inside and put his arms around Helen, held her close, and said, “Glad to see me, honey? After all this time?”

“Sure, Mike.” Her frightened eyes searched his as he bent to kiss her. There were footsteps on the porch behind them.

A gruff voice demanded, “Who’s that guy, Miss?”

Shayne turned with his arm around her to look at a burly policeman blocking the doorway. He scowled and asked Helen, “What are the cops doing here?”

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered, trying to follow his lead. “It’s something about the girl who lives next door.”

“What’re you horning in here for?” Shayne asked angrily.

“Wanta use your phone,” the policeman said, starting forward.

“What’s the matter with the phone in there?”

“Never mind about that.” He pushed on into the room.

Shayne winked and smiled reassuringly as the man went past them to the telephone. He said, “I tried to call you about twenty minutes ago, kid. You didn’t answer. Been two-timing me?” He made his voice harsh and edged with suspicion. The cop had lifted the phone, and sitting with his back to them dialed a number, but he had his head cocked in a listening attitude.

“No, Mike. There hasn’t been anyone else here. I must have been in the tub with the water running.”

The cop said, “Give me the chief.”

Shayne said, “I’d lost your street address so I had to get Information to look it up from your telephone number when you didn’t answer.”

“I got my phone too late to be listed in the last directory,” Helen said. “Shame on you—losing my letter. Suppose somebody should find it.” She laughed softly.

The cop said, “Hudson reporting, Chief. On that call to Six-Fourteen Tempest. Front door was unlocked. There’s a dame in there, Chief. Stiff.”

He listened for a moment and then said, “Martin and I didn’t see anybody when we pulled up. Dame next door has got a visitor just came in.” After a short pause, he said, “You bet,” and hung up.

Shayne turned to the officer and said, “Did you say there’s a—body next door?” with great interest.

“That’s what I said.”

Helen reacted swiftly and satisfactorily with a moan of astonishment and fright. “Is it Madge Rankin?”

“She didn’t tell me her name.” Hudson moistened his thick lips and leered at her. “What’s your friend Madge look like?”

“Why—Madge is blond and sort of tall and slim—and awfully pretty.”

“She ain’t so pretty now, lady,” he growled. “But she’s still got blond hair.”

She blinked her eyes and a mist formed over them. She sank down on the couch and wailed, “It must be Madge. She must have been there all the time—and I thought she was out having a good t-time.”

Shayne hurried to her and sat down beside her, drawing her dark head down on his shoulder. “Now, don’t go blaming yourself, honey. You couldn’t have even suspected.”

“The chief’ll wanta talk to you both,” Hudson said importantly. “See that you stick around.” He stalked out and slammed the door shut.

Helen looked up at Shayne tearfully. “What’s it all about? P-Poor Madge.” She sat up straight and stared into space.

Shayne said, “I don’t know anything yet. How long have you lived in Miami?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Almost five years,” she said. Her hand came up and she brushed his coat where her face had rested against it. “This darned pancake make-up—it rubbed off on your coat. I’m sorry.”

Shayne cocked his eye down and said, “You must lay it on pretty heavy. Just leave it there. It’s good evidence that you and I are—old friends.” He grinned crookedly.

“You know how it is,” she told him. “Everybody down here in Miami tries to look too—too sun-tanned.”

“Now let’s get this thing straight,” said Shayne. “I knew you three years ago. Did you live here then?”

“Of course not. I lived—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Police sirens were shrilling up Ocean Boulevard. Shayne knew he didn’t have much time. “Now listen carefully,” he said. “My name’s Mike Shayne and I’m a private detective. I got a tip there was trouble at Six-Fourteen but I can’t afford to show in it. I traced the address through the phone number, but I’m going to say it was your number and your address. I’ve been in New Orleans for two years and you wrote me there when you moved in here.”

Sirens were whining down to silence outside. Shayne pulled off his hat and tossed it on a table. “You’re in it now, too,” he warned. “If you change your story one bit they’ll be suspicious as hell.”

Heavy feet were pounding up on the porch outside. “They’ll be in here pretty quick. You mentioned a drink—or did you?”

She laughed softly and said, “I didn’t—but I can take a hint.” She stood up. Suddenly she turned to look at him. Her light-brown eyes were narrowed and cold, and she said evenly, “I think you’re okay, Redhead. I hope so. Madge was a good kid and I’m not helping you if—”

Shayne made an impatient gesture. “I just got in from New Orleans a few hours ago. I can prove it. Madge has been dead a couple of days. How about that drink?”

Helen smiled and her eyes opened wide. She said, “Sure, Mike,” and she moved toward the kitchen, swaying her hips provocatively.

Shayne slumped to a more comfortable position, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He ruffled his bristly red hair with blunt, knobby fingers, then lit a Picayune.

He could hear voices and movement through the partition between the two living-rooms. He checked back over his story rapidly and knew it was full of holes, but it would have to do. Above all else he didn’t want to disclose to Peter Painter the truth about the letter he had picked up in Rourke’s box. That was his one ace in the hole. Without that link, Painter would have no proof that Madge’s murder was in any way connected with Rourke. And this thought reminded him that the letter was still in his pocket.

He took it out as Helen came in from the kitchen with a tray holding two tall frosted glasses. She set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch, saying, “All I had was some gin and Tom Collins mixer.”

“That’ll be swell.” He took a glass and started to drink from it. Holding it in the air, he said, “I’m damned. What in hell’s your last name?”

“Porter. You almost slipped up there, Redhead.” Again she narrowed her eyes at him. “Say, are you on the level about being a private dick?”

Shayne asked hastily, “Married?”

She tossed her head and laughed. “I never met a guy I’d want to be tied down to.”

“All right,” Shayne said impatiently. “Would you recognize Madge’s handwriting?”

“I guess so. Why?”

He handed her the letter. “Did she write that?”

Helen studied the envelope for a moment and nodded. “I’m pretty sure she did. Looks like the paper she uses too.”

“It’s the tip that brought me here. We’ve got to get rid of it. Tear it up and flush it down the drain.”

She stepped back from him, holding the letter in both hands, her eyes wary. “I don’t know about that. How do I know—?”

“Open it and read it. I’m not putting anything over on you.”

She pulled the note out and glanced at the brief message, nodded, and began slowly tearing it into small bits, walking back to the bathroom.

Shayne heard the toilet being flushed just as the doorbell rang. He reached for his glass and took a long drink, got up as the bell rang a second time. With the glass in his left hand and a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, he opened the door. He stepped back and said happily, “Come in, Chief.”

Chief Peter Painter stiffened on the threshold, his flashing black eyes going over Shayne. His mouth, beneath a black threadlike mustache, was mobile. He wore a Palm Beach suit that was immaculate, and as he stood there quite evidently trying to master his surprise, Shayne thought that he had not changed. Peter Painter could still strut standing perfectly still.

He said, “Shayne,” as though the mere forming of the single word caused him acute pain.

Shayne said, “Come on in,” affably, and lounged toward the couch.

Helen Porter re-entered the room. Shayne introduced her to Painter and said, “Come on and get your drink, honey, before the ice melts.” He sat down and patted a place beside him.

Chief Painter moved into the room and stood facing them. He said, “Shayne, by God,” with a passionate intonation, then added bitterly, “I might have known when that apartment-house manager called me it’d be you. When we got out here and found a corpse—hell, it had to be you.”

“That’s right.” Shayne grinned and took one of Helen’s hands in his. “I always did manage to get ahead of you in the old days.”

“Who is she, Shayne? What’s your connection with her?”

“With Helen Porter? She’s an old friend.”

“I’m talking about the woman in Six-Fourteen.”

“I don’t know anything about her. Helen says her name is Madge.”

“Don’t give me that. You tried to call her before coming over here.”

Shayne rumpled his brow and looked perplexed. “Tried to call her? The dead woman? You’re nuts. I tried to call Helen but she was in the tub and didn’t hear the phone ring.”

“Do you deny that you’re the man who broke into Rourke’s apartment by impersonating an officer?” Painter folded his arms. His tone was that of a man fighting to keep a tight rein on his temper.

“I went to Tim’s apartment for a look around,” Shayne admitted quietly. “I used his telephone to try to call Helen.”

“Causeway 3842?” Painter snapped.

“Causeway 1286,” Shayne corrected. “That’s Helen’s number.”

Helen nodded. She was sitting very close to Shayne, erect and anxious, looking from one speaker to the other, frowning a little as though straining to understand what they were sparring about

“But you asked Information for the address after the number didn’t answer. She told you Six-Fourteen Tempest. The number there is Causeway 3842.”

“I don’t know anything about that.” Shayne shrugged and took a long drink from his glass. “Information gave me the address as Six-Sixteen Tempest. That’s Helen’s address.”

“Mr. Henty said Six-Fourteen Tempest when he called me on the phone,” Painter said with dangerous calm. “He suspected something wrong when he noticed Rourke’s mail gone from the box. He listened in on your call and he told me Six-Fourteen. Why else do you think the radio car stopped here and went in to find the body?”

“Sounds like a crazy coincidence,” Shayne said. “Either Henty made a mistake or you misunderstood him.”

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t know anything about the dead woman? That you didn’t try to phone her? That it just happens you popped up here next door to a corpse a few hours after you reached Miami?”

“The damnedest things happen to me,” Shayne marveled. “Sometimes it seems like I’ve got a natural affinity for corpses.”

“It’s a put-up job,” Painter snorted angrily. “You planned it with this young lady to avoid telling your real connection with the dead woman.”

Shayne looked pained. “I hadn’t seen Helen for almost three years until today.”

“You’ve had plenty of time to coach her since you’ve been here.” Painter strutted six steps away from them and back, then demanded of Helen, “Do you deny he fixed up this lie with you?”

“Wait a minute.” Shayne sprang up. “I’ve let you throw your bantam weight around because I thought maybe after two years we could get along together. Call in your man Hudson if you want to find out the truth. He was here when I arrived—he and his partner. Ask him which door I came to. Ask him if I expected to find a dead woman here—or came to see Helen.”

Painter’s black eyes were sulphurous with rage. He drew his thumbnail across his mustache, went to the front door, and barked, “Hudson!”

The patrolman came in after a few minutes. Painter said, “I want you to tell me exactly what happened and what you and Martin did when you answered this call.”

“We got it over our car radio while we were cruising along Ocean Boulevard. We whipped it over here in not more’n three minutes. Six-Fourteen was dark, but this side was lighted. Martin rang the bell and when nobody answered, I rang this lady’s bell. I asked her about next door, and she said she thought the lady was out, hadn’t seen her around for a couple of days. Then Martin tried the door and found it was unlocked.

“We went in and turned on the lights. We found the stiff in the bedroom. I knew we better not use the phone in there on account of fingerprints, maybe, and I left Martin there and came over here to call you and report. I heard a car pull up and park behind ours just before I rang the bell, so I ducked back and waited to see what he wanted.” He nodded toward Shayne.

“It was him. He came up and rang this lady’s bell. She opened the door and he grabbed her and asked was she glad to see him after all this time. She laughs and says ‘Sure, Mike,’ and he kisses her. They were still kissin’ when I walked in.” Officer Hudson stopped to mop sweat from his face.

Painter said, “Go on,” sharply.

“Well, that’s about all, Chief. I come in and says I want to use the phone and he gets sort of wringy and asks what’s the matter with the phone next door, but I didn’t tell him anything. I just went on and called in to report the body.”

When Hudson stopped talking, Painter whirled on Shayne and snapped, “None of that proves a damn thing, Shayne.”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne interjected. “Did you hear me say anything else, Hudson? While you were dialing?”

Hudson wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t know. Nothing much. You were sort of sore and asked her was she too busy with some other guy when you tried to phone her, and she says no she must have been in the tub—or something like that.”

“What else did you hear while you were waiting for Painter to answer the phone?” Shayne demanded.

“You told her you’d lost her address and had to get it from Information.”

Shayne turned to Painter. “There’s your verification of the whole thing. I hadn’t had time to fix up anything with Helen when your man overheard that conversation. You can see that Henty just got the wrong address when he eavesdropped.”

“Get out,” Painter said to Hudson.

Hudson looked startled. He mumbled, “Yes, sir,” and got out.

Shayne settled back on the couch and slid an arm around Helen. She snuggled against him and they picked up their drinks.

“Not in a month of Sundays,” Painter raged, “will you ever make me believe you landed here beside a corpse by mere accident. I don’t know how this Porter woman figures in it, but you’re in cahoots somehow.”

“Sure,” Shayne chuckled, “I killed the girl by remote control from New Orleans because I didn’t feel she was the right sort of neighbor for Helen.”

Painter glared at Helen for a moment, and then, “Maybe you killed the girl,” he said stonily, “and got Shayne up here in a hurry to keep you from hanging for it.”

Helen jerked herself erect, her light-brown eyes blazing. “Why, you—!”

Shayne held her tighter and whispered something in her ear. Helen subsided, drained her glass, and set it on the table with a sharp thud.

Painter set his thin lips in a bitter line, took a small black notebook from his pocket, and held a pencil poised above it. “Your full name,” he said to Helen.

“Helen Porter.”

“Miss or Mrs.?”

“Miss.”

“Age?”

“You guess, Inspector.”

He scowled and asked, “Occupation?”

She said, “I have a small income.”

“From what?”

“Investments. Bonds and stuff.” She waved one hand airily.

Painter said, “Humph. Live alone here?”

“I live alone and love it.”

Painter said, “Humph,” again. “What’s the name of the woman next door?”

“Madge Rankin.”

“Miss or Mrs.?”

“Mrs. I think she was divorced.”

“Age?”

“Around thirty, I guess. You couldn’t tell about Madge. She was the kind that—”

“Occupation?” Painter interrupted curtly.

“She was—retired, too.”

“On a small income from investments, bonds, and things?” Painter asked with heavy sarcasm.

“That’s right, Inspector. How’d you ever guess?”

