Marked for Murder by Brett Halliday

thought she was sleeping late the next morning. Then I decided she must have gone out with some of her friends to spend the night—or something.”
    “Did she often do that?”
    “Sure. She’d be gone two or three days at the time, so I didn’t think anything about it. I knew Madge could take care of herself.”
    “You didn’t try the front door and find it unlocked?”
    “I didn’t try the front door,” said Helen calmly.
    “About this party you say she had Tuesday night. Were there men present?”
    “I guess there were some men. I told you I didn’t go in.”
    “How did your friend dress when she gave parties like that?”
    “She was a pretty swell dresser. When Madge got fixed up and stepped out, men looked at her all right.”
    “But for a party costume,” Painter insisted, “would she be likely to wear only a pair of black stockings?”
    “That,” said Helen coyly, “would depend on what kind of party she was having.”
    Painter snapped his notebook shut, put it in his pocket, and said to Helen, “I’ll ask you to come in and identify the body.”
    “Do I have to?” Helen shuddered.
    “It’s just routine,” Shayne told her. He got up and drew her up with him. “Come on. We don’t want Chief Painter accusing us of lack of co-operation.”
    “Not you,” Painter snapped to Shayne. “According to your say-so you don’t know anything about it, and I don’t want you messing into it. I’ll have some more questions for you after the body is identified.”
    Shayne patted Helen’s shoulder and said, “Run along with Painter and get it over while I mix a couple of drinks. Or shall I make it three, Chief?”
    Painter said, “You know I never touch the stuff while on duty.”
    Shayne grinned and said genially, “You ought to try it sometime. You might get a few ideas.”
    Painter stiffened and strutted out the open door with Helen following him.
    Shayne took the empty glasses to the kitchen to look for the gin and mixer.

 
Chapter Ten: TRYING TO MAKE SENSE
     
    HELEN PORTER WAS AN UNTIDY HOUSEKEEPER. The kitchen sink was littered with dishes, the drainboard piled with apple and orange peelings, and an ice tray was sitting out, the unused cubes partially melted. The gin and the uncorked bottle of mixer sat side by side on the small electric stove.
    Shayne rinsed out the two glasses, looked around for a jigger to measure the gin, but found none. A small cheese glass with part of the original paper around it that read Roquefort was beside the bottle. It smelled of gin. That explained why his drink had tasted more ginny than Tom Collinsy.
    He started methodically mixing the drinks, his mind preoccupied with Painter and the dead girl. When he finished, he took the tall frosted glasses into the living-room, set them on the table, and made himself comfortable on the couch.
    Madge Rankin was a blonde. There were too damned many blondes popping up in the case, he thought dispiritedly. The one Rourke had ridden so hard in his last newspaper story; the one who visited his apartment Tuesday afternoon; Mrs. Walter Bronson, who, according to Minerva, was interested in Rourke. And now a dead blonde in the bedroom next door.
    Madge Rankin could hardly have been Rourke’s afternoon visitor. Her letter to him had been postmarked 5:00 p.m. on Tuesday. It was not reasonable to suppose that Madge was the gun-toting blonde, unless she had decided to sell out her confederates in the murder racket.
    There were two sets of fingerprints in Rourke’s apartment. One of them was evidently left by his afternoon visitor; the other by whom? Madge? Suppose that after mailing her letter she became impatient—or afraid—and went around to see him?
    There were a hell of a lot of things, Shayne told himself morosely, that he didn’t know about the case. He mentally cursed Mr. Henty’s suspicious mind and his habit of eavesdropping over the telephone. If he had had a little time to look over the murder setup in 614, check