“In there.” Rourke gestured limply toward the bedroom. “Bureau drawer. Put ’em there when I came in.”
Shayne got up. He said, “I want to see them.”
The reporter stared at him with bloodshot eyes for a moment, then shrugged and got up. He staggered into the bedroom, went to the bureau and pulled open the second drawer. He reached in, and then began rummaging under a pile of shirts while Shayne waited.
Rourke turned with a look of slack surprise on his face and said, “They’re not here, Mike. The damned things are gone.”
Chapter Eleven: A COUNTERPLOT ADDED
“Try the other drawers,” Shayne suggested.
The missing letters appeared to sober Rourke completely. He shook his head slowly from side to side. “They’re gone,” he said again. “I remember sticking them under those shirts. What in hell is this all about?” he added irritably. “What do you know about those photostats? Why do you want them? Can’t you see I’m in no shape for guessing games?”
Shayne said soberly, “This isn’t a game, Tim. A girl has been murdered. What did you do last night?”
Rourke took a few steps backward and sat down on the bed. “I got drunk, for crissake,” he muttered.
“Where?”
“I was at the Play-Mor. Didn’t I see you there? It’s sort of dim but I think you were there, too.”
Shayne nodded. “About ten o’clock. How long did you stay?”
Rourke shuddered and said, “I don’t know exactly. I won a little money and went to the bar. Somewhere along the line I pulled a black-out.”
Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. “Do you remember a tall blonde at the roulette table? Not too good-looking. Her hair was sort of frizzled.”
Rourke closed his eyes for a moment, then said despairingly, “There may’ve been a dozen blondes at the table. I wasn’t noticing.”
“She was across the table from us when I talked with you,” Shayne reminded him. “Later on I saw you talking with her. She had too much perfume on.”
Rourke complained, “I can’t think. Maybe if I had a drink-” His eyes looked greedily at the bottle which Shayne still held in his hand.
Shayne hesitated, then said, “Okay,” and went to the kitchen. He poured a portion of whisky in the coffee mug and filled it with hot coffee and took it in to Rourke. He said, “Drink this down as hot as you can take it. You’ve got to start thinking.”
Rourke looked up, amazed by the urgency in his old friend’s voice. He took the mug and drank the coffee royal without removing it from his lips.
Shayne took the mug, set it down, lit a cigarette and stuck it in Rourke’s hand. He pulled the bedroom chair closer to the bed, sat down and said, “Now then-about last night. The blonde who talked to you for awhile and then beat it in a hell of a hurry-what do you know about her?”
The reporter nodded slowly. “I’m beginning to get it. Sure. It was that maid from the Hudsons’ house. I didn’t recognize her until she told me who she was.”
“Was she at the Hudsons’ the day you found the letters?”
“I guess so. Yeah. I noticed her downstairs when we first went in. But she didn’t go upstairs with us.”
“But last night she reminded you of seeing her there?”
“That’s right.” Rourke pressed his fingers against his eyes briefly. “She moved in on me while I was winning. I remember her perfume now. She was broke and her guy had run out on her and she wanted me to stake her.”
“Did you?”
“Hell, no. I told her to run along and peddle her stuff some place else.”
“And?”
“That’s when she reminded me who she was. As if it made some difference-as if it was important.” He frowned uneasily. “I didn’t get it. I don’t know just what she said, but it was something like I’d better play ball and slip her a stake-or else.”
“Or else what?”
Rourke spread out his thin-fingered hands defensively. “I don’t know. I swear I don’t. I told her to get the hell out before I called the bouncer. So she got.”
Shayne considered this for a moment. “Did you get tough enough to scare her half out of her senses?”
Rourke grinned. “I don’t know just what I said. It probably wasn’t a very gentle admonition.”
“And you stayed on at the table?”
“That’s right. That is, I don’t remember much about it, Mike. Things’re mixed up. What’s this all about?”
“The girl was murdered last night after she left the Play-Mor.”
“The blonde-the Hudsons’ maid?” gasped Rourke.
Shayne nodded gravely. “Within half an hour after you were talking with her. Did anyone overhear your conversation with her?”
“How the hell do I know? There were a lot of people around. Look here, Mike, you act as though you think I bumped her off.”
“Somebody did. And if Painter gets wind of your hookup with her he might think you did. Now-let’s get back to those letters you found. Give me the whole picture-from the beginning.”
“Nothing much to it,” he said. “I ran into Angus Browne one day in a bar a couple of weeks ago. You know Angus?”
Shayne nodded.
“We had a couple of drinks and Angus asked me what I was doing and I told him nothing much. He asked me if I’d like to get hold of a juicy story. I told him sure. If it was something I could sell. You know I’ve been free-lancing on feature stuff for the local papers since I left the hospital. Well, he said it was plenty hot and I could have an exclusive on it when it broke.
“Browne didn’t tell me exactly what the deal was. A divorce-involving a couple of prominent families. He needed a witness to tie it up for good. All he wanted was my promise not to break it until he gave the word. It sounded good enough to me so I said okay and we got in his car and picked up another guy named Hampstead. He’s a lawyer, I think.
“We drove over to the Beach to a big house on the Bay-front. Browne flashed his tin on an old lady who must be the housekeeper, and bluffed his way in. On the way over he’d told us we were looking for a small packet of letters that would be hidden somewhere in the house. He said they’d been written to Mrs. Hudson by a millionaire named Victor Morrison from New York, and Morrison’s wife was after them for evidence in a divorce suit against her husband.”
Shayne was staring at Rourke, the disgust he felt showing in his eyes.
Rourke shrugged and grinned wryly. “Hell, I admit it was nasty business, but I figured I might as well have the story and make a few bucks on an exclusive as someone else. So we poked around down in the library and then went upstairs to the lady’s bedroom and went to work on it. I took the vanity, and just happened to find the letters. Four of ’em tied up in a pink ribbon.”
Shayne held up a wide palm, “Wait a minute. Think back. Are you sure they were there in the house all the time-not planted in that drawer by Browne or Hampstead when you weren’t looking?”
“For crissake, no. I was the only one who went near the vanity. They were there, all right. The old lady saw me find ’em.”
Shayne said, “Go on.”
“We looked at them and saw they were signed ‘Vicky,’ and Angus said they were the ones he was looking for. He had all of us initial each letter right there for identification in court later. We took them to the Magic City Photostat Company and had a set of copies made for me. I swore I’d keep the whole thing quiet until they were ready to break the story in court.”
“Who else got a set of photostats?” Shayne demanded.
“No one. They had the originals. We had only one set made and I took those. Damned if I can understand them not being in that drawer where I put them.” He paused to frown deeply, and again pressed his fingers to his eyes. “I dropped in at a bar,” he resumed, “for a couple of drinks, and read them through. They were juicy, all right. More than Angus promised. Then Ted Smith came in and we had a couple more drinks, and I came back here and ditched the photostats. Right under that pile of shirts.” He waggled an emaciated finger at the drawer.