Shayne took the mug, set it down, lit a cigarette and stuck it in Rourke’s hand. He pulled the bedroom chair closer to the bed, sat down and said, “Now then-about last night. The blonde who talked to you for awhile and then beat it in a hell of a hurry-what do you know about her?”
The reporter nodded slowly. “I’m beginning to get it. Sure. It was that maid from the Hudsons’ house. I didn’t recognize her until she told me who she was.”
“Was she at the Hudsons’ the day you found the letters?”
“I guess so. Yeah. I noticed her downstairs when we first went in. But she didn’t go upstairs with us.”
“But last night she reminded you of seeing her there?”
“That’s right.” Rourke pressed his fingers against his eyes briefly. “She moved in on me while I was winning. I remember her perfume now. She was broke and her guy had run out on her and she wanted me to stake her.”
“Did you?”
“Hell, no. I told her to run along and peddle her stuff some place else.”
“And?”
“That’s when she reminded me who she was. As if it made some difference-as if it was important.” He frowned uneasily. “I didn’t get it. I don’t know just what she said, but it was something like I’d better play ball and slip her a stake-or else.”
“Or else what?”
Rourke spread out his thin-fingered hands defensively. “I don’t know. I swear I don’t. I told her to get the hell out before I called the bouncer. So she got.”
Shayne considered this for a moment. “Did you get tough enough to scare her half out of her senses?”
Rourke grinned. “I don’t know just what I said. It probably wasn’t a very gentle admonition.”
“And you stayed on at the table?”
“That’s right. That is, I don’t remember much about it, Mike. Things’re mixed up. What’s this all about?”
“The girl was murdered last night after she left the Play-Mor.”
“The blonde-the Hudsons’ maid?” gasped Rourke.
Shayne nodded gravely. “Within half an hour after you were talking with her. Did anyone overhear your conversation with her?”
“How the hell do I know? There were a lot of people around. Look here, Mike, you act as though you think I bumped her off.”
“Somebody did. And if Painter gets wind of your hookup with her he might think you did. Now-let’s get back to those letters you found. Give me the whole picture-from the beginning.”
“Nothing much to it,” he said. “I ran into Angus Browne one day in a bar a couple of weeks ago. You know Angus?”
Shayne nodded.
“We had a couple of drinks and Angus asked me what I was doing and I told him nothing much. He asked me if I’d like to get hold of a juicy story. I told him sure. If it was something I could sell. You know I’ve been free- lancing on feature stuff for the local papers since I left the hospital. Well, he said it was plenty hot and I could have an exclusive on it when it broke.
“Browne didn’t tell me exactly what the deal was. A divorce-involving a couple of prominent families. He needed a witness to tie it up for good. All he wanted was my promise not to break it until he gave the word. It sounded good enough to me so I said okay and we got in his car and picked up another guy named Hampstead. He’s a lawyer, I think.
“We drove over to the Beach to a big house on the Bay-front. Browne flashed his tin on an old lady who must be the housekeeper, and bluffed his way in. On the way over he’d told us we were looking for a small packet of letters that would be hidden somewhere in the house. He said they’d been written to Mrs. Hudson by a millionaire named Victor Morrison from New York, and Morrison’s wife was after them for evidence in a divorce suit against her husband.”
Shayne was staring at Rourke, the disgust he felt showing in his eyes.
Rourke shrugged and grinned wryly. “Hell, I admit it was nasty business, but I figured I might as well have the story and make a few bucks on an exclusive as someone else. So we poked around down in the library and then went upstairs to the lady’s bedroom and went to work on it. I took the vanity, and just happened to find the letters. Four of ’em tied up in a pink ribbon.”
Shayne held up a wide palm, “Wait a minute. Think back. Are you sure they were there in the house all the time-not planted in that drawer by Browne or Hampstead when you weren’t looking?”
“For crissake, no. I was the only one who went near the vanity. They were there, all right. The old lady saw me find ’em.”
Shayne said, “Go on.”
“We looked at them and saw they were signed ‘Vicky,’ and Angus said they were the ones he was looking for. He had all of us initial each letter right there for identification in court later. We took them to the Magic City Photostat Company and had a set of copies made for me. I swore I’d keep the whole thing quiet until they were ready to break the story in court.”
“Who else got a set of photostats?” Shayne demanded.
“No one. They had the originals. We had only one set made and I took those. Damned if I can understand them not being in that drawer where I put them.” He paused to frown deeply, and again pressed his fingers to his eyes. “I dropped in at a bar,” he resumed, “for a couple of drinks, and read them through. They were juicy, all right. More than Angus promised. Then Ted Smith came in and we had a couple more drinks, and I came back here and ditched the photostats. Right under that pile of shirts.” He waggled an emaciated finger at the drawer.
“When did you see them last?”
“That evening. I didn’t bother to look at them again. Angus said it’d be a few more weeks before Mrs. Morrison would have her Florida residence established so she could file suit.”
Scowling deeply, Shayne got up and stalked into the living-room and over to a littered typewriter desk in the corner. He sat down and rolled a sheet of paper in the machine, got the envelope containing the three remaining photostats from his pocket and copied exactly the typewritten address that was on the envelope.
Rourke staggered after him and peered over his shoulder as Shayne tapped out the words. When Shayne pulled the sheet out and began carefully comparing the two typed addresses, the reporter growled, “What’s this hocus-pocus,” steadying himself with his hands on the desk chair.
“This,” said Shayne, showing him the envelope, “was sent to Mrs. Hudson the next day after you found the letters. The photostats were in it. It was followed by a blackmail demand for ten grand.”
Rourke let out a loud whistle. “The photostats were mailed to her? My photostats?”
“Evidently. You claim you had the only set,” Shayne reminded him.
Rourke stumbled over to the couch and sat down hard. He glared angrily at Shayne and demanded, “Do you think I sent them? Is that why you’re checking my machine?”
“If you did, you were smart enough not to use your own typewriter,” Shayne told him “Did you?”
“Do you think I’m a blackmailer? Goddamn you, Mike, I’ll knock your block off-” He tried to get up, but sank dizzily back on the couch.
“How do you know whether you are or not? You’ve been drunk ever since you got out of the hospital and by your admission you don’t remember much. Living like a damned pig. How do I know what you might do? Maybe you were drunk enough that it looked like a good way to pick up some spare cash.”
Rourke’s pinched face became livid, his fists doubled involuntarily. “Damn you,” he snarled, “we’ve been friends for a long time but I won’t take that from anybody.”
Shayne grunted disgustedly, got up and strode across the living-room. At the door he reminded the reporter savagely, “You can’t produce the set of photostats you admit having made-the only set.”
“Wait a minute, Mike,” Rourke implored. “Maybe I forgot where I put ’em. They could have been stolen.”
Shayne said, “There’s a murder mixed up in this thing, Tim. For God’s sake tell me the truth.” Sweat stood on his face. “We’ve been friends long enough for that.”
“Friends?” Rourke spat the word out contemptuously. “Get out if that’s what you think of me.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Tim.” Shayne kept his voice steady.
“Murder,” muttered Rourke angrily. “What good is the word of a goddamned pig and drunkard? Go ahead and run to Petey with your story. Maybe you can pin the murder on me, too. Sure. It all ties up. Somebody prob’ly heard
