Free Marked for Murder by Brett Halliday Page A

to discuss our cases, but he has a fighting chance. His constitution is very strong. Every hour he holds on is encouraging.”
    “How can he fight when he’s lying there unconscious?” Shayne demanded fiercely.
    “It would be dangerous for him to return to consciousness right now,” she answered. “Dangerous for him to move a muscle of his body.”
    “How long before he’ll be allowed to wake up?”
    The nurse moved her head slowly from side to side. “He hasn’t been conscious since he has been here. Perhaps that’s best no matter which way the tide turns.”
    Shayne turned around and looked again at the inert figure on the bed. He said, “Will you let me know when he comes out of this? I can be reached at Will Gentry’s office, police headquarters in Miami.”
    “If I can get the doctor’s permission.” She jotted down the information he gave her and asked, “Your name?”
    “Michael Shayne. Tell Tim I’ve come—when he wakes up. He’ll understand.”
    He went out and strode past the guard at the door to the elevator and went down. Outside the hospital, he drew in a long breath and let it out explosively, then got in the coupé and circled back toward the business section of Miami Beach.
    Fifteen minutes later he parked in front of the Blackstone Apartments. The small lobby was empty when he went in. Remembering that the manager was also janitor and general repairman, he went over to the desk and leaned on it. He smoked a Picayune and waited. There was a double row of mail pigeonholes behind the desk. He idly glanced at them through a haze of smoke.
    He frowned as he noticed three letters wedged in the box numbered 2-D, the number Gentry mentioned as Rourke’s apartment. Glancing around to assure himself there was no one in sight, he circled the counter and took the letters from 2-D.
    He slipped them into his coat pocket, came back, and went directly to the stairway. He went up and found Rourke’s apartment, turned the knob tentatively, and then unlocked the door with a key from his ring. Stepping inside, he closed the door quietly.
    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