Marked for Murder

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.