limply and blood oozed from the red spot.
Helen pulled the trigger a third time as Shayne reached her. The hammer clicked on an empty cylinder.
Shayne grabbed the short barrel of the gun and wrested it from her fingers. Her eyes were distended like those of a sleepwalker. Her body remained rigidly erect.
Shayne dropped the revolver on the floor and gave her a shove into the bedroom. He turned and looked down at Morgan. The escaped convict lay on the floor, very still. There was that look of dismay, of reproach, congealed in his open eyes.
Helen ran from the bedroom and flung herself upon Shayne, clinging to him. He fended her off as she sobbed convulsively, “I had to. Oh, my God, he’s dead, isn’t he? I had to do it. He would have killed us both.”
Shayne grabbed the girl’s shoulders and shook her violently, then let go with one hand and slapped her. She jerked back, her eyes screwed up, peering at him like a frightened animal.
Through set teeth, Shayne pounded at her, “There’s no time for talk. The cops will be here any minute. We can’t get rid of him.”
“I don’t care. Let the cops come. I had to do it. I’ll plead self-defense. They can see he was armed. You saw him coming at me with his gun. You can swear he would have killed us both.”
“That’s fine. That’s wonderful. Self-defense. Sure.” Shayne laughed bitterly. “Headlines! Wife Kills Enraged Husband Who Breaks Up Love Tryst. You in a nightgown! God in heaven, why didn’t you stay in there and keep your mouth shut?”
“I recognized Mace’s voice. I knew he must have trailed me here. I was trying to save you.” Helen’s voice was humble. She pressed against Shayne again, shivering. “Don’t you worry. I’ll tell the cops-”
“You’ll tell them nothing,” he raged. “The truth would be the worst damn thing that could happen. You’ve got to hide-and stay hidden.” He shoved her into the bedroom again and toward the clothes closet near the door. “Get inside and close the door.”
“There’s no need for you to take the blame,” she cried wildly. “I’m willing to-”
A knock sounded on the living-room door.
“Shut up,” Shayne whispered fiercely, and shoved her inside among the hanging garments. He closed the closet door quietly, then went out, closing the bedroom door behind him.
There was a heavier, more impatient knock from outside. He stooped and picked up the. 22 revolver by the trigger guard, let it dangle carelessly from his forefinger as he went to the door.
He opened it and stepped aside to admit Will Gentry and Pearson. Will Gentry stopped after four steps, looked down at Mace Morgan’s body, then turned to Shayne, and said:
“Well, I see you got rid of your visitor, Mike.”
Shayne chuckled mirthlessly. “Yeh. You’re just in time to take charge of the body for me, Will.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Pearson nodded to Shayne when Gentry said he thought they had met before, then stood quietly with arms folded and let Gentry take the lead. Pearson’s air of unruffled competence remained despite the ugly swelling on his jaw where Shayne’s fist had connected. A thoughtfully furrowed forehead was Pearson’s only outward reaction to the presence of the dead man.
“Isn’t this pushing your luck a little bit?” Gentry queried in a deceptively mild tone.
Before Shayne could answer Gentry’s thrust, a rush of footsteps came from down the hall. The redhead swung on his heel and glowered uninvitingly as Tim Rourke hurried through the open door. Lean and swivel-hipped, a reporter for the Miami News and an old friend of Shayne’s, Rourke had profited by many scoops in the past by following the detective’s cases.
Rourke grinned, unabashed by Shayne’s manifest displeasure at his presence. He said, “I figured it was a hot tip when they told me down at the station-” He broke off as his gaze strayed past Gentry and Pearson to the corpse.
“Looks like another birdie. What’s par for this course, Mike? And with a little toy pistol, at that.”
Shayne didn’t say anything. Helen’s small weapon still hung carelessly by the trigger guard from his forefinger.
Gentry thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets and, chewing solemnly on a fat cigar, strolled forward to survey the dead man. He shook his head and said, “I hope you’re not going to feed us another story about this one just wandering in and dropping dead, too, Mike.”
Shayne’s upper lip twitched. He said, “You’ll get the truth-as you always have, Will. Here’s the gun that killed him. You should have heard the shots while you were coming up. He came in asking for it,” he went on explosively. “I tried to stall him until you got here, but you can see by that gun in his hand that it was self-defense.”
Will Gentry sighed and stepped back from the body. He held out his hand and took the small revolver from Shayne by its two-inch barrel. He frowned at it. “A twenty-two, Mike. Where did you get this relic? They haven’t manufactured these since the Civil War.”
Shayne said, “I picked it up somewhere for Phyl. In my business you never can tell when she’ll need one. You know I never carry a rod. But it was lucky that thing was around here when he started throwing his weight around.”
From long habit as a homicide man, Gentry got out a handkerchief and folded the obsolete weapon in it so the fingerprints would not be spoiled. Shayne laughed shortly and protested, “You’ve got me cold, Will. I’m not going to deny I blasted him.”
Gentry shrugged and slid the gun in his pocket. “Two in one day is more than even your rep will stand, Mike. You’d better start coming clean.”
“What do you mean-two in one day?” Shayne demanded hotly. “You know damn well Lacy was a dead man when he reached my office.”
“But it looked bad,” Gentry complained. “Hell, we’ll have to set up a private shuttle system between your place and the morgue if this keeps up.” He sank into a chair and added, “Pour me a drink.”
Shayne went to the cabinet. With his hand on a glass he turned inquiringly to Rourke and Pearson. “Either of you join us?”
Pearson shook his head. There was a speculative light in his calm gray eyes, as though his thoughts were remote, totally withdrawn from the actual scene before him. He had not moved or spoken since entering the apartment.
Rourke nodded fervently and said, “Lord, yes. I can do with a stimulant, Mike.”
Shayne poured two drinks and handed them to Gentry and the reporter. He faced Pearson and hesitated, then said, “I suppose I should be sorry for what happened over in Lacy’s hotel room. If you’d told me who you were first-”
Pearson inclined his head soberly. “I quite understand that you’re the impulsive type, Shayne. That’s behind us now. No real harm done,” he ended genially.
In a wondering tone, Shayne said, “Hell, you’re not a bad guy after all.” He sat down near Gentry and asked, “Are we going to turn this into a wake?”
Gentry rumbled, “You’d better give out on this killing before we start anything else. I’ve got to decide what the charges are to be.”
Shayne snorted. “Charges? When a fugitive from the pen breaks into a man’s home and flashes a gat, hasn’t the householder a perfect right to protect himself?”
“A fugitive?” Gentry raised grizzled brows.
Shayne gestured toward the dead man. “His name is Mace Morgan. Recently escaped from the New York pen. I don’t know any more about it than you do,” he went on angrily. “He pushed in here and raved about me turning over something he seemed to think I’d got from Jim Lacy this afternoon. When I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about, he pulled that gun and threatened me. Well,” Shayne shrugged wide shoulders, covertly watching Pearson, “there he lies.”
Gentry’s heavy features became less morose. “An escaped con? Why didn’t you say so? I guess that puts you in the clear this time.”
