The strain that had threatened their friendship a few minutes before vanished with this new development. Rourke was silently thoughtful, his slate-gray eyes glittering in their deep sockets. “Do you suppose Bert Jackson might have slipped an envelope-or something-out of his pocket,” he suggested with some delicacy, “and hid it behind a cushion or somewhere while he was here?”
Shayne nodded slowly, recalling the drink Bert Jackson had helped himself to, getting ice cubes from the kitchen. “He could have. But why? I’d turned his proposition down flat.”
“He knew it was hot stuff,” Rourke argued. “If he planned to make his extortion pitch tonight, he might have wanted the stuff stashed in a safe place. It would be a lever to be able to say it was in your possession and that you’d take over if anything happened to him.”
“Could be,” Shayne agreed. “He was drunk enough and excited enough to think that was smart. Call his house and see if he’s come home.”
Rourke hesitated. “I can try. But if he isn’t there I doubt if Betty will be in shape to answer the phone. When I called at two o’clock she promised she’d take a couple of sleeping-tablets and go to bed.”
Shayne said, “Try her,” in a curiously urgent voice, then relaxed deeper in his chair and sipped brandy, his eyes half-closed.
Rourke dragged the desk phone toward him reluctantly and asked for a number which Shayne mechanically memorized for future reference After a long time Rourke hung up and said, “No answer. Betty must have knocked herself out with sleeping-tablets, and Bert evidently isn’t home. Damn it, Mike, I’m worried about him. I think we ought to put the whole thing squarely up to Will Gentry and get a search organized.”
“Are you sure you want that, Tim?”
“Why not?” The reporter’s tone was challenging.
“We’d have to tell him the whole story,” Shayne said evenly. “Like myself, Gentry’ll wonder why Bert Jackson seemed so sure you’d be willing to go into that blackmail deal with him. Can you afford that?”
“Damn it, Mike,” Rourke flared. “I told you the kid got that other deal all wrong.”
“I know you told me. But the death of the elevator operator makes this a Homicide investigation, Tim. I’ve been on the inside of those before. Every damned bit of dirt from the past will come out, even if you and Will are old friends. Think it over carefully before I say anything that mixes you into it.”
Rourke set his thin lips and stared down at clenched hands. Twice he started to speak, checked himself, then picked up his glass and drained it in spasmodic swallows. “I don’t believe there’s a man on earth,” he muttered, “who could justify everything he’s ever done. Do I have to for you?”
“Not for me,” said Shayne promptly. “And not to the police if you let me handle this my own way and keep you in the clear. But I can’t go barging ahead in the dark, Tim. I’ve got to know the truth so I’ll know how much to suppress. First-all these places where you went and asked for Jackson tonight, did you get on his trail at any of them?”
“He hadn’t been in any of the bars I went into. I finally tried the Las Felice apartments and hit pay dirt. Betty had told me about a woman Bert visited there, so I tried it about midnight.”
“And?” Shayne was studying his hands and frowning at the dark smear of blood on the right palm.
“There’s a doorman who goes off duty at midnight,” Rourke told him swiftly. “Five bucks bought a description of Bert from him. He remembered Bert arriving early in the evening, probably went directly there from here, and leaving about ten o’clock.”
“Alone?”
“Alone, and just about sober enough to stay on his feet. But an offer of ten bucks more wouldn’t buy the name of the woman he visits. There’s a self-service elevator, you see, and the doorman swore he didn’t know what floor Bert stopped on.”
“And after that?” Shayne probed.
“I drove straight to his house which is only a few blocks away. Betty was alone. Bert still hadn’t shown up.”
“So you comforted her?” Shayne suggested.
“The best I could,” Rourke admitted blandly. “Then I left to make the rounds of a few more places without any luck. Don’t you see what it adds up to, Mike? That woman at the Las Felice was egging him on-to get money for her. She must have worked on him plenty during those hours he was with her. I’d guess he made his contact by telephone from her apartment, and left at ten to keep an appointment to collect the swag.”
“That’s just a guess,” objected Shayne.
“But it ties in with what happened at your office and here.” Rourke gestured wearily. “What other theory does make sense? Even though you refused to go in with him he could, as I said, have used your name for a lever to threaten the guy. Say the stuff was in your possession and would be turned over to me for publication in case anything happened to him.”
“Could be,” Shayne agreed moodily. “And in that case I should be hearing from Mr. Big, after he has failed to find what he wants. There’ll be that chance just so long as I don’t let the police in on it,” he continued swiftly. “Once it comes out in the open, any chance of a deal will be off. From what Jackson said, there’s enough money involved to make it worth waiting for an offer.”
“Do you mean you’d make a deal with a man who had that night operator murdered?”
“What’s wrong with that?” Shayne demanded. “It isn’t as though I’ve actually got anything to sell him. If he chooses to think I have and wants to pay me to suppress it, why shouldn’t I let him?”
“Suppose he’s already murdered Bert Jackson, too?” Rourke burst out. “And that’s what I’m afraid has happened.”
“Then I’ll get him for it and let him pay me for doing the job in the bargain. Don’t you see, Tim,” he went on persuasively, “it’s the only way we’ll ever find out who he is? Our only chance to get a lead is to sit back and hope he’ll come to me.” He paused to drain his glass and pour another drink. “Unless you can give me the name of the man Jackson is after,” he ended casually.
“All I know is what Betty has told me-what Bert has told her. He has never mentioned a name, or any specific details.”
“But you could make a guess,” Shayne challenged. “If the thing is as big as Jackson claims, you’d have heard rumors.”
“Miami’s full of rumors,” Rourke hedged. “Sure, I can make a guess. Half a dozen guesses. Without some facts I couldn’t pin it down closer than that.”
“What about someone on the Tribune?” Shayne persisted. “Wouldn’t he have had to turn in some dope during the past few weeks that would give them a lead on what he was digging up?”
“That depends on how cagey Jackson has been about it. Abe Linkle isn’t the kind of guy to give him his head too long without demanding something in the way of results.”
“There’s a fellow named Ned Brooks who’s been working with Jackson on the story. Wouldn’t he know something?”
“I think he’s been holding out on Ned, too. Something Bert got hold of and has been running down alone.”
“What about the Tribune — and Jackson’s theory that they wouldn’t print the story if he turned it in? I thought newspapers lived by printing the news. The more sensational the better.”
“There are angles and angles,” said Rourke cautiously. “Matters of policy that sometimes dictate a certain story is better killed. The Trib has backed the present city administration to the hilt. It would depend a lot on what the story was and who it would hurt.”
Shayne took time out to sip brandy and stare absently at the wall. Then he set his glass down and held out his right hand, palm up. “Do you want to tell me how this blood got on the cushion of your car tonight?” he asked abruptly.
Rourke stood up and began pacing the floor restlessly, combing his hair with thin fingers. He came back to face Shayne. “You’ve known me a long time, Mike. Will you take my word for it that I’m not a murderer?”
“I like to know where I stand if I start tangling with Will Gentry.”
“Look-suppose I told you that I killed Bert Jackson tonight, that that’s his blood. What would you do then?” Rourke’s eyes were feverishly bright, his tone demanding.
“Did you, Tim?” Shayne asked gently.
Rourke shrugged his knobby shoulders and resumed his pacing with his hands clasped behind him and his
