Free Marked for Murder by Brett Halliday

clean smell of salt sea air. An impossibly large and implausibly golden moon floated in the velvety blue of the night above the peninsula directly ahead, making a moon path on the bay. Shayne relaxed at the wheel of the police coupé, slowed his speed to 20 miles an hour, and reacquainted himself with the beauty of the tropical night.
    Fleetingly, he found it good to be home again. He felt a surge of strength and assurance which had been lacking of late. Somehow, his work in New Orleans didn’t seem important now. He had a feeling of having marked time for nearly two years. It had been a long time since this sense of urgency pounded through him.
    In a sudden flash of clarity he realized that was the ingredient lacking in nearly all his New Orleans cases. There had been no personal stress driving him on. In retrospect, they seemed dull and uninteresting after his years in Miami where every case had found him behind the eight ball fighting his way out.
    Now, he was behind the eight ball again, and it was a good feeling. The brief interview with Lucky Laverty had raised his spirits immeasurably, and given the impetus he needed. The odds were stacked against him again, and that, by God, was the way he liked it.
    He hit the east end of the Causeway and rolled east two blocks, made a left turn, and drove directly to the Flagler hospital. He parked the coupé and went in, stopped at the information desk to ask the number of Timothy Rourke’s room.
    The girl told him 312, and he went up in an elevator. He started down the cool, silent hall and his number twelves sounded loud on the tiled floor. He saw the familiar uniform of a Beach cop on a man seated on a chair outside a door, but the officer’s face was unfamiliar.
    Stopping in front of room 312, he started to open the door. The officer stood up and drawled, “Hold it. No admittance.”
    Shayne said, “I’m looking for Tim Rourke.”
    “No visitors allowed.”
    “Whose orders?”
    “The chief’s. Who are you?”
    “Don’t you recognize a dick when you see one?” Shayne asked.
    The cop looked him over carefully. Shayne tipped his hat back and scowled. The cop shook his head. “I never saw you before.”
    “I’m private.”
    “Maybe so. That don’t let you in.”
    “The hell it doesn’t. I’ve come a couple of thousand miles to see Tim and no damned flatfoot is going to keep me out.”
    “Let me see your tin.”
    Shayne drew out his wallet and flipped it open to show his Florida identification. The cop frowned at it, looked up at him in surprise, and said, “Michael Shayne, eh? I’ve heard about you.”
    “That flatters hell out of me,” said Shayne. He replaced his wallet, jerked the door open, and went in. The cop’s mouth dropped open and he took a step forward, but paused doubtfully as Shayne closed the door firmly behind him.
    A pretty blond nurse got up from her chair beside the bed. She looked trim and competent and tired. Shayne advanced on tiptoe and looked down at Timothy Rourke lying on his back. His eyes were closed and his breathing unnaturally loud and irregular. His face was pallid and the bruises stood out in bold purplish relief. Shayne was shocked to see how old he looked—only the husk of the vigorous man he had known—as though all vitality and life had been drained out of his strong lean body.
    Shayne had his hat off and clenched tightly in his hand. He stood flat-footed beside the head of the bed for a full minute before turning to look at the nurse who stood close to him.
    She put her hand on his forearm and led him aside to the shuttered window. She asked, “Are you a close relative?” in a low voice.
    Shayne said, “Tim was my best friend. How is he doing?”
    “They operated on him two hours ago. It was the only chance to save him. He’s doing better than the doctor hoped,” she told him frankly.
    “Will he get well?”
    “You’ll have to talk to Dr. Fairweather.” The nurse hesitated, then said, “We’re not supposed