knocked.
Rourke opened the door and looked at him with twitching lips. He was stooped and pitiably thin, and his face was that of a sick man. His eyes looked dead and his voice sounded dead. “Oh. It’s you?”
Shayne asked, “Can I come in, Tim?”
“I suppose so. Been swimming?”
“Yeh.”
Rourke closed the door and asked politely but without any real interest or concern, “How’d you hurt your face?”
“I cut myself shaving.” He turned slowly and looked evenly into Rourke’s eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Tim.”
“It’s done now.”
“No it isn’t. We’ve been friends for ten years.”
“That’s why it’s over now,” said Timothy Rourke remotely.
Shayne said, “A man says things sometimes-when he knows he shouldn’t.”
“To hell with it.”
Shayne moved closer to him. “Things were the other way around once,” he reminded the reporter. “About four years ago. A girl got herself strangled in my bedroom.”
Rourke was silent. He didn’t look up.
“You and Gentry walked in on me,” Shayne went on. “Two of the best friends I ever had. Gentry walked out after telling me to get down on my belly and shake hands with the next skunk I met. You read me a sermon and started to walk out on me.”
Rourke looked up at him. “What the hell was I supposed to believe? You put yourself on the spot that time- pretending you were drunk with a girl in your bed the minute Phyllis turned her back.”
“You hated me for it because we were friends. Otherwise you wouldn’t have given a damn.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay,” said Shayne wearily. “That’s why I jumped you about those photostats today. That other time, I didn’t let you walk out when a word was all that was needed to clear it up.”
“So?” Rourke’s dark eyes no longer looked as though they belonged to a dead man.
“I know you’re not a blackmailer, Tim. I knew it all along.”
Rourke stood up and thrust out a bony hand and admitted, “I tried to call you about an hour ago.”
Shayne took his hand. “It’d help a lot if I knew who stole your photostats.”
“They weren’t stolen. After you left I went through every drawer in the damned place. They were in the linen closet under some towels.”
“Then how in hell-” He paused, clawing at his damp hair. “I’m sticky with salt water. Mind if I use your shower?”
“Go ahead.” Rourke grinned sheepishly. “I’ll go out and get us a bottle. I’ve been on the wagon ever since you left here a few hours ago.”
Shayne started to say something, hesitated, his eyes going over Timothy Rourke’s body, then said, “Better go easy for a while, Tim. You need to get some meat on your bones. You can’t do it drinking your meals.” He grinned and turned toward the bathroom.
Inspecting himself in the mirror, he decided there had been times when he looked worse, but he couldn’t remember when. He loosened the ends of the adhesive tape, jerked off the bandage with one swift movement.
He grimaced at his reflection, stripped off the bathing trunks and stepped under the shower.
Rourke reclined on the couch when Shayne came from the bathroom fully dressed. He sat down beside the reporter and said, “Now we know there were two sets of photostats. But Hampstead swears only one set was made-for you. How about that?” he went on sharply. “Hampstead also says you got a set as payment for your help in locating the letters-that you demanded them from Browne as your price for putting him wise.”
“Hampstead lies,” Rourke told him calmly. “I didn’t put Browne wise. I’d never heard of the deal until he invited me to go along. Of course I wanted copies if I could get them.”
Shayne tugged thoughtfully at his ear lobe. “There’s something screwy about this. Hampstead isn’t the sort of guy to abet blackmail. Yet he swears they made only one set of stats. Let’s see the ones you’ve got,” he added sharply.
Rourke got up and went into the bedroom. He returned in a moment with four photostatic sheets and handed them to Shayne.
The detective glanced at them and stiffened. “These are negatives,” he pointed out. “White on black.”
“That’s right,” Rourke said easily. “I remember now. Browne asked me if I minded having negatives rather than positives and I told him it didn’t matter to me either way.”
“The photostats used by the blackmailer were positive prints,” Shayne explained. “I should have thought about that as soon as I saw them. There had to be a set of negatives before the positives could be made. Some shops keep the negatives in their possession when you order a set of positives, and others give both sets to the customer.”
“Do you think Browne got the other set? That he’s the blackmailer, Mike?”
“Could be. He probably does a lot of business with the photostat firm and could have gone back later for the second set without Hampstead’s knowledge.”
“Or someone in the shop could have got hep and knocked out another set for his own use,” Rourke pointed out.
Shayne drummed blunt fingertips on the table, then lifted the receiver and called his hotel. The operator told him she had not yet received the long distance call for Angus Browne. Shayne had her connect him with the clerk.
“Mike Shayne,” he said to the clerk. “Do you remember the woman who was waiting for me when I came in this afternoon?”
“I’ll say I do. She sailed out through the lobby half an hour ago looking mad enough to bust a gut.”
“What about the taxi driver you sent up? Have you seen him?”
“He followed her out five minutes later. Acted drunk and he was all scratched up. He claims somebody stole his cab that was parked outside.”
“Thanks,” Shayne said. He got to his feet and began to pace back and forth across the room, telling Rourke, “Things are beginning to shape up. Keep a tight hold on your set of photostats. I think they’ll be the basis of a hotter story than you think before many more hours.”
“What’s it all about, Mike?”
Shayne shook his red head indecisively, still striding up and down. “I won’t know all the answers until I get a call from New York.” He looked at his watch and sighed. “I haven’t got too much time. I’ve got to catch that midnight plane for New Orleans or I won’t have any secretary.” He dropped into a chair and rubbed his chin. “Do you remember the man who was with Natalie Briggs at the roulette table last night before she made up to you?”
Rourke frowned thoughtfully. “I didn’t pay much attention. Short and dark and ugly, wasn’t he? Seems to me I picked him for one I wouldn’t want my kid sister to run around with-if I had a kid sister.”
“He’s the one. Did you notice him around after she left?”
“I don’t think so. Seems to me I saw him whispering with that big bouncer-the one you went out with after you made your beef-and then I didn’t notice him any more.”
“He and Browne both seem to have disappeared about the same time. Someone was at the Play-Mor last night waiting for Christine Hudson to show up with ten thousand dollars. After my interview with Barbizon it wasn’t necessary for that person to wait any longer.”
Shayne was frowning and tugging at his ear lobe again. “Let’s take a ride over to Miami. I’m damned interested in what time Victor Morrison went out fishing last night.”
Rourke said, “Okay, I’ll get my crate.”
“No need for that. I’ve got a cab waiting by the side entrance.”
“You’ll go broke paying taxi fares,” Rourke protested as they went outside and down the back stairway.
“I came to that conclusion this afternoon, so I made other arrangements.” He waved toward the parked cab as they emerged through the doorway. “I’m driving my own now, so you’ll get cheap rates.”
Rourke said, “I’ll be damned. How’d you make the raise?”
