Marked for Murder Read online

  “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 exposé 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 coupé 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 coupé 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 coupé 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 coupé 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 coupé 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 coupé 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 coupé 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.”