Shayne grinned and swung his legs to the floor. He found his voice whisky-thick when he spoke. “You might as well swing for a skunk as a weasel.”
“How the hell did you make it?” Rourke demanded. “Painter’s got the Beach tied up in a knot — stopping every car on the causeways and he’s got all the harbor police patrolling the bay.”
“Yeh. I saw ’em. They were doing a fine job, too. But Petey forgot about the subway.” He grinned crookedly at Rourke.
Rourke looked suspiciously at the whisky bottle, picked it up and held it to the light and nodded. “Pickled, by God. Drunk as a coot.”
“I’ve stayed too sober on this case. That’s what’s wrong. You know my brain cells don’t circulate without stimulation.”
“It’s time you got stimulated, then,” Rourke breathed explosively. “You’re really on a spot this time. Even if you manage to wiggle out in the end, the election is shot.”
“And I’ve got five grand on Marsh.” Shayne groaned.
Rourke sank into a chair and groaned, too. “I never saw one of your climaxes backfire like that one at the mortuary, Mike. What were you trying to pull? You had me believing all that stuff about Stallings switching girls. You even had Painter almost convinced. Did you figure you had Marlow bribed, or what?”
“Was that the way it looked to you?” Shayne sat sprawled against the back of the couch. He quirked a bushy red brow at Rourke.
“Hell, I don’t know. I never saw you stick your neck out like that before. You acted so damned certain I swear I thought you had everything fixed. Then — blooie!” Rourke made a hopeless gesture, sprang up, and paced the floor.
“What about Marlow?” Shayne asked slowly. “I left so hurriedly I didn’t have time to form an accurate opinion of his reaction. Was he honest, Tim, in saying the girl was actually Helen Stallings?”
Rourke stopped and stared at him in amazement. “So you did believe that hocus-pocus you were telling? You were stuck with it and expected Marlow to bear you out.”
“Sure I did,” Shayne growled. “Hell, every man makes mistakes. I thought I had it doped. I still think so. What I can’t understand is why Marlow fell down on the job. Do you suppose Stallings could have got to him?”
Rourke shook his head. “That girl is Helen Stallings. I talked to Marlow — had plenty of chance after you did your Houdini exit. He was all broken up. He couldn’t put that on. She’s Helen Stallings — at least she’s Whit Marlow’s wife, the Helen Devalon he married in Connecticut.”
Shayne’s gray eyes slitted. Mechanically he reached for the whisky bottle and took a swig while Rourke resumed his pacing, watching Shayne out of the corner of his eye.
Shayne set the bottle down with a thud. A fierce gleam came into his eyes. “All right, we’ll play it that way. If you’re sure, Tim. Sure that Marlow wasn’t faking his identification. And that’s just as good. Hell, it’s better.” The fierce gleam became a pin point of concentration. Shayne was talking to himself, gently massaging his lean chin.
He jumped up. “We’ve got to do it tonight. Right now. The whole story has to break before the polls open tomorrow. We’ve got a lot of things to do, Tim. That is, you’ll have to do most of them.”
Rourke backed away. He put out a hand as if to protect himself from the dynamic figure towering above him. “Not me. Wait. I’m in this thing up to my goozle already. Painter kept me over there a couple of hours trying to make me admit I knew more than I was telling. I lied my soul to hell and beyond. Don’t you know when you’re licked, for Christ’s sake, Mike?”
“No. If you turn me down I’ll have to take a crack at it myself.” His voice was flat and toneless. He lowered his head and thrust out his chin.
Rourke sighed long and audibly. He circled Shayne to pick up the whisky bottle. Pensively, he drained it. Turning slowly to the detective, he said, “All right, Mike. What do we do?”
“First thing is a trip to my apartment. There’s something there on the center table I need.”
“I’ll never make it. You know the place will be full of cops. There’s even one on duty out in front here.”
“Sure it’ll be full of cops,” Shayne agreed cheerfully. “You know most of them. Kid them along. Tell them you’re trying to find me for them, that you hate my guts and want to help hang me. And while you’re there, pick up a water tumbler standing on the center table. Drop a handkerchief over it before you pick it up. It’s got the fingerprints of the dead girl on it.”
“What do you want that for? She’s right over there in the mortuary.”
“Hell of a chance I’d have to get them off her. I need that glass, Tim. Talk about a fast one!” Shayne’s voice was gloating. “I’m going to pull the great-granddaddy of all fast ones. We’ll have them sitting up and begging, Tim. Get going! I’ll slip out the back way and meet you at the alley in twenty minutes.” He grabbed Rourke’s arm and propelled him to the door.
Rourke hesitated, then changed his mind about protesting and went out. Rourke had seen that ruthless look of driving intensity in Michael Shayne’s eyes before. It always preceded a feat of wizardry — and headlines.
Shayne was waiting by the curb when Rourke pulled up almost half an hour later. He jumped in beside the reporter. “Did you get it, Tim?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. Alonzo Hiatt and Jim Sprague are waiting for you in your apartment. They’ve drunk all your whisky and started on the gin.”
“That’s not gin.” Shayne grinned. “It’s pure grain alcohol. Maybe they’ll get in a festive mood and invite the whole force up.”
“Where to now?” Rourke inquired.
“To the Beach.”
“The Beach? Damn you, Mike, Painter’s got the causeways blocked.”
“He’s not stopping cars going to the Beach.”
“Maybe not.” Rourke shrugged and turned the car southward. “It’s your neck.”
“I’ll hunch down in the back until you’ve passed the barricade,” Shayne said as the reporter turned onto the causeway. He climbed over the seat and folded his long body uncomfortably on the floor as Rourke sped onward, regretting that the human body was possessed of only two possible folding points.
He stayed there while Rourke slowed to a snail’s pace, then crawled back into the front seat when the reporter said, “Okay.”
Rourke chuckled happily as the police barricade was left behind them. “They had forty cars lined up waiting to be searched. I damned near exploded laughing when they waved me past. Would Petey’s face be red if he could see you blithely sneaking back into his trap!”
“Painter’s face will be red anyhow before this night is over,” Shayne asserted grimly. “Know where the Patterson Sanitarium is?”
“Sure. I was thinking about taking the cure there once. What do you want there?”
Shayne grinned. A relaxed grin of real mirth. He looked at Rourke and deliberately forced a look of cunning to his gray eyes. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said ominously. “But I have an operative planted in the sanitarium.”
“An operative?” Rourke took his eyes from the road for an instant to look wonderingly at Shayne, saw the look of sly cunning in his eyes. “By God, Mike, maybe I’m taking you where you belong.”
“S-h-h,” Shayne said. “It’s a dead secret, but I’ve got Sherlock Holmes in with me on this case.”
Rourke’s hands tensed on the wheel. “Now look here, Mike, you’ve let this thing go to your head.”
“The Duchess was murdered there last night,” Shayne went on in a low cautious tone. “I’ve got to get the details and report to the Duke. They’re going to try to pawn off a phony on the Duke.”