He scrambled out and reappeared between the cars, walking squishily. “I suppose you want me to unwrap it for you.”
“Please,” Shayne said, grinning. “No reason why both of us should get muddy.”
Rourke tore off the wrappings and handed his friend a reel of tape. Then he took off his shoes, smelled one, and tossed them over his shoulder.
“I needed a new pair anyway.”
“Get the recorder. I’ve got an outlet on my dashboard, if it works.”
Rourke watched critically as he opened the door and got out. “Hell, you’re in great shape. You could have done your own diving.”
The Buick’s front seat had been slashed repeatedly. Shayne found his key and turned the ignition switch, and was rewarded by a quick glow of the generator light. Rourke plugged in the recorder and set it on the shelf over the dashboard. When he pressed a button the reels began to revolve.
“What do you know?”
He clapped the tape into place. There was a soft whirr, and a man’s voice began to speak. It was thin and faltering, and at times fell off to a whisper.
“My name is Dennis O’Toole. I live at 2909 Waverly Street in this city. Employed at Winslow Mills, twenty-one years on the looms, last five years watchman in main plant.”
Another voice-Shayne recognized De Rham-said quietly, “Can you tell me how the fire started?”
“All my fault. I take the entire blame.”
“Your fault in what way, Dennis? Did you set it?”
“Mother of God! Why would I do such a terrible thing? No, I was intoxicated. Too drunk to pull the alarm.”
“You were drunk and didn’t turn in an alarm.”
“A pint of whiskey in my locker.”
A long pause followed, and De Rham prompted, “You’re saying that a pint of whiskey appeared in your locker? Are you sure you didn’t bring it in yourself?”
“Never. Because I know my weakness. I never leave a drop of whiskey in a bottle. But there it was, and I swear by the Blessed Virgin I don’t know how it got there. I drank it and went to sleep.”
“Where, Dennis?”
“Sleep overtook me in the office.”
“I see. Now what we’re trying to establish is the origin of the fire. You understand that. What woke you?”
“Dreams. I smelled-”
“You smelled smoke?”
“Smoke, chemical stink. All around. There was smoke on the stairs. I couldn’t get my breath. Broke window. Saw-”
“What did you see? Tell me what you saw. You say you broke the window and you looked out
“Man running.”
“A man?” The voice sounded disappointed. “Think, Dennis. Are you sure it was a man?”
A long pause.
“In a funny hat. In the car, a woman.”
“You saw a woman?” De Rham’s voice said quickly. “Can you describe her for me?”
“A red dress. Dark glasses.”
“She was wearing a red dress. Dark glasses. What kind of car?”
“White convertible. I think an Olds.”
“Where was the man running from?”
“The side gate.”
“You said he was wearing a funny hat. What do you mean by that?”
“Well-a striped band.”
“Can we come back to the woman again, Dennis? What color hair did she have?”
Silence.
“Dennis, I have a photograph here. Can you tell me if this is the woman you saw in the car? — Dennis, if you’ll just look at this picture for a minute I’ll call the Sister. Dennis.”
From that point on the tape whirred softly until Rourke turned it off.
“And that’s what I pawed through the mud to get? A pint of whiskey in a locker, a funny hat, a woman in a red dress-” The expression on Shayne’s face stopped him. “What’s the matter?”
“Everything’s the goddamn matter,” Shayne said through set teeth. “And I’m supposed to be a hard man to fool!” He bit off a savage obscenity. “It’s so obvious I ought to have my license revoked.”
“Mike, you’re grinding your teeth. That can’t be good for you. Remember you’ve just been unconscious.”
“I’ve been unconscious most of the day,” Shayne snapped. “There still may be time if we hurry.”
“Don’t bother to explain, I’m only the chauffeur. Just give me directions.”
Shayne got out of the car too fast, and realized abruptly that he was still a long way from normal. The street tilted and shifted and almost threw him. His ears rang. He steadied himself against the Buick, and a moment passed before he understood that the ringing sound he heard came from somewhere in the wrecked interior of his car.
He hesitated, but there was no time to waste.
“Want me to answer it?” Rourke asked.
“No. I’m lying in a hallway with my skull cracked. Let’s leave it at that.”
Rourke grabbed the tape recorder and beat Shayne to the Ford. He had the motor running by the time the detective climbed in.
“Which way?”
“The Beach,” Shayne growled. “When are you going to get a decent car?”
“There’s nothing wrong with this car.” The transmission howled. He shot across a stop street without slowing down. “Fasten your seat belt. I’ll give you a ride you’ll remember.”
There was no seat belt to fasten. Shayne was scraping his chin, watching the speedometer. When the needle hit fifty Rourke came down into high.
“You know me, Mike. I hardly ever complain. We’re the only news outfit in town that had live coverage of the hippy riot, so thanks, pal. I wish I knew how it started.” He glanced across at Shayne. “People said some big ugly redhead thought the music was too loud and started throwing guitarists off the platform. Don’t tell me where we’re going. One story every twenty-four hours is all I deserve.”
Shayne’s face was bleak and hard. The muscles knotted and unknotted at the hinge of his jaws.
“You know talking’s supposed to relieve the mind,” Rourke said.
Shayne shook his head shortly. He still had too many connections to work out. He rapped his fist against his injured knee. The pain helped.
A cab appeared in front of them and Rourke touched his brake. The brakes grabbed, throwing the Ford into a hard swerve. He yanked at the wheel and managed to avoid both the cab and the parked cars.
“I’ve been meaning to get a brake job.”
“Pick it up, pick it up. You can go faster than this.”
Even at slower speeds, Rourke always drove as though he thought he was competing for the Grand Prix. He sawed at the wheel, his ungainly body jackknifed forward in a tense crouch, eyes flickering from the road ahead to the dials.
“Only one trouble,” he said. “Above sixty she gets this shimmy. At sixty-two we’re O.K. At sixty-three you get the feeling the front wheels are about to fly off. I’d hate to have that happen.”
The Ford rocked violently as he whirled onto Eighth Street. If there had been any traffic coming the opposite way he would have contributed several fatalities to the highway statistics for that day.
“Of course I could get sulky and drop you at a cab stand,” he said. “Everybody thinks I like staying up all night. When I was younger I thought it was romantic, but not any more. I’m human. That’s what people tend to forget.”
“Will you cork it for a minute, Tim? I’ll tell you about it as soon as I can check a few things. I could be
