Marked for Murder (10 page)

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.

THE TELEPHONE BESIDE SHANE’S BED wakened him the next morning. He groped for it sleepily and an unpleasantly alert feminine voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Adams. It’s six o’clock.”

“What the hell,” he growled, and was ready to ask her what she was calling him for if it was Mr. Adams who wanted to get up, but his dazed mind suddenly remembered how he had signed the register. He said, “All right,” and dropped the receiver from lax fingers onto the hook.

He wasn’t awake and he didn’t want to wake up. He never wanted to wake up again. He pulled the covers up around his neck and tried to convince himself there was no good reason why he should wake up.

A vision of Timothy Rourke lying wounded, mortally perhaps, assailed him—and Madge Rankin, murdered in bed. The unknown blond girl who had lured three men to their death—and Dillingham Smith—and Helen Porter.

The plans he had carefully planned last night, for today, crowded his mind and popped his eyes open. He threw back the covers and swung his long legs from the bed in one smooth motion. He padded over to the writing-desk and took a long drink from the brandy bottle, then took a quick cold shower. A stubble of beard had grown on his face since a hasty shave in Jacksonville between trains yesterday morning. He scowled at his reflection in the mirror, dried himself hastily, and went tack to the bedroom.

He grimaced his distaste when he put on the soiled clothes. When he finished dressing he went to the phone and called the hospital and asked about Rourke. His eyes were bleak and a muscle quivered in his gaunt cheek when he got the report. He muttered an oath after he hung up, went to the bed and got his .38 Colt Gentry had loaned him and slid it under his waistband. He examined the envelope in his breast pocket, patted his side pocket where the discarded ones were balled up, looked around to assure himself that no scrap was left behind, and went out.