Shayne chuckled and Painter made a funny noise in his throat. He asked, “Did she live alone and love it also?”

“She lived alone. I guess that’s the way she liked it.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Last Tuesday evening. She had a sort of party—” Helen hesitated.

“What kind of party?”

“Just some friends, I guess. I didn’t see who was there. They started whooping it up about nine o’clock—had the radio going real loud. I didn’t butt in because I wasn’t invited.”

“How long did the party last?”

“I don’t know for sure. Not very late. I heard some of them leaving about ten o’clock, but the radio stayed on loud for a while longer.”

“Did you hear a shot?”

“Of course not. I’d have known something had happened to her if I had.”

Shayne asked Painter, “Was the girl shot with a thirty-two?”

Painter frowned at the interruption, nodded curtly, and started to ask Helen another question.

“Through the heart from close up?” Shayne persisted.

Painter said with cold anger, “That could be a coincidence. It doesn’t prove there’s any connection between her death and the others.”

“Certainly not,” Shayne agreed happily. “Just an epidemic.”

Painter went on with his interrogation of Helen Porter. “You didn’t see Mrs. Rankin again?”

“No. I thought she was sleeping late the next morning. Then I decided she must have gone out with some of her friends to spend the night—or something.”

“Did she often do that?”

“Sure. She’d be gone two or three days at the time, so I didn’t think anything about it. I knew Madge could take care of herself.”

“You didn’t try the front door and find it unlocked?”

“I didn’t try the front door,” said Helen calmly.

“About this party you say she had Tuesday night. Were there men present?”

“I guess there were some men. I told you I didn’t go in.”

“How did your friend dress when she gave parties like that?”

“She was a pretty swell dresser. When Madge got fixed up and stepped out, men looked at her all right.”

“But for a party costume,” Painter insisted, “would she be likely to wear only a pair of black stockings?”

“That,” said Helen coyly, “would depend on what kind of party she was having.”

Painter snapped his notebook shut, put it in his pocket, and said to Helen, “I’ll ask you to come in and identify the body.”

“Do I have to?” Helen shuddered.

“It’s just routine,” Shayne told her. He got up and drew her up with him. “Come on. We don’t want Chief Painter accusing us of lack of co-operation.”

“Not you,” Painter snapped to Shayne. “According to your say-so you don’t know anything about it, and I don’t want you messing into it. I’ll have some more questions for you after the body is identified.”

Shayne patted Helen’s shoulder and said, “Run along with Painter and get it over while I mix a couple of drinks. Or shall I make it three, Chief?”

Painter said, “You know I never touch the stuff while on duty.”

Shayne grinned and said genially, “You ought to try it sometime. You might get a few ideas.”

Painter stiffened and strutted out the open door with Helen following him.

Shayne took the empty glasses to the kitchen to look for the gin and mixer.

Chapter Ten: TRYING TO MAKE SENSE

HELEN PORTER WAS AN UNTIDY HOUSEKEEPER. The kitchen sink was littered with dishes, the drainboard piled with apple and orange peelings, and an ice tray was sitting out, the unused cubes partially melted. The gin and the uncorked bottle of mixer sat side by side on the small electric stove.

Shayne rinsed out the two glasses, looked around for a jigger to measure the gin, but found none. A small cheese glass with part of the original paper around it that read Roquefort was beside the bottle. It smelled of gin. That explained why his drink had tasted more ginny than Tom Collinsy.

He started methodically mixing the drinks, his mind preoccupied with Painter and the dead girl. When he finished, he took the tall frosted glasses into the living-room, set them on the table, and made himself comfortable on the couch.

Madge Rankin was a blonde. There were too damned many blondes popping up in the case, he thought dispiritedly. The one Rourke had ridden so hard in his last newspaper story; the one who visited his apartment Tuesday afternoon; Mrs. Walter Bronson, who, according to Minerva, was interested in Rourke. And now a dead blonde in the bedroom next door.

Madge Rankin could hardly have been Rourke’s afternoon visitor. Her letter to him had been postmarked 5:00 p.m. on Tuesday. It was not reasonable to suppose that Madge was the gun-toting blonde, unless she had decided to sell out her confederates in the murder racket.

There were two sets of fingerprints in Rourke’s apartment. One of them was evidently left by his afternoon visitor; the other by whom? Madge? Suppose that after mailing her letter she became impatient—or afraid—and went around to see him?

There were a hell of a lot of things, Shayne told himself morosely, that he didn’t know about the case. He mentally cursed Mr. Henty’s suspicious mind and his habit of eavesdropping over the telephone. If he had had a little time to look over the murder setup in 614, check Madge’s possessions—get her fingerprints—

Helen’s entrance interrupted his thoughts. She was alone. Her face was damp and grayish, as though she might be on the verge of nausea. Her eyes were dull amber slits between her black lashes, and her mouth was twisted with anger or extreme distaste.

She went hastily to the table and snatched up one of the glasses. “God! I need that,” she said. “I hope you weren’t too easy on the gin.”

“Was it pretty bad?” Shayne asked gently.

She drank half the contents of the glass, shuddered, and said, “Horrible. It’s the first time I ever saw a—a dead person. It gave me the creeps. Poor Madge—lying there like that.” She sat down beside Shayne. “Madge was always so full of fun. She used to say what was the use of living if you couldn’t have fun, and believe me she did.”

Shayne said, “Try to forget about her.”

“I’ll be a long time forgetting her. What gets me is thinking she was in there like that since Tuesday night—that little sawed-off cop says—and me thinking—”

“You couldn’t have helped her,” Shayne said harshly. “The only thing you can do now is help get whoever did it.”

“Yes—that’s right,” she said slowly. She turned to look at Shayne. “There are lots of things I don’t want to tell the cops. Things that might help.”

Shayne said, “You can tell me.”

“Maybe I can. How do you figure in it?”

“You saw that note before you tore it up. The way I traced her here.”

Helen nodded, watching his face with calculating eyes.

“Did you notice whom it was addressed to?” Shayne asked.

“No. I was too excited, I guess.”

“To Timothy Rourke.”

“That newspaper reporter?” Comprehension flashed over Helen’s face. “The one that got shot Tuesday night? After he wrote up those murders and the blonde and the gambling joints?”

“That’s the one,” Shayne told her soberly. “Tim Rourke was my best friend. That’s why I hurried here as soon as I heard he’d been wounded.”

Helen’s eyes widened. “That note! Madge told him she had some information for his paper. Do you think that was why she was murdered?”

“Until we get a better motive we can guess that’s why she was killed. Drink up, and I’ll fix you another one.

Helen emptied her glass. Her eyes were shrewd and probing. “The cops don’t know about that letter. They’ll go around in circles looking for a motive.”

“Painter would go around in circles anyhow,” Shayne told her. “He always has. My God—look at the facts. There’ve been three murders in a week and what did he do about them? Rourke had to dig up all the facts to prod him into action.”

Helen said slowly, “Maybe you’re on the level—but I don’t know.”

Shayne said, looking steadily into her eyes, “You’d better make up your mind in a hurry, Helen. Painter is coming back to ask me a few more questions.”

“I—don’t know,” she breathed, twisting her empty glass in her hands. “If I tell them I tore up that letter.”

Shayne’s deeply trenched face looked harried and tired. “You don’t have to tell them. I’ll say I tore it up.” He hesitated briefly, then said angrily, “If you don’t trust me I don’t want you to go on with this. You don’t have to. Tell them I threatened you, forced you to play along with me. That I was holding a gun on you all the time. You can clear yourself that way. I’ve got a gun I could have held on you.”

“What’ll they do to you if I tell them?” she asked.

“Not much. Painter will throw an obstruction of justice charge at me and lock me up, but it won’t stick. I’ll be out in a couple of weeks—after Madge’s murderer has had time to make a clean getaway.”

“Why are you—making it easy for me to give you away?” she asked in a troubled voice.

“Because I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret later. I never ask favors. You’ve got to be sure you’re doing it because you believe me and want to.”

She turned to him and her eyes held a metallic glint as she put a palm on each side of his gaunt cheeks. She pulled his face toward her and pressed her mouth against his. Then she smiled and said, “I’d like to play it your way, Mike.”

The doorbell rang. She picked up her glass and went to the kitchen, saying, “You answer it. It’s probably your friend, the chief.”

Shayne went to the door and let Painter in. His eyes darted around the room and he asked, “Where is she?”

“Helen? She’s out in the kitchen mixing herself a love potion.” Shayne went back to the couch, sat down, and crossed his long legs. “Have a seat,” he invited.

Painter sat down on the edge of a chair across from the couch. “What are you doing in Miami, Shayne?” he asked bluntly.

“The same thing I used to do before I left—solving your murder cases for you.”

Painter’s teeth ground audibly. Helen came in with a fresh drink and sat down beside Shayne.

“When did you reach Miami?” Painter queried.

“On the six-thirty train. I left New Orleans as soon as I heard about Tim.”

“Very touching,” Painter grated. “What have you been doing since six-thirty?”

“Nosing around—Talking to a few people.”

“Where? And to whom?” Painter took out his pencil and notebook.

Shayne grinned and said, “If I disclosed my methods you might learn as much about detecting as I know.”

“I can arrest you for stealing Rourke’s mail and breaking into his apartment,” said Painter, infuriated. “That’s a Federal offense.”

“For carrying his mail up to his room and leaving it there?” Shayne asked incredulously.

“I’ve had a report on that. There are only two letters in Rourke’s room. Where’s the third one you took out of his box?”

“Only two of them were for Tim. The other one was for somebody in apartment 4-D. I just stuck it in the right cubbyhole for Henty.”

“Henty is positive there were three letters for Rourke.”

“Henty?” Shayne laughed derisively. “The guy who couldn’t even remember the correct street number after listening in on a private telephone call. You’ll have to do better than that, Painter.”

“You deny there were three letters for Rourke?”

“If you can find more than the two bills I left in Tim’s room, I’ll eat it,” Shayne offered blandly.

Painter snapped his notebook shut and started to get up. Shayne detained him by saying, “Wait a minute. I want to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m asking the questions,” Painter told him, but he waited, tight-lipped and unfriendly.

“Have you gotten anywhere on the Rourke shooting?”

“That’s a police matter.”

Shayne said, “All right. But I suggest you check Mrs. Rankin’s fingerprints with the two sets found in Rourke’s apartment.”

“What do you know about them? We haven’t given out—oh—Gentry, of course,” Painter ended viciously.

“Sure. Gentry was a friend of Rourke’s and would like to see the thing cleaned up.”

“I’m running things on this side,” Painter said.

“Have it your way. You take the high road and I’ll take the low road. Just like it used to be.”

Chief Painter strutted out and slammed the door. Helen asked wonderingly, “Isn’t it dangerous to ride a cop like that? Isn’t he the top man here on the Beach?”

“It’s been that way with us since the first case of mine he horned into,” Shayne told her, and sighed heavily.

She laughed softly. “I knew you were a fast worker when I first met you. What do we do now?”

“Get to work. Tell me about Madge Rankin—all about her.”

“I don’t know too much,” Helen said after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ve only been living here a couple of weeks. I liked her. Men were crazy about her, I guess. She twisted them around her little finger, to hear her tell it.”

“Ever hear her mention going around to gambling joints?”

Helen changed her position on the couch so she could face him squarely without turning her head. She frowned thoughtfully, then said, “I don’t think so. I don’t know where she went nights when she was out. Do you really think her murder is tied in with those others?”

“I think Tim was murdered because he was digging into them, and Madge’s letter to Tim indicates that she knew something. It’s reasonable to suppose she was killed to prevent her from talking.”

“Maybe so. But I don’t believe it. Madge wouldn’t be mixed up in anything like that,” Helen maintained stoutly. “If she had any information about those murders she must have just happened to hear it somewhere.” Her long black lashes came down over her tawny eyes to avoid Shayne’s intent gray gaze.

He asked, “Who was paying her rent?”

“How would I know?” Her voice was suddenly sharp.

“You claim she was your friend,” Shayne persisted. “You must have known some of the men she went out with.”

“I didn’t know any that could have been mixed up in those murders,” she said, a trace of annoyance still in her tone.

“Name some of them—the ones at Madge’s party Tuesday night.”

She looked up at him and said, “I told Chief Painter the truth about that. From the sounds I heard when I got home I guess there were three or four fellows in her apartment, but I don’t know who they were.”

“And they all left slightly after ten o’clock?”

“I don’t know for sure. I heard the party breaking up about ten o’clock. Maybe one of them stayed on, but the radio was on so loud I couldn’t tell.”

“But you did hear enough to suspect someone stayed on,” Shayne pressed her. “Was it a man or woman?”

“I don’t know. That is, a man, I suppose. Madge wouldn’t likely have any women there. And—” She paused and looked away from him.

“And what?”

“I was just thinking about things. Everything is all cleaned up in there now. No cigarette butts or glasses around. Madge must have cleaned up Tuesday night after the party was over—before somebody shot her. Even the kitchen is cleaned up.”

“You think she cleaned up after they left, and then someone else came,” Shayne said, his eyes intent upon her, trying to adjust his thoughts to hers. “Or one of the men came back.”

“I was thinking that,” she admitted. “She would be more likely to clean up if they all left than if one of them stayed on. You know—she wouldn’t bother if she still had company.”

“That makes sense,” Shayne agreed.

“Say, I just thought of something. You claim you didn’t know Madge. Where’d you get the key you unlocked her door with?”

“That was a skeleton key,” Shayne told her. He grinned at her and took out his key ring to show her. “It’s part of my stock in trade. I had to make you think Madge had given me a key when I told you I was a friend of hers.”

“Anybody could probably get into either one of these front doors with a skeleton key,” she said, looking with interest at the numerous keys. “Darned cheap locks,” she ended in grave disgust.

“Yeh,” Shayne agreed absently. “But Madge must have given somebody a key—somebody she didn’t mind coming in when she was all dressed up in a pair of stockings.” His eyes were bleak, and he stared at the opposite wall.

