Marked for Murder (18 page)

Smith’s mouth took on a sickly grin before saying, “Suppose we weren’t married. Whose business is it?”

“Who was she?” Shayne insisted harshly.

“A—girl I happened to meet. You know how it is.” He didn’t look at any of the men in the room, but instead had his eyes on a spot on the wall behind Shayne.

“What’s her name?”

“I can’t tell you that. She’s a nice girl, see? It wouldn’t be right to drag her into this.”

“She’s already into it,” Shayne warned him. “She’s the one who visited Rourke’s apartment the afternoon he was shot and tore up his place looking for something.”

“I don’t believe it,” he said in his slow drawl, still staring at the same spot on the wall. “She was out shopping that afternoon, but—”

“You’d better give us her name and let us check.”

“Sure—if you think she’s mixed up in—” Smith swallowed hard. “Sure—her name’s Patsy Jones and she lives in Atlantic City. I haven’t got her address.”

“Who’s the Betty Green in Denver to whom you checked the trunk?” Shayne demanded.

“Betty Green? Oh, she’s a friend of Patsy’s. They roomed together here a month ago and she left her trunk with Patsy when she took the bus back to Denver. I just shipped it to her.”

“But you didn’t ship it,” Shayne snapped. “You checked it through on a ticket. Did Patsy Jones go to Atlantic City by way of Denver?”

“She—I’ll tell you about that.” His eyes flickered around, came back to the spot on the wall behind Shayne.

Shayne turned his head and saw an electric clock. Turning back, he asked, “What are you watching the clock for?”

“Maybe he has a date,” Painter put in sarcastically.

“With a blonde?” Shayne asked.

Smith rubbed his nose hard again and said sullenly, “No. I just don’t like clocks with second hands. They make me nervous going around so fast.”

“What about Patsy Jones?” Painter barked.

“Well—she thought she’d go to Denver to visit Betty first, see? And she bought a ticket. Then she decided not to go. So she just checked the trunk through on the ticket before she turned it in.”

“It must have been a damned heavy trunk,” Shayne said.

“It was.” Smith was sweating freely and he looked a trifle green around the edges of his mouth.

“What did Patsy want in Rourke’s apartment that afternoon?”

“I sure don’t know,” drawled Smith. “I didn’t even know she had met the guy. But you can’t tell about those blond dames.” He laughed nervously. “All of them will two-time a fellow. Maybe she’d been
his
girl and had written him some letters and wanted to get them back before she left town.”

Shayne asked, “What did Madge Rankin know that she was threatening to tell Timothy Rourke?”

“Madge—Rankin?” Smith’s mouth sagged open.

“Your former girl friend. The one you threw over for this Patsy.”

“Yeh, Madge,” Smith muttered. “I don’t know what you mean. Did she know Rourke, too?”

Shayne stood up and stretched his long arms. He said to Painter, “There’s one little thing we could be doing while we’re waiting for Mrs. Bronson.”

Painter bounced up with alacrity. “Of course. We might as well attend to it.” He strutted to the door behind Shayne, saying to the guard, “Keep these two men in here until I get back.”

As they went down the corridor, Shayne asked, “When you ran that test on Bronson’s pistol, did you use the bullets taken from Rourke’s body or the ejected shells?”

“The bullets, of course.”

Shayne stopped just outside the front office. “If you want a suggestion from me, you’ll have Captain Roderick check the ejected shells, also.” Painter looked at him blankly. “But the bullets were positively identified.” He caught himself up with a shrug and said lamely, “All right. If you think it’s a good idea.” He hurried down a side passageway to the laboratory to instruct the identification expert, returned in a few moments, and asked in a subdued voice, “Where are we going now?”

“There’s one little thing I want to check on at Madge Rankin’s place,” Shayne told him grimly. “The answer to the whole thing should be there.” He stalked out ahead of the detective chief.

CHIEF PAINTER DROVE SHAYNE in his official car to 614 Tempest Street. He didn’t ask any questions on the way out, and Shayne didn’t volunteer any information.

Shayne was grimly occupied with fitting into place certain pieces to support a theory that had come to him when Branson and Smith were talking. He had toyed with several theories during the past 24 hours, but this was the first one that actually pleased him. If he was successful at Madge Rankin’s, he would
know
beyond the shadow of a doubt.

