He bent, grinning, to kiss her tear-wet cheek, set her aside to go into the bedroom where he got a clean blanket from a closet, spread it on the floor and rolled Jack Bristow’s corpse in it.
He heard a car pass below in the alley, and carried the body to the fire escape to wait on the landing until Rourke returned with no lights.
Then he carried his burden down swiftly, thrust it in the back seat, and got in beside the reporter.
“Go on to the street without headlights,” he directed. “Turn them on and turn right to the Boulevard. Then north.”
“Where we taking him, Mike?” Rourke asked with interest as he drove as directed.
“There’s a girl in a motel out that way who was disappointed tonight when her husband didn’t meet her in front of a house on Eighteenth Street as he’d arranged to. If Jack is the man, she may as well know the worst now as later.”
He settled back and lit a cigarette and related his meeting with the hungry girl who called herself Mrs. Peter Smith. “Jack must be the man she calls Pete,” he ended. “If we can hit her hard enough with his corpse, we should be able to get the whole story out of her.”
Timothy Rourke divested himself of a noncommittal, “U-m-m,” drove on out the Boulevard at a moderate speed until Shayne gestured ahead to a tourist court that now stood dark and silent.
“Cabin number six,” he directed. “You stay back and bring him in when I tell you to. Pull the blanket down from his face so she sees it before she has a chance to get set.”
He got out and went to the door of the cabin and rapped lightly. The headlights behind him outlined his figure clearly, and he saw the girl’s face peering at him from behind the window after a moment. He knocked again, heard the key turning inside and the door opened a crack. The girl’s thin voice, expressing utter defeat, floated out to him through the crack.
“All right. Give me a chance to get back in bed before you turn on the light.” Bare feet sped across the floor and the bedsprings creaked. Shayne pushed the door open and flipped the light switch. She cringed away from him in the bed with the covers pulled up tightly about her chin. There was a look of utter loathing on her face as she told him, “I guess I knew all the time you were too good to be true. What’ll you do if I scream?”
“Slap some sense into you,” said Shayne flatly. “I’ve got your husband outside, damn it. You want to see him?”
Tough as he thought he was, Michael Shayne hated himself for the look of wild delight that leaped into the girl’s pinched face at his words. She flung the covers back and started to leap out of bed, showing her body clothed only in a white silk slip, and Shayne gestured her back, saying gruffly, “Wait right there. I’ll bring him in to you.”
He turned in the doorway and nodded to Timothy Rourke, stepped aside to study the girl’s expression with fierce intensity when the reporter entered carrying the blanket-wrapped body with pallid face exposed to the bright overhead light.
At the first moment, Shayne knew he had guessed wrong, and he had it in him to be almost glad that the corpse wasn’t her man even though it dashed his hopes for a fast conclusion to the case.
The look of eager expectation on her face changed swiftly to revulsion the instant she saw Jack Bristow, and then to curiosity and terror as she sank back on the pillow stifling a moan and shaking her head wildly. “No! That’s not him. I never saw him before. Is he — dead?”
Shayne shrugged and told her, “Sorry to bother you, but we hoped you could identify him, Look again, miss,” he urged. “Look at him carefully now you know he isn’t your husband. Will you swear you never saw him before? It may be very important.”
“I don’t think so.” She wet her lips and forced her gaze to rest on Bristow’s features. She began shaking her head decidedly, then slowly a puzzled look crept into her eyes. She regarded him more intently, breathing, “He does look sort of familiar at that. I don’t know. I’d swear I never knew him in my life, but... I... don’t... just know. It’s funny. Maybe I’ve seen his picture somewhere.”
“He’s from New Orleans,” Shayne helped her. “Does the name Jack Bristow mean anything to you?”
Momentarily he thought it did. For just an instant, he thought he saw a flash of recognition, of comprehension, on her face. Then it was gone. If it had been there at all, she had swiftly gained control of herself and he knew he would get no more from her.
She shook her head definitely and said, “No. I guess now I was mistaken about ever seeing even his picture.”
Shayne nodded curtly and told Rourke, “Put him back in the car.” He stood looking at the girl in flat-footed and somber disapproval as Rourke backed out the door.
He told her, “I think you’re lying. Wait a minute.” He held up a big hand as she started to protest. “Not about him being your husband. I accept that. But I do believe you know who he is — something about him. And you’d better tell me.” His voice became harsh with anger.
“Two people have been murdered tonight — and the killer is still on the town. I think you can tell me something about him. You’re inviting death yourself if you don’t. Give it to me now. I’ll see you’re protected, but no one can protect you if you don’t.”
She shook her head stubbornly, compressing her lips. “Like I told you, I just got here tonight. I don’t know anything about any killings in Miami. I swear I don’t.”
Shayne shrugged and turned away. “All right. If you decide to talk — call me. The name is Michael Shayne, and the number’s in the book.” He went out and got under the steering wheel.
“Where to now, mastermind?” asked Rourke mockingly. “You got any more bright ideas like that one?”
“Not a single goddamned bright idea,” said Shayne savagely. “Except to get rid of that cold meat in the back seat as fast as we can.”
“I second that. Do we want him found fast, or do we hide him out?”
“I guess we should ditch him where he’ll be found. Damned if I know, Tim. There’s nothing in this that makes sense. If we only had one single fact to start with—”
Rourke yawned widely. “What we both need is a drink. Turn in one of these side streets and let’s dump him. I’m jittery every time we meet a car.”
Shayne grunted acquiescence and turned off the lighted Boulevard at the next corner. He stopped in the middle of the block and they unwrapped the corpse from Lucy’s blanket and left it lying in the middle of the street where the next passing motorist would see it. Then he drove away from there fast.
Chapter Seven
Shayne let Timothy Rourke precede him into the sitting-room of his hotel apartment in downtown Miami, pausing to close the door solidly while the reporter moved across the room and slumped into a comfortable chair beside a low center table.
Neither man spoke as Shayne went past him to a wall cabinet and took down a bottle of bourbon and one of cognac. He set a six-ounce wineglass beside the cognac on the table, went into the kitchen, and returned with two glasses of ice water and a tall glass filled with ice cubes. He set them on the table and uncorked both bottles, moved the bourbon close to Rourke and half-filled the wineglass with cognac. The reporter splashed whisky on top of ice cubes, carefully added a minute portion of water, and took a long drink from it.
Shayne settled his rangy body beside him and took a meditative sip of brandy, chased it with ice water, and lit a cigarette.
Rourke grinned at him lazily and said, “One of the most unhilarious wakes I ever attended. Which one of tonight’s stiffs are we drinking to?”
“Both. Damn it, Tim, what do you make of the whole setup?”
“You’re the detective. Start detecting.”
Shayne swore mildly and took another sip of cognac. “You were with Gentry in the dead girl’s room. Give me the whole picture.”