“You’d think she’d have slipped on a robe—or something,” Helen offered, “but I didn’t see any robe around—nor any clothes.”

“Who does she know well enough to fit that?”

“How in hell would I know?” she blazed in sudden anger. “You’re the damnedest guy—don’t you ever think of anything but asking questions?”

Shayne jerked his eyes around and looked at her, a muscle moving in his cheek. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded.

Then Helen Porter laughed softly and laid her dark head on his shoulder, one arm around his neck. She patted his cheek with her other hand and wriggled closer to him.

The doorbell rang, a long ring followed by several impatient jabs.

Helen jumped up, her eyes startled for a moment. She hesitated, standing perfectly still, then murmured, “Let it ring.”

Shayne stood up, saying, “It might be the cops again. You’d better answer it. I’ll go in the bathroom just in case it isn’t the cops.”

“I’ll get rid of whoever it is.” Her voice was low and excited. She was evidently confused. “Don’t worry, Mike. I’ll get rid of him in a hurry.”

Shayne hurried to the bathroom and pulled the door partially shut. He heard Helen say in a surprised and not-too-pleased voice, “Oh, it’s you, Dilly?”

A man said, “I’ve got to talk to you a minute, Helen. About Madge.” He spoke with a harsh drawl and with suppressed excitement.

Chapter Eleven: WORKING ON THE LADY’S MAN

HELEN SAID, “YOU CAN’T COME IN, Dilly. What about Madge?”

“That’s what I want to know. I drove by and saw the cops here.”

“Madge has been murdered,” she said flatly. “You’d better go if you don’t want the cops asking you a lot of questions.”

Shayne sauntered into the living-room and asked, “Who’s your friend, Helen? I’d like to talk to him.”

She threw a startled glance over her shoulder at him. “This is Dilly Smith, Mike. Come on in, Dilly, if Mike says so. This is Mike Shayne, a detective, and he’s interested in Madge’s murder too.”

Dilly Smith walked into the room with a slow and measured tread. His face was as round as a full moon, ending with a solid jutting jaw that moved slightly and constantly as he moved his clamped teeth together. His upper lip was too short and his breathing was audible through his parted lips. His nose was broad and flattish and turned up at the end, and his bulky build made him appear shorter than his medium height. His hair was the color of ripened corn silk, his eyes light blue with a candid, ingenuous expression that gave an impression of youthful good nature and appealing honesty.

He said, “A cop?” widening his eyes and corrugating his brow at Shayne.

“Private,” Shayne reassured him quickly. “I just happened to drop in on Helen a few minutes before the police came. Since Madge was a friend of Helen’s, I thought I might solve the case while the cops are running around in circles.” He lounged forward and held out his hand. “Did Helen say your name is Smith?”

“That’s right.” His hand was big and smooth and soft, but he had a rock-crusher grip.

“How’d it happen?” Smith asked Helen. “I talked to Madge on the phone just a couple of days ago. She wanted me to come around but I couldn’t make it till tonight.”

“That must have been Tuesday,” Helen said. “The police say she was murdered Tuesday night. I remember she told me about phoning you.”

“Are you sure you didn’t come to see her that night?” Shayne asked.

“I sure didn’t,” Smith drawled. “She told me she was having a little party, but I couldn’t make it.”

“How well did you know Madge?”

“Pretty well,” he muttered, and glanced at Helen.

Helen went to the couch and sat down. She looked disinterested and said, “Why don’t you run along, Dilly. Mike and I were just—”

“Don’t rush off,” Shayne interrupted hastily. “I’d like to talk to someone who knew Madge well.”

A flush crept into Smith’s chubby face. “I didn’t know her too well,” he protested. “We were just sort of good friends. Who do the cops think killed her?”

“The cops don’t think,” Shayne said. “Did you ever take Madge out to any gambling joints?”

“Mike thinks maybe she was the blond gun moll who killed those three guys,” Helen put in. “Maybe you helped her.”

The color went out of his face. He stopped moving his jaw and set it hard. He sat down in a chair across from the couch and twisted a soft hat around in his hands. He said slowly, “I haven’t seen Madge in two or three weeks,” staring at Helen with light-blue eyes that were wholly expressionless. “I don’t believe Madge ever had anything to do with gambling.”

“Can you give me a line on any other men that knew her?”

“No. Like I said, I didn’t know her so very well.”

“Why did she call you Tuesday afternoon?”

“To—well, to sort of make up.” Dilly Smith swallowed hard and looked at Shayne with appealing and youthful candor. “We sort of had a fight a few weeks ago and she was sore. But Tuesday she said she wanted to see me.” He frowned and looked like a petulant adolescent. “I wish I’d known about it. You mean she’s been there all that time and nobody found her?”

“And I didn’t know it,” Helen said. “I thought she was out having a good time. Isn’t it terrible?”

“It sure is,” Smith agreed. “I’m mighty sorry. I guess there’s nothing I can do.” He pulled himself up from the chair and plodded to the door.

When Smith closed the door on his way out Shayne asked Helen quickly, “Who is he? He looks like a kid—too young to be having a love affair with Madge.”

Helen laughed softly. “He certainly is the fair-haired boy, but Madge told me he was nearly thirty when I kidded her about him.” She shrugged eloquently, dismissing the matter, and said, “Come on and sit down. I’ll fix some more drinks.”

Shayne shook his red head and picked up his hat “I’d better not. Not this time. If I take another drink with you I won’t want to leave at all.”

“What of it? I told you nobody had any strings on me.”

“Another reason why I’d better beat it. Besides, you’ve got to realize the cops are keeping an eye on this place tonight. Watch your step.”

Helen got up and threw her arms around him and lifted her lips to be kissed. Shayne made it a fast one and hurried out to try to tail Dilly Smith. Helen ran after him and pressed a house key into his hand. “You said you wanted one,” she reminded him.

“Did I? Oh—you bet.” He pocketed the key and patted her cheek. “I’ll try to see you tomorrow.”

A car was pulling away from the curb near the end of the block. Shayne got in his car and started the motor just as Smith’s car swung around the next corner to the right. He didn’t see any of Painter’s men around, but was pretty sure the Beach chief had left a stake-out. He didn’t know whether they had orders to follow him or not.

He made a U-turn without turning on his lights, switched them on, and drove east to the next corner, then turned north. A car slid past the intersection in front of him, headed east on the next street north from Tempest. The timing was right for it to be Dilly Smith.

Shayne slowed to let the other car get a couple of blocks ahead before swinging around the corner in pursuit. There was nothing to indicate that either car was being trailed. He stayed well back until Smith’s car turned north on Ocean Boulevard, and he let two cars get ahead of him before turning onto the boulevard.

Increasing his speed gradually, he passed one of the cars and was pulling up on the tail light of the next one when his quarry turned to the left. He was close enough to pick up the Miami license number as he drove by, and to get a glimpse of Smith alone in the front seat.

Shayne raced on to the next corner before turning left, and as he neared the intersection he saw a sign reading Magnolia Avenue. Upon reaching the avenue he saw a car headed in his direction slow almost to a stop in the middle of the block. He turned boldly in that direction, pulling his hat brim low on his forehead.

Smith’s car picked up speed and began to move forward as Shayne came abreast of him. Smith’s head was turned toward a pair of stone gate posts in front of a three-story mansion at the end of a driveway flanked by tall royal palms. There was no light in the big house.

Shayne saw a house number on one of the gateposts as he drove by without slowing. The number of the big house at which Dilly Smith had hesitated was 1832. He remembered then that Minerva had told him Mr. Walter Bronson, managing editor of the Courier, lived at 1832 Magnolia Avenue.

In his rearview mirror he saw Dilly Smith swing around the corner toward Ocean Boulevard. Shayne speeded up for two more blocks, turned left, and pulled in to the curb near the boulevard, turned off his lights, and left his motor running.

A few minutes later, Smith passed on the boulevard headed toward the Miami Beach business section. Shayne let three cars pass before pulling onto the boulevard and following. He repeated his former tactic of speeding up to pass the intervening cars. By the time Smith neared Fifth Street, Shayne was directly behind him.

Smith signaled for a right-hand turn at Fifth. Shayne trailed him around the corner onto the brightly lighted street lined with business houses on both sides. Moving into the right-hand lane, Smith slid into a parking place in front of the first drugstore he came to.

Shayne drove to a parking-space in the next block, got out and walked swiftly to the drugstore, reached it just as Smith was going in. He loitered with other pedestrians on the sidewalk, looked through the display window, and caught a glimpse of Smith in the rear of the store making a purchase. It looked like a box of candy or stationery. He took the box, unwrapped, and went to a bare portion of the counter where he opened it.

It was stationery. Smith took out a sheet of paper and an envelope, got his fountain pen from his breast pocket, and began to write.

Shayne sauntered back to the curb and kept an eye on the entrance to the store. Smith came out after a couple of minutes with the box of stationery under his arm and a white envelope in his hand. Shayne walked on a few steps, turning his head enough to see Smith deposit the letter in the mailbox at the corner.

Smith then strode to his car and headed it toward Miami. Shayne waited a few minutes to be sure he was gone, then sauntered to the mailbox to check on the hours of collection. The last one of the day was 10:46 p.m. He looked at his watch. The time was 10:33.

He went in the drugstore and waited until the clerk who had sold Smith the stationery was unoccupied. He was a middle-aged man who looked dyspeptic and weary. Shayne approached him and said, “A friend of mine just bought a box of stationery in here. He showed it to me outside, and I’d like to get one like it.”

“You mean the fellow who was in a hurry to write a letter?” the clerk asked.

“That’s right.”

The clerk selected a box and said, “Forty-nine cents.”

Shayne spun a half-dollar on the counter. “Never mind wrapping it,” he said, “I’m in a hurry to write a letter, too.”

The clerk’s jaundiced eyes went over Shayne with surprise and some suspicion when the detective went to the same vacant spot on the counter and started writing a letter.

He wrote: Dearest Minerva: I’ve thought things over and I’m damned sick and tired of getting the run-around, so this means we’re through. Bill.

He addressed the envelope, Miss Minerva Higgins, 316 Larkspur, Miami Beach, Florida, folded the paper and slipped it into the envelope. He put a dime in a stamp machine near the front of the store and got three stamps, one of which he put on the envelope. He then went out and dropped it in the mailbox.

With the box of stationery under his arm, he leaned against the mailbox and waited. Within two minutes the mail truck pulled up and the driver leaped out.

Shayne said, “I’ve been waiting for you. Could you do a guy a hell of a favor?”

The man in gray was past middle-age, stooped and thin, with a network of crinkles around his eyes. He drawled, “I don’t know. What is it?”

“It’s this way,” said Shayne, grinning ruefully, “I dropped a letter in this box and—well, sort of changed my mind after mailing it a few minutes ago. I’ve cooled off, you might say, and decided it’d be foolish to hurt my girl’s feelings.”

“It’s against regulations,” the man said uncertainly.

“I suppose it is, but it’s my letter. I’ll be in the doghouse if I don’t get it back.” Shayne opened the box of stationery and pulled out one of the square white envelopes. “Look. You can find it easy and I can prove it’s mine. I’ll tell you who it’s addressed to. Hell, I’ll even let you open it to see whether I’m on the square.”

The collector examined the envelope in Shayne’s hand. “Who did you say it’s going to?”

“Miss Minerva Higgins, at—”

“Had a fight with the girl friend, eh?” The network of crinkles deepened around his eyes. He unlocked the box and said, “We’ll see if we can find it.”

Shayne looked anxiously over his shoulder as the man ran through the first handful of letters from the box. “That looks like it,” Shayne said eagerly, studying the address on the envelope Dilly Smith had mailed. “Nope—that’s not mine.”

The letter was addressed to Mr. Walter Bronson, 1832 Magnolia Avenue, Miami Beach, Florida.

“This must be yours,” the collector said, holding an identical envelope up for Shayne to see.

“That’s it,” said Shayne happily. “Miss Minerva Higgins, Three-Sixteen Larkspur.” He chuckled. “Thanks a million.”

Passing the letter to Shayne the collector said, “Just don’t ever say anything about this.”

“I won’t—and you don’t know how much I appreciate this.” Shayne seized the letter with a sigh of relief and tore it into ribbons while the mailman looked on with an understanding smile.

Shayne strode away, whistling off-key, got in his car, and sat for several minutes drumming his blunt finger tips on the steering-wheel. His thoughts leaped ahead, forming many conjectures and discarding them, searching for a way to get hold of the letter Dilly Smith had written to Walter Bronson, now entrusted to the United States mail.

Plan after plan he threw to the winds as being too dangerous and too likely to fail. At the end of ten minutes or so he hit upon an expedient that had a chance of working. An extremely slim chance, but it was the best plan he could formulate at the moment.

He took one envelope from the box and folded a blank sheet of paper in it, got out and crossed over to another drugstore on the other side of the street. He bought a very soft lead pencil, sharpened it, working the lead down to a rounded edge on the side of the showcase, then addressed the envelope to himself in care of General Delivery, Miami Beach, Florida. He put a very light pressure on the soft lead so that the address could easily be erased if desired, sealed the envelope lightly at the tip of the flap. He hurried back to his car and drove to the main Beach post office where he deposited it.

As the envelope slid into the night slot, Shayne stood for a moment rumpling his unruly red hair, a deep frown between his gray eyes, muscles twitching in his set jaw. Then he suddenly whirled and strode to his car and headed for Miami.

At police headquarters he was lucky enough to find Sergeant Jorgensen sitting idly in a bull session with a group of other officers. Calling him aside, Shayne gave him the license number of the car Dilly Smith was driving. “How long will it take to get the owner’s name?”

Jorgensen glanced at the number. “It’s a Miami license. Five minutes.” He called a younger officer over and gave instructions to check on the number immediately, then asked Shayne, “Getting anywhere, Mike?”

