Marked for Murder Read online

  “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 soot
hed 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—”