people stirred up there was bound to be a break somewhere along the line.
Timothy Rourke’s apartment wasn’t far from Voorland’s, though in a far less swanky neighborhood. The elevator man told him the reporter was in, and he went up and pounded on the door. Rourke finally opened it, yawning. His rumpled pajamas hung on his thin frame like the misfitting garments on a scarecrow. He let Shayne enter the living-room and offered him a drink and poured a snort for himself.
“You’re determined a guy shan’t have any sleep, so I guess I’d better have an eye-opener,” he complained.
Shayne grinned and said, “You should complain after all the scoops I’ve given you.”
“Sit down and bring me up-to-date on things.” Rourke toed a chair up beside the couch and sat down. Shayne sank down on the sofa and placed his drink on the table.
“Things may be breaking,” he confided, and after a few irrelevant remarks he brought the conversation around to Mark and Celia Dustin.
“I liked Dustin,” Rourke declared, after half the drink had warmed his stomach. “Thirty years of newspaper work and I still get a sick feeling in my belly when I break the news to a husband or wife-or a mother and father,” he added, “like in the Kathleen Deland kidnaping case. The Dustins had only been married two years, Mike.”
Shayne chuckled. “You’re a romanticist at heart, Tim. That’s why one of these days you’ll write a great American novel. Yeh. The bracelet was an anniversary present to Celia Dustin. How did Dustin take her death?”
Rourke was moodily silent for a moment, then he said, “Without breaking down. A tough westerner like Dustin wouldn’t. But he is convinced his wife didn’t have anything to do with the theft, no matter what sort of case Painter tries to make out. He’ll fight any man who does believe it, broken right hand and all.”
“Then he doesn’t believe she doped him intentionally?”
Rourke shifted his position in the chair and said, “He doesn’t see how to get around that. He figures she decided to take a hand in it and didn’t want to waken him. He thinks she remembered some clue that she wanted to tell you.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Shayne moodily. “Do you know a fellow named Bankhead here on the beach?”
“J. Donald Bankhead?” Rourke’s torso came forward and his eyes glowed. “What about him?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
Rourke settled back. “He has a curio shop down on South Beach. Mostly junk for tourists, but I’ve seen some expensive Oriental stuff mixed in with the rest. Nice enough guy, I’d say.”
“Rich?”
“All those junk shops do a big business during the tourist season. You know how it is. So far as I know, his nose is clean.”
“It’s dirty as hell right now,” Shayne told him sharply. “His so-called gardener and chauffeur and some third party pulled the Dustin job last night in Bankhead’s limousine.”
“Is that straight?” Rourke jumped up and started pulling off his pajama jacket.
“Off the record and for your information only,” Shayne said swiftly and harshly. “He knows I’m on to him, but I haven’t any proof yet. He may try to brazen it out. I think he’ll try to get rid of the bracelet if he hasn’t already unloaded it. You’ve still got a little drag with the Beach force, haven’t you?”
“A little,” Rourke agreed, and put his skinny arms back into the pajama sleeves. “Tagging along with you hasn’t raised my stock with Painter’s men.” He sat down dejectedly.
Shayne took his drink in one long swallow, and with his eyes half-closed, looking at the glass said, “Could you pass along enough of a hint to get Bankhead tailed and a check on his movements last night?”
“That shouldn’t be too hard.”
Shayne put the glass down, got up, and said, “I’ll see you in your office later-to pick up replies to those telegrams we sent.” He stalked out to his car and drove across the bay to the mainland.
When he entered the small foyer of Earl Randolph’s apartment building he pushed the button beneath Randolph’s name and held it down for a long time. There was no answer.
Under a card which read 1-A Superintendent the name of E. Palinimo was written in small letters. Shayne pressed the button and got an answering click of the door immediately. He went in. A door at the right opened and a gray-haired man came out. He wore slippers and trousers and an undershirt, and his suspenders hung down from his waist. He held a lathered shaving-brush in his hand and asked gruffly, “Can I help you?”
“Do you know whether Mr. Randolph is in?”
“Three D? Did you try his button?”
“I did. He doesn’t answer.”
“Then he is not in,” the man said.
“I’m a little worried about him,” said Shayne. “I think we’d better go up and see if he’s all right.”
The man’s black eyes widened. “You mean he is sick? I saw him in the hall yesterday and he was all right.”
“I mean,” Shayne said harshly, “there’s been one murder and I don’t want another one.”
“Mur-r-der?”
“Or suicide. I’m a detective. Get your master key and let’s go up.”
The superintendent’s jaw fell open. “Sure. If you think-” He scurried away and returned with a key-ring.
“Mr. Randolph is a good tenant,” he said worriedly as they got in the small elevator and he pressed the 3 button. “A ver-ry friendly gentleman. What you say about mur-r-der?”
“One of his clients. Insurance.” They reached the third floor and he followed the superintendent, his suspenders still dangling, to Earl Randolph’s room.
The door opened easily and the gray-haired man stood back, frightened and cringing, to let the tall detective enter first.
Shayne saw Randolph’s Panama hat on the rack where it had been when he visited the insurance man last night. He pointed it out to the little man and said grimly, “His hat is here, all right,” and stalked on toward the day- bed behind the littered card table.
Earl Randolph, dressed as he had been when Shayne saw him last, lay on the day-bed, halfway on his side, face downward, with one leg trailing off. The overhead lights were still burning and an empty glass lay on the floor where it had dropped from his fingers when he collapsed.
Chapter Eighteen
Shayne caught Randolph’s shoulder and turned him over, lifting the dangling leg with his left hand and putting it on the day-bed. The insurance man’s mouth was open and he was breathing heavily. Where his face had lain there was a slobber of vomit, and his breath reeked of whisky.
“Is he-dead?” the superintendent asked anxiously.
“Yeh. Dead drunk,” said Shayne angrily. “Help me get him into the bathroom.”
The superintendent eagerly grabbed Randolph’s legs while Shayne lifted his shoulders. They carried the heavy man into the bathroom and propped him in the tub at an angle where the spray of the shower would strike him on the head and torso. The superintendent held his body erect while Shayne drew the curtain and turned the shower on.
Randolph stirred under the impact of cold water and tried drunkenly to move his head out of the way.
Shayne said, “I’ll get him straightened out. Thanks for helping me. You can go and shave now.”
The superintendent backed away uncertainly, then turned and ran from the bathroom muttering to himself.
Shayne heard the door close. He stood back from the shower, but drew the curtain aside a little to grimly watch the drunken man struggle to emerge from the alcoholic coma that held him.
Randolph was opening and closing his mouth, twisting his head to escape the stream of cold water, inching
