“There wasn’t much. Seems this girl who called herself Trixie and was registered as Gladys Smith from New Orleans, moved into the room a few weeks ago. It isn’t a regular house, I think. No madam or anything like that. Just a joint where a certain type of girls congregate and entertain men as they like with no questions asked. Way we got it, Trixie never seemed to have any dates. Stayed in most of the time, away from the other girls. A couple of them guessed she was keeping a man in her room, but it was strictly her business and they didn’t pry. None of them ever actually saw his face, but a couple of times saw a man going in or out whom they thought had come or was going to her room. There were some men’s clothes in the bureau, and an extra suit in the closet, so that seems to be that.”
“Was it your impression he and the girl were hiding out?”
Rourke shrugged and drank deeply. “The man probably. The girl didn’t appear to be afraid of being seen, but he seems to have slipped out only after dark.”
“What about tonight?”
“A little before nine a girl across the hall had two male friends drop in for a drink, and she went across to see if Trixie would like to, join them for a little party. She knocked on the door and got no answer but saw light inside and opened the door. Trixie lay on the floor, fully dressed, and strangled. By a man’s hands, the doc said. She’d also been slapped around some, two of her fingers broken, and the room had been rather thoroughly searched. That’s every damned thing except the slip of paper on the floor beneath her body with Lucy’s address on it. You know about the taxi driver calling in his tip after he heard the radiocast about her murder. That sent the cops to search Lucy’s apartment house when you messed things up good by keeping them out instead of letting them find Bristow hiding there — giving somebody time to go up the fire escape and finish him off with a knife while he lay unconscious on Lucy’s bed.”
Shayne moved restively under the accusation. “All right,” he growled. “You don’t have to rub it in. If Bristow strangled the girl, he only got what he deserved.”
Rourke shrugged and maintained a discreet silence. Shayne moodily emptied his glass, got up to stride up and down the room with one hand tugging at his ear lobe, the other clawing through bristly red hair. “Will Gentry,” he muttered, “will be checking with New Orleans for anything they may have on Jack Bristow. In the meantime we’ve got a Mrs. Smith parked out in her cabin, but I’ll be damned if I know what good she does us.”
His telephone rang as he spoke, and Timothy Rourke reached out lazily to lift it and say, “Hello.”
He said, “Right here,” and held it out to Shayne, his eyes bright with interest.
The redhead took the phone and said, “Shayne speaking.”
A man’s voice answered him. A voice he did not recognize. It had a harsh quality, with the slurred intonation of a Southerner. “Was that your reporter friend with you?”
Shayne said, “Yes.”
“You want to talk important business in front of him?”
“What sort of important business?”
“Damn important to you. About the runaround you gave the cops tonight.”
Shayne said, “I never have kept any secrets from Tim Rourke. Keep talking.”
“Okay. And you listen, shamus. You’re caught in a wringer right now. Or your secretary is. Did she use the knife on Bristow, or did you do that job?”
Michael Shayne sat down very carefully, holding the phone to his ear. His face was absolutely expressionless, but watching him intently with the intuition gained from long comradeship, Rourke sensed the strain he was under.
“You haven’t told me who you are.”
“That’s right, I haven’t. Can’t you maybe guess, shamus?” The question was a jeering one, but with an underlying note of doubt.
Shayne said, “I don’t like guessing games. Let’s get together and talk this whole thing over.”
“Oh, no, we don’t. And don’t bother tracing this call, either. I’m at a roadside pay station miles from anywhere and I’ll be the hell and gone from here before you could do any good.”
“All right,” said Shayne impatiently. “What’s your angle?”
“The dough, chum. The moola. The cash you lifted off Jack Bristow after cutting his throat so neat.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t give me that crap. I know he had it on him when he went to your girl’s place. I know it wasn’t on him when you dumped him in the street awhile ago. It’s simple like that. I want it. I don’t give a damn about you killing him,” the voice went on unemotionally. “But the cops aren’t going to like it one little bit even if he was a murderer himself. You want I should ring up your pal the chief and tell him just the kind of games you played tonight?”
“Go ahead,” growled Shayne, putting a note of disgust in his voice. “What the hell do you think you can prove?”
“Plenty, chum. Puhlenty. Listen to me so you’ll know just where you stand on this deal. I’ve got the girl, too, see?”
“What girl?” Shayne’s voice was suddenly harsh and there were deep trenches in his cheeks.
“Mrs. Allerdice. That’s who. The cute little number you’ve been playing house with tonight. She’s crazy to get to the cops after I told her you bumped Hugh off, too. How’s it going to sound when she tells how you dragged Bristow out to her with his throat cut — after you and Lucy Hamilton swore to ’em that he’d never come near her place?”
Sweat was streaming down the trenches in Shayne’s cheeks. He said flatly, “That won’t sound so good.”
“You and your sidekick, Rourke,” said his caller happily. “She can identify him, too, you know. So... do we make a deal?”
“What kind of deal?”
“I told you all I wanted. The dough. Then I’ll hand over the only witness against you except myself, and you can take care of her any way you want. You can be damn sure I won’t spill after I get the cash.”
“I still say what cash?”
“Nuts. It didn’t take wings and fly away, chum.”
“Jack Bristow had about two bucks on him,” stated Shayne flatly. “Tim Rourke will back me up on that. If you want those two bucks you can have them.”
“Wait a minute.” For the first time since the telephone conversation began there was a slight note of uncertainty in the other’s voice. “How much did Jack tell you about things?”
“Not a hell of a lot — and nothing at all about any money.”
“Could be you’re leveling,” the man conceded grudgingly. “They say you’re a smart cookie, and damned if I believe you’d try to bluff against the hand I hold. That means your cute little secretary double-crossed you, shamus. If you haven’t got the money, she sure in hell has. I still want it. And either I get it fast or the cops get you. I’m not fooling. It’s not even like I have to show, you see. You hold out the money and I take it on the lam and turn Beatrice loose to sing her song. No skin off my butt, see? If your lousy neck isn’t worth the eighty grand you or your secretary lifted off Jack tonight, why the hell with it. Make up your mind fast.”
“Eighty grand?” repeated Shayne in disbelief
“Maybe not on the head. Something near that. Hell, I won’t be tough on you. Say seventy for me. You keep whatever was over that and no questions asked. What could be fairer?”
“If there were any such sum floating around, I might agree with you. But I say there isn’t.”
“It’s just too damned bad for you if you don’t dig it up, chum. It’s ten-thirty now. I give you just one hour to come across. Here’s the way it’ll be. Listen hard and don’t argue, because there won’t be any its.”