“That’s one of the things,” said Rourke, “that I wondered about. You being a detective and all. I’m just a punk reporter, but when I see the sole of a man’s shoe sticking out from under a lady’s bed, I get curious and investigate.”
Shayne shook his head disgustedly and leaned down to peer under the bed again. He muttered, “I was in a hurry, and when I saw the wire screen onto the fire escape ripped open and heard someone running away, I swallowd Lucy’s story whole and figured he’d beat it that way.” He lifted himself to his feet slowly and advised Lucy, “You’d better tell us all about it this time, angel. If you killed him in self-defense, it’ll be okay.”
“But I didn’t,” she cried frantically. “I told you he was shot when he came here.” She gestured toward the towel on the bed. “See where he lay down? I told you I didn’t know how badly he was wounded. He must have crawled under the bed to hide and... and—”
“This guy,” said Shayne grimly, “didn’t crawl under the bed. He was shoved there, Lucy. And he didn’t die of a bullet wound. His throat is slit all the way across.”
Lucy’s eyes dilated and her knees buckled under her. Rourke held her tightly, shaking his head at Shayne and backing away with the almost unconscious girl.
“For Christ’s sake,” he grated, “quit trying to scare Lucy to death and start your mind working. You say the door was bolted on the inside when you broke it down. How in hell could Lucy have done that if she cut his throat?”
Rourke’s words brought Shayne to himself abruptly. The look of blank grimness on his face cleared and he strode forward muttering, “Sure. What in hell is eating on me? Sure. She could be telling the truth. That torn screen. Instead of him going out, someone else came in from the fire escape while the door was locked. I must have scared him off when I broke the door, and it was Bristow’s killer I heard running in the alley.”
Rourke was easing Lucy down onto the divan. Color was coming back into her cheeks and her eyelids fluttered faintly. Rourke stood back from her and told Shayne flatly, “Get down on your knees to her, you damned ox, and get her in shape to identify the corpse. If it is Jack Bristow, there’s going to be hell to pay if he’s found here now.”
The lanky reporter turned on his heel and hurried into the kitchen, when he poured out a slug of cognac and carried it back.
He found Lucy sitting up with Shayne’s arm about her shoulders and his face pressed against hers, and there was a look in Lucy’s brown eyes that made him clear his throat and turn his head away hastily. When he looked back, Shayne was grinning at him and Lucy was able to say, “It’s all right now, Tim. Give me just a sip of that and I’ll — tell you if it’s Jack or not.”
Shayne released her and stood up as Rourke handed her the cognac. “You’re right about one thing, Tim. There’s going to be hell to pay if it ever gets out that a corpse was lying under Lucy’s bed all the time I was chasing the cops away and while Will Gentry was here questioning us about him.” He went back into the bedroom while Lucy sipped at the cognac, and reappeared in a moment nodding his red head grimly. “He’s got a hole in his side just like you said, Lucy. It’s pretty clear what happened. Someone knew he was headed here to hide out, and got in through the window from the fire escape to finish him off. Want to take a quick look, Lucy, so there won’t be any more mistakes?”
She nodded and got to her feet. “I’m all right now. What’s another corpse in your bedroom when you work for Mike Shayne?” She went to him and took his arm tightly, whispered too low for Rourke to hear, “If I am still working for you, Mike. Remember, you said—”
He patted her hand and turned her toward the bedroom. “I said and did a lot of crazy things, angel. Forget them all while we get to work on this.” He stood aside to let Lucy look down at the body of Jack Bristow which he had dragged from its temporary hiding place onto the rug beside her bed.
Death had erased the tormented lines about Jack Bristow’s mouth. There was an ugly gash beneath his chin and a lot of blood which Lucy tried to ignore. His black eyes were open, vacant and staring at nothingness.
Lucy drew in her breath sharply and said, “Yes. It’s Jack. Why didn’t he cry out, Michael, if someone came through the window and attacked him? I didn’t hear a sound from in here after I left him.”
Shayne shrugged. “He may have passed out and been unconscious on the bed and never knew it happened. That’s all we need you for, Lucy. Go back to the living-room and finish your drink. Close the door behind her, Tim.”
He knelt beside the body and began turning out the pockets of the dead man’s slacks. The side pockets yielded a couple of dollars in silver, but there was nothing else at all.
Shayne rocked back on his heels, shaking his red head. “Not a damned thing to tell us anything. He must have been trailed here from Eighteenth Street by whoever shot him there.” He paused to scowl doubtfully. “Unless someone knew he would head for Lucy after being wounded. There was that slip of paper with her address which his sister must have given him—”
He shook his head angrily. “Not a damned bit of good guessing at things like that right now. We’ve got to get him out, Tim. Not a cop in the world would believe us now if we told the exact truth. Not even Will Gentry. If he ever finds out this corpse was under Lucy’s bed while he was in the next room asking questions there’ll really be hell to pay.”
Timothy Rourke grinned and muttered caustically, “Seems I’ve read about there being some law about not moving a dead body.”
“I think maybe there is,” agreed Shayne mockingly. “And you and I are going to break that law into little pieces right now.” He went to the window with the ripped screen, leaned out to look down. He withdrew his head and nodded. “Nothing to it. The alley is quite dark. You go down the front way,” he told Rourke matter-of-factly, handing the reporter his car keys.
“Drive my car through the alley once with the headlights on. If everything looks okay, come back with your lights turned out, and park below. I’ll bring him down.”
“Just like that?” said Rourke moodily, eyeing the corpse with disfavor.
“Just like that.” Shayne forced the keys into his hand and shoved him toward the living-room. Lucy was seated on the sofa, white-faced and anxious, and as Rourke went out Shayne told her reassuringly, “We’re taking care of Jack Bristow so he won’t embarrass you again. Soon as I carry him down the fire escape, you go in and check everything. Get rid of the towel and any traces that he’s been here. Lock your windows and your door and sit tight until you hear from me.”
“I’ll be so frightened, Michael!” She jumped up and flung herself into his arms, sobbing, “I got you into it. I’ll never forgive myself. If I’d just told you right away—”
“Take it easy, angel,” Shayne’s arms were tight about her trembling body. “You know my motto. Never look back. We all mess things up sometimes. And what the hell?” he went on cheerily. “Without you to shove me in the right direction, I wouldn’t be headed out right now to visit a good-looking girl in her cabin on the edge of town. Think how dull things were around Miami until you stirred them up.”
He hesitated a moment, glancing around the room to make sure everything was in order, and his gaze was caught by the loose wire of the telephone. He hurried into the kitchen for a small screw driver, returned to pry the lid from the box attached to the baseboard and replace the wire, telling Lucy over his shoulder, “I may need to get hold of you and you’d never get a repairman here before morning.” He lifted the phone and tested it for a dial tone, nodded, and replaced it.