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 coupé, 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.
Chapter Fifteen: CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER
SHAYNE SPENT A LONG TIME over lunch and a few drinks, mulling over the forces he had set in motion and wondering whether they would grind out an answer. Timothy Rourke was still unconscious, his life hanging by a thread. His eyes were bleak and his mouth set in grim lines when he finished his third double brandy, paid his check, and went out.
It was three o’clock when he bought a copy of the Courier outside the tavern. He drove to police headquarters where he found Sergeant Jorgensen with Chief Gentry in his office.
“We were just wondering where we could get in touch with you,” Gentry growled. “You didn’t tell me where you’re stopping.”
“I’m not,” Shayne told him. “I holed up at the Front Hotel for a few hours last night. Haven’t had time to look for anything else. Have you got something for me?”
“More or less. Jorg has spent a lot of time not getting very far on Dillingham Smith. But your hunch on his girl friend’s prints was right. They checked with a pair in Rourke’s apartment.”
Shayne’s bleak eyes grew very bright. “Now we’re beginning to get somewhere.” He laid the folded newspaper down and lowered his rangy body into a chair. “She must be the one who visited him in the afternoon.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Gentry objected. “Her prints prove she’s the one who searched the apartment. They don’t match the ones on the dishes and liquor glass.”
“The hell you say!” Shayne’s ragged red brows came down and the trenches in his cheeks deepened. “The way we figured it, the apartment was searched after he was shot.”
“That’s the way it looked,” Gentry admitted.
“And we figured the girl who visited him that afternoon left the other set.”
“So Mrs. Smith isn’t the one who visited him that afternoon,” Gentry said in a troubled voice.
“But damn it—how could she catch the five-o’clock train and still have been around to search his apartment that night?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering,” Gentry rumbled. “Maybe we’ll know more about it when we get an answer on my wire to Denver.”
Shayne tugged angrily at his left ear lobe. “Could Painter have made a mistake in those two sets of prints?”
“I got my dope direct from Captain Roderick, head of the Beach Identification Bureau,” Gentry told him placidly. “Roderick doesn’t make mistakes. He covered the apartment himself.”
Shayne shrugged and muttered, “One more piece that doesn’t fit.” He sat for a moment glaring into space, then picked up the copy of the Courier and turned to the Personal column. He found the advertisement near the top of the column. Two words. Yes. Colt. He refolded the paper and asked Jorgensen morosely, “What did you dig up on Smith?”
“Damned little, Mike. He’s thirty-two, a bachelor, and has lived here five years without getting in any trouble. I shot his prints to Washington just in case. He’s worked at two or three jobs. Grocery clerk and on the pari-mutuels at Hialeah Park a couple of seasons.” He glanced at his notebook and continued, “Has a clean record on all his jobs. Seems to be quite a lady’s man. For a few months past he’s been strutting a blonde from the Beach. The Rankin dame who got herself bumped last Tuesday night, if we can believe a couple of identifications from the picture of her in this morning’s paper.”
Shayne listened intently. When Jorgensen stopped talking he looked up in surprise, asked, “Is that all?”
“No. The last eight months he’s been working at Robertson’s Sporting-Goods Store. Up until two weeks ago. He had a cheap room at the Front Hotel. Two weeks ago he quit his job suddenly and moved from the Front to the LaCrosse into an apartment that set him back ninety a week—with a very flossy blonde whom he registered as Mrs. Smith. None of his former friends saw him during those two weeks, and I haven’t been able to get a line on him. Chief Gentry says you’ve already checked on his wife leaving town Tuesday afternoon, and him staying on at the LaCrosse until this morning. He moved back to the Front today.” Sergeant Jorgensen closed his notebook and shrugged. “Not much in any of that.”
“Was he actually married?”
“There’s no record of it locally.”
“How about his job at the store? Anything on his quitting it suddenly?”