“I’m moving.” Shayne grinned. “Ever hear of a guy named Dilly Smith?”

Jorgensen thought for a moment “I don’t believe so. Think he’d have a record?”

“I doubt it—but check.” Shayne gave him a full description, adding, “God only knows whether he belongs to the name of Smith or not. He’s mixed up in this thing somehow, but I don’t know how far or in what direction.”

Jorgensen said, “Just a minute, Mike,” and went over to talk to one of the other officers. When he came back the young cop returned with the information on the license number. “A nineteen thirty-nine sedan,” he reported, “owned by Dillingham Smith. A sporting-goods salesman. Lives at the Front Hotel here in Miami.” He gave them an address on Northwest 1st Avenue.

Shayne’s eyes were very bright. “That’s a break. Go to work on Dillingham Smith, Jorg, and get every damned thing you can about him. But don’t let your petticoat show.”

The sergeant laughed and said, “We’ll do what we can, Mike. Like I told you.”

“Thanks—and turn anything you get over to Gentry,” Shayne said as he went out.

It was a short drive to the Front Hotel. It was a dreary frame building, and a fat man was asleep behind the desk when Shayne went in the shabby lobby. Shayne drummed on the desk to wake him up.

Blinking sleepily at the detective, the fat man heaved himself up and said, “Room?”

Shayne extracted a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, folded it so that the man could easily see the denomination, and said, “I’m in the market for some information.”

“That’ll buy it, Mister,” the man grunted.

“About one of your customers. Dillingham Smith.”

“Dilly?” He chuckled and his pudgy hand moved hopefully toward the bill. “Sorry, but he ain’t around.”

“He lives here, doesn’t he?”

“Well, sir, he’s got a room. Two-o-seven. But he ain’t been in it for a coupla weeks.”

“Out of town?”

“I wouldn’t know about—”

The man’s voice trailed off when Shayne started to put the bill back in his wallet. “I wouldn’t want to get Dilly in any trouble,” he said.

“Of course not.”

“On the other hand, he didn’t say anything about it being a secret.” There was a sly look in his eyes. He chuckled and added, “O’ course I reckon he wouldn’t exactly want his whereabouts broadcast.”

Shayne held the bill loosely between his thumb and index finger. “I don’t intend to do any broadcasting.”

The fat man considered this for a moment. He said, “You a friend of Dilly’s?”

“Well—we’ve done a little chasing around,” Shayne told him.

“I been sending his mail to the LaCrosse Apartment on Fourteenth Street.”

“Isn’t that a pretty flossy joint?” Shayne dropped the bill on the desk.

“It is that. Yes, sir. For Dilly I’d say it was right up the ladder.” He chuckled again and his fingers closed over the bill.

“Take his stuff with him?”

“Not all of it. Dilly said he didn’t know how permanent it’d be.”

“A dame, eh?”

“Well, sir—it might just be. Dilly’s quite a lady’s man. Likes ‘em blond.” He winked a puffy eyelid.

Shayne said, “On second thought, I believe I will take a room for tonight if you’ve got one.”

“Two-fifty—in advance.” He turned a much-thumbed and soiled register around for Shayne to sign.

Shayne signed “Bill Adams, City,” and put $2.50 on the desk. “Call me at six.”

“Yes, sir.” He slid a key across to Shayne and said, “Two-thirty-six. Right at the head of the stairs and to your right.”

Shayne took the key and his box of stationery up the stairs. Number 236 was a small room but surprisingly clean. He looked longingly at the bed, inspected the shower, but turned his back on temptation and went quietly out of the room to number 207.

He tried two skeleton keys on the old-fashioned lock of Dilly Smith’s room door before it opened. He went in, closed it, and turned on the lights. The bed was made but clothing was scattered on the backs of chairs and draped from open drawers of the bureau.

Shayne went directly across to the writing-desk and pulled the one drawer open. He was disappointed to find no old letters, but there was a balled-up sheet of Front Hotel stationery pushed far back in one corner. He smoothed it out and read: Dear Harriet: I’ve been hoping and hoping I’d hear from you before this, but I guess you’ve just decided to forget all about me. That hurts me deeply, for I remember you said you’d never forget me that day when we were leaving the hotel, and laughed about what would happen if anybody ever found our signatures as man and wife.

Of course I’ll never tell anybody because I know how it would be if your husband ever found out, but I thought you might be interested to hear I’ve had a run of bad luck this past month…

The note ended thus, and was dated almost a month previously. Shayne smoothed it out and folded it and put it in his pocket. He searched the bureau drawers, the pockets of a suit that was of poor quality and badly worn, but found nothing.

He went out, locked the door, hesitated for an instant about returning to his room, and went downstairs instead. The fat clerk was again snoring behind the desk.

Shayne went out and walked the short distance to Miami Avenue where he found a liquor store, and returned with a bottle of California brandy. The clerk was still asleep, and Shayne went directly to his room.

There was only one glass in the bathroom. He let the water run as cold as it would run, filled the glass, and took it to the small writing-desk. After opening the brandy bottle he took half a dozen envelopes from the stationery box and spread them out before him.

With the half-finished letter Dilly Smith had written to Harriet as a guide, and remembering the glimpse of Smith’s letter to Bronson, he began practicing writing Mr. Walter Bronson, 1832 Magnolia Avenue, Miami Beach, Florida. After each try he took a long drink of brandy and a sip of water.

He wasted seven envelopes before he got one that suited him. This one he put carefully in his pocket, crumpled the others into balls and stuffed them in another pocket, then got up and began stripping off his clothes.

His suit was rumpled and baggy, his shirt and underclothes soiled and sweaty. He hung them up with great care, having no others to replace them for tomorrow.

After profusely lathering his body and showering, he crawled between the clean sheets naked and was asleep within a minute.

Chapter Twelve: OUTTHINKING A THINKER

THE TELEPHONE BESIDE SHANE’S BED wakened him the next morning. He groped for it sleepily and an unpleasantly alert feminine voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Adams. It’s six o’clock.”

“What the hell,” he growled, and was ready to ask her what she was calling him for if it was Mr. Adams who wanted to get up, but his dazed mind suddenly remembered how he had signed the register. He said, “All right,” and dropped the receiver from lax fingers onto the hook.

He wasn’t awake and he didn’t want to wake up. He never wanted to wake up again. He pulled the covers up around his neck and tried to convince himself there was no good reason why he should wake up.

A vision of Timothy Rourke lying wounded, mortally perhaps, assailed him—and Madge Rankin, murdered in bed. The unknown blond girl who had lured three men to their death—and Dillingham Smith—and Helen Porter.

The plans he had carefully planned last night, for today, crowded his mind and popped his eyes open. He threw back the covers and swung his long legs from the bed in one smooth motion. He padded over to the writing-desk and took a long drink from the brandy bottle, then took a quick cold shower. A stubble of beard had grown on his face since a hasty shave in Jacksonville between trains yesterday morning. He scowled at his reflection in the mirror, dried himself hastily, and went tack to the bedroom.

He grimaced his distaste when he put on the soiled clothes. When he finished dressing he went to the phone and called the hospital and asked about Rourke. His eyes were bleak and a muscle quivered in his gaunt cheek when he got the report. He muttered an oath after he hung up, went to the bed and got his .38 Colt Gentry had loaned him and slid it under his waistband. He examined the envelope in his breast pocket, patted his side pocket where the discarded ones were balled up, looked around to assure himself that no scrap was left behind, and went out.

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 coupe 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 coupe.

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 expose 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.

Chapter Thirteen: DOGGING SOME CLUES

SHAYNE WAS STILL SITTING IN HIS CAR parked outside the Bronson estate when a limousine rolled out of the driveway and turned in the opposite direction. The managing editor of the Courier was driving, and he didn’t appear to notice Shayne’s car.

Shayne sat on, undecided as to his next move, trying to straighten out some of the angles but not getting very far. Right now there were too damned many angles.

After several minutes he got out and walked back to the Bronson home and pushed the door button again. The same rosy-cheeked maid opened the door. She said, “Oh, it’s you again, sir.”

“I forgot something and came back. Mr. Bronson still here?”

“Oh, no, sir, he’s left for the office.”

Shayne scowled to show his irritation and disappointment. “He won’t be back until night, I suppose?”

“He doesn’t usually come back, but—”

“Mrs. Bronson will do just as well,” Shayne said and started forward. “Will you ask if she’ll see me for a moment?”

“Oh, no, sir,” the girl said in some alarm. “Mrs. Bronson is too ill to see anyone.”

“Ill?” Shayne stopped inside the door. “I didn’t know that. What’s the matter with her?”

“I’m not sure. Some sort of stroke, I guess,” the girl said in a hushed voice. “She hasn’t been out of her room for two whole days. Mr. Bronson gave strict orders she wasn’t to be disturbed for anything.”

“That’s too bad.” Shayne tugged at his left ear lobe and stared absently at the maid. “Does she look really ill?”

“I haven’t seen her.”

“Who takes her meals up?”

“Mr. Bronson carries up a tray every morning and night. She must be quite sick because she doesn’t eat much.”

“But you must go in to make up her bed and clean up,” Shayne persisted.

“Oh, no, sir. Mr. Bronson said we weren’t to bother her at all.” Agnes hesitated, her eyes downcast, and then said swiftly, “Cook and I have been wondering. It seems very strange. We’ve been wondering if she has something bad—catching, you know. We thought maybe that’s why he waits on her himself and won’t let us go in.”

Shayne said, “H-m-m. Who’s her doctor?”

“That’s just it,” she told him, her blue eyes round and grave. “They haven’t had any doctor. Mr. Bronson says it’s just sort of a nervous breakdown and all she needs is rest, but—”

“When did this breakdown occur exactly?”

“It was Wednesday morning when he first told us we were to stay away from upstairs and not disturb her.”

“And you haven’t seen her since then?”

The maid shook her flaxen head earnestly. “He—locks the door when he leaves in the morning. I know because I forgot yesterday morning and tried to get in.”

Shayne said, “I guess it’s nothing to worry about if he hasn’t called in a doctor. Don’t tell him I came back. We’ve got a deal on and he wouldn’t like it if he knew I’d forgot something. You know how he is about things like that.”

“I certainly do,” she said unhappily, and looked up at him wistfully.

Shayne pinched her pointed chin and said, “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about,” again, and went out. He didn’t waste any time sitting and thinking this time, but drove straight to police headquarters in Miami. Chief Will Gentry greeted him by announcing, “I just talked to the hospital. Rourke’s condition is encouraging. If he hangs on another twelve hours the crisis will be past.”

Shayne said, “Swell. That sounds better than the report I got at six-thirty this morning.” He sat down and ruffled his bristly red hair. “Seen anything of Jorgensen this morning?”

“Just long enough to find out you’re giving my men their orders,” Gentry answered with a grin. “He’s looking up some man named Dillingham Smith.”

“Here’s something else on Smith,” Shayne told him. “Though he’s kept his room at the Front Hotel, he’s been holed up at the LaCrosse Apartments on Fourteenth Street for the past couple of weeks. That’s another lead for Jorg to check. And I didn’t say anything last night about putting a tail on Smith, but I think you’d better. Particularly from two o’clock on. After the Courier Blue Flash is out. I want the exact time Smith makes any telephone calls after he reads the Blue Flash.”

Gentry was making notations on a sheet of paper as Shayne spoke. He nodded without looking up. “Anything else?”

“Not just now,” Shayne said after hesitating briefly.

Gentry shoved the sheet back and looked up, rolling the butt of his cigar from port to starboard in his mouth. “How does this Smith figure, Mike?”

“I don’t know,” Shayne told him honestly. “This is a blind case. I’m just following up anything and everything I come across. Smith is a friend of the woman found dead in her bedroom on the Beach last night.”

“Rankin?” Gentry scowled and demanded, “What did you and Painter tangle over?”

“I happened to be visiting the girl on the other side of the duplex when Petey’s men turned up. You know how he is. He wouldn’t believe my being there was just a coincidence.”

“Do you blame him?” Gentry asked gravely.

“No,” Shayne admitted with a grin. “It always did get Painter’s goat for me to be Johnny-on-the-spot like that. How’d you know we tangled?”

“I called him this morning to ask if he saw any hookup between the Rankin murder and the others, He started cussing and told me to ask you, and slammed up the receiver.”

“There is a hookup,” Shayne said tersely. “Madge Rankin had some information she wanted to sell Tim. She got bumped before she could spill it”

“Does Painter know that?”

“I didn’t tell him.”

“You’re playing with dynamite again,” Gentry said and sighed. “When you withhold pertinent information from the authorities you’re lighting a fuse.”

Shayne stood up and said harshly, “Painter had the same chance I did to pick up that dope. A letter from Madge Rankin was in Rourke’s apartment mailbox from Wednesday morning until last night and Painter was too dumb to think of looking for it. To hell with him. I don’t mind doing his work, but I intend to do it my way.”

“Yeh—I know, I know,” Gentry said heavily.

“You know how it is, Will,” Shayne said, softening his tone. “Painter’s likely to barge in if he has an extra scrap of information and spoil everything. I’ve had that trouble with him before.”

“Have it your own way,” the chief called to Shayne on his way out

“Be seeing you,” Shayne called back with a friendly wave of his big hand.

Shayne got in the police coupe and drove around to a small dairy lunch half a block from the Courier offices, went in and dialed the newspaper’s number from a telephone booth. When the switchboard operator answered, he said, “Mr. Bronson’s office,” and waited. In a moment Minerva Higgins’s prim voice came over the wire.

“Mr. Bronson’s office.”

“Mike Shayne, Minerva. I’m in the dairy lunch down the street. Can you slip away a minute? It’s important”

“I guess I can,” Minerva agreed reluctantly.

He hung up and went to a table in the corner and ordered a bottle of milk and two glasses. Minerva came hurrying in a few minutes later. She wore a dinky little hat perched askew the knot of gray hair and she took long, mannish steps in her low-heeled shoes.

