Marked for Murder

Chapter Two: BRISK WORKOUT

It was a little after two o’clock when Timothy Rourke parked his roadster in front of a modest two-story apartment house on Miami Beach. The afternoon air was sun-drenched and humid. He got out and walked around the front of his car, crossed the palm-shaded parkway, and started toward the front of the apartment house.

A man got out of a sedan parked beyond the entrance and sauntered toward him. He was an inch or so above six feet in height and very bony. He wore a Palm Beach suit and a Panama hat, two-toned sports shoes that glistened in the hot sunlight. His features were sharp, and pallid skin stretched tightly over high cheekbones and pointed chin. His eyes were deep-set, with lids wrinkled down and closing them to mere slits.

He met Rourke at the entrance walk and said, “Rourke?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a pal.” The man’s voice was low and husky. “Let’s take a little ride.”

Rourke laughed shortly and started up the walk. The man put long bony fingers on his arm and tightened them. His face had a tired, depressed look. He said, “Get smart, chum,” and bunched his other hand in the side pocket of his coat.

Rourke said, “All right,” and went with him to the sedan.

A man wearing a pink-striped shirt sat behind the steering-wheel. His sleeves were rolled up above hairy forearms, and he wore a black-and-white checkered cap with a stiff bill. His right ear was cauliflowered, and when Rourke opened the back door he turned his head to give a view of a profile almost perfectly flat.

Rourke got in the back seat and left the door open. His tall companion got in beside him and closed the door. He said, “All right, Monk.”

The driver raced the motor and ground the gears getting away in low. His left ear was twisted and stood away from his head at an odd angle. The back of his neck was red with a thick fold of flesh above the pink-striped neckband.

Rourke rolled down his window and settled back with cigarette papers and tobacco.

His companion took out a pack of Camels and growled, “Don’t go fouling up this car with that junk. Take one of these.”

A saturnine grin lighted Rourke’s face. “Thanks,” he said.

The man snapped a silver lighter and held the flame to Rourke’s cigarette, then settled back and pensively studied the polished tips of his shoes.

Monk had turned north and was driving at an easy speed between rows of coco palms and modest bungalows. Presently he turned to cross a bridge onto one of the small man-made islands dotting the shore of the bay. He followed a winding course to a big sprawling one-story clubhouse on the waterfront and pulled into a deserted parking-lot.

Rourke knew this to be the Sunrise Club, formerly a private clubhouse for wealthy householders on the island, now converted into a swanky gambling establishment. He asked, “End of the line?”

The tall man unfolded himself and got out. Rourke followed him to a side entrance in a concrete wall draped with red and purple bougainvillea. Monk plodded along behind them.

Rourke’s self-appointed “pal” unlocked a rear door opening onto a narrow dark passageway. He switched on a ceiling light and went on to a door at the end of the narrow hall and turned the knob. They entered a spacious office carpeted with rich red carpeting. Venetian blinds at the wide windows let slatted sunlight into the room. Walls of robin’s-egg blue rose to meet the warm creamy ceiling centered with a magnificent chandelier.

A tall spare man sat behind a leather-covered desk. His jaw was square, his mouth tight-lipped, but his blue eyes twinkled as he half-rose and nodded pleasantly to Rourke. He said, “It was nice of you to come, Mr. Rourke,” and looked inquiringly at the two men behind the reporter.

“Acted like he was glad to come,” Monk said.

“You and Monk wait outside, Bing. I’ll have you drive Mr. Rourke back presently.”

The pair went out through a side door. Rourke sat down in a chair of blue leather and chromium near the desk. He got out cigarette papers and a sack of tobacco.

His host took the cover from a rosewood humidor and shoved it toward him. “Won’t you try one of these Havanas?”

“No, thanks.” Rourke’s lean face was blandly expressionless. He poured tobacco in the brown paper and on the carpet.

“I presume you know who I am,” said the square-jawed man.

“I presume you’re Brenner.” Rourke licked his cigarette and crimped the end.

“Correct,” Brenner told him with incisive calm. He pulled a desk lighter toward him and lit a cigar. He settled back and looked at the glowing tip with satisfaction, then said, “I’m not one to beat around the bush. You’re stirring up a lot of trouble with your newspaper stories.”

“That,” said Rourke, “was the general idea.”

Brenner sighed. “I’m a reasonable man. Live and let live is my motto.”

Rourke made no reply.

“How much do you earn on the Courier?”

Rourke grinned and crossed his thin legs. “About half what I’m worth.”

“I need a man like you to take care of public relations. I’m going to make you an offer. I’m only going to make it once. Five hundred a week.”

“For ratting on my job?”

Brenner sighed again. “You’re not a damned reformer. You know people are going to gamble. You’re not going to change anything with your newspaper stories,”

“I’ve got you worried,” Rourke told him.

“You’re beginning to cause trouble,” Brenner admitted. “If you keep that stuff up long enough I’ll lose more than five hundred a week in patronage. It’s a business proposition with me.”

“My stories have been about murder,” Rourke reminded him.

“So they have. You’ve done a lot of insinuating.” Brenner pointed the glowing tip of his cigar at him. “People who read your stuff are beginning to believe they’ll be marked for murder if they win anything at my tables.”

“Like the last three,” Rourke agreed without emphasis.

“You’re a fool if you honestly think I had any part in those killings. I don’t have to make my money that way. I know the suckers will be back the next night to drop their winnings.”

“I don’t think you engineered any of the murders, but you’re directly responsible,” Rourke said calmly. “As long as you stay in business, they’ll go on.”

“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.