blonde. Neither of the bullets matched either of the two death slugs dug out of the hearts of Peter Jordan and Jim Crowley. Thus, it is obvious to Chief Peter Painter that none of the three murders are in any way related.
These are the facts. They are easily ascertained by anyone aware that the Oceanview, Sundown, and Tip Top Clubs are operating openly on the Beach in defiance of (or in connivance with) the authorities pledged to stamp out such illegal practices. The truth of the above statements can be verified by anyone who cares to examine the affidavits in this reporter’s possession.
Chief Painter is not interested in these facts. He blandly denies the existence of the three clubs named in this column. He is not aware that a man named Brenner manages these three establishments for the syndicate that financed them.
The Courier makes no accusations. It presents the facts for the information and the consideration of any persons who may be interested. We believe in Miami and we believe in the future of the Greater Miami Area. That great future lies in the hands of the public, and not in the hands of a selfish few who condone murder as an inevitable concomitant of the way of life they would force upon us.
Shayne finished reading the story with a low whistle. He leaned back and muttered, “The Courier ran this the day Rourke was shot?”
“In the Blue-Flash edition. The first one to hit the street about two-thirty. And only in that one edition,” Gentry added with a slow grin. “The managing editor caught the story and killed it in all the later editions.”
“Had Rourke been writing much stuff like this?”
“He’s been pounding on that line for several days,” Gentry admitted. “Needling Painter and hinting that those three murders were tied up with the new and growing gambling racket on the Beach. Nothing like this last story,” he added hastily. “This was the first time he took his gloves off and named names, or gave any of those facts he’d dug up.”
“The damned fool,” Shayne muttered hoarsely. “He should have had sense enough to know they’d go gunning for him if he started giving names and descriptions to the paper before the murders were solved. What’s got into him, Will? Was he imagining things, or is it getting that bad?”
“It’s getting bad, Mike,” Gentry told him soberly. “We’ve had our hands full the last few months. It’s been getting bad,” he repeated. “We’ve held things down pretty well on this side of the Bay, but you know the Beach has always been inclined to wink both eyes at stuff like that. You can’t blame Painter too much. He’s got a job to hang onto.”
Shayne lit another Picayune, disregarding Gentry’s shudder of revulsion. “So Rourke had been riding this line for days, and then suddenly comes up with this broadside. No wonder they killed the story after one edition.”
“The way I get it,” said Gentry, “that story was a sort of slap in the face for Walter Bronson, the managing editor. He and Rourke have tangled several times in the past when he tried to hold Tim down, and it seems he read the riot act to Tim Tuesday morning. So Tim faked a tame story for his okay and sneaked this one in instead. He knew it’d be the last he’d write for the Courier, so he made it good and hot.”
“Walter Bronson,” said Shayne meditatively. “I thought Wilcox was the Courier editor.”
“They fired Wilcox about a year ago and imported Bronson from New York. He’s a big shot, I guess. I never met him myself, but I’ve heard Tim’s gripes. He bought a big place on the Beach, makes speeches at the Chamber of Commerce-” Gentry waved a beefy hand to indicate more of the same.
“No wonder he tried to gag Rourke.”
“Jimmy Dolan says Bronson was sore as hell about that story. Rushed out to fire Rourke and found a note in Tim’s typewriter telling him where to stick his job.”
Shayne chuckled. “Tim never did give a damn. I’ve had to hog-tie him a couple of times to keep him from going off half-cocked with a front-page story before the time was ripe. Always sticking his neck out.”
“Seems to me,” said Gentry, “I remember your neck being on the block a couple of times-and the ax raised.”
Shayne arched a bushy red brow at Gentry and went on gravely, “You say this thing hit the streets at two- thirty? Sometime between noon and four o’clock Tim took a hell of a beating. And by ten-thirty that night he had a couple of slugs inside him.”
“That’s right,” Gentry said quietly. “From a thirty-two fired from close enough to leave powder burns. The slugs don’t check with any one of the bullets taken from the other three murder victims.”
“Someone must have a big supply of thirty-twos,” Shayne grunted. “A new gun for every job. This blonde- could she be the gal who came to visit Rourke while he was out getting himself beat up?”
“Could be. Maybe she arranged it, thinking she wouldn’t get caught in his apartment. The manager said she was blond and beautiful.”
Shayne’s blunt finger tips drummed impatiently on the chair arm. “Even Painter couldn’t ignore a story like this. It must have pushed him into doing something.”
Gentry shrugged heavily. “None of those three clubs were open for business Tuesday night. Painter made a lot of noise about personally leading a raiding party on all of them about midnight, and they were locked tight.”
“Tipped off?”
“That story was plenty of tip-off,” Gentry pointed out mildly. “Brenner was smart enough to know a raid was overdue.”
“Who is Brenner?”
“I don’t know too much about him. Strictly from the grapevine, he was one of the big betting operators. Fixed a few races, maybe. Generally knew where the smart money was going. They say he’s gathered together quite a bunch of gun-quick lads for this Beach gambling deal.”
“And blond gun molls?”
“I don’t know about that. I’d say Brenner is fronting for some big money.”
“Who?”
“That’ll take some digging.”
“How do you make it, Will? Rourke, I mean.”
“About the same as you do, I guess.” He gestured toward the newspaper. “There’s enough dynamite with the fuse lighted to get a dozen reporters gunned. Brenner and his backers wouldn’t like that sort of stuff, and Blondie and her mob wouldn’t be too happy about that publicity. Tim mentions affidavits. His room was thoroughly searched.”
Shayne said angrily, “The damned fool asked for it all right. How about the syndicate he mentions?”
“I don’t know anything about it. I think it was mostly guesswork. There had to be a lot of pressure on Painter to let the joints run, and some of it must have hit Bronson, too, to make him clamp down on Rourke. After all, stuff like that is damned good for circulation.”
“How can I get to Brenner?”
“I think he has an office at the Sundown, but I understand all three clubs are closed. If you’re smart you’ll stay away from Brenner.”
Shayne’s face hardened and he didn’t say anything.
“I know you won’t be smart,” Gentry admitted, “but I’ve got to warn you, Mike. This isn’t quite like the old days. This new crop is far more vicious. Once word gets around that Mike Shayne is horning in there’ll be a lot of fast triggers looking for you. And you’ll be on your own across the Bay. You know how Painter’s going to take it.”
“Yeh. I know how Painter’ll take it.”
“You can’t walk into the middle of it like you used to and blast ’em apart,” Gentry warned heavily. “These three gambling-house murders are only a small part of the whole thing. Rourke concentrated on them because they were a definite springboard.”
Shayne said stubbornly, “I’ve always been able to take care of myself.”
“Sure. I could have written that line for you.” He sighed and puffed gently on his half-smoked cigar. “How’ve things been with you in New Orleans?”
“So-so. I’ve gotten soft with a lot of easy stuff.”
“Why’d you ever leave Miami, Mike? I know you followed a case to New Orleans, but we expected you’d come back.”
Shayne said, “Everything in Miami reminded me of Phyllis. And now if Rourke kicks off, everything here is going to remind me of him.” He drew in a long breath and his gray eyes became very bright. “God! The times Tim
