sent out for another quart of whisky at ten o’clock this morning and I know he hasn’t gone out since.” Shayne thanked him and went out. He found a taxi loitering along Flagler Street and hailed the driver who stopped a stream of traffic while Shayne got in.
Shayne said, “The Blackstone Apartments on the Beach.” He lit a cigarette and refused to let his thoughts drift into the depths of black conjecture indicated by the facts he had unearthed.
The manager of the Blackstone Apartment Hotel was a slim young man named Mr. Henty. He had met Shayne previously, and when the detective entered, Henty leaned over the counter to explain, “I was pretty sure that was you on the phone, Mr. Shayne. After you called I went up and tried Mr. Rourke’s door. It’s locked and I couldn’t rouse him by knocking. So I unlocked it with my passkey. He’s-quite all right.”
“Drunk?” Shayne asked, frowning.
“Well-yes.”
“What time did he get in last night?”
“I don’t know. There’s no one on duty after midnight.”
Shayne said, “I’ve got to sober him up.”
Mr. Henty looked doubtful, but got his passkey and led Shayne upstairs. He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back for Shayne to enter.
“Thanks,” Shayne said, and went in, closing the door behind him.
Timothy Rourke lay on his back on the living-room couch. His mouth was open and he was snoring softly.
Shayne opened all the windows in the apartment, then went over to the couch and got a firm grip on the reporter’s pitifully thin and bony shoulders. He dragged him from the couch to an upright position and shook him
Rourke’s head wobbled back and forth limply. He mumbled something but didn’t open his eyes. Shayne half dragged him into the bathroom, put him in the bathtub and turned on the cold shower.
Rourke twisted his head and gasped as the needle-spray struck him in the face. He put his hands over his face, turned on his side, and doubled his long body up in the tub. He lay supine for a full minute with the water beating down upon him, then wearily dragged himself to a sitting position, blinking at Shayne through bleared eyes.
Shayne turned off the water and said, “Strip off your clothes, Tim. I’ve got to talk to you. Get on some dry clothes while I make some coffee.”
In the kitchen Shayne turned the electric stove on to high and put hot water in the percolator and set it on the fire. He found coffee in the cupboard and dumped enough in the top to fill it.
Returning to the bathroom he found Rourke sitting up and weakly attempting to strip his wet undershirt off. Shayne caught the hem and yanked it up, then went to work on Rourke’s trousers. He put the plug in the tub and ran cold water in. He said, “Stay there and soak awhile. I’ll have some coffee in a few minutes.” Rourke sank back in the tub and closed his eyes. Shayne left him with the water running and returned to the kitchen. The coffee was percolating. He then rummaged in a bureau drawer and found dry underclothes. He got a pair of pants from the closet, then went back to the bathroom, dragged Rourke out, helped him to rub himself dry, and supported him to the bedroom. The reporter sank down on the bed, managed to get into a pair of shorts and trousers and an undershirt Shayne went into the kitchen, turned the fire to low, and poured a mug of coffee. He left the percolator on the fire to bring the coffee to a stronger consistency and carried the mugful in to Rourke.
After his third mug, Rourke showed signs of sobering, and Shayne began questioning him.
He asked, “Who was the third man with you and Angus Browne when you found those letters at the Hudson house a couple of weeks ago?”
Rourke shook his head and blinked dazedly. “Letters?” he muttered. “Hudson house?” He put a hand to his head, thought for a moment, then said, “Oh, yeah. Sure. Angus and that lawyer. Hampstead, I think.”
“I understand you found the letters.”
“That’s right. I did. What the hell-”
“Who told you where you’d find them?”
“Nobody.” Rourke staggered to his feet and started into the living-room. “C’mon. Let’s go get a drink.”
Shayne followed him saying, “You don’t get a drink until you’ve answered my questions-”
“The hell I don’t,” Rourke scoffed. He slumped down on the couch, his hand moving toward the liquor bottle.
Shayne picked it up and sat down with it in his lap. He asked, “How did you know there were any letters?”
“Angus told me. He said they’d be hidden some place, so we all looked. I happened to find them first. What of it? For crissake, gimme a drink, Mike.” Shayne shook his head stubbornly.
“Where are the letters now? The originals?”
“They’ve got ’em. The lawyer, I guess. We all went down to a place together where I got my set of photostats made. That’s all I wanted.”
“You got the photostats? Where are they now?”
“In there.” Rourke gestured limply toward the bedroom. “Bureau drawer. Put ’em there when I came in.”
Shayne got up. He said, “I want to see them.”
The reporter stared at him with bloodshot eyes for a moment, then shrugged and got up. He staggered into the bedroom, went to the bureau and pulled open the second drawer. He reached in, and then began rummaging under a pile of shirts while Shayne waited.
Rourke turned with a look of slack surprise on his face and said, “They’re not here, Mike. The damned things are gone.”
Chapter Eleven: A COUNTERPLOT ADDED
“Try the other drawers,” Shayne suggested.
The missing letters appeared to sober Rourke completely. He shook his head slowly from side to side. “They’re gone,” he said again. “I remember sticking them under those shirts. What in hell is this all about?” he added irritably. “What do you know about those photostats? Why do you want them? Can’t you see I’m in no shape for guessing games?”
Shayne said soberly, “This isn’t a game, Tim. A girl has been murdered. What did you do last night?”
Rourke took a few steps backward and sat down on the bed. “I got drunk, for crissake,” he muttered.
“Where?”
“I was at the Play-Mor. Didn’t I see you there? It’s sort of dim but I think you were there, too.”
Shayne nodded. “About ten o’clock. How long did you stay?”
Rourke shuddered and said, “I don’t know exactly. I won a little money and went to the bar. Somewhere along the line I pulled a black-out.”
Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. “Do you remember a tall blonde at the roulette table? Not too good- looking. Her hair was sort of frizzled.”
Rourke closed his eyes for a moment, then said despairingly, “There may’ve been a dozen blondes at the table. I wasn’t noticing.”
“She was across the table from us when I talked with you,” Shayne reminded him. “Later on I saw you talking with her. She had too much perfume on.”
Rourke complained, “I can’t think. Maybe if I had a drink-” His eyes looked greedily at the bottle which Shayne still held in his hand.
Shayne hesitated, then said, “Okay,” and went to the kitchen. He poured a portion of whisky in the coffee mug and filled it with hot coffee and took it in to Rourke. He said, “Drink this down as hot as you can take it. You’ve got to start thinking.”
Rourke looked up, amazed by the urgency in his old friend’s voice. He took the mug and drank the coffee royal without removing it from his lips.
