The intern jerked away from Gentry and took a stethoscope from the rear pocket of his trousers, fitting the listening-tubes in his ears as he approached the prostrate form of the patient. He placed the bell on Rourke’s chest with his left hand and felt for his pulse with the right. After a moment he said, “That will be all. He’ll be out for several hours.”
Gentry came up behind the intern, and Shayne met his stony eyes with the challenge, “Are you satisfied?”
“I got it all,” he admitted, stepping aside and beckoning Shayne to follow as the intern drew up a chair and took his place beside the patient.
“And you don’t think Tim was telling the truth?”
“I had the feeling that you were leading him on, getting him to answer the way you wanted,” Gentry said. He got out a fresh cigar, lit it, and puffed until the end glowed red, then burst out, “It did sound like the truth, damn it, Mike, except that stuff about not remembering shooting himself. Even if a man does pass out from too much liquor-”
“You know how Tim was about that,” Shayne broke in gently. “Hell, you were at my place that night when he picked up twelve hundred in a poker game and didn’t remember one damned thing about even playing poker the next day, yet none of us realized he was dead drunk when we were playing with him. Tim was like that,” he went on urgently. “I’ve seen him write feature stories in his office and he never hit a wrong letter. The next day he wouldn’t even know what they were about until he read them in the News and saw his by-line.”
“That’s very interesting,” the intern said, “and I should like to discuss it further.” He stood up and pushed his chair aside. “May I ask what a mental blackout from alcohol without physical disability has to do with the case?” He took a few steps toward Shayne and Gentry, stopped, and looked at Ned Brooks who sat dejectedly in a chair across the room with his head bowed in his hands.
“From the information I gathered from Mr. Brooks when I first came in, the patient witnessed a murder last night by a woman for whom he cared a great deal. Convinced that it was committed on his account, Rourke destroyed certain evidence pointing to her and later took one drink too many, and a mental block resulted.”
“That’s about it,” Shayne growled, “but Chief Gentry doubts that he could have written a confession and shot himself without being conscious of doing so.” He glanced at Brooks, whose presence he had forgotten until the doctor mentioned his name, but the reporter kept his head bowed.
The intern was saying, “That is exactly what the patient might have done under the circumstances. There is a well-developed theory that when a man blacks out mentally-to use the layman’s phrase-from alcohol, his subconscious controls his actions. Thus, a man under the complete domination of the subconscious, becomes a superlative poker player, or he may attain perfection in any game or any endeavor.
“Let us assume that this man is inherently decent. His subconscious rebels, under the influence of alcohol, against the thing he has done consciously. He makes amends by destroying the evidence of witnessing a murder through the medium of writing a confession absolving the woman he loves and whom he knows to be guilty. Then he attempts to take his own life, believing it is the only way out for him.
“And now,” he continued, turning abruptly to the front door, “it is important that we remove the patient to the hospital.” He called the two men who waited on the porch with the stretcher.
Shayne watched the orderlies edge Rourke’s body gently from the couch onto the canvas stretcher and pull a sheet over him. His mouth was grim and he rubbed a hand hard over his uninjured right jaw.
“Have you gone through Rourke’s pockets?” he asked abruptly, turning to Gentry.
“No. I don’t think-”
“Hold it, boys,” he called to the orderlies as they lifted the stretcher to carry it away, and again turned to Gentry. “Don’t you think you ought to do that, Will?”
“They’ll inventory his effects at the hospital,” the chief said.
“To hell with that. I want it done here, in my presence. I know how hospitals are, and you do, too. If Tim has two grand on him now you’ll find it reported as fifty dollars by the pillroller who goes over him.”
“I resent that,” the young intern retorted with professional dignity. “If you mean-”
“I mean I want to see what he has on him before he is taken away,” Shayne cut in sharply.
Gentry growled, “Go through his pockets and see what you find, Jenkins.”
The orderlies set the stretcher down and waited while the Homicide officer knelt beside it and went over every pocket in Rourke’s clothes. He produced a wallet, a stamped letter to an insurance company, a soiled handkerchief and a clean folded one, three partially used books of matches, a pack of cigarettes half full, a key ring, and a handful of loose change.
When the objects were displayed on the floor Shayne looked them over carefully, shook his red head, and demanded, “Are you sure there’s nothing else?”
“What else did you expect?” Jenkins hunkered back on his heels and looked up at Shayne.
“What does it matter?” Gentry asked impatiently.
Shayne ignored the police chief. With a questing, groping expression on his face he demanded of Jenkins, “Are there any holes in any of his pockets?”
“I didn’t notice any.” He appealed to Gentry.
Gentry’s murky, protuberant eyes were studying Shayne’s face curiously. “I remember you asked the same thing about Bert Jackson when we found him,” he rumbled, then nodded to his subordinate and ordered, “Check every pocket for a hole.”
Jenkins rechecked with ill grace, arose from his kneeling position, and said, “Not a hole big enough for a pin to go through.”
Shayne waved to the patient orderlies, said, “Okay,” then turned to Gentry. “You won’t mind if I follow the ambulance to the hospital? I’d like-”
Ned Brooks’s telephone rang in the hallway. Jenkins hurried to answer it and called to Will Gentry, “It’s for you, Chief.”
Shayne hesitated, watching the men take Rourke away and listening to Gentry on the telephone. Before he could make up his mind the chief re-entered the living-room and growled, “When I first met Lucy Hamilton she was a sweet, innocent kid, Mike. Now, by God-”
“What has she done now?” Shayne asked.
“Just got herself picked up for a hair-pulling brawl at the post office and taken for a ride in the paddy wagon. She’s raving like a lunatic and demanding to see me, and they can’t do a damned thing with her or the other woman. I’ve ordered both of them to be brought here. Before God, Mike, Lucy’s getting to be exactly like you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Shayne hid a one-sided grin and, at Gentry’s gruff suggestion, sauntered out into the bright sunlight to await Lucy’s arrival while the chief further interrogated Ned Brooks, and Jenkins made a more thorough examination of the suicide scene.
His first amusement over Lucy’s predicament faded as he paced the walk, and he wondered what had happened at the post office. Why was she arrested? What did Gentry mean by a hair-pulling brawl?
As he paced up and down, he realized that it had to be something connected with the letter Lucy had gone to pick up for Betty Jackson, a letter which should contain twenty-five thousand dollars. Had Betty roused from her stupor and got there ahead of Lucy? Fought for the letter?
It didn’t matter much now, he told himself ruefully. Gentry had heard him tell Rourke about the money that was being mailed to Betty, and the whole story would have to come out now. There was no telling what would become of the money after the police got their hands on it, but that would be something to worry about later.
Shayne tossed away a cigarette when he saw the Black Maria swing around the corner. He strolled out to meet it when it pulled up to the curb. A policeman stepped down from the rear step, opened the door, and ordered the occupants out.