on the night latch, and he went swiftly down the hall to Miss Lally’s room.
The door moved slightly when he rapped, and he pushed into the room where Rourke and the dead woman’s secretary sat on the double bed. Her head rested against the reporter’s bony shoulder and his arm was around her. Tears streamed down her face, and Rourke’s slaty eyes held the bewildered look of a man who had failed to stop a woman from crying.
Shayne closed the door and walked over to the bed, grinning humorously at Rourke, but his voice was harsh and urgent when he said:
“Miss Lally.”
She jerked her head up and looked at him with wet, sooty eyes. Her glasses lay on the bed beside her. Rourke put his handkerchief in her hand and she obediently blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
“Miss Morton is dead,” said Shayne, spacing the words evenly. “It happened at least an hour ago. Possibly two or three. We can do only one thing for her now. You’ve got to get hold of yourself.” He paused a moment, rubbing his angular jaw, his eyes thoughtful.
Miss Lally’s sobbing gradually stopped after a long, audible sigh. “I’m all right now,” she said. “Shouldn’t we notify the police?”
“Tim will do that-in about five minutes,” he said absently, then went on decisively: “Get a toothbrush and a wrap if you think you’ll need it. Don’t try to take anything else-”
“A toothbrush?” she interrupted, peering up at him with round, astonished eyes.
“Go wash your face,” he ordered. “We’ll all go down to the lobby together as if nothing had happened. Do you know any particular bars or restaurants where Miss Morton is known and where she might be expected to drop in during an evening?”
Miss Lally covered her amazement with the thick-lensed glasses and stammered, “There’s the-Golden Cock up the street. And over on the Beach-”
“You and I are going out to look for her,” he cut in. “Don’t forget the toothbrush. You may not get back here tonight.”
She saw his face clearly now, and responded to his quiet assumption of authority by getting up and going into the bathroom.
When she closed the door, Rourke said angrily, “Look here, Mike, if you think I’m going to stay here and be your fall guy-”
“You’re going to stay right here like any sensible reporter who’s lucky enough to be on the inside of a hot case, and get all the dope from the police investigation,” Shayne said firmly. “I need time-and freedom from the cops tailing me, Tim.” He paused a moment, then hurried on. “If I can keep Miss Lally away from the police until I can get all she knows about the Morton woman, and keep it quiet-you know how it is, Tim. She’d be in danger if the murderer thought she knew too much and found out the police had her up for questioning.”
“But what the hell do I tell the police?” Rourke protested.
“You don’t. Joe Clarkson, the night dick, will tell the police. Look, Tim, when we go down to the lobby you go to the bar for a drink. Put it down fast, act like you’re worried, then find Joe and tell him about your date with Sara Morton and the secretary meeting you instead. The truth about everything that can be checked. But don’t tell him I’d been fishing and hadn’t contacted her. You assume I talked to her on the phone, but didn’t tell you what she wanted.”
He paused a moment, tugging at his left ear lobe, his gray eyes narrowed. “We came up together to see why Miss Morton didn’t answer her phone, knocked on her door and got no answer, and the three of us came here for Miss Lally to get a wrap before going out with me to find her. Miss Lally didn’t mention having a key to fourteen- twenty,” he went on swiftly as the secretary re-entered the room. “You won’t know about the connecting bathroom. You’re mad because she stood you up on an important engagement. Act tight if you want to. Tell Clarkson you’ll call in the police and cause a stink if he doesn’t go up with you and investigate.”
Rourke lay sprawled on his back on the bed. His eyes were closed, and his only response was a deep groan when Shayne paused for a moment.
“Clarkson will find fourteen twenty-two latched on the inside when he tries a passkey. The light is on, and you have real reason for alarm now. He’ll know about the connecting rooms. You go in and discover the body together. Got it?”
“Sure,” muttered Rourke. “Did you talk to her?”
“Leave that for later. You can tell the police Miss Lally told you about Miss Morton phoning me. There’ll be a Herald reporter with them. See that he gets a story in the morning edition playing up the fact that Sara Morton phoned me today and that I dashed out with her secretary looking for her. Ready?” He turned to the girl who waited with a light coat over her arm.
She nodded, her face paler than its normal whiteness, accentuating the red of her lips, her eyes small and doubtful behind the glasses. “Will it be-all right for me to evade questioning by the police?” she asked. “Isn’t there a law?”
“There’s no law against your passing out from shock and grief,” said Shayne. He took her arm, and Rourke followed them out the door.
In the elevator Shayne said in a bantering tone, “Tell Tim to get lost, Bea,” for the benefit of the other passengers. “It was all right for you to cadge drinks off him, but I’m here now.” He drew her closer to him.
“Okay, so I’m ditched,” said Rourke sullenly, taking the cue promptly. “Twice in one night. If you find that Morton dame you can tell her for me-”
“Sh-h-h,” cautioned Shayne, glancing around at the strange faces with simulated dismay. “Miss Morton is probably waiting for you in the bar right now,” he went on cheerfully as they reached the lobby and he pushed his way out past the reporter with a firm grip on Miss Lally’s arm.
Rourke scowled, took a step forward as though to follow them, shrugged, and turned toward the barroom.
The same doorman raised the same brows as the couple went through the doorway, and added an icy stare when Shayne paused to ask:
“Do you know Miss Morton by sight? Sara Morton, the newspaper writer.”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” he answered snootily, plainly indicating that he had no intention of discussing the lady with a tramp in faded dungarees.
Shayne hurried his companion across the southbound traffic lanes to his parked car, opened the door for her, stalked around to the other side, and pulled away fast.
Miss Lally relaxed against the cushion and sighed. “I was glad to get away from that reporter so I could talk to you privately, Mr. Shayne,” she said in the low, controlled tone he had first heard. “I do know why Miss Morton phoned you. I know she wanted it kept quiet, but now I suppose it will have to come out.”
“I know, too,” he said. “That’s why I wanted to get you away where we could talk and act fast without being held by the police.” He eased over to the outer lane and increased his speed. “We’ll be at the Golden Cock in a moment. Wait until we’ve asked there for her.”
“Why do you keep up this farce when we know she’s back-back there in her room-” Her voice began to tremble and she didn’t finish the sentence.
“That’s exactly why we have to ask around for her. You’re in this with me now. You’ve got to play up. Right now we’re accessories after the fact. Every movement we make from now on will be checked by the police, and we’ve got to do every damned thing we would do if we were actually looking for Sara Morton in her favorite restaurants and cocktail bars.”
He slowed and turned into a circular, palm-lined drive leading off the Boulevard to a low building on the bayfront with the words Golden Cock flickering off and on beneath a huge rooster shimmering in golden lights. As they approached the canopy Shayne covered one of her hands with his and asked:
“Can you pull it off?”
“I’m all right,” she answered steadily.
He stopped and a beautifully caparisoned doorman opened the door and stood smartly at attention.
Shayne asked, “Do you know Miss Sara Morton by sight?”
“Mr. Shayne,” he said with a genial smile. “Is she a kind of oldish woman-this Miss Morton?”
“No. We’ll have to go in,” he said to the girl. “Or would you rather sit in the car and wait while I check?”
“I’ll go with you.” She opened the door and got out.
