Helen Porter was an untidy housekeeper. The kitchen sink was littered with dishes, the drainboard piled with apple and orange peelings, and an ice tray was sitting out, the unused cubes partially melted. The gin and the uncorked bottle of mixer sat side by side on the small electric stove.
Shayne rinsed out the two glasses, looked around for a jigger to measure the gin, but found none. A small cheese glass with part of the original paper around it that read Roquefort was beside the bottle. It smelled of gin. That explained why his drink had tasted more ginny than Tom Collinsy.
He started methodically mixing the drinks, his mind preoccupied with Painter and the dead girl. When he finished, he took the tall frosted glasses into the living-room, set them on the table, and made himself comfortable on the couch.
Madge Rankin was a blonde. There were too damned many blondes popping up in the case, he thought dispiritedly. The one Rourke had ridden so hard in his last newspaper story; the one who visited his apartment Tuesday afternoon; Mrs. Walter Bronson, who, according to Minerva, was interested in Rourke. And now a dead blonde in the bedroom next door.
Madge Rankin could hardly have been Rourke’s afternoon visitor. Her letter to him had been postmarked 5:00 p.m. on Tuesday. It was not reasonable to suppose that Madge was the gun-toting blonde, unless she had decided to sell out her confederates in the murder racket.
There were two sets of fingerprints in Rourke’s apartment. One of them was evidently left by his afternoon visitor; the other by whom? Madge? Suppose that after mailing her letter she became impatient-or afraid-and went around to see him?
There were a hell of a lot of things, Shayne told himself morosely, that he didn’t know about the case. He mentally cursed Mr. Henty’s suspicious mind and his habit of eavesdropping over the telephone. If he had had a little time to look over the murder setup in 614, check Madge’s possessions-get her fingerprints-
Helen’s entrance interrupted his thoughts. She was alone. Her face was damp and grayish, as though she might be on the verge of nausea. Her eyes were dull amber slits between her black lashes, and her mouth was twisted with anger or extreme distaste.
She went hastily to the table and snatched up one of the glasses. “God! I need that,” she said. “I hope you weren’t too easy on the gin.”
“Was it pretty bad?” Shayne asked gently.
She drank half the contents of the glass, shuddered, and said, “Horrible. It’s the first time I ever saw a-a dead person. It gave me the creeps. Poor Madge-lying there like that.” She sat down beside Shayne. “Madge was always so full of fun. She used to say what was the use of living if you couldn’t have fun, and believe me she did.”
Shayne said, “Try to forget about her.”
“I’ll be a long time forgetting her. What gets me is thinking she was in there like that since Tuesday night- that little sawed-off cop says-and me thinking-”
“You couldn’t have helped her,” Shayne said harshly. “The only thing you can do now is help get whoever did it.”
“Yes-that’s right,” she said slowly. She turned to look at Shayne. “There are lots of things I don’t want to tell the cops. Things that might help.”
Shayne said, “You can tell me.”
“Maybe I can. How do you figure in it?”
“You saw that note before you tore it up. The way I traced her here.”
Helen nodded, watching his face with calculating eyes.
“Did you notice whom it was addressed to?” Shayne asked.
“No. I was too excited, I guess.”
“To Timothy Rourke.”
“That newspaper reporter?” Comprehension flashed over Helen’s face. “The one that got shot Tuesday night? After he wrote up those murders and the blonde and the gambling joints?”
“That’s the one,” Shayne told her soberly. “Tim Rourke was my best friend. That’s why I hurried here as soon as I heard he’d been wounded.”
Helen’s eyes widened. “That note! Madge told him she had some information for his paper. Do you think that was why she was murdered?”
“Until we get a better motive we can guess that’s why she was killed. Drink up, and I’ll fix you another one.
Helen emptied her glass. Her eyes were shrewd and probing. “The cops don’t know about that letter. They’ll go around in circles looking for a motive.”
“Painter would go around in circles anyhow,” Shayne told her. “He always has. My God-look at the facts. There’ve been three murders in a week and what did he do about them? Rourke had to dig up all the facts to prod him into action.”
Helen said slowly, “Maybe you’re on the level-but I don’t know.”
Shayne said, looking steadily into her eyes, “You’d better make up your mind in a hurry, Helen. Painter is coming back to ask me a few more questions.”
“I-don’t know,” she breathed, twisting her empty glass in her hands. “If I tell them I tore up that letter.”
Shayne’s deeply trenched face looked harried and tired. “You don’t have to tell them. I’ll say I tore it up.” He hesitated briefly, then said angrily, “If you don’t trust me I don’t want you to go on with this. You don’t have to. Tell them I threatened you, forced you to play along with me. That I was holding a gun on you all the time. You can clear yourself that way. I’ve got a gun I could have held on you.”
“What’ll they do to you if I tell them?” she asked.
“Not much. Painter will throw an obstruction of justice charge at me and lock me up, but it won’t stick. I’ll be out in a couple of weeks-after Madge’s murderer has had time to make a clean getaway.”
“Why are you-making it easy for me to give you away?” she asked in a troubled voice.
“Because I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret later. I never ask favors. You’ve got to be sure you’re doing it because you believe me and want to.”
She turned to him and her eyes held a metallic glint as she put a palm on each side of his gaunt cheeks. She pulled his face toward her and pressed her mouth against his. Then she smiled and said, “I’d like to play it your way, Mike.”
The doorbell rang. She picked up her glass and went to the kitchen, saying, “You answer it. It’s probably your friend, the chief.”
Shayne went to the door and let Painter in. His eyes darted around the room and he asked, “Where is she?”
“Helen? She’s out in the kitchen mixing herself a love potion.” Shayne went back to the couch, sat down, and crossed his long legs. “Have a seat,” he invited.
Painter sat down on the edge of a chair across from the couch. “What are you doing in Miami, Shayne?” he asked bluntly.
“The same thing I used to do before I left-solving your murder cases for you.”
Painter’s teeth ground audibly. Helen came in with a fresh drink and sat down beside Shayne.
“When did you reach Miami?” Painter queried.
“On the six-thirty train. I left New Orleans as soon as I heard about Tim.”
“Very touching,” Painter grated. “What have you been doing since six-thirty?”
“Nosing around-Talking to a few people.”
“Where? And to whom?” Painter took out his pencil and notebook.
Shayne grinned and said, “If I disclosed my methods you might learn as much about detecting as I know.”
“I can arrest you for stealing Rourke’s mail and breaking into his apartment,” said Painter, infuriated. “That’s a Federal offense.”
“For carrying his mail up to his room and leaving it there?” Shayne asked incredulously.
“I’ve had a report on that. There are only two letters in Rourke’s room. Where’s the third one you took out of his box?”
