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The reports for the next two days contained no significant incidents, but on Friday, October 12, Mrs. Estelle Morrison threw caution to the winds and left home early in the afternoon in her coupe and with a small overnight bag. Trailed to the Beach hotel by Browne, he had seen Lance Hastings greet her affectionately and enter the coupe, whereupon the couple had driven northward to Fort Lauderdale and registered at a hotel there as Mr. and Mrs. D. G. Hays, where they had spent the night.

Attached to this final report were photostats of the signature of the hotel register, and affidavits by three employees of the hotel They had been shown a photograph of Mrs. Morrison and were prepared to swear she had registered as Mrs. D. G. Hays.

Since this was the final report in the folder, Pursley, Adams amp; Peck were apparently satisfied that they had an airtight case against Mrs. Morrison to present to a divorce court. It was safe to assume that Angus Browne had collected his bonus for a nasty job well done.

There was nothing in the reports to indicate that Lance Hastings had been employed to do a job on Mrs. Morrison. He had probably played into Morrison’s hands by being an easy pickup for his wife.

Shayne closed the folder with an expression of disgust on his gaunt face. He thought of Estelle Morrison lying outstretched on her deck chair, avidly spying on the unsuspecting young couple in the sailboat, and he felt no pity for her. He only wondered why Victor Morrison had remained married to her for two years before bothering to get the low-down.

Another thought struck him with stunning force as he got up to return the folder to the file. It answered a lot of questions in a way Shayne didn’t want them answered. This proved that Morrison had made careful plans to get rid of his wife-as intimated in his notes to Christine Hudson. He had, quite evidently, come to Florida to establish legal residence where the divorce laws were much less strict than in New York, and had gone to work immediately compiling evidence to obtain an uncontested verdict. It tied in perfectly with the notes and was damning evidence that they were exactly what they appeared to be.

His gray eyes flared with an angry light as he faced the fact that Christine had probably been lying to him all the time. Certainly, if the notes were a plant by Morrison, no man in his right mind would have included those allusions to his plan for getting rid of his wife.

But no man in his right mind would have planned such a fantastic scheme in the beginning. No rules of logic could possibly be applied to the situation.

Shayne slammed the file shut and went out, pulling the outer door shut but not bothering to lock it. In a telephone booth downstairs he rang Rourke’s number again. When there was still no reply, he called the office of the apartment house and asked the manager whether he knew when Rourke would return.

The manager said, “Mr. Rourke? I’m quite certain he’s in.”

Shayne said irritably, “He doesn’t answer his phone.” The manager chuckled and said, “I’m not surprised. He sent out for another quart of whisky at ten o’clock this morning and I know he hasn’t gone out since.” Shayne thanked him and went out. He found a taxi loitering along Flagler Street and hailed the driver who stopped a stream of traffic while Shayne got in.

Shayne said, “The Blackstone Apartments on the Beach.” He lit a cigarette and refused to let his thoughts drift into the depths of black conjecture indicated by the facts he had unearthed.

The manager of the Blackstone Apartment Hotel was a slim young man named Mr. Henty. He had met Shayne previously, and when the detective entered, Henty leaned over the counter to explain, “I was pretty sure that was you on the phone, Mr. Shayne. After you called I went up and tried Mr. Rourke’s door. It’s locked and I couldn’t rouse him by knocking. So I unlocked it with my passkey. He’s-quite all right.”

“Drunk?” Shayne asked, frowning.

“Well-yes.”

“What time did he get in last night?”

“I don’t know. There’s no one on duty after midnight.”

Shayne said, “I’ve got to sober him up.”

Mr. Henty looked doubtful, but got his passkey and led Shayne upstairs. He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back for Shayne to enter.

“Thanks,” Shayne said, and went in, closing the door behind him.

Timothy Rourke lay on his back on the living-room couch. His mouth was open and he was snoring softly.

Shayne opened all the windows in the apartment, then went over to the couch and got a firm grip on the reporter’s pitifully thin and bony shoulders. He dragged him from the couch to an upright position and shook him

Rourke’s head wobbled back and forth limply. He mumbled something but didn’t open his eyes. Shayne half dragged him into the bathroom, put him in the bathtub and turned on the cold shower.

Rourke twisted his head and gasped as the needle-spray struck him in the face. He put his hands over his face, turned on his side, and doubled his long body up in the tub. He lay supine for a full minute with the water beating down upon him, then wearily dragged himself to a sitting position, blinking at Shayne through bleared eyes.

Shayne turned off the water and said, “Strip off your clothes, Tim. I’ve got to talk to you. Get on some dry clothes while I make some coffee.”

In the kitchen Shayne turned the electric stove on to high and put hot water in the percolator and set it on the fire. He found coffee in the cupboard and dumped enough in the top to fill it.

Returning to the bathroom he found Rourke sitting up and weakly attempting to strip his wet undershirt off. Shayne caught the hem and yanked it up, then went to work on Rourke’s trousers. He put the plug in the tub and ran cold water in. He said, “Stay there and soak awhile. I’ll have some coffee in a few minutes.” Rourke sank back in the tub and closed his eyes. Shayne left him with the water running and returned to the kitchen. The coffee was percolating. He then rummaged in a bureau drawer and found dry underclothes. He got a pair of pants from the closet, then went back to the bathroom, dragged Rourke out, helped him to rub himself dry, and supported him to the bedroom. The reporter sank down on the bed, managed to get into a pair of shorts and trousers and an undershirt Shayne went into the kitchen, turned the fire to low, and poured a mug of coffee. He left the percolator on the fire to bring the coffee to a stronger consistency and carried the mugful in to Rourke.

After his third mug, Rourke showed signs of sobering, and Shayne began questioning him.

He asked, “Who was the third man with you and Angus Browne when you found those letters at the Hudson house a couple of weeks ago?”

Rourke shook his head and blinked dazedly. “Letters?” he muttered. “Hudson house?” He put a hand to his head, thought for a moment, then said, “Oh, yeah. Sure. Angus and that lawyer. Hampstead, I think.”

“I understand you found the letters.”

“That’s right. I did. What the hell-”

“Who told you where you’d find them?”

“Nobody.” Rourke staggered to his feet and started into the living-room. “C’mon. Let’s go get a drink.”

Shayne followed him saying, “You don’t get a drink until you’ve answered my questions-”

“The hell I don’t,” Rourke scoffed. He slumped down on the couch, his hand moving toward the liquor bottle.

Shayne picked it up and sat down with it in his lap. He asked, “How did you know there were any letters?”

“Angus told me. He said they’d be hidden some place, so we all looked. I happened to find them first. What of it? For crissake, gimme a drink, Mike.” Shayne shook his head stubbornly.

“Where are the letters now? The originals?”

“They’ve got ’em. The lawyer, I guess. We all went down to a place together where I got my set of photostats made. That’s all I wanted.”

“You got the photostats? Where are they now?”