Shayne jumped up and pulled a chair out for her and she sank into it. “I can’t be but a minute, Mr. Shayne. Mr. Bronson thinks I’ve just gone—out of the room.”

“It’ll take only a minute,” Shayne promised, pouring milk in her glass as he spoke. “I couldn’t afford to have Bronson see me talking to you up there. All his calls go through your desk, don’t they? You can listen in?”

“I can—but I have other things to do.”

“This is important,” Shayne said earnestly. “I need a record of every number he calls not definitely connected with business matters, and the exact time. And the exact time of every call he receives not definitely a business call. And a shorthand transcript of any conversations that sound screwy at all. Can you do it?”

Minerva drank a glass of milk while she listened. Her eyes were troubled. She asked tartly, “Why should I spy on Mr. Bronson?”

“To help me catch a murderer.”

“Mr. Shayne! Timothy’s not—dead!”

“Not quite—on the last report,” he said, “but four other people are.”

“But you can’t possibly think Mr. Bronson is—”

“I know he’s mixed up in it somehow,” Shayne told her placidly. He poured her glass full of milk. “I don’t know how deeply yet, but I give you my word that what I’m asking will help to get the lug who shot Rourke.”

Minerva’s thin lips tightened. “Mr. Rourke always said your word was good enough for him.” She nodded and asked matter-of-factly, “Is that all?”

“I’m particularly interested in a certain call that may come after the first edition is on the street. That is: if this advertisement is in the Personal column, Minerva. ‘Yes.’ Signed, ‘Colt.’ Just those two words. If that ad isn’t in the Personal column, incoming calls probably won’t be important.”

“Yes. Colt,” Minerva repeated wonderingly. She finished her second glass of milk and got up. “I’d better get back.”

Shayne said hastily, “Have dinner with me tonight and we can go over your notes.”

“Very well. I’ll be at home after five and until seven.” She gave him her address and hurried out.

Shayne downed a glass of milk and went out to his car. He drove to the LaCrosse Apartment Hotel on 14th Street. It was one of the better-class residential hotels in Miami, featuring two-and three-room suites with hotel service at exorbitant weekly and monthly rates.

The lobby was large and heavily carpeted, furnished with comfortable chairs and couches, many of them occupied by elderly people who drowsed or talked together in low tones.

A buxom woman was behind the desk. She wore a pince-nez and regarded the redheaded detective with cold disapproval as he came toward her, her eyes candidly observing his rumpled suit. She began shaking her head when he reached the desk and pulled off his hat.

“Do you have a Mr. Dillingham Smith here?” Shayne asked.

“I’m afraid we don’t. Mr. Smith checked out this morning.”

“Can you tell me where he went?”

“He may have left a forwarding-address,” she said, but made no motion to look it up.

Shayne flipped his wallet open and said, “It’s a police matter. Will you get his forwarding-address for me?”

She glanced at his credentials, said, “Hmph. The police? I’m not at all surprised.” She stepped aside and pulled out a drawer, glanced at a slip of paper, and said disapprovingly, “Mr. Smith asked that any mail be forwarded to the Front Hotel.”

“So you’re not surprised to have the police interested in Mr. Smith?” Shayne asked.

She said, “Hmph,” again, and tossed her head.

“Did his wife move with him to the Front Hotel?”

“Mrs. Smith left several days ago.”

“Can you describe Mrs. Smith?”

“She was a blonde,” said the woman, as though that was all that was necessary.

Shayne groaned, “Another damned blonde.” He put his hat on and yanked the brim low. “Where did she go?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. I understand she left the city.”

“When was that?”

The woman thought for a moment and said, “I think it was last Tuesday afternoon.” A portly gentleman who looked like a Belgian diplomat came up to the desk and she turned her attention away from Shayne to simper. “Good morning, Mr. Rochemont.”

Shayne went across to the revolving door and let a horse-faced doorman turn it for him as he went through. He stopped and got out his billfold, extracted a five-spot, and gave it to the man. He asked, “Do you remember a Mrs. Smith who checked out last Tuesday afternoon? I think her husband stayed on until this morning.”

The doorman squinted at the bill, grinned, and said, “A man doesn’t forget a number like her in a hurry.” Little red veins showed in his cheeks and his eyes were rheumy. “She made a man wish he was fifty again,” he added.

“Pretty?”

He pursed his colorless lips and whistled. “And plenty swishy too, by golly.”

“Did you see her leave Tuesday afternoon?”

He pushed the door to let an old lady out, touched two fingers to the beak of his cap, then said to Shayne, “No, but I helped her husband get a big trunk out in time to catch the five-o’clock train. He said he was going to meet her at the station.”

“Did he take the trunk in his car?”

“No sir. He tried to but it was too big and heavy to handle. We had to call an express truck. Just lucky I’ve got a pal that rushed a truck right over from the Royal Palm Moving Company.”

Shayne thought about that when the doorman went to the curb and whistled for a cab for an old man who came out. When he returned, Shayne asked, “What apartment did the Smiths have?”

“Four-eleven.”

Shayne thanked him and went back into the lobby. The big woman at the desk had her back turned and didn’t see him when he crossed to a waiting elevator and got in. “Four,” he said, and the operator took him up.

Two maids were cleaning 411 when he walked through the open doorway. The one who was running the vacuum turned off the current and looked up curiously.

Shayne asked, “Getting it cleaned up for me to move in?”

White teeth gleamed in her black face when she smiled. “That’s right, if you’s the new gen’leman what’s waitin’.”

Shayne said, “I am.” He looked around disapprovingly. “Haven’t you girls got something else you can do first? Just leave things as they are for a while and do a couple of other rooms.” He took two dollar bills from his wallet and gave one to each. “You don’t have to tell anyone, and I’ll be responsible.”

One maid looked around the disordered room, her eyes popping with incredulity. “You means for us to leave it jes’ like this?”

“That’s right. I’m the one to be pleased, since I’m renting it. You can take your sweeper out if you want.”

They looked at each other and at the bills in their hands and went out without another word.

Shayne went to the telephone and put a call through the switchboard to Will Gentry. “It’s Mike, Will. I’m in apartment four-eleven at the LaCrosse. Can you shoot a fingerprint boy up here double-quick?”

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.

Chapter Fourteen: TOO MANY BLONDES

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.

Shayne grinned and said, “Neither did I. Have the cops been around again?”

“No.” She sat down on the sofa and looked up at him expectantly, stretching a pair of long and well-shaped legs out before her. Her green jersey sports skirt slid above her knees, and the snug tan blouse she wore was revealing.

Shayne said, “You look pretty. Smell good too.” He sat down beside her.

“Thank you, sir,” she laughed. “I was wondering whether you’d think so.” She turned her body toward him and asked earnestly, “Do you think they’ll ever find out who killed Madge?”

“Don’t you read the papers? Chief Painter predicts an early arrest.”

She made a wry face. “Him! I was frightened last night staying here all alone. I got to thinking about Madge. It must have been someone she knew—someone she’d maybe given a key to—”

“And you got to thinking about the key you’d given me?” Shayne interrupted with a chuckle.

“No, silly. I wished you would come back. But I did get to thinking about the key fitting both doors and how the murderer must still have the key Madge gave him—and—” She shuddered delicately and added, “It gave me the willies.”

Shayne said slowly, “If the same key will unlock both doors, it could have been someone using your key, Helen. Had you thought about that?”

“But you’ve got the only extra key I have.”

“But I didn’t have it last Tuesday night.” He was silently thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I guess that angle is out. Have you seen any more of Dilly Smith?”

“No. Why should I?” she asked quickly.

“I thought he might have come back. I had a hunch my being here when he came last night cramped his style.”

“It didn’t,” she said shortly. “He was a friend of Madge’s, not mine.”

“How’d you come to know him? You said you’d only lived here two weeks.”

“Sure. But I knew Madge before I moved in this house with her.”

“Do you suppose Dilly has a key to her door?” Shayne persisted.

“I don’t know.” Helen grew wide-eyed and thoughtful. “I guess they were pretty friendly before they broke up,” she said after a moment. “But I don’t think it was Dilly. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Maybe not.” Shayne got up abruptly. “I want a picture of Madge. Do you suppose there’s one in her place?”

“All her stuff is still there. Mr. Wiseman was around this morning asking me if I knew about any relatives or anyone that might clean it out so he can rent it again.”

“Did you?”

“No. Madge never told me about her folks.” She got up and stood close to him. “Can’t you stay awhile?”

“Not right now. I’ll be around to try out that key tonight if Painter doesn’t have a stake-out here. You’d better not go in Madge’s place with me. If the cops are watching you might as well stay in the clear.” He pressed her hand between both his palms and went out.

He glanced up and down the street but saw no one watching the house, got out the key Helen had given him and tried it in the door of 614. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but with a little pressure it opened the door.

Entering the stuffy living-room, he glanced around but saw no photographs. He went on to the bedroom where a bloodstained sheet on the bed was the only sign of murder.

There was a small framed photograph of a strikingly handsome blond girl on the dresser. The tinting showed her eyes to be very blue and red lips smiled at him. Shayne slid it in the side pocket of his coat, went to the back door and removed the key from the lock, and went out through the front door, locking it behind him.

The curtains at Helen’s front windows were parted and he saw her face as he turned away.

He drove directly to the downtown section and found the office of John Wiseman, Realtor, on Third Street. The office was small, and Mr. Wiseman was alone when Shayne went in. He was a wizened little man with a high-domed bald head and a long sharp nose that appeared to quiver with eagerness as he scented a possible client in the rangy redhead. He came forward dry-washing his hands and said, “Yes, sir. What can I do for you today?”

“I see you’re the agent for the empty half of the duplex at Six-Fourteen Temple Street.”

“That’s correct.” Mr. Wiseman pulled a comfortable chair around for Shayne, drew up a metal smoking-stand, and then perched himself on the edge of another chair near by. “A dreadful tragedy,” he said, and shook his head sorrowfully. “Mrs. Rankin was a valued tenant. Dreadful. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I read the startling news in the paper. It’s been only a few days since I was talking with Mrs. Rankin and she was in the best of health. The very best of health,”

“How well did you know Mrs. Rankin?”

“Quite well. That is to say, in our business relationship only.” Mr. Wiseman laughed nervously. “A very desirable property, Mr. ah—I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Shayne. I’m a detective, Mr. Wiseman, and not interested in renting. You say you saw Mrs. Rankin only a few days ago?”

“A detective? Indeed?” Mr. Wiseman’s countenance fell. “I’ll tell you anything I can, of course.”

Shayne took Madge’s photograph from his pocket. “Would you say this was a recent picture of her?”

The realtor took the photograph and held it up to the light. “A good likeness,” he murmured. “Fairly recent, I would say. Taken in the last couple of years at least. A very attractive woman. A grass widow, I believe.” He made a smacking sound with his bloodless lips.

“And she lived there alone?”

“Yes. Quite alone.”

“Did she entertain much? Men, particularly?”

“Mrs. Rankin?” Mr. Wiseman was shocked. “Oh, no. We wouldn’t allow anything like that. This property is in a very refined neighborhood.”

Shayne said, “I didn’t know Mrs. Rankin, but I’ve met her neighbor on the other side and it’s my guess that she doesn’t lack male visitors.”

Mr. Wiseman pressed his thin lips together and looked pained. “Miss Porter is quite another matter,” he admitted with a shake of his head. “She’s occupied the premises only a short time and I don’t mind telling you I’m quite disappointed in her. Decidedly disappointed. I had no idea, you understand, when I rented to her. She appeared very genteel when she first came to me about renting the house.”

Shayne smothered a grin. “You can’t trust looks nowadays.”

“You certainly cannot.” Mr. Wiseman was righteously indignant. “Not that Miss Porter is flagrant about it. I must say she is decidedly discreet. But I’ve noticed things. I make it a point to keep an eye on the properties under my control and I’ve dropped by there twice in the evening to pay my respects and rung her bell without receiving any response.”

“Perhaps she wasn’t at home,” Shayne suggested.

“Oh, yes, she was. The lights were on and the radio going very loud. It was quite evident she had a visitor. The second time this happened I rang Mrs. Rankin’s bell to make sure I wasn’t judging Miss Porter too harshly. She insisted that her neighbor was in, but hinted that perhaps she didn’t—ah—wish to be disturbed.” Mr. Wiseman paused to cough delicately.

“Yes, I confess I’m disappointed in Miss Porter,” the realtor resumed, “and I’ve been thinking of asking her to vacate at the end of the month.”

Shayne was staring across the room, his eyes vacant and narrowed. He didn’t hear Mr. Wiseman’s final statement. He said, “You can’t trust those blondes, can you?” absently.

Mr. Wiseman looked surprised. “But Miss Porter isn’t a blonde,” he protested. “Indeed not. I’m positive I recall her as a distinct brunette when I saw her two weeks ago to rent the house.”

Shayne said, “I’ve got blondes on the brain. Too damned many of them.” He stood up. “I appreciate your information, and if I hear of a prospective tenant of sufficient virtue I’ll refer her to you.”

“I will appreciate that, Mr. Shayne,” he said, and walked with Shayne to the door.

Shayne got in his car and drove to the Blackstone Apartments. Mr. Henty, the harassed manager, eyed him apprehensively from behind the switchboard. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and he said, “I’m very sorry. I didn’t intend—that is, when I called Chief Painter—”

“Skip it,” Shayne said. He took Madge Rankin’s picture out and showed it to him. “Ever see her around?”

Mr. Henty studied the smiling face intently, shook his head, and said, “I don’t believe so. Not that I recollect.”

“Not last Tuesday afternoon? The blonde you let into Tim Rourke’s apartment?”

“Oh, no. Decidedly not. That girl was younger. Ah—with more swish, you might say.”

“How about the blonde you’d previously seen here with him?”

Mr. Henty looked at the picture again and his head-shake was just as decided. “No. Though she is more the type. About the same age, I’d say. But, no. I’m positive that isn’t she.”

