the sort of thing Pearson is trying to run down.” He hesitated, then asked awkwardly, “What’s the real dope on your tie-up with it? What was Morgan’s wife doing here-in a nightgown?”
Shayne grimaced. “That was her idea. She was trying to talk me into doing something I didn’t like, and she had an idea she could be a lot more persuasive in bed.”
“What was she after, Mike?”
The bedroom door opened behind Shayne. He pretended not to notice Helen’s entrance. “She wanted me to get rid of her husband for her.”
Rourke choked over his drink. He rounded his eyes at Helen. “I don’t get it,” he ejaculated.
“That was before I’d heard Pearson’s story on the FBI angle,” Shayne explained. “She was here when Gentry phoned and I told her to get into the bedroom and stay out of sight.” He continued to ignore Helen, went on as though he didn’t know she was listening.
“When she undressed and got in bed I thought maybe it was a simple symptom of nymphomania. Now, I don’t know. The way Morgan turned up on the dot and caught her looks as though she might have planned it that way. It certainly worked if she did plan it. Morgan’s dead-and I’m officially marked down as his killer. She’s rid of her husband-and in the clear.”
“You beast! To even think such things!” Helen took a long step to the side of his chair and spat out the words. Her hands were curved into claws, long nails reaching for his face.
Shayne laughed shortly and caught both her wrists in one big hand. “Don’t waste time pretending to be shocked. You could have planned it that way. You wanted Mace out of the way badly enough.”
She struggled to free herself, sobbing with rage. He gave her a shove that sent her reeling back, and remarked to Rourke, “I’m always suspicious of a floozie who crawls into a man’s bed without an invitation.”
Rourke nodded. He said, “We’re wasting time. We ought to turn her over to Gentry and Pearson. They’ll sweat the truth out of her.”
Shayne said, “Sure. Let’s take her down to headquarters. We’ll think up a story about how we managed to get hold of her so fast. Just say she came here looking for Mace. That’ll sound okay.”
“What about her? If she tells them the truth-”
“That’s the last thing she will tell,” Shayne said scornfully. “With Mace dead-”
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. He got up and opened it to admit a uniformed Western Union messenger. The lad asked, “Mr. Shayne?” looking from him to Rourke.
The redhead said, “I’m Shayne.” He took a plain white envelope from the boy’s hand. He got between the boy and the door as he ripped the envelope open and took out a folded sheet of paper.
The message was typed. There was no salutation or signature. It said:
We’ve got your wife where we want her. We’ll trade for the strip of cardboard she says you got from Jim Lacy. We’re not fooling and you’d better not if you want to see her alive again. Put a personal ad in the morning HERALD saying “Okay. M.S.” and you’ll hear from us again.
Shayne read the message without change of expression. He caught the messenger’s arm and demanded, “Where did you get this?”
“Fellow stopped me on Flagler. Gave me a buck to bring it up to this here apartment.”
“What did he look like?”
“I didn’t even get a good look at him,” the lad said, frightened by Shayne’s harsh interrogation. “He was inside the arcade where it was dark and he called to me as I was passing by.”
Shayne let go of his arm and stood aside. The boy went away.
Shayne closed the door and stood staring at it, the typewritten threat hanging lax in his fingers. Rourke came over and took the paper from his fingers while Shayne went on gazing at the door, staring fixedly, as though he were seeing through and far beyond the wooden barrier.
Rourke read the note and whistled shrilly. He crumpled it in his hand and began cursing Shayne in a low tone of fury.
Shayne turned his head and looked at Rourke as if he looked at a complete stranger.
Rourke panted, “This washes you up, Mike. You lied from the beginning. You’ve got Lacy’s piece of the claim check.”
Shayne nodded and said dully, “Yeh, I’ve got it.”
Rourke stood before him on wide-spread legs. “I’m not going to dirty my mouth with what I think of you,” he told the detective bitterly. “Get out of my way. I don’t want to be defiled by touching you as I go out.”
Shayne lifted shaggy red eyebrows. “Aren’t you being a trifle melodramatic?”
“Melodramatic?” Rourke’s voice trembled. “You’d play ball with the devil himself if you smelled a cent of profit in the transaction. I’m through listening to your lies. Get out of my way.”
Shayne didn’t move from the door. He asked, “Where are you going?”
“To Pearson.”
Shayne wet his lips. “Did you read that note?”
“I read it.”
“Do you realize what it means? They’ve got Phyllis.”
“And you’ve got the one piece of cardboard that’s between a foreign spy ring and the plans of an important American military secret.”
Shayne nodded. “I’ve got what they have to have. It’s my only ace. Phyllis will be safe as long as I keep it. If you tell Pearson and I’m forced to give it up-” Shayne left the rest of the sentence unsaid.
Rourke was breathing hard. He said, “Phyllis wouldn’t want to pay that price to keep on living. She’d hate you forever, Mike, if you bargained with those rats.”
Shayne said, “You don’t know what you’re saying, Tim. We’re talking about Phyllis. My wife.”
“She’s one woman,” Rourke told him quietly. “One woman who happens to be married to you. Other wives are dying tonight. All over the world. Being blown to bits by bombs. The husbands and the sons of other women are dying by thousands. If you think Phyl would appreciate-”
“I’m not thinking about Phyl,” Shayne interrupted gruffly. “I’m thinking about myself.”
Rourke’s lip curled upward. “Get out of my way.”
Shayne stood solidly in front of the door. “Can’t I say anything to change your mind?”
“Nothing. I’ve heard enough lies. I wouldn’t be able to believe a word you said now. I’m going to Pearson.”
Shayne said, “I’m sorry, Tim.” He sighed and stepped aside. “If you won’t listen to reason-”
Rourke said, “None of your reasons interest me.” He started through the door.
Shayne swung his right fist in a looping uppercut. It struck the point of Rourke’s chin. The reporter tottered backward and went down to the floor.
Shayne stepped over him and went into the bedroom. He called the want-ad desk of the Miami Herald and ordered a personal advertisement inserted in the morning paper: Okay. Plus one grand. M.S.
He came back to the living-room and poured a drink. He did not look at Helen or at the unconscious figure of Timothy Rourke lying in front of the door.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Helen started to speak, but he shut her up with an angry, “You got me into this mess. Keep your mouth shut while I think my way out.”
She bit her lip and subsided into silence. Shayne sat without moving for a long time, then sighed and took Murphy’s second telegram from his pocket. He smoothed it out and read it again, seeking some new significance in the light of the story he had just heard from Pearson.
Pearson hadn’t mentioned that Jim Lacy was the victim in the holdup that had sent Mace Morgan to prison. Perhaps he didn’t know-or thought it an unimportant detail.
But it seemed terrifically important to Shayne. If Lacy and Morgan had worked together stealing a government secret only a couple of days before the robbery-why had Morgan turned on his partner immediately afterward?
