It was not a prepossessing face. Thin and ratlike. With shifty eyes that were too close together, and a tight mouth that smirked rather than smiled.
It was definitely not a picture of her husband, whom Rourke had talked to at police headquarters just a short time before. It was just as definitely the picture of a man whom Rourke knew he should recognize… someone whom he had met very recently or whose picture he had seen very recently.
Timothy Rourke had a sixth sense for the memory of faces. Long years of reportorial training had developed that sense to an acute degree, and he often remembered and recognized the picture of someone who had been in the news five or ten years previously-
Now he felt a familiar tingle traveling up his spine as he looked across at the photograph on the mantel. He should recognize it. He knew he had seen that face recently… and under circumstances which he should recall. He didn’t know why, but there was that sixth sense working strongly inside him.
He moved across the room to look at the picture more closely, asking, “Is this your husband, Mrs. Duclos?” knowing, of course, that it wasn’t.
“George? No. ’S my brother Al.”
“Your brother?” Rourke nodded slowly, studying the picture intently. “I can see the family resemblance now, although I must say you’re a lot better looking. Does he live in Miami?”
“Al? No. He just lives all over. You know. I don’t see him or even hear from him for years until he just suddenly shows up. You know. When he’s broke and needs a square meal. Like today.”
“He showed up unexpectedly today?” Rourke kept his voice light and casual, still with that tingle working inside him.
“That’s right. Like I said. You never know with Al. Never a word for years and then he rolls up like a bad penny. I was afraid George’d be sore, but he wasn’t. Seemed like he and Al got on real good.”
“Is he staying here with you?”
“Where else? We got a spare bedroom.”
“I wonder if I could talk to him,” suggested Rourke, “while I’m waiting for your husband? Just fill me in on background material.”
“George and him went down to the corner bar on Miami Avenue for a beer after dinner. George came back about ten and said Al looked like he was headed to make a night of it. I told him he shouldn’t give that no-good brother of mine money to spend on beer, but George just laughed and said he’d only give him two bucks and he guessed that wouldn’t break us. And anyhow he was with some others that was buying, and he guessed Al’d be back after he spent the two bucks. But he ain’t showed up yet, so I guess them others must still be buying.”
She lifted her empty glass and peered at it “Sure you don’t want a drink, Mister?”
“No. But why don’t you fix yours?” Rourke’s thin features were alert with excitement and his deep-set eyes glittered. He was on the verge of it, damn it. It was important that he remember where he had seen that face before. All of the ingrained instincts of a news-hound clamored at him that it was important for him to remember.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he added politely. “I’ll have to be going in a minute anyhow.”
“Well…” She studied her glass doubtfully. “I guess I might’s well at that.” She got to her feet carefully. “Sure you won’t have something? Glass of beer, maybe?”
“No, thanks. You go ahead and get one for yourself.” Rourke stood with his back to the mantel and watched her navigate a calculated course out of the room and into the kitchen. When she was safely out of sight, he turned and snatched up the cardboard folder, closed it and thrust it down inside the waistband and belt of his trousers, buttoning his unpressed jacket across in front of it.
Then he crossed to the front door where he waited until Mrs. Duclos came back from the kitchen carrying a full glass happily in front of her.
He pulled the door open and apologized, “I’ve got to run now and keep a date with a deadline at the paper. When Mr. Duclos comes in, ask him to call me at the Miami News, huh? Timothy Rourke. Just ask them for Tim Rourke. I’ll talk to him on the telephone.”
“Well, all right,” she agreed uncertainly. “If you’re sure you don’t wanta wait.”
He said, “I’m afraid I can’t,” and went out the door and closed it gently behind him.
Shayne was waiting in the car when he hurried around to the driver’s seat and got in. The detective growled, “Took you long enough. Duclos there?”
“No. She hasn’t seen him or heard from him since he went down to pick up his car. Expects him home any minute though.”
“You and she take time for a quick lay?” Shayne asked with obvious irritation.
Rourke laughed shortly. “If you could have seen her! Listen, Mike. I’m onto something. I don’t know what the hell it is yet, but it’s something. Listen. There was a picture on the mantel. Mrs. Duclos and a guy she says is her no-good brother. Mike! That guy is in the news. Last few days. God-damn it! I don’t know how or what.” In frustration, Rourke beat his doubled fist against the steering wheel.
“But I know it in my bones. That guy is a fugitive. He’s wanted. Let’s pick him up first, and then find out what it’s all about.”
“What do you mean? Pick him up?”
“She tells me he showed in Miami today. Broke and hungry. So her husband took him down to a local bistro on the corner of Miami Avenue for a beer after dinner, and he came back about ten but the brother didn’t.”
Rourke turned on the lights and started his motor and pulled away slowly. “Presumably the brother is still down at the corner bar sopping up free drinks. We stop by and pick him up, Mike. You’ll get a headline for tomorrow that will put your stolen car caper in the shade.”
He went around two corners and headed back for Miami Avenue. Shayne still didn’t wholly comprehend what he was talking about. He said, “We pick up this woman’s brother? What the hell for?”
“I told you I don’t know. But I do know he’s wanted by the law… and bad. We take him in and we’ll find out. Mike Shayne comes through again. Nabs desperate fugitive single-handed.” Rourke turned the corner on Miami and nodded toward neon lights glowing a block ahead on the right-hand side. “That’ll be it.”
He found a parking place in front of the tavern and stopped, turned his head to look at Shayne’s face. “You don’t look real happy,” he complained.
Shayne said helplessly, “I just don’t get it, Tim. You just saw this guy’s picture. Your intuition tells you that he’s a wanted man. Ergo: We walk in and arrest him. On what charge?”
“You’re a detective,” said Rourke cheerfully. “You’ve got the authority. Look. Have I ever let you down, Mike? Don’t you know that I know what I’m talking about?”
Shayne grinned and said simply, “You always have, Tim. Okay, I’ll ride with you. What does he look like?”
Rourke unbuttoned his jacket and pulled out the photograph he had stolen from the mantel. He showed it to Shayne. “There he is. I still can’t place that mug, but… he’s wanted, Mike. I’ll swear to that.”
Shayne took the picture of Mrs. George Duclos and her brother, and studied it carefully in the glaring light of the neon sign.
Then he said grimly, “We’re not going to find him inside that bar, Tim.”
“How do you know we’re not? She says he and her husband came here after dinner for a beer… and as far as she knows he’s still here. If he’s left, we can maybe show the picture around and find out where he’s gone.”
Shayne shook his red head firmly and said, “It just happens I know where he is, Tim. Inside the trunk of the Duclos Ford… rolled up in a blanket I snitched from the Encanto Hotel.”
11
“For God’s sake, Mike! You sure about that?” Rourke turned to stare at his companion with glittering eyes in which the excitement of a few minutes ago was intensified.
“I ought to be sure. He and I were pretty intimate there for a few minutes. So he’s George Duclos’s brother- in-law,” Shayne said thoughtfully. “Let’s see where the hell that fits in. He was driving George’s Ford when he went to the Encanto…”