Shayne sighed and put the picture back in his pocket. “I was afraid of that. Which leaves us at least three blondes on the loose.”

Shayne went back to his car, drove back to Miami, and stopped at the LaCrosse Apartment. The doorman was standing just outside the door. He called him from the coupe, and the old man hurried across the walk.

Again Shayne got the photograph of Madge Rankin out and asked, “Can you identify this picture as being that of Mrs. Smith who recently checked out of here?”

The man took a pair of glasses from his pocket, removed the ones he had on, and put on the others. He frowningly studied the picture for a full minute.

“No, sir. That ain’t Mrs. Smith,” he said flatly. “This’n’s pretty enough, but not in her class.”

Shayne sighed again, said, “Thanks,” and again replaced the photograph in his pocket and drove away.

Chapter Fifteen: CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER

SHAYNE SPENT A LONG TIME over lunch and a few drinks, mulling over the forces he had set in motion and wondering whether they would grind out an answer. Timothy Rourke was still unconscious, his life hanging by a thread. His eyes were bleak and his mouth set in grim lines when he finished his third double brandy, paid his check, and went out.

It was three o’clock when he bought a copy of the Courier outside the tavern. He drove to police headquarters where he found Sergeant Jorgensen with Chief Gentry in his office.

“We were just wondering where we could get in touch with you,” Gentry growled. “You didn’t tell me where you’re stopping.”

“I’m not,” Shayne told him. “I holed up at the Front Hotel for a few hours last night. Haven’t had time to look for anything else. Have you got something for me?”

“More or less. Jorg has spent a lot of time not getting very far on Dillingham Smith. But your hunch on his girl friend’s prints was right. They checked with a pair in Rourke’s apartment.”

Shayne’s bleak eyes grew very bright. “Now we’re beginning to get somewhere.” He laid the folded newspaper down and lowered his rangy body into a chair. “She must be the one who visited him in the afternoon.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Gentry objected. “Her prints prove she’s the one who searched the apartment. They don’t match the ones on the dishes and liquor glass.”

“The hell you say!” Shayne’s ragged red brows came down and the trenches in his cheeks deepened. “The way we figured it, the apartment was searched after he was shot.”

“That’s the way it looked,” Gentry admitted.

“And we figured the girl who visited him that afternoon left the other set.”

“So Mrs. Smith isn’t the one who visited him that afternoon,” Gentry said in a troubled voice.

“But damn it—how could she catch the five-o’clock train and still have been around to search his apartment that night?”

“That’s what I’ve been wondering,” Gentry rumbled. “Maybe we’ll know more about it when we get an answer on my wire to Denver.”

Shayne tugged angrily at his left ear lobe. “Could Painter have made a mistake in those two sets of prints?”

“I got my dope direct from Captain Roderick, head of the Beach Identification Bureau,” Gentry told him placidly. “Roderick doesn’t make mistakes. He covered the apartment himself.”

Shayne shrugged and muttered, “One more piece that doesn’t fit.” He sat for a moment glaring into space, then picked up the copy of the Courier and turned to the Personal column. He found the advertisement near the top of the column. Two words. Yes. Colt. He refolded the paper and asked Jorgensen morosely, “What did you dig up on Smith?”

“Damned little, Mike. He’s thirty-two, a bachelor, and has lived here five years without getting in any trouble. I shot his prints to Washington just in case. He’s worked at two or three jobs. Grocery clerk and on the pari-mutuels at Hialeah Park a couple of seasons.” He glanced at his notebook and continued, “Has a clean record on all his jobs. Seems to be quite a lady’s man. For a few months past he’s been strutting a blonde from the Beach. The Rankin dame who got herself bumped last Tuesday night, if we can believe a couple of identifications from the picture of her in this morning’s paper.”

Shayne listened intently. When Jorgensen stopped talking he looked up in surprise, asked, “Is that all?”

“No. The last eight months he’s been working at Robertson’s Sporting-Goods Store. Up until two weeks ago. He had a cheap room at the Front Hotel. Two weeks ago he quit his job suddenly and moved from the Front to the LaCrosse into an apartment that set him back ninety a week—with a very flossy blonde whom he registered as Mrs. Smith. None of his former friends saw him during those two weeks, and I haven’t been able to get a line on him. Chief Gentry says you’ve already checked on his wife leaving town Tuesday afternoon, and him staying on at the LaCrosse until this morning. He moved back to the Front today.” Sergeant Jorgensen closed his notebook and shrugged. “Not much in any of that.”

“Was he actually married?”

“There’s no record of it locally.”

“How about his job at the store? Anything on his quitting it suddenly?”

Jorgensen grinned cheerfully. “You’re thinking about all those different thirty-twos that’ve figured in the killings recently. Five, I make it, counting the slug Rourke took and the one they dug out of Mrs. Rankin. No soap there. I checked with Robertson carefully. They used to carry a big stock of guns and had a big repair business, but he swears there hasn’t been a thirty-two automatic in his place for more than a year. He checked his records all the way back to the date Smith started to work there.”

Shayne said, “Yeh. I’ve wondered where all those thirty-twos came from. And that reminds me—here’s a serial number.” He repeated from memory. “Four-two-one-eight-nine-three. It fits a thirty-two Colt automatic. Any chance of checking ownership?”

Jorgensen asked him to repeat the number, writing it down as Shayne did so. “If it was bought in Miami or a permit has been issued on it. I’ll check.” He got up and hurried out.

There was silence in the office for a time. Will Gentry chewed on his cigar and waited for Shayne to say something. Shayne was slumped in the chair, his head resting on the back, his eyes watching puffs of smoke from his cigarette float toward the ceiling.

“Are you getting anywhere at all, Mike?” Gentry asked finally.

Shayne frowned and sat up straighter, crossing one long leg over the other. “I’m getting a lot of ideas, but I can’t prove anything yet.” He rubbed his jaw and blew out another cloud of smoke. “Things are shaping up,” he went on cautiously. “I’ve got a couple of fuses burning.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Have you got a man tailing Smith now?”

Gentry nodded. “Ever since you asked me this morning.” He glanced at the clock on the wall and added, “He should have a relief and be reporting in right now. Where does Smith fit in the picture?”

“There had to be at least two of them on those gambling-house murders,” Shayne explained. “If the blonde did the actual shooting she had to have someone follow along in another car to pick her up and make a quick getaway. If you noticed, the three deserted cars were found in widely separated spots on the Beach. That means she didn’t bother to lure her victims to a hideout, so she had to have an accomplice trailing the play. We know Smith owns a car, and we know he lived high with a fancy blonde while the three murders were being committed.”

“Then you think he and the blonde were it?”

“It adds up,” Shayne agreed. “There’s also his former friendship with Madge Rankin whom he dropped suddenly. And her letter to Rourke just before she was killed offering to sell him some information. But there are a couple of other angles—” He broke off suddenly as Jorgensen re-entered the room.

“That automatic,” said the sergeant dramatically, “belongs to Walter Bronson. He brought it here from New York and applied for a permit. We don’t have any Sullivan Law here, but he evidently didn’t know that.”

“Bronson?” Gentry exclaimed incredulously. “What, about that gun, Mike? Where did you pick up the serial number?”

“By tampering with the U. S. mail,” Shayne told him with a wide grin. “If I tell you any more about it you’ll be an accessory after the fact. I’m pretty sure a ballistic test will prove it was used in one of the killings.”

“Bronson’s gun? Good God, Mike—are you positive?”

“I’m not positive of anything,” Shayne said angrily. “I will tell you this much. Mrs. Walter Bronson is said to be a plenty smoochy blonde and I’ve heard it rumored she couldn’t keep her eyes off Tim Rourke. Add to that the fact that she’s been confined to her room since Wednesday morning with what her husband claims is nervous prostration—that he locks her door when he leaves in the morning and hasn’t allowed the servants a glimpse of her. Yet he hasn’t called a doctor—that he left his office at nine-thirty Tuesday night with some of Rourke’s things and the intention of stopping by Tim’s apartment. Add all those up and you’ve got my headache.” Shayne took a final drag on his cigarette and flung it toward Gentry’s spittoon.

Chief Gentry was staring at Shayne in blank amazement and chewing steadily on his cigar. There was heavy silence between them for a while. Gentry broke it by asking, “Had you ever thought that Mrs. Rankin might be the blond accomplice of Smith? Isn’t it reasonable to suppose she might have got mad at Smith and threatened to squeal on him?”

“And squeal on herself at the same time?” Shayne asked.

“Look at it this way—she could have planned to sell her information and get the money without Rourke finding out who she was—to get even with Smith—and then take a run-out powder. Things like that have been accomplished very neatly. I’d choose her instead of Bronson’s wife.”

Shayne considered for a moment and shook his red head slowly. “Too damned many blondes mixed up in this thing,” he muttered.

Gentry chuckled and said, “Blondes were always Tim’s weakness,” and added seriously, “If Tim could only snap out of it long enough to give us a lead.”

“Yeh,” said Shayne absently.

A young plain-clothes man appeared in the doorway and saluted. “I was to report to you, Chief.”

“Come on in, Delch,” said Gentry. “This is Mike Shayne who is interested in Smith.”

The young detective looked at Shayne with bright interest and nodded. “Yes, sir. There isn’t much. Smith had just moved back to his room at the Front Hotel when I picked him up. He stayed in his room until one o’clock without making any calls. I made a deal with the girl at the switchboard.”

Delch moved over near the desk, sat down, and continued, “He came down at one o’clock and went to the Blue Crane on Miami Avenue. He had two drinks and kidded with the waitress but talked to no one else, then took a long time eating lunch and drinking three beers. He was still on his last beer when a boy came in with copies of the Courier’s Blue Flash. He called the boy back and bought one. He turned directly to the classified and studied it, finished his beer, and went to the phone booth and made a call. I couldn’t get the number. The time was exactly—” Delch paused to take out a notebook and consult it—“two-forty-six. He left the Blue Crane and went straight back to his hotel room. Raymond relieved me fifteen minutes ago and I came right in.”

Gentry glanced at Shayne with raised brows when the young detective finished his report.

“No further phone calls?” Shayne asked.

“No, sir. Only that one at two-forty-six.”

Shayne said, “Thanks, Delch. That’s just what I wanted.” Turning to Gentry he said, “Keep your man on him, Will. I may have something more for you after five o’clock.”

“What happens at five o’clock?”

“I’ve got a date.”

“With a blonde?” Gentry asked with a chuckle.

Shayne said, “Damn blondes,” explosively, and went out.

The time was four o’clock. Shayne killed some of it by trying to find a bar stocked with decent brandy. He drank his way through half a dozen places without much success, then drove to the Courier building and parked.

Employees of the paper began coming out a few minutes after five, and among them he saw Minerva’s funny little hat askew her gray knot of hair. She saw him, compressed her lips, looked cautiously around before approaching his car.

Shayne opened the door for her. “I’m surprised at you, Minerva,” he teased. “I didn’t suppose you’d be such an easy pickup.”

She got in hurriedly and sat primly erect beside him. She flashed her pale eyes at him and said, “I’ve a long hatpin if you try to get fresh with me, Mike Shayne.”

Shayne laughed and pulled out into traffic and drove swiftly to Minerva’s apartment. It was one of the older two-story houses in the city, remodeled into apartments. Minerva’s was on the second floor. Shayne went with her and she unlocked the door on a plainly furnished living-room and said, “You can come in and sit while I change to go out to dinner.” She turned away, pulling a long steel pin from her hat.

“Wait a minute,” Shayne said, “let’s have a look at your shorthand book before you get dressed. That’ll save time if I have any arrangements to make.”

She turned toward him, her face grave, and said in a troubled voice, “I don’t like spying on Mr. Bronson. If it wasn’t that he called that man, I don’t think I’d do it even for you—and Tim.”

“Brenner?” Shayne asked quietly.

“How’d you know?”

“At eleven-three this morning.”

She stared at him for a moment, then said, “I guess you are a detective.” She sat down and opened her notebook.

“Anything interesting previous to that call?”

Minerva pursed her unrouged lips and said, “No. Nothing that wasn’t strictly business. He didn’t ask me to get the number. I noticed that because he generally does, particularly if it’s to the Beach. The man on the other end of the line said, ‘Brenner.’ I knew that was the gambler Mr. Rourke had exposed.”

Shayne made himself comfortable on the couch and said, “Shoot.”

“Mr. Bronson said, ‘I’m in a tight place and I need your help. A private detective named Shayne is threatening to blackmail me over a certain matter and he wants twenty-five thousand. Can you let me have it?’

“Mr. Brenner said, ‘I see. Maybe I can take care of it for you a lot easier than that.’

“Mr. Bronson said, ‘I have to give him an answer at one o’clock. I’ll depend on you.’

“Mr. Brenner said, ‘Call me later,’ and hung up.”

“Did Bronson call him later?” Shayne asked.

“No. But he left the office about three o’clock and was gone over an hour.” Minerva hesitated, looking up from her notes and studying Shayne with shrewd and alert eyes. “If you’re using Mr. Rourke’s trouble to blackmail Mr. Bronson I shall report you to the police.”

Shayne grinned. “You know me better than that, Minerva.”

With her eyes intently studying him she said, “I know Mr. Rourke trusted you,” acidly. “If you’re not worthy of that trust I shan’t hesitate to see you arrested.”

“There should be a later call that proves I’m not the blackmailer. At two-forty-six.”

“You seem to know a great deal about these calls,” she said with suspicion.

“I’m a detective—remember?” Shayne chuckled.

“I don’t think it was your voice,” she admitted. “I don’t think you could make your voice drawl like that. He asked for Mr. Bronson and said, ‘This is Colt talking. I just saw your ad.’

“He waited a moment and Mr. Bronson said, ‘Yes?’