Jorgensen grinned cheerfully. “You’re thinking about all those different thirty-twos that’ve figured in the killings recently. Five, I make it, counting the slug Rourke took and the one they dug out of Mrs. Rankin. No soap there. I checked with Robertson carefully. They used to carry a big stock of guns and had a big repair business, but he swears there hasn’t been a thirty-two automatic in his place for more than a year. He checked his records all the way back to the date Smith started to work there.”
Shayne said, “Yeh. I’ve wondered where all those thirty-twos came from. And that reminds me—here’s a serial number.” He repeated from memory. “Four-two-one-eight-nine-three. It fits a thirty-two Colt automatic. Any chance of checking ownership?”
Jorgensen asked him to repeat the number, writing it down as Shayne did so. “If it was bought in Miami or a permit has been issued on it. I’ll check.” He got up and hurried out.
There was silence in the office for a time. Will Gentry chewed on his cigar and waited for Shayne to say something. Shayne was slumped in the chair, his head resting on the back, his eyes watching puffs of smoke from his cigarette float toward the ceiling.
“Are you getting anywhere at all, Mike?” Gentry asked finally.
Shayne frowned and sat up straighter, crossing one long leg over the other. “I’m getting a lot of ideas, but I can’t prove anything yet.” He rubbed his jaw and blew out another cloud of smoke. “Things are shaping up,” he went on cautiously. “I’ve got a couple of fuses burning.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Have you got a man tailing Smith now?”
Gentry nodded. “Ever since you asked me this morning.” He glanced at the clock on the wall and added, “He should have a relief and be reporting in right now. Where does Smith fit in the picture?”
“There had to be at least two of them on those gambling-house murders,” Shayne explained. “If the blonde did the actual shooting she had to have someone follow along in another car to pick her up and make a quick getaway. If you noticed, the three deserted cars were found in widely separated spots on the Beach. That means she didn’t bother to lure her
victims to a hideout, so she had to have an accomplice trailing the play. We know Smith owns a car, and we know he lived high with a fancy blonde while the three murders were being committed.”
“Then you think he and the blonde were it?”
“It adds up,” Shayne agreed. “There’s also his former friendship with Madge Rankin whom he dropped suddenly. And her letter to Rourke just before she was killed offering to sell him some information. But there are a couple of other angles—” He broke off suddenly as Jorgensen re-entered the room.
“That automatic,” said the sergeant dramatically, “belongs to Walter Bronson. He brought it here from New York and applied for a permit. We don’t have any Sullivan Law here, but he evidently didn’t know that.”
“Bronson?” Gentry exclaimed incredulously. “What, about that gun, Mike? Where did you pick up the serial number?”
“By tampering with the U. S. mail,” Shayne told him with a wide grin. “If I tell you any more about it you’ll be an accessory after the fact. I’m pretty sure a ballistic test will prove it was used in one of the killings.”
“Bronson’s gun? Good God, Mike—are you positive?”
“I’m not positive of anything,” Shayne said angrily. “I will tell you this much. Mrs. Walter Bronson is said to be a plenty smoochy blonde and I’ve heard it rumored she couldn’t keep her eyes off Tim Rourke. Add to that the fact that she’s been confined to her room since Wednesday morning with what her husband claims is nervous prostration—that he locks her door when he leaves in the morning and hasn’t allowed the servants a glimpse of her. Yet he hasn’t called a doctor—that he left his office at nine-thirty Tuesday night with some of Rourke’s things and the intention of stopping by Tim’s apartment. Add all those up and you’ve got my headache.” Shayne took a final drag on his cigarette and flung it toward Gentry’s spittoon.
Chief Gentry was staring at Shayne in blank amazement and chewing steadily on his cigar. There was heavy silence between them for a while. Gentry broke it by asking, “Had you ever thought that Mrs. Rankin might be the blond accomplice of Smith? Isn’t it reasonable to suppose she might have got mad at Smith and threatened to squeal on him?”
Marked for Murder Page 13