The apartment was dark, with the musty smell of being closed. There was no transom through which light could shine, so he felt along the wall for the switch and pressed it. The room was in the depressing state of upheaval the homicide boys had left it.
Shayne’s ragged red brows crawled down in a scowl as he studied the rusty stains on the floor that had been Rourke’s blood. Stepping over the spot, he went through the breakfast nook, glanced in the kitchen, returned, and went through the small archway and stopped in the bedroom door.
Turning on the light, he took a quick look around. He had no real hope of finding a clue that the police had overlooked. Even Painter’s crew knew how to search a place thoroughly. He glowered at the upset condition of the room, noted that the bedcovers were turned back and rumpled. He had forgot to ask Chief Gentry how Rourke was dressed when he was shot.
Turning off the light, he went into the living-room, got Rourke’s mail from his pocket, and looked at it. Two of the letters were bills from local department stores. He discarded them and studied the third. It was a square envelope of heavy, creamy paper, addressed in heavy sprawled handwriting that might have been a man’s, but looked more like that of a woman who was excited or in haste or intoxicated. It was postmarked Miami Beach, 5:00 p.m. the preceding Tuesday afternoon. There was no return address.
Shayne handled it gingerly to preserve the faint possibility of fingerprints, sliding a key under the pointed flapper and working it open. He drew out a single sheet of folded heavy paper such as can be bought in
any drugstore. There was no salutation, no date. It read: If you are in the market to buy some information for your paper, call CA 3842.
It had been mailed on the afternoon before Rourke was shot. A few hours after the Blue-Flash edition of the Courier went on sale.
Shayne carefully refolded the note and slid it back into the envelope. He sat down on the sofa and let his eyes brood around the room. He shook his head angrily, went to the telephone, picked it up, and put it to his ear.
A voice came over the wire immediately, breathless and excited. “Is this 2-D?”
Shayne said gruffly, “Sure. The police. You weren’t in the lobby when I came up for another look around. Connect me with Causeway 3842.”
Mr. Henty said, “Yes, sir,” with evident relief. There was a click and then a telephone started ringing. Shayne listened to it ring eight times. Mr. Henty broke in apologetically, “That number doesn’t seem to answer, officer.”
Shayne said, “Get me Information.”
Henty connected him with Information and Shayne said, “I’d like to get the address of this telephone number… Causeway 3842.”
It took her a couple of minutes to check. She said, “The address is Six-Fourteen Tempest Street.”
Shayne thanked her and hung up. He stood by the telephone for a moment tugging at his left ear lobe, his gray eyes looking at the scattered sheets of typescript on the floor. That would be part of Rourke’s novel-the one he had been working on for ten years.
A grim smile tightened his wide mouth. TGAN, Rourke had factitiously referred to his novel. The Great American Novel that every newspaperman dreams of writing. Shayne recalled the time when another newspaperman named Clyde Brion Davis had published a novel by that title, and how angered Rourke had been. He had demanded to know what in hell that left a damned reporter to dream about.
Shayne jerked his thoughts back from the past, went out of the apartment and closed the door. He went downstairs and Mr. Henty jumped up from his chair at the switchboard. His eyes widened when he saw Shayne. He gulped and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He stammered, “You’re not-that is, I don’t-uh-are you the man who was just in 2-D?”
“That’s right,” said Shayne, moving toward the door without breaking his stride. “Special investigator called in by Chief Painter. I’ll want to have a talk with you later.”
He drove away trying to recall the location of Tempest Street. He knew it was out north toward the Roney Plaza, so he followed Ocean Boulevard, scanning the street signs as he went. He found it about a dozen blocks north of 5th Street and turned to the left, driving slowly and checking house numbers.
Number 614 proved to be one side of a one-story stuccoed duplex house set discreetly back from the street behind a hedge of flowering oleanders. He drove on to the next block before parking, and walked back. Number 614 showed no light in the windows. The other half of the duplex was 616, and the curtained front windows were lighted. He went up the path and onto the porch serving both entrances and rang the bell of darkened 614.
A curtain at one of the lighted windows on the other side fluttered. He turned his head to see a girl peering out at him. He kept on ringing the bell without result, looked down at the common door lock and began fishing in his pocket for his key ring with his other hand.
The window curtain dropped back into place. A moment later the front door of number 616 opened and a girl looked out at him. She had jet black hair and heavy black brows and an oval face. Long black lashes fringed the lids of her light-brown eyes. She wore a flowered hostess gown of cool green material and a smile of welcome. She said, “You won’t get anywhere ringing Madge’s bell, Redhead. Why don’t you come on in here?” Her lips were very red and her complexion looked sun-tanned.
Shayne said, “Where’s Madge?”
“I don’t know, but she’s not at home. Hasn’t been for a couple of days. Out partying, I guess.”
Shayne jingled his key ring and frowned as he picked out a key. He tried out a puzzled look that was successful, and said, “That’s funny. I had a date with her tonight. Made it last Tuesday.”
The dark-haired girl laughed softly. “Madge must have been drunk when she made it and forgot all about it.” She looked up at his face and studied it under the dim porch light. “I haven’t seen you here before, have I?”
Shayne grinned and inserted a chosen key in the lock of 614. “I’m an old friend of Madge’s. Just got back in town. She gave me a key when I ran into her on Tuesday.” He turned it in the lock and hoped it would work. It did. It required a little pressure but it turned. He said over his shoulder as he opened the door, “I guess I’ll go in and wait a little while, anyhow.”
“You can wait for her in my house and I’ll fix you a drink,” said the girl in a husky, persuasive voice. “I’m not doing a thing this evening.”
“I’ll take you up on that if Madge doesn’t show up soon.” He went on in and closed the door.
He could hear an electric clock purring on the mantel and an electric refrigerator running. He felt along the wall and found a light switch and looked around the small neat living-room furnished with wicker furniture upholstered in gay cretonne. He went on to the dinette and kitchen, turning on lights as he went. There was no sound except the humming refrigerator.
Returning to the living-room he opened a door leading to a hall. The bathroom door was open, and to the left another door was partly open. There was a faint fragrance in his nostrils, mingled with the scent of another odor, an acrid odor that was almost imperceptible in the still, close air.
Shayne’s wide nostrils flared and he felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He pushed the bedroom door wide open, turned on the light, and looked somberly down at the corpse of a girl lying half off the bed. She wore a pair of black net stockings, the tops rolled above her knees. The rest of her slim young body was nude. She lay on her stomach with her right arm and leg trailing off the bed, her left leg stretched straight and taut with the toes straining toward the footboard. Her left arm encircled a pillow, and there was dried blood on the pillow and on the sheet beside her breast.
Shayne took two steps forward and touched her bare shoulder with the tip of his index finger. The flesh was cold and hard. He pressed down hard, and knew that she had been dead at least 24 hours.
He straightened quickly when he heard the distant angry whine of a police siren shrilling through the quiet night. His gaunt features tightened as the sound came swiftly nearer. A flash of memory warned him that he hadn’t heard Henty click off the switchboard when he had put through his call to Information from Rourke’s telephone.
There was a back door leading out of the bedroom. The key was in the inside lock. Shayne whipped out a handkerchief and dashed into the living-room, put out the lights, and hurried to the front door to scrub off any possible fingerprints of his own. He trotted back to the bedroom, opened the rear door with the handkerchief covering his hand, slid out and closed it.
The door opened onto a flagstone walk hedged with artillery fern and leading to a small garden. Shayne dashed around the house and circled to the front entrance. He had his finger on the bell button of 616 when he
