Free Marked for Murder by Brett Halliday Page B

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    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