Marked for Murder Page 3

  “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 n
ext 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.”