“Pull around to the head of the alley leading to the rear of the house,” he directed Painter. “We’ll go in the back door in case anyone is watching the place.”

Painter obeyed without question, a frown of annoyance between his eyes. He parked beside the alley entrance and turned off the motor and lights. They got out and went up the alley together to the rear of the duplex. Number 614 was dark. Number 616 was lighted.

Shayne led the way across the lawn to the little flagged walk leading to the rear door of 614. He took out the key he had taken from the door earlier in the day when he got the photograph of the dead woman.

In the bedroom he turned on the lights, went on into the living-room, and pressed the light switch. He stood for a moment staring around the room, then stepped across and turned on the radio. It was tuned in to WQAM and a hot jive band was on the air.

Turning to Painter, Shayne said, “Give me your gun.”

Painter snapped startled black eyes up at Shayne’s grim gray gaze. He hesitated briefly, then flipped back his coat and unholstered a .38 snugly belted to the front of his left thigh with the butt toward the right.

Shayne took it from him and strode over to a small ornamental fireplace with two pine logs in a wood-basket on the hearth.

He fired a single shot down into one of the logs, went swiftly to the front door, and unlocked it with Helen’s key. He waited tensely, his hand on the knob, his face bleak and drawn, while Painter looked on in helpless incredulity.

The front door of 616 slammed. High heels tapped across the few paces to rattle the knob of 614.

Shayne jerked it open and Helen Porter stumbled forward and almost fell into his arms. Her face was a white mask of terror and she panted, “Oh, it’s you? I thought I heard a shot in here. Then I saw the lights on and—”

She clung to Shayne’s arm. He shoved her off roughly and said, “You did hear a shot. Chief Painter wants to know why you heard the shot tonight with the radio going as loud as it will go, yet you
didn’t
hear the shot that killed Madge Rankin Tuesday night.”

“Why—I—I don’t know. I guess—”

“You claimed you didn’t hear it because you fired it yourself,” Shayne grated, “and had no way of knowing it could be heard on your side.” He shoved Helen Porter into Painter’s arms and strode back to turn off the radio.

In the abrupt silence he whirled around with Painter’s gun leveled at her as she tore herself free from the Miami Beach Chief and pawed frantically inside the handbag clutched in her left hand.

“Don’t touch that automatic, Helen. I’ll put a thirty-eight slug between your eyes, so help me God.”

Painter grabbed the bag from her and backed away from the range of his own gun in Shayne’s hand.

Helen Porter stared at him with panic-stricken eyes, then laughed, and said, “Why, Mike! I almost thought you meant it.”

Painter opened the bag and took out a .32 automatic. He exclaimed, “It looks as though I’ve struck pay dirt this time, Shayne. If this is the gun that killed Mrs. Rankin—”

“You’re both crazy,” said Helen Porter with a toss of her dark head. “That pistol hasn’t been shot for years. I guess you’ve got tests that’ll prove that all right.”

Shayne went to the door and closed and locked it. “Come on and sit down,” he commanded Helen, “and we’ll talk this over.”

Painter grabbed Helen’s arm and propelled her to a chair and shoved her into it, then stood stiffly on guard beside her.

Shayne sank down in another chair and said, “I don’t expect a bullet fired from that pistol to match any of the death slugs. But you’ve got some of the empty cartridges, haven’t you, Painter?”

“Certainly,” Painter snapped. “One from here, and at the spot where two of the other men were shot. And those two in Rourke’s apartment.” He looked pained at Shayne’s questioning his thoroughness.

“That’s more than you’ll need to convict Helen Porter of the murders,” Shayne assured him. He turned to explain to Helen: “You can put a fresh barrel in a Colt automatic and throw away the old barrel every time it’s fired, but the thing you forgot or didn’t know is that every gun leaves distinctive marks on the empty cartridge as they are ejected, allowing them to be traced back to the gun they were fired from. You should have picked up your empties, kid.”

“I don’t believe it.” She laughed shrilly. “What are you trying to do? Say
I’ve
been going around shooting people?”

“Including Tim Rourke,” Shayne said harshly. “You made a bad mistake when you started shooting at my best friend.”

