drawer and I slipped it out and hid it in my purse. Don’t be angry with me.” She moved close to him and caught his arm, her violet eyes appealing to him, her red lips pouted. “It was just a precaution for your sake. I never saw Walter so angry.”
Rourke laughed shortly, dropped the automatic back in her purse, and tossed it on the chair. “I didn’t know you cared.”
“Don’t say that, darling. You do know I care. I’ve been attracted to you ever since that first day when you walked into Walter’s office and I knew why God sent us to Miami.”
Rourke patted her shoulder and muttered, “I’m not in very good shape tonight.” He went over to the couch and sat down heavily.
Muriel Bronson sat down in the chair Betty had occupied an hour or so before. She lit a cigarette, put the match in an ash tray, picked up the small glass from which Betty had drunk. She said, “I see lipstick on this glass. Why don’t you offer me a drink? I suppose,” she continued jealously, “you got her drunk, made love to her, and she decided not to shoot you? Who was she?” There was a feline glint in the depths of her dark eyes.
“I don’t know,” Tim snapped. He picked up the bottle, of whisky, took it over, and set it on the table. “Here, I’ll get a clean glass from the kitchen.” He took the soiled glass with him.
“You’re lying, Tim,” she flung at him through the archway.
When he brought the fresh glass back he poured a drink in it, and said, “How about a cigarette?” She gave him one. He took it with him to the couch, lit it, and said, “Let’s have it, Muriel. Why did you come here tonight?”
“To see you, darling.”
Rourke made an impatient gesture. “You haven’t seen me for weeks. Why the sudden urge tonight?”
“I’ve already told you,” she said stubbornly.
“So you dashed over here,” he said harshly, “with your husband’s gun to protect me from him. Good Lord, do you think it’ll help matters any if he comes and finds you here?”
“I told you he didn’t know your address,” she insisted.
“Then why were you worried?”
“For fear you might go to the office. That’s where Walter has gone.”
“You could have telephoned me.”
“I wanted to see you.” Her voice was soft and persuasive. She finished her drink, poured another, and went over to sit beside him on the couch. “Why don’t you take a drink with me? You did with her. Don’t you care for me any more?” She ran her fingers through his thick hair at the back of his neck.
“We haven’t seen each other for over four weeks. You’ve probably had three other men since I saw you.”
“That’s a lie.” She kept her voice softly good-natured. “There hasn’t been anyone else since you and I met. You’re the one who-”
“Let’s not kid each other,” Rourke told her brutally. “That’s finished. It was swell while it lasted. Let’s not ruin it now by trying to blow on some dead embers.”
“You’ve been hurt and you’re tired and in a belligerent mood. Why don’t you relax?” She drew his head down to rest on her shoulder. “Why do you insist on attacking windmills?”
Rourke resisted the pressure of her hand, the persuasiveness of her voice, the exotic perfume. “Meaning my campaign against the gambling racketeers and murder?”
“Meaning the way you keep Walter upset all the time. Why can’t you let such things alone? Solving crimes is for the police.”
Rourke straightened up and said, “So Walter sent you here to persuade me.”
Muriel laughed lightly. “Goodness, no. He doesn’t know I even know you.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Rourke growled. “The way you look at me when you come in the office-”
“He doesn’t notice how I look at men,” she scoffed. “He hasn’t noticed for years. But I think if you’d give it up and apologize to Walter for the trick you played on him today, he’d forgive you and give you your job back.”
“There are plenty of other jobs.”
“But not in Miami, Tim. He said this afternoon he’d fix it so you couldn’t go to work on any paper in Miami.” She pressed close to him and whispered, “Oh, Tim, I couldn’t stand it if you had to leave-”
“Nuts. I told you it was all ended.”
“I know you told me. But I don’t believe it unless-kiss me, Tim, darling, and then tell me it’s over.”
Rourke kept his face turned straight ahead. “It won’t work, Muriel. It’s dead.”
“Promise me you’ll give up your silly one-man reform campaign and go back to work for Walter.”
He asked coldly, “What’s the matter? Will it cramp your style if I force the gambling joints to close? I hear you’ve been giving some of Brenner’s games a play.”
“So I have,” she admitted calmly. “Yes, if you want to know the truth. I need a chance to win back some of the money I’ve lost. I’ve just hit a winning streak and now you want to close them up.”
He turned to scowl at her. “How deeply are you in?”
“Awfully deep,” she confessed with a sigh. “Walter doesn’t know yet. He’d be terribly angry if he did. He won’t have to know if I could just have a few more good nights.”
Rourke said, “You’re like all the others. For God’s sake get wise to yourself. If you read my story this afternoon you know what happens to people who win at Brenner’s clubs.”
“Those were all men,” she reminded him. “I’m not going to let a blond gunwoman entice me out into a car on a deserted street to be killed and robbed.”
“But you mightn’t put up such a struggle against a blond gunman.”
“Do you suspect who the murderer is?”
It seemed to Rourke there was suppressed alarm in her voice. He looked at her quickly, but her facial expression told him nothing. He said, “I’ve got a pretty good hunch. I’m not stopping until the joints are closed down and those rats run out of town.” All at once he felt tired and defeated. He remembered he hadn’t eaten any lunch. He muttered, “You’d better go, Muriel. I’m going to fix myself something to eat and go to bed.”
“Haven’t you had your dinner?”
“Nor any lunch either.”
“You poor darling. You must be starved.” She jumped up quickly and said, “Settle back and rest while I raid the refrigerator and fix something.”
“There’s nothing but bacon and eggs-and some stale bread.”
“I’ll fix that. With a pot of coffee.”
Rourke sent a scowl after her as she disappeared into the kitchenette. Muriel had become an enigma during the short period of her visit. First, making love to him; then violent jealousy; showing alarm over his supposed knowledge of the murderer, and now maternally solicitous of his well-being.
He let his head rest against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Despite his stubborn intentions, he caught himself drowsily thinking that she was intrinsically a pretty swell person. Under other circumstances, married to another man, Muriel could certainly have been a happy and contented wife. It wasn’t her fault that she had the soul of a courtesan. She had a curious lack of morals that was attractively simple and childlike.
Lazily, he turned to an analysis of himself. How much of his crusading fervor was attributable to genuine indignation, and how much to other factors? Such as his dislike for Walter Bronson and a desire to put something over on him? What about his dislike of Peter Painter? Did that date back to the times when Mike Shayne ferreted out killers under Painter’s incapable nose and turned over front-page stories to him for a scoop? Was his desire to stir up a stink merely to give him a feeling of importance?
Hell, if a man went honestly digging into his own soul for motives he was likely to come up with some pretty painful results.
He could smell the rich aroma of coffee from the kitchen and hear the sizzle of frying bacon. He let himself relax and stop thinking altogether. He was hungry as a bitch suckling 16 pups, and it was pleasant to have a beautiful woman in the kitchen preparing food for him.
He was half-asleep when Muriel called cheerfully, “Come and get it,” from the breakfast nook. She had a big plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, delicately browned buttered toast, and a cup of strong coffee ready for him, with only a cup of black coffee for herself. She looked youthful and attractive as she sat across the small table from
