Shayne exclaimed, “Sergeant Jorgensen.”
The young officer stepped back and gave a snappy salute before saying cordially, “Mike Shayne-welcome home. The chief sent me down to meet you. How does it feel to be back in God’s country?”
“Plenty good.” Shayne fell into step with the sergeant toward a prowl car parked beyond the waiting taxis. “How’s Tim Rourke?”
Jorgensen’s face was grave. “Not so good, I guess. I haven’t heard since noon. He was holding his own then.” He opened the door for Shayne, slammed it shut, and went around to get under the wheel. “We’re stymied on it with Painter in charge.”
“Still strutting like a damned peacock and getting nowhere, eh?” Shayne’s voice was bitter.
“Still keeps his nails manicured,” said Jorgensen sourly, “but I’m wondering if he’s keeping his hands clean, Shayne. There’ve been some pretty rotten deals over on the Beach lately.” He started the motor and as they drove away he added, “Painter’s not a bad dick when he wants to be. I guess he’s really doing his best on this case. I’ve an idea pressure is being put on him from all sides nowadays.”
“He never liked Rourke,” Shayne reminded him grimly.
“No. Tim used to get in his hair plenty. You and Tim both,” Jorgensen added with a chuckle.
“No arrests yet?” There was sharp concern in Shayne’s voice.
“Nope. The field’s wide open.” Jorgensen turned east on Flagler Street. “All of us on this side of the bay will be pulling for you.”
Shayne sat slouched in the seat staring out at the familiar scenes he had not seen for nearly two years. He said gruffly, “Thanks-I know,” in answer to the sergeant’s offer.
Memories, fleeting and queerly hurting memories, tugged at him as they rode down Flagler toward police headquarters. Nothing had changed. Miami was still the Magic City. It might have been yesterday that he and Rourke had chased a disappearing corpse around Miami’s streets.
Sergeant Jorgensen made a sharp turn to the right and pulled up in front of police headquarters. “The chief’s waiting for you in the same old office.”
“Thanks, Jorg. See you around.” He got out and circled the car and went in a side door. The dreary hallway heading to Gentry’s office retained its remembered odor, and the door was hospitably ajar as it had always been.
Chief Will Gentry sat behind the same scarred oak desk, and Shayne received an immediate and fleeting impression that he was chewing on the same black cigar that had been in his mouth the last time he saw him. At least, it smelled the same. Gentry’s face looked a little heavier, a little more florid, but the twinkle in his eyes was the same, his handshake as firm as ever.
Gentry rumbled, “It’s good to see you again, Mike, though I don’t like the way we had to bring you back to Miami.” He chuckled and added, “Anyway, I’m glad it’s Painter’s hair you’re getting into instead of mine.”
Shayne grinned, then sobered, and asked, “How’s Tim?”
“I just checked with Dr. Fairweather at the Flagler Hospital. Tim’s holding his own, Mike.”
“Bad?” Shayne lowered one hip to the desk corner and lit a cigarette.
“Plenty bad.” Gentry sank back in his swivel chair and purled on his cigar. “A thirty-two slug struck close to his heart and another one drilled a lung. Anybody but a black Irishman would be dead.”
“What’s being done for him?”
“Transfusions and injections. He’s in a coma-hasn’t regained consciousness at all. Dr. Fairweather assured me everything was being done, but he didn’t offer much hope, Mike,” Gentry ended solemnly.
Shayne got up and paced the length of the office, came back, and pulled up a chair to face Gentry across the desk. Dropping his rangy body into it he asked, “What did you get from Painter?”
“Had a talk with him yesterday morning and got everything I could without telling him who it was for.”
Shayne grinned briefly in acknowledgment of the chief’s tact. “He won’t like me popping up.”
“He won’t like it,” the chief agreed drily. “Particularly if you crack it while he’s running around in circles. He’s had it kind of quiet and easy with you in New Orleans.”
“Let’s have what you’ve got,” Shayne said. Gentry took some scribbled notations from a drawer, glanced at them, and explained, “I’ll give you the bare facts first. A woman called the Beach police at ten-forty Tuesday night and told them to go to number 2-D at the Blackstone Apartment House in a hurry. She sounded frightened and hung up. When Painter’s men got there Tim was lying on the floor a couple of feet inside the door with two slugs in him. The place had been ransacked as though someone had searched for something. A woman had been there-fresh powder spilled on the lavatory and a piece of tissue with rouge where she’d wiped the excess off her lips.
“Half-empty whisky bottle on the floor beside the sofa with the cork out. Two water glasses that had been used for whisky. Dishes in the sink showing one person had eaten bacon and eggs for dinner, and two people had drunk coffee. Woman’s fingerprints on the extra cup and on the dishes along with Rourke’s-as though he’d eaten and she cleaned up. Same prints on the extra glass in the living-room.
“But they found another set of women’s prints all over the place. Looks as if the second one turned the place inside out. The gun was a Colt automatic, two empty shells found on the floor where they’d been ejected. And- that’s about it.” Gentry pushed the notations aside and spread out his pudgy hands.
“Shot from close up?”
“Close enough for powder burns.”
“What about the position of the body and direction of the bullets? Was he shot by someone coming through the door or in the room with him?”
“That’s hard to say. The medical examiner thinks he may have twisted and dragged himself a couple of feet. There was a lot of blood smeared around and there wasn’t a rug near the door. They couldn’t determine whether he moved toward the door or away from it. Knowing Tim, I’d say he’d thresh around trying to do something as long as he was conscious.”
“What about prints on the door?”
“Both knobs were wiped clean of prints,” Gentry said with a deep sigh.
“How close do they set the time?”
“Around ten-thirty. Not more than ten minutes either way.”
“Any witnesses who heard the shots?”
“Painter hasn’t found anybody, yet,” Gentry rumbled.
“What sort of apartment is the Blackstone? Tim wasn’t living there when I left.”
“Two stories. No elevator. A back stairway leading up from the alley, and front stairs leading off the lobby. One man for manager, switchboard operator, and janitor. He was behind the switchboard when Rourke came in about four o’clock. Tim had been beaten pretty badly, Mike. Henty-that’s the manager-wanted to help him upstairs, but Rourke said he could make it. He had a black eye and a split lip that was bleeding. They found the bloody shirt and tie in his bedroom.
“He had a visitor when he got home. A swell blond dish, according to Henty. She arrived about two-thirty and asked to be allowed to wait for Tim in his apartment. Henty claims he’d never seen this particular girl before. He didn’t see her leave, but from about ten-twenty to ten-forty Henty says he was in the back working on the air- conditioning unit. Anybody could have entered or left through the lobby during that time-and by the back stairs any time.”
Shayne ground out his Picayune and lit another. He blew a puff of smoke toward Gentry. “That the only time she could have left the front way without him seeing her?”
Gentry coughed into the puff of smoke, glared at the Picayune, and demanded, “What are they smoking in New Orleans these days?”
Shayne grinned. “It’s only a Picayune. People down there like them better than tobacco. Was Henty in the lobby all the time from four until ten-twenty?”
“Hell, no,” Gentry growled. “You know how it is with one man handling everything in a place like that. He admits to being in and out a dozen times-for periods varying from a couple to ten minutes.”
“So the blonde could have left any time. On the other hand, Tim may have been beat up too badly to keep a blonde occupied long.”
“He was pretty badly beaten,” Gentry said judicially, “but you know how Tim was about blondes.”
“I know,” Shayne agreed. “Anything else?”
“Not in the line of actual, known facts. Seems Rourke left the office about twelve-twenty after turning in his