To Painter he said, “I wondered all the time about ballistic tests on the bullets pointing to so many different automatics being used. All the same make and the same caliber.
Five different pistols.
It didn’t make sense. But when I found out Helen’s accomplice had just quit his job in a sporting-goods store where they had a repair department and a big stock of spare parts, I knew how it had been worked. Smith simply stole half a dozen new barrels for a thirty-two automatic, and every time he and this girl shot a man after robbing him, they replaced it with a fresh one. But—Smith didn’t throw away the barrel you shot Rourke with,” he said to Helen. “He kept it and slid it into that gun of Bronson’s that you found in Mrs. Bronson’s bag after you knocked her out. If you’d given Dilly his part of the money instead of forcing him to resort to blackmail, you might have gotten away with it.”

There was a cool smile of derision on Helen’s face. “So I’m the blonde, eh? Do I look like a blonde?”

“Hell, we’ve got the beauty operator who dyed your hair Tuesday afternoon after you read the Blue Flash and decided it was too dangerous to remain a blonde.
And
the one who gave you the solvent two weeks ago so you could remove the dark dye in a short time. In that way you could become a blonde to become Dilly Smith’s mistress at the LaCrosse Apartments, and a brunette whenever you came
here
to live as Helen Porter. You thought you were perfectly safe when you rented this place as a brunette.”

“You lie when you say I lived at the LaCrosse with Dilly Smith,” she screamed. “I’ve been living here—I can prove I was here every night.”

All this was more than Painter could take standing up. He said stiffly, “Hand me my gun, Shayne,” and when he had it in his hand he slumped down in a chair and held it trained on Helen Porter.

“Because your lights were on and your radio was going?” Shayne resumed sardonically. “You didn’t answer your doorbell any of the nights while you were at the LaCrosse as Mrs. Smith. You arranged with Madge to have her go in there every evening and turn on your lights and radio, and then turn them off again before she went to bed. That’s why you had to kill her. That—and because she found out you’d stolen Dilly Smith away from her and she threatened to tell Rourke the whole thing.”

“You’re lying,” Helen Porter said low and furiously. “You’ve no proof. Not one iota of proof.”

Shayne glanced at Painter to make sure he was covering Helen. He said, wearily, “Dilly’s already told us how he drove you to the Blackstone at ten-thirty and you slipped up and knocked Mrs. Bronson out cold, shot Tim Rourke, and brought Mrs. Bronson’s gun back. Smith is down at headquarters now. He didn’t tell you he drove back there after bringing you here, and saw Bronson and his wife while you were phoning the police in the hopes she, Bronson, who is a good-looking blonde, would be found up there with Rourke’s body. He didn’t know you planned to kill Madge. When he found out it was you, he spilled everything.

“Even the way he checked that trunk to your supposed friend Betty Green in Denver as a blind to make it look like Mrs. Smith had left Miami
before
Rourke was shot—and before the police got suspicious and started checking up.”

“That bastard,” she raged. “That white-livered bastard! I knew I should have given it to him, too. And I would have that night when he came asking about Madge if you hadn’t been here.” She glared at Shayne with cold light-brown eyes that could gleam like molten gold when she was trying to have her way with a man.

Shayne got up and turned to Painter who sat rigidly upright with his police pistol unwaveringly on Helen Porter. He said, “That ought to do it. You can check her prints with the ones of Mrs. Smith that we got from the LaCrosse, and those in Rourke’s apartment. Keep an eye on her. I’ll go over to Miss Porter’s place and call a couple of your men to help you take her in.”

“Tell them to lock Smith up tight,” Painter snapped, and added, “Where are you going?”

“It’s only a short walk over to the hospital. I’ll find out about Rourke.”

After he called in to Beach headquarters and asked for a couple of Painter’s men to take Helen in, he went out into the cool night air.

A brisk ten minutes took him to the Flagler Hospital. Chief Gentry was standing by the information desk. Shayne strode over to him, a grin on his face.

“Have you got anything on Rourke?” Shayne asked.

“Only that he’ll pull through by the skin of his teeth. Blood transfusions saved him.” Gentry chuckled. “Tim’s a tough one. He’s had a couple of conscious moments, but they won’t let him talk.”

“How long?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Gentry said.

“I think I’ll stick around a day or so,” Shayne said. “I want to talk to Tim.”

“You getting anywhere on the case, Mike?”

“Plenty,” Shayne said. “I’ll tell you about it while you take me down to Petey’s to get my car.”