“No!” Shayne said sharply. “Hang onto the bottle. Make enlarged sets of all three prints and call me as soon as you check with the Jordan girl’s.”
“All right, Mike,” Veigle said mournfully. “Monkey business, is it? But if you’re smart—”
“I’m not. I’m dumb enough to stick my neck out a mile.” He hung up and returned to the living-room, a set look of decision on his gaunt features.
“What’s happened?” Lucile asked hastily. “You look as though you’d had a reprieve.”
Shayne said slowly, “This may be it, Lucile.” He strode across the room and back pounding his hard right fist into the palm of his left hand. “If Denton faked that Jordan confession I may have him wide open. It may be crazy, but—” He stopped suddenly and stared at her. “Have you got the guts to play along with me? If I play my hunch and it fails, Denton won’t hesitate to use that picture. You’ll be publicly branded as a prostitute. Do you want to take that chance?”
She started to answer at once, but he held up his hand, said, “Wait — this isn’t any time for heroics. You don’t know anything about me — except that I’ve got you into a hell of a jam.”
She met his gaze squarely. “I think I know you better, Michael Shayne, than I’ve ever known any man.”
He said hoarsely, “Don’t make a mistake, Lucile.”
“I won’t.” Her eyes were shining.
He resumed his pacing. “We’ve got to decide right now,” he warned her. “There won’t be any quitting if I start. I can call it all off — let the whole thing go as it stands. Get out of town this afternoon — or I can take a long chance.” He stopped beside the couch and looked down at her. “And it’s just that — a long chance,” he warned her harshly. “I’ve got a wild hunch I can prove Denton deliberately faked Evalyn Jordan’s confession,” he went on. “There’s only one way to do that — by producing her real murderer. But — it’s only a hunch.” He emphasized the last sentence heavily.
“You’ve played hunches before, haven’t you?”
“Always. But that was when only I was involved. You’re in this with me — up to your neck. It won’t be any picnic if things go wrong. We won’t have a leg to stand on. It’ll be a stinking mess and you’ll be square in the middle of it.”
“You don’t think Evalyn killed Margo?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t see that there’s anything to decide. There’s only one right thing to do.” She caught one of his hands and pulled him down to sit beside her.
“I’m not a child, Mike,” she said quietly. “And I haven’t any folks — no one who’ll be hurt by the scandal if things go wrong. I have to keep on living with myself. How do you think it would be if I said no, and all my life lived with the knowledge that a murderer may be walking the streets free because I was afraid to take a chance with you?” Her soft finger tips caressed the back of his hand. “You wouldn’t be very proud of me if I did that. It’s strange that what you think of me matters, but it does.” She laughed softly. “I’m not making love to you, but I’d hate myself forever if I forced you to do something for which you’d hate yourself.”
Shayne said huskily, “I’ve known one other girl like you, Lucile.”
“What became of her?”
“She died.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and gave his hand a final pat.
He continued to sit on the edge of the couch. “New Orleans has been good for me. I’ve been here about sixteen hours, and I’ve been beaten up by the cops, arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge, accused of murder, blackjacked, Mickey-Finned, given a suspended sentence on a frame, and, by God, I feel fine.”
“And had your picture taken,” she reminded him.
“I needed something to wake me up,” he confessed. “Twenty-four hours ago I didn’t believe I’d ever be interested in another case.”
“I’m glad if I’ve helped.”
“You’ve helped plenty.” Shayne went into the breakfast nook to get the cognac bottle, asking, “Want some of this stuff straight?”
“No, thanks. That hot mixture was pretty insidious. If I had another drink I’d probably insist that you make an honest woman of me.”
Shayne took a drink and replied seriously. “A little while ago I was going to suggest that as a possible out if things go wrong this afternoon.”
Lucile laughed lightly. “It won’t be necessary. I feel completely honest.”
Shayne looked at his watch. The time was ten o’clock. “I’m going to make a long-distance call.”
He dialed the operator and said, “I want to get Timothy Rourke in Miami, Florida. Person to person.” He gave her Tim’s residence number and waited, explaining to Lucile, “Tim Rourke is a reporter who’s always played ball with me in Miami. If this story breaks the way I hope it will—”
He was interrupted by the operator. “Here’s your party — go ahead.”
“Tim?” Shayne said into the mouthpiece.
“Mike?” Rourke groaned. “You’ve been leading with your chin again. I might have known.”
Shayne said, “Shut up and listen. This is costing me money. Will your expense account stand a plane hop down here for an exclusive on a hell of a story?”
“Your hanging isn’t that important. You can give me your last words right now—”
“I’m not horsing. If your paper isn’t interested—”
“Who said I wasn’t interested? What about a plane?”
“Charter one,” Shayne said shortly. “It shouldn’t be more than a three-hour hop that way.”
“I don’t know about chartering one. The expense account may not stretch that far.”
“It’s the only way. I’ve got a deadline to meet. Yes or no?”
“Yes, if you say it’s worth it.”
“I’ve never given you a bum steer, Tim. Bring a picture of Barbara Little if there’s one around.”
“There is — one that we ran on the suicide scare.”
“Bring it. Call me from the airport the minute you land.” Shayne gave him Lucile’s number and hung up.
“Tim Rourke,” he continued to Lucile, “is a sort of ex-officio press-relations council. And God knows we’ll need all the drag we can get from the press if my guess goes wrong.”
“It won’t,” she told him confidently.
Shayne combed his hair with his fingernails, leaving it standing on end. “I’ve got two or three things to do,” he said. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”
“I won’t have to try.” She yawned prettily, patting her open mouth with her palm. “When I think of those poor wage slaves at the office, not knowing the luxury of a life of sin—”
Shayne said, “You’re a shameless hussy. If anyone calls for me it’ll be Harry Veigle. Take the message. He’ll tell you whether or not Evalyn’s prints are on the cognac bottle that killed Barbara. If not, ask him to meet me at Quinlan’s office with the bottle and prints at one-thirty.”
“What about that bottle? I meant to ask you when I heard you phoning before.”
“It’s the one we drank out of yesterday afternoon. I found it before the police did.” He put on his coat and hat and started toward the door, saying, “I’ll be back before Rourke can call me from the airport.”
“Where are you going, Mike? Not — into any more trouble,” she cried anxiously.
“God forbid.” He grinned. “I’m going to see if I can find a rat hole for Denton to crawl into if it comes to that.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob, stalked back to pick up the paper Lucile had discarded and glanced through the front-page story again. He asked, “What was Evalyn Jordan’s address?”
She gave him the street number and added, “It’s an old house made over into apartments on Ursuline just off Royal.”