Marked for Murder

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.