“And he said, ‘Listen close because I’m only going to say this once. Leave your house at exactly nine tonight with the stuff. Alone in your car. Drive north on Ocean Boulevard about twenty miles an hour. Keep driving north until I pull up alongside your car. You’ll be watched every minute from the time you leave home, so don’t try to pull anything.’ And he hung up before Mr. Bronson could say another word.”

Shayne asked, “And Bronson left the office shortly afterward?”

“That’s right.” She nodded her head vigorously, “What does it mean, Mr. Shayne? What connection is there between Mr. Bronson and that Brenner man?”

“Bronson was doing his best to keep Rourke’s expose of the gambling out of the paper,” Shayne told her. “This dope of yours is just what I needed, Minerva. We’re going to wind up this case tonight.”

“Well—I’m glad if I’ve helped,” she said, but there was still uncertainty in her tone. She got up and went into the bedroom.

Shayne went to the telephone and called Chief Gentry’s office. When the chief answered, Shayne said, “I’m getting ready to wrap things up tonight. All I need is a little help.”

“Okay, Mike.”

“Keep your man on Smith, and you’d better put another one on him too. He’ll drive over to the Beach sometime before nine o’clock. Let him get across the Causeway and then pull in on him. Warn your men he’ll have a thirty-two on him. It’s important. Have them deliver Smith straight to Painter and suggest he run a test on the gun.”

“I’m listening,” said Gentry dryly.

“That’s all. Painter can hold him on a concealed weapon charge until he checks the gun. That ought to give him a better charge.”

“Got it, Mike. Now, here’s something for you. I have a wire from Denver, Colorado.”

“Good.”

“It’s not so good,” Gentry warned him soberly. “They picked up Miss Betty Green all right, but she’s not a blonde. And she claims she hasn’t been in Miami for two years and can prove it. She never heard of Dillingham Smith, never lived at the LaCrosse, and doesn’t know anything about anything.”

“How does she explain the trunk? And have they got it?”

“She claims she never had a trunk in Miami and never lived at the address it was sent to, and can prove it.”

“Nuts,” said Shayne. “That sounds like a stall. Have them hold her while they check her story.”

“And get this, Mike. Miss Betty Green is a brunette. You claim there’s nothing but blondes in this case.” Gentry sent a chuckle over the wire.

Shayne sent back a chuckle that was heavy with sarcasm. “She wouldn’t be the first dame to dye her hair when she got tired of being a blonde—or when she was hiding out from the law. Have Denver see about her coming back to Florida as a witness.”

“Okay—if you say so, Mike. It sounds screwy to me.”

“It is,” Shayne agreed. “Screwy as hell, Will. Don’t let your men lose Smith.” He hung up and turned to see Minerva coming in the room dressed in a gaily flowered dress, minus her glasses, and her cheeks and lips delicately rouged.

Shayne looked her over with twinkling eyes. “Why, Minerva! Come on—let’s get going somewhere where I can show you off.”

“Let’s get going and get something to eat,” she answered primly.

Chapter Sixteen: TANGLED TALES

AT A QUARTER OF NINE, Michael Shayne was parked on Ocean Boulevard two blocks north of Bronson’s house. His car motor and lights were off, and he was headed north. He sat sprawled behind the wheel, his hat well down over his eyes, his lips puffing on a cigarette and his mind at peace with the world.

The cards were all dealt and all that now remained was to play them. By now, Dillingham Smith should be in the custody of the police, along with Bronson’s automatic. There was nothing to do but wait for things to pop.

A yellow moon hung like a festive lantern in the dark-blue sky, shedding its light on swaying palm fronds and brightening the spray of ocean breakers. A fresh and humid breeze blew through the open car windows, refreshing and cooling his weary body.

In the rearview mirror he saw the headlights of a limousine turn onto the shoreline drive two blocks behind him. He glanced at his watch. It was two minutes after nine.

Shayne ducked lower in the seat, watching the roadway at his left from under the brim of his hat. The limousine went by with Walter Bronson sitting erect behind the wheel and looking straight ahead. He appeared to be alone and drove at slow speed in accordance with Smith’s telephoned orders.

When the car was a block away, he got out and walked half a block to a filling-station. He called Miami Beach police headquarters and said in a gruff voice, “Here’s a tip-off for Chief Painter. That private dick named Mike Shayne is up to something phony. He’s cruising north on Ocean Boulevard in a coupe loaned him by the Miami police and there’s going to be trouble. Better have him tailed by a prowl car in case he tries to pull a fast one.” He hung up and went back to his car and pulled out on the street.

He drove slowly, at slightly more than twenty miles an hour. Soon after he passed the Roney Plaza he noted the headlights of a car that had come up fast and then slowed to drop behind him. Though his police coupe was unmarked, he knew its license number could be recognized as official by any member of the local police force, and he was quite sure the trailing headlights belonged to a Beach radio car.

He increased his speed slightly and presently came up behind Bronson’s limousine crawling along at the designated speed. He stayed behind until there was a long stretch of open road and sped up to come abreast of the big car. He saw Bronson glance aside and recognize him just as he swerved the coupe into the left front fender of the limousine.

There was a grinding crash, the screeching of brakes as both cars slid off the pavement into a shallow ditch alongside. Shayne had his left door open and he hit the dirt before the cars were quite stopped. He darted around the coupe in time to see the back door of the limousine flung open and two figures lunge out with moonlight glinting on blued steel in their hands.

Dropping to the ground, Shayne snapped a shot at the bulkier figure as the police car jerked up behind him and a spotlight threw its glaring beam on the scene.

The light silhouetted Bing standing erect with a snarl of rage on his lips and a .45 in his hand. Monk was already slithering to the ground with Shayne’s slug in his belly.

A hoarse voice from the police car shouted, “Hold it,” and two cops came pounding toward them with drawn guns.

Bing began cursing in a low monotone, and dropped his gun. Shayne sat up and grinned at the cops. “You got here just in time, boys. Watch that one on the ground. He may still be able to pull a trigger.”

They came up, grim-faced and watchful, and one of them kicked the gun out of Monk’s hand.

Walter Bronson stepped from the car with his hands in the air, shaken and fearful, and stammering over and over, “What is it? I don’t understand. What is it?”

Shayne said, “Put the cuffs on all three of them, boys, and we’ll talk this over at headquarters. I guess you saw it all. I’ll swear out a complaint of assault with deadly weapons against them.”

“Shayne!” Bronson started forward impulsively. “If we can talk this over—”

“There’s nothing to talk over,” said Shayne grimly. “You and your hoodlums are in this up to your necks. Better see about Monk,” he advised one of the officers.

The cop bent over the hulking figure. “Pretty bad. We’d better get him to a doc fast.”

“You’re the private dick we were trailing,” the other officer said angrily to Shayne. “I don’t get any of this. What in hell—”

“Ask your questions at headquarters,” Shayne snapped. “Load those three into the big car and let’s get the wounded man to a doctor.”

Shayne walked around to the front of the two cars, looked at the crumpled fenders, and saw there was no real damage done. He got in his coupe and backed it away.

One of the policemen came up beside him, breathing heavily. “I’ll take that gun you flashed.”

Shayne handed him Gentry’s .38. “I’ve got a permit and you saw me use it in self-defense when they jumped me just because we scraped fenders.”

“We saw it,” the officer grunted sourly, “but I still don’t get it. How come we were trailing you so slick?”

“You trailing me?” Shayne asked.

With the other officer at the wheel of the limousine and the three men in the rear seat, the big car swung in an arc in front of Shayne’s coupe and turned back on the boulevard.

“It was just lucky, I reckon, we got on your tail,” the cop said to Shayne.

“Lucky for me,” Shayne agreed. “You want me to go on ahead?”

“Yeh. I’ll be trailing you. Take it easy right into the station.”

The limousine was parked and emptied of its passengers by the time Shayne reached the station. The officer who had trailed him drew up beside Shayne’s coupe and they both got out and went in to Painter’s office.

Chief Painter was listening to Walter Bronson’s statement, a frown of indecision between his black eyes and a nervous index finger caressing the thin black line on his mobile upper lip. Neither Bing nor Monk was in sight.

Painter looked far up into the redhead’s face when he entered. He demanded angrily, “What’s this all about, Shayne? I can’t make heads nor tails to it.”

“That depends on what kind of a story Bronson is handing you,” Shayne said calmly.

“He claims he was driving along peacefully and you rammed into his car and jumped out and started shooting at him and his friends.”

Shayne raised a rugged red brow. “Driving along peacefully, with a pair of armed hoods hidden in the back of his car?” Shayne demanded harshly.

“I didn’t know they were armed,” Bronson said. He had his hat off and was mopping his heavy face and bald head. “I’m completely bewildered by all this. If you and I could talk this over privately, Shayne—”

“We’ll do all our talking in front of witnesses,” Shayne interrupted.

Painter got up from his desk chair and strutted toward them. He demanded of Shayne, “Who telephoned in that tip on you?”

“A tip on me?” Shayne managed to look completely nonplussed.

Painter squinted up at him and said, “The tip that sent one of our radio cars after you—rather providentially, it seems to me.”

Shayne shook his head wonderingly. “I don’t know anything about that. I admit it was lucky your men were right there and saw the whole thing.”

The Beach chief whirled on Bronson, turning on one foot. “Why did you have the two gunmen in your car, Bronson?”

The editor hesitated. He wet his lips nervously with a thick tongue, gave Shayne a murderous look, and burst out, “I had them along for protection. I charge Shayne with attempted extortion. I believe a citizen has a right to protect himself under such circumstances.”

“How about that, Shayne?” Painter asked.

Instead of replying, Shayne asked, “Have you picked up a man named Smith this evening?”

“A couple of Gentry’s men turned a man named Smith over to us on a concealed weapon charge,” Painter admitted. “What’s that got to do with this?”

“A lot,” Shayne told him. “Have you run a comparison test on the Colt thirty-two automatic he was carrying?”

“Gentry’s men suggested we do that,” Painter said grudgingly. “I don’t know what the results are yet.”

“You’d better find out.”

Again Painter studied Shayne with sharp black eyes. “I will,” he snapped, swung around, and went out a side door, calling to his underlings who had brought the men in, “Back here—all of you.”

One officer went ahead of Shayne and Bronson, the other bringing up the rear. As Bronson and Shayne went through the door, the editor said in a hoarse whisper, “See here, Shayne, I’ll get you the money. I swear I will if you’ll just—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shayne interrupted him sharply. He moved on into the room and sat down.

One of the officers withdrew. Bronson went to a window and stood staring out into the night while the other officer leaned against the doorsill and began picking his teeth.

A few minutes later Painter hurried in excitedly. He pounded his right fist into the small palm of his left hand and said to Shayne, “I don’t know how the devil you guessed it, but that gun we took off Smith fits the bullet that downed Timothy Rourke.”

Bronson’s huge frame stumbled to a chair near by. He slumped into it. His heavy shoulders shivered, then settled rigidly.

Shayne asked, “Where does Smith say he got the gun?”

“Claims he found it,” snorted Painter. “Looks as though we’ve got our killer all right. When we get through checking up on Smith we’ll know where we stand.”

Shayne lit a cigarette, drew on it hard, and set a puff of smoke roiling through his nostrils. He said, “Why don’t you call Will Gentry and ask him if he has a record on the gun,” blandly.

“Look here, Shayne—what—how much do you know about all this. If you’re holding out on me, by God, I’ll—”

“I’m not asking you to take my word for anything.”

Painter glared at him, trotted over to the phone, and called Gentry. He said, “Looks as though I’m about to clear up the Rourke case, Will. Do you happen to have any record of a Colt thirty-two automatic, serial four-two-one-eight-nine-three?”

Shayne’s head rested easily on the back of the chair. He continued to puff smoke through his nostrils, watching Bronson and Painter through narrowed eyes. Bronson was sitting rigidly on the edge of his chair, his torso forward, as though he were about to spring up.

Painter’s breezy air of self-assurance appeared to slowly ooze out of him as he listened to Gentry’s voice rumbling over the wire. The chief of detectives of Miami Beach said weakly, “I see. Well… I see. Thanks a lot for the dope, Will.” He replaced the instrument carefully, leaned back with his small mouth tightly compressed. After a moment he snapped, “How did you know so much about that gun this afternoon, Shayne?”

Shayne shrugged and waved his cigarette. “I was always a couple of jumps ahead of you in the old days. Remember?”

Painter’s eyes blazed with anger. He jumped up and confronted Bronson. “What do you know about it, Bronson?”

Bronson’s puffy eyelids rolled up. His heavy face was flaccid. He looked defeated and utterly weary. “About—what?”

“Your pistol,” Painter raged. “The one that shot Rourke.”

“My—pistol?” croaked Bronson.

“There’s a permit on it in your name.”

Bronson slowly settled back in his chair. “Oh, that? That little automatic I used to have—I lost it several months ago. It was stolen out of my car one day.”

“Did you report it stolen?”

“N-No. I didn’t bother. It wasn’t important.”

Shayne said, “Ask him why he put that ad in his Personal column today.”

“What ad?” Painter’s face was dangerously red.

“Just two words,” Shayne told him mildly. “‘Yes. Colt.’ And ask him why he called Hake Brenner this morning asking to borrow twenty-five grand, and came over to see Brenner this afternoon and borrowed two of his hoods instead. The two who tried to shoot me tonight.”

Painter’s voice quaked with anger. “All right—why did you do all that?”

Walter Bronson was getting hold of himself, except for an uncontrollable sweating. He got out a handkerchief and mopped his face, then pointed a fat and accusing finger at Shayne. “Ask him. I told you he was trying to blackmail me. He got hold of that gun somehow. He told me it was the one that had been used on Rourke. He threatened to turn it over to the police and I knew it could be traced to me.”

Shayne said, “I didn’t have the gun. A man named Dillingham Smith had it.”

Painter wavered for an instant, glancing swiftly from one man to the other, then said, “After you planted it on him, I suppose, and then had him picked up,” with heavy sarcasm. He barked to the officer standing in the doorway, “Bring Smith in here.”

