Again Rourke shook his head violently.
“All right,” said Shayne, “even if you have decided I’m a complete heel and you won’t throw in with me- there’s no need for you to stay tied up like this. The whole thing will be over in a few hours-one way or another. All you have to do is give me your word you won’t interfere while I handle it my own way. I’ll untie you and we’ll have a drink together like a couple of rational human beings. Don’t be a sap,” he went on violently while Rourke continued to shake his head negatively. “You can’t do anything to stop me. It’s going to happen my way whether you like it or not. You might as well be comfortable while it’s happening.”
When Rourke’s headshaking became more rapid and determined, the detective sighed and got up. “All right. Go on and be a martyr. I’m going to have a drink-and some coffee.”
He examined the tape and cord on Rourke’s feet and hands, then went out of the bedroom without looking back at him. Daylight was streaming in the east window, making the electric light look yellow by comparison, giving the littered room an unhealthy appearance.
Shayne crossed to the table and emptied the cognac bottle into a glass. He tasted it and grimaced, walked to the window with the glass in his hand, and looked out over the mouth of the Miami River and Biscayne Bay.
The lush green of tropical shrubbery and the shimmery blue of placid bay water were as beautiful in the morning light as they had ever been, but Shayne found something repugnant in the scene he had hitherto admired. He took another sip of the evil-tasting liquor and fretfully wondered what was the matter with him. A feeling of revulsion and of craving was queerly blended inside him.
He had been content here in Miami for a good many years. Now, irrationally, he knew it could no longer be. It was not easy to analyze the sensation, quite impossible to justify it, but he recognized a recurrence of an inward urge that had kept him on the move during an adventurous past-an urge that was stronger than reason, that had kept him jumping from one job to another while he sought something that always eluded him.
He had believed that phase was ended after he settled down to a private practice in Miami-and after meeting Phyllis Brighton. Here was what he had been seeking, reason told him, a niche into which he fitted at last. His practice in Miami had given him the danger and action he had to have, with a sense of satisfaction each time a particularly difficult case was written off the books on the profit side.
Now he knew he had been a fool to think that his restlessness was a passing phase, to hope it could ever end for him. He had been determined that marriage should change him, but now he knew nothing could change him.
He moodily emptied his glass and found the taste of cognac good again. The round red rim of the sun was rising above the tiled rooftops of Miami Beach and the long night was ended.
He turned away from the window and went into the kitchen, drew a pot of hot water and put it on to boil, dumped a lot of coffee in the drip pot, and sauntered back into the living-room, consciously refraining from looking into the bedroom in order to avoid Tim Rourke’s accusing eyes.
He whistled a tuneless melody as he gathered up the empty liquor bottle and soiled glasses, emptied overflowing ash trays, setting the room in order for Phyllis’s return.
He heard the water boiling and went into the kitchen to pour it over the coffee in the dripolator. He took down an oversized china mug from a shelf and waited until the water gurgled through, then filled it to the brim with strong, clear coffee.
He settled himself in the living-room with the cup of coffee on the arm of his chair. All sense of unease had left him. He felt alert, yet emotionless. It wouldn’t be much longer. The blue chips were down and he had made his draw. He could do nothing except wait for the message that would mean the showdown had come.
He lit a cigarette and drank his coffee with complete enjoyment, his long frame relaxed and comfortable.
The mug was almost empty when the telephone rang. He went into the bedroom without haste, sat on the edge of the bed, and lifted the telephone without looking at Rourke. He said, “Shayne talking.”
A voice on the wire complained, “Why do you make things tough on yourself, shamus?”
Shayne said, “That’s the way I like things.”
“Well-on your wife, then? You can’t dig an extra grand. We trade even-or not at all.”
Shayne said, “Then we don’t trade.” He replaced the instrument and stood up. His only outward sign of strain was the sweat streaming from his furrowed forehead. He stalked into the living-room and picked up the empty mug, refilled it in the kitchen. The telephone rang again as he carried the full mug into the living-room.
He took time to set it down carefully, then answered the call. “Well?”
The same voice sounded less certain. “All right. I guess you know what that piece of cardboard is worth.”
“I have a fair idea-enough to know that a grand is damned little to ask.”
“Oke. You get Mrs. Shayne and one G. We get the piece of cardboard you lifted from Lacy.”
Shayne said, “Right. But before we do any more talking I’ve got to know that my wife is still in one piece. Put her on so she can tell me she’s all right.”
“I can’t do that, Shayne. Do you think I’d be fool enough to call you from where she is?”
“You’re more of a fool if you think I’ll make a deal without having her tell me herself that you bastards haven’t touched her.”
“I swear she’s all right.”
Shayne laughed harshly into the mouthpiece. “I’ll believe it when she tells me so.”
“But I haven’t got her here.”
“Then get her.” Shayne waited, the lines of strain deepening on his face.
After a long pause, he heard, “It’ll take ten or fifteen minutes.”
Shayne said, “I’ll be waiting,” and hung up. He went back to his coffee.
He smoked a cigarette and finished the second mug of coffee before the telephone rang again. He hurried in and snatched it up. Phyllis’s voice lilted over the wire.
“Darling-I’m all right. They treated me fine.”
“I suppose you’re talking with a gun in your back,” Shayne growled. “Just answer yes if you’re lying to me.”
She said, “No,” promptly. “Everything’s all right, but I feel terrible about them coercing you by threatening me. Don’t do anything-”
Her voice was cut off sharply. In a moment the original speaker asked, “Are you satisfied?”
“That was all I wanted to hear. Now the only thing is to arrange how the exchange is to be made.”
“Right.”
“As soon as you deliver Phyllis here safely, you can have what you want.”
His suggestion was met with derisive laughter. “I’d be a sucker to fall for that.”
“And I,” said Shayne, “would be a sucker to let go of it before my wife is home safely.”
“Neither of us is going to trust the other,” the voice on the wire agreed. “So, we meet some place. Me with your wife and you with your end. That’s the only way to do it.”
“And you with your two gunsels,” Shayne scoffed. “No soap, Gorstmann.”
“What did you call me?”
“Your name. The one you’re using here in Miami, at any rate.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Hell,” said Shayne wearily, “we’re wasting a lot of time talking in circles. Here’s the way it’s going to be. You set a time when you can deliver Phyl here to the apartment. I’ll leave here fifteen minutes before the time you say-”
“With the piece of cardboard?” Gorstmann asked.
“Yes. It’ll be in my pocket. But I’ll be in the open with lots of people around and it won’t be healthy for you to get any funny ideas about taking it off me.”
He paused for a moment, then went on persuasively. “Suppose I go down to the F.E.C. depot? That’ll be handy for you after I turn the piece of claim check over to you. I’ll leave a note in the apartment for Phyl giving her the number of one of the station pay telephones. I’ll be waiting at that booth, and the moment she phones to say she’s here, safe, with one grand in hand-then I’ll hand over what you want. You can have me covered while I wait at the depot for her call.”
“That’s giving you all the breaks. How do I know you’ll come across after she calls?”
