Marked for Murder Read Online Free PDF

“Goodness, no. He doesn’t know I even know you.”
    “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Rourke growled. “The way you look at me when you come in the office—”
    “He doesn’t notice how I look at men,” she scoffed. “He hasn’t noticed for years. But I think if you’d give it up and apologize to Walter for the trick you played on him today, he’d forgive you and give you your job back.”
    “There are plenty of other jobs.”
    “But not in Miami, Tim. He said this afternoon he’d fix it so you couldn’t go to work on any paper in Miami.” She pressed close to him and whispered, “Oh, Tim, I couldn’t stand it if you had to leave—”
    “Nuts. I told you it was all ended.”
    “I know you told me. But I don’t believe it unless—kiss me, Tim, darling, and then tell me it’s over.”
    Rourke kept his face turned straight ahead. “It won’t work, Muriel. It’s dead.”
    “Promise me you’ll give up your silly one-man reform campaign and go back to work for Walter.”
    He asked coldly, “What’s the matter? Will it cramp your style if I force the gambling joints to close? I hear you’ve been giving some of Brenner’s games a play.”
    “So I have,” she admitted calmly. “Yes, if you want to know the truth. I need a chance to win back some of the money I’ve lost. I’ve just hit a winning streak and now you want to close them up.”
    He turned to scowl at her. “How deeply are you in?”
    “Awfully deep,” she confessed with a sigh. “Walter doesn’t know yet. He’d be terribly angry if he did. He won’t have to know if I could just have a few more good nights.”
    Rourke said, “You’re like all the others. For God’s sake get wise to yourself. If you read my story this afternoon you know what happens to people who win at Brenner’s clubs.”
    “Those were all men,” she reminded him. “I’m not going to let a blond gunwoman entice me out into a car on a deserted street to be killed and robbed.”
    “But you mightn’t put up such a struggle against a blond gunman.”
    “Do you suspect who the murderer is?”
    It seemed to Rourke there was suppressed alarm in her voice. He looked at her quickly, but her facial expression told him nothing. He said, “I’ve got a pretty good hunch. I’m not stopping until the joints are closed down and those rats run out of town.” All at once he felt tired and defeated. He remembered he hadn’t eaten any lunch. He muttered, “You’d better go, Muriel. I’m going to fix myself something to eat and go to bed.”
    “Haven’t you had your dinner?”
    “Nor any lunch either.”
    “You poor darling. You must be starved.” She jumped up quickly and said, “Settle back and rest while I raid the refrigerator and fix something.”
    “There’s nothing but bacon and eggs—and some stale bread.”
    “I’ll fix that. With a pot of coffee.”
    Rourke sent a scowl after her as she disappeared into the kitchenette. Muriel had become an enigma during the short period of her visit. First, making love to him; then violent jealousy; showing alarm over his supposed knowledge of the murderer, and now maternally solicitous of his well-being.
    He let his head rest against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Despite his stubborn intentions, he caught himself drowsily thinking that she was intrinsically a pretty swell person. Under other circumstances, married to another man, Muriel could certainly have been a happy and contented wife. It wasn’t her fault that she had the soul of a courtesan. She had a curious lack of morals that was attractively simple and childlike.
    Lazily, he turned to an analysis of himself. How much of his crusading fervor was attributable to genuine indignation, and how much to other factors? Such as his dislike for Walter Bronson and a desire to put something over on him? What about his dislike of Peter Painter? Did that date back to the times when Mike Shayne ferreted out killers under Painter’s