When the man went away, Painter ranted at Shayne, “This is one time, by God, you stepped in too deep. Attempted extortion and withholding vital evidence in a murder case.”

“Four murder cases and one attempted murder,” Shayne corrected him in a mild tone.

“Gentry’s own words will convict you,” Painter went on. “He admits you gave him the dope on that death gun and arranged to have your stooge picked up with it on him.”

Shayne said, “You can’t convict me for being smarter than you are. If that were against the law, ninety-nine percent of your fellow-citizens could be jailed.”

An officer ushering Dillingham Smith in stopped the reply Painter started to make. Smith looked older, and frightened. He wet his slightly parted lips and let his oddly rounded eyes rest for an instant on Shayne, Bronson, and Painter.

Painter said, “I want the truth from you, Smith. I’ll see that you get a break if you come clean. Don’t try to protect anybody. I guess you know that rod was plenty hot. Tell us exactly how it came into your possession.”

Smith took his time about answering. Not a muscle in his stocky body moved until he turned his head slowly toward Bronson and drawled, “I found the pistol right outside the apartment where that reporter was shot on Tuesday night. I saw you drop it, Mr. Bronson, when you came out with the dame and got in your car.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Shut up, Bronson,” Painter roared.

“I knew I did wrong keeping it,” Dilly Smith went on in a slow, earnest drawl. “I was broke and figured Bronson would pay to get it back. I guess that’s against the law, but I don’t want to get mixed up in any shooting rap and I’m telling you the truth, Chief Painter.”

Painter’s face looked as though he had just bitten into a green persimmon. He gestured toward Shayne despairingly and demanded of Smith, “How does Shayne figure in it?”

“Him?” Smith rounded his eyes at Shayne. “I don’t know. He’s a private detective I met at a friend’s place the other night. That’s the only time I ever saw him.”

Bronson heaved his bulky body to his feet. “This man is obviously lying,” he said hoarsely. “His story of how he came into possession of the weapon is an absurd lie. I tell you it was stolen from—”

Dillingham Smith started toward Bronson like a man walking in a slow moving picture. His short broad hands were doubled into fists and slowly swinging at his sides.

Painter said, “Sit down, Bronson,” and motioned to the officer standing guard.

The officer got in front of Smith and shoved him back. Smith’s expression didn’t change. He continued as though the short scene had never occurred, “I picked the pistol up where Mr. Bronson dropped it Tuesday night. I didn’t know what had happened upstairs then, but when I heard about the reporter being shot next morning, about it being a thirty-two and all, I knew that must be why he was in such a hurry to get away and didn’t notice dropping it by his car.”

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.”

Chapter Seventeen: ONE LITTLE THING

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?”

Smith’s mouth took on a sickly grin before saying, “Suppose we weren’t married. Whose business is it?”

“Who was she?” Shayne insisted harshly.

“A—girl I happened to meet. You know how it is.” He didn’t look at any of the men in the room, but instead had his eyes on a spot on the wall behind Shayne.

“What’s her name?”

“I can’t tell you that. She’s a nice girl, see? It wouldn’t be right to drag her into this.”

“She’s already into it,” Shayne warned him. “She’s the one who visited Rourke’s apartment the afternoon he was shot and tore up his place looking for something.”

“I don’t believe it,” he said in his slow drawl, still staring at the same spot on the wall. “She was out shopping that afternoon, but—”

“You’d better give us her name and let us check.”

“Sure—if you think she’s mixed up in—” Smith swallowed hard. “Sure—her name’s Patsy Jones and she lives in Atlantic City. I haven’t got her address.”

“Who’s the Betty Green in Denver to whom you checked the trunk?” Shayne demanded.

“Betty Green? Oh, she’s a friend of Patsy’s. They roomed together here a month ago and she left her trunk with Patsy when she took the bus back to Denver. I just shipped it to her.”

“But you didn’t ship it,” Shayne snapped. “You checked it through on a ticket. Did Patsy Jones go to Atlantic City by way of Denver?”

“She—I’ll tell you about that.” His eyes flickered around, came back to the spot on the wall behind Shayne.

Shayne turned his head and saw an electric clock. Turning back, he asked, “What are you watching the clock for?”

“Maybe he has a date,” Painter put in sarcastically.

“With a blonde?” Shayne asked.

Smith rubbed his nose hard again and said sullenly, “No. I just don’t like clocks with second hands. They make me nervous going around so fast.”

“What about Patsy Jones?” Painter barked.

“Well—she thought she’d go to Denver to visit Betty first, see? And she bought a ticket. Then she decided not to go. So she just checked the trunk through on the ticket before she turned it in.”

“It must have been a damned heavy trunk,” Shayne said.

“It was.” Smith was sweating freely and he looked a trifle green around the edges of his mouth.

“What did Patsy want in Rourke’s apartment that afternoon?”

“I sure don’t know,” drawled Smith. “I didn’t even know she had met the guy. But you can’t tell about those blond dames.” He laughed nervously. “All of them will two-time a fellow. Maybe she’d been his girl and had written him some letters and wanted to get them back before she left town.”

Shayne asked, “What did Madge Rankin know that she was threatening to tell Timothy Rourke?”

“Madge—Rankin?” Smith’s mouth sagged open.

“Your former girl friend. The one you threw over for this Patsy.”

“Yeh, Madge,” Smith muttered. “I don’t know what you mean. Did she know Rourke, too?”

Shayne stood up and stretched his long arms. He said to Painter, “There’s one little thing we could be doing while we’re waiting for Mrs. Bronson.”

Painter bounced up with alacrity. “Of course. We might as well attend to it.” He strutted to the door behind Shayne, saying to the guard, “Keep these two men in here until I get back.”

As they went down the corridor, Shayne asked, “When you ran that test on Bronson’s pistol, did you use the bullets taken from Rourke’s body or the ejected shells?”

“The bullets, of course.”

Shayne stopped just outside the front office. “If you want a suggestion from me, you’ll have Captain Roderick check the ejected shells, also.” Painter looked at him blankly. “But the bullets were positively identified.” He caught himself up with a shrug and said lamely, “All right. If you think it’s a good idea.” He hurried down a side passageway to the laboratory to instruct the identification expert, returned in a few moments, and asked in a subdued voice, “Where are we going now?”

“There’s one little thing I want to check on at Madge Rankin’s place,” Shayne told him grimly. “The answer to the whole thing should be there.” He stalked out ahead of the detective chief.

Chapter Eighteen: “COME HOME, MIKE”

CHIEF PAINTER DROVE SHAYNE in his official car to 614 Tempest Street. He didn’t ask any questions on the way out, and Shayne didn’t volunteer any information.

Shayne was grimly occupied with fitting into place certain pieces to support a theory that had come to him when Branson and Smith were talking. He had toyed with several theories during the past 24 hours, but this was the first one that actually pleased him. If he was successful at Madge Rankin’s, he would know beyond the shadow of a doubt.

“Pull around to the head of the alley leading to the rear of the house,” he directed Painter. “We’ll go in the back door in case anyone is watching the place.”

Painter obeyed without question, a frown of annoyance between his eyes. He parked beside the alley entrance and turned off the motor and lights. They got out and went up the alley together to the rear of the duplex. Number 614 was dark. Number 616 was lighted.

Shayne led the way across the lawn to the little flagged walk leading to the rear door of 614. He took out the key he had taken from the door earlier in the day when he got the photograph of the dead woman.

In the bedroom he turned on the lights, went on into the living-room, and pressed the light switch. He stood for a moment staring around the room, then stepped across and turned on the radio. It was tuned in to WQAM and a hot jive band was on the air.

Turning to Painter, Shayne said, “Give me your gun.”

Painter snapped startled black eyes up at Shayne’s grim gray gaze. He hesitated briefly, then flipped back his coat and unholstered a .38 snugly belted to the front of his left thigh with the butt toward the right.

Shayne took it from him and strode over to a small ornamental fireplace with two pine logs in a wood-basket on the hearth.

He fired a single shot down into one of the logs, went swiftly to the front door, and unlocked it with Helen’s key. He waited tensely, his hand on the knob, his face bleak and drawn, while Painter looked on in helpless incredulity.

The front door of 616 slammed. High heels tapped across the few paces to rattle the knob of 614.

Shayne jerked it open and Helen Porter stumbled forward and almost fell into his arms. Her face was a white mask of terror and she panted, “Oh, it’s you? I thought I heard a shot in here. Then I saw the lights on and—”

She clung to Shayne’s arm. He shoved her off roughly and said, “You did hear a shot. Chief Painter wants to know why you heard the shot tonight with the radio going as loud as it will go, yet you didn’t hear the shot that killed Madge Rankin Tuesday night.”

“Why—I—I don’t know. I guess—”

“You claimed you didn’t hear it because you fired it yourself,” Shayne grated, “and had no way of knowing it could be heard on your side.” He shoved Helen Porter into Painter’s arms and strode back to turn off the radio.

In the abrupt silence he whirled around with Painter’s gun leveled at her as she tore herself free from the Miami Beach Chief and pawed frantically inside the handbag clutched in her left hand.

“Don’t touch that automatic, Helen. I’ll put a thirty-eight slug between your eyes, so help me God.”

Painter grabbed the bag from her and backed away from the range of his own gun in Shayne’s hand.

Helen Porter stared at him with panic-stricken eyes, then laughed, and said, “Why, Mike! I almost thought you meant it.”

Painter opened the bag and took out a .32 automatic. He exclaimed, “It looks as though I’ve struck pay dirt this time, Shayne. If this is the gun that killed Mrs. Rankin—”

“You’re both crazy,” said Helen Porter with a toss of her dark head. “That pistol hasn’t been shot for years. I guess you’ve got tests that’ll prove that all right.”

Shayne went to the door and closed and locked it. “Come on and sit down,” he commanded Helen, “and we’ll talk this over.”

Painter grabbed Helen’s arm and propelled her to a chair and shoved her into it, then stood stiffly on guard beside her.

Shayne sank down in another chair and said, “I don’t expect a bullet fired from that pistol to match any of the death slugs. But you’ve got some of the empty cartridges, haven’t you, Painter?”

“Certainly,” Painter snapped. “One from here, and at the spot where two of the other men were shot. And those two in Rourke’s apartment.” He looked pained at Shayne’s questioning his thoroughness.

“That’s more than you’ll need to convict Helen Porter of the murders,” Shayne assured him. He turned to explain to Helen: “You can put a fresh barrel in a Colt automatic and throw away the old barrel every time it’s fired, but the thing you forgot or didn’t know is that every gun leaves distinctive marks on the empty cartridge as they are ejected, allowing them to be traced back to the gun they were fired from. You should have picked up your empties, kid.”

“I don’t believe it.” She laughed shrilly. “What are you trying to do? Say I’ve been going around shooting people?”

“Including Tim Rourke,” Shayne said harshly. “You made a bad mistake when you started shooting at my best friend.”

To Painter he said, “I wondered all the time about ballistic tests on the bullets pointing to so many different automatics being used. All the same make and the same caliber. Five different pistols. It didn’t make sense. But when I found out Helen’s accomplice had just quit his job in a sporting-goods store where they had a repair department and a big stock of spare parts, I knew how it had been worked. Smith simply stole half a dozen new barrels for a thirty-two automatic, and every time he and this girl shot a man after robbing him, they replaced it with a fresh one. But—Smith didn’t throw away the barrel you shot Rourke with,” he said to Helen. “He kept it and slid it into that gun of Bronson’s that you found in Mrs. Bronson’s bag after you knocked her out. If you’d given Dilly his part of the money instead of forcing him to resort to blackmail, you might have gotten away with it.”

There was a cool smile of derision on Helen’s face. “So I’m the blonde, eh? Do I look like a blonde?”

“Hell, we’ve got the beauty operator who dyed your hair Tuesday afternoon after you read the Blue Flash and decided it was too dangerous to remain a blonde. And the one who gave you the solvent two weeks ago so you could remove the dark dye in a short time. In that way you could become a blonde to become Dilly Smith’s mistress at the LaCrosse Apartments, and a brunette whenever you came here to live as Helen Porter. You thought you were perfectly safe when you rented this place as a brunette.”

“You lie when you say I lived at the LaCrosse with Dilly Smith,” she screamed. “I’ve been living here—I can prove I was here every night.”

All this was more than Painter could take standing up. He said stiffly, “Hand me my gun, Shayne,” and when he had it in his hand he slumped down in a chair and held it trained on Helen Porter.

“Because your lights were on and your radio was going?” Shayne resumed sardonically. “You didn’t answer your doorbell any of the nights while you were at the LaCrosse as Mrs. Smith. You arranged with Madge to have her go in there every evening and turn on your lights and radio, and then turn them off again before she went to bed. That’s why you had to kill her. That—and because she found out you’d stolen Dilly Smith away from her and she threatened to tell Rourke the whole thing.”

“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?”

Table of Contents

Chapter One: THE SCENT OF SCANDAL

Chapter Two: BRISK WORKOUT

Chapter Three: THE HOT-EYED BLONDE

Chapter Four: TIM’S PROTECTOR

Chapter Five: SHAYNE NOSES OUT THE NEWS

Chapter Six: A TOUGH CROP TO FIGHT

Chapter Seven: HIS CARDS ON THE TABLE

Chapter Eight: CORPSE IN BLACK STOCKINGS

Chapter Nine: JOHNNY ON THE SPOT

Chapter Ten: TRYING TO MAKE SENSE

Chapter Eleven: WORKING ON THE LADY’S MAN

Chapter Twelve: OUTTHINKING A THINKER

Chapter Thirteen: DOGGING SOME CLUES

Chapter Fourteen: TOO MANY BLONDES

Chapter Fifteen: CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER

Chapter Sixteen: TANGLED TALES

Chapter Seventeen: ONE LITTLE THING

Chapter Eighteen: “COME HOME, MIKE”