Marked for Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

you I’m not that hard pressed.”
    “What’s it doing in your bag?” he demanded again.
    “If you must know—to protect you.”
    “From your husband?” Rourke asked derisively.
    “Don’t joke about it, Tim,” she said earnestly. “Walter was dreadfully upset. I didn’t know what he might do if you happened to be back at the office tonight when he got there. I remembered that pistol being in his bureau drawer and I slipped it out and hid it in my purse. Don’t be angry with me.” She moved close to him and caught his arm, her violet eyes appealing to him, her red lips pouted. “It was just a precaution for your sake. I never saw Walter so angry.”
    Rourke laughed shortly, dropped the automatic back in her purse, and tossed it on the chair. “I didn’t know you cared.”
    “Don’t say that, darling. You do know I care. I’ve been attracted to you ever since that first day when you walked into Walter’s office and I knew why God sent us to Miami.”
    Rourke patted her shoulder and muttered, “I’m not in very good shape tonight.” He went over to the couch and sat down heavily.
    Muriel Bronson sat down in the chair Betty had occupied an hour or so before. She lit a cigarette, put the match in an ash tray, picked up the small glass from which Betty had drunk. She said, “I see lipstick on this glass. Why don’t you offer me a drink? I suppose,” she continued jealously, “you got her drunk, made love to her, and she decided not to shoot you? Who was she?” There was a feline glint in the depths of her dark eyes.
    “I don’t know,” Tim snapped. He picked up the bottle, of whisky, took it over, and set it on the table. “Here, I’ll get a clean glass from the kitchen.” He took the soiled glass with him.
    “You’re lying, Tim,” she flung at him through the archway.
    When he brought the fresh glass back he poured a drink in it, and said, “How about a cigarette?” She gave him one. He took it with him to the couch, lit it, and said, “Let’s have it, Muriel. Why did you come here tonight?”
    “To see you, darling.”
    Rourke made an impatient gesture. “You haven’t seen me for weeks. Why the sudden urge tonight?”
    “I’ve already told you,” she said stubbornly.
    “So you dashed over here,” he said harshly, “with your husband’s gun to protect me from him. Good Lord, do you think it’ll help matters any if he comes and finds you here?”
    “I told you he didn’t know your address,” she insisted.
    “Then why were you worried?”
    “For fear you might go to the office. That’s where Walter has gone.”
    “You could have telephoned me.”
    “I wanted to see you.” Her voice was soft and persuasive. She finished her drink, poured another, and went over to sit beside him on the couch. “Why don’t you take a drink with me? You did with her. Don’t you care for me any more?” She ran her fingers through his thick hair at the back of his neck.
    “We haven’t seen each other for over four weeks. You’ve probably had three other men since I saw you.”
    “That’s a lie.” She kept her voice softly good-natured. “There hasn’t been anyone else since you and I met. You’re the one who—”
    “Let’s not kid each other,” Rourke told her brutally. “That’s finished. It was swell while it lasted. Let’s not ruin it now by trying to blow on some dead embers.”
    “You’ve been hurt and you’re tired and in a belligerent mood. Why don’t you relax?” She drew his head down to rest on her shoulder. “Why do you insist on attacking windmills?”
    Rourke resisted the pressure of her hand, the persuasiveness of her voice, the exotic perfume. “Meaning my campaign against the gambling racketeers and murder?”
    “Meaning the way you keep Walter upset all the time. Why can’t you let such things alone? Solving crimes is for the police.”
    Rourke straightened up and said, “So Walter sent you here to persuade me.”
    Muriel laughed lightly.