CHAPTER SIX
Shayne got in his car and switched on the headlights that picked out Timothy Rourke’s shambling figure as he got into the driver’s seat of the shabby coupe which the detective knew so well. He started his motor and waited until Rourke drew away from the curb, then pulled out behind him. There were only two police cars left parked on the quiet side street as they drove away.
Rourke’s coupe turned south toward the business section of Miami Beach, and Shayne followed close behind. On Fifth Street, Rourke turned to the right toward the Causeway, slowed and pulled into the curb in front of the first bar at which there was parking space.
Shayne parked behind him, cut off his ignition and headlights, and got out briskly. He caught up with the reporter as Rourke was entering the bar, and walked beside him, without speaking, to an empty booth. Timothy Rourke slid into it and Shayne sat opposite him. Rourke avoided meeting his eyes as a waiter came up to take their order. He said, “Bourbon and water. Make it a double,” and Shayne ordered cognac with ice water on the side.
The waiter went away, and Rourke continued to avoid meeting Shayne’s eyes.
The redhead lit a cigarette and said tonelessly, “Get off your high-horse, Tim. We’ve been friends for a good many years.”
“That,” said Rourke, “is what’s bothering me.”
“So, why did you pull that fool stunt tonight?”
“Sending Doc Ambrose to you for help?” Rourke darted an angry glance at him. “I didn’t think it was a fool stunt when I did it. I was crazy enough to think that those years of friendship you just mentioned meant something to you. That you, by God, would help a man out, if I asked you to. Without asking any questions.”
The waiter brought their drinks. Shayne waited until he had gone away before countering mildly, “And I thought you’d trust me to handle it, Tim. Without sticking your oar in. Goddamit!” he went on strongly, “from where I sit, it looks to me like your interference triggered Doctor Ambrose’s death.”
“My interference?” Rourke looked at him incredulously with his highball halfway to his mouth. “What in hell are you talking about?”
“George Bayliss.”
“George… Bayliss?” Rourke frowned and took a long pull at his double bourbon and water. “The photographer on the News? What’s he got to do with it?”
“Cut it out, Tim,” said Shayne angrily. “You’re talking to Mike Shayne. Remember. I covered up for you in front of Painter, but now, Goddamit, I expect you to come clean.”
“What are you talking about?”
“George Bayliss… and that picture he took of Ambrose making the blackmail pay-off.”
Timothy Rourke lowered his glass slowly to the table with a shaking hand. “What picture are you talking about?”
“Damn it, Tim, I was there. Bayliss must have told you that. Cut out your pretense that you swallowed the story I gave Painter.”
“Wait a minute.” Rourke’s eyes glowed queerly in their cavernous sockets. “Are you saying you did go with Ambrose?”
“Didn’t Bayliss tell you I was there?”
“What’s this Bayliss routine? I heard you tell Painter flatly that you refused to help Doc Ambrose… that you washed your hands of the whole affair. I never knew you to tell an outright lie before, Mike. Even when the pressure was on.”
“I didn’t lie to Painter,” Shayne corrected him quietly. “I did refuse to help Ambrose… when he first broached the subject. I did my best to dissuade him from making the pay-off. But after you phoned that last time… hell, Tim, of course I went with him. I thought you knew it all the time.”
“Wait a minute, Mike. I don’t get this at all. I distinctly remember hearing you tell Painter that Ambrose walked out of your apartment headed for the Seacliff.”
“He did.” Shayne shrugged and grinned sourly. “What I failed to add was that I was right beside him at the time.”
“You also told him, flatly and unequivocally, that you didn’t leave your hotel from the time you came in at eight until you left at eleven after I phoned you that Ambrose was dead.”
“Unh-uh.” Shayne shook his head blandly. “You’re not up on the fine points of evading the truth, Tim. Think back carefully and you’ll remember that I told him the desk clerk at my hotel would testify that I hadn’t gone out. He will. And believe he’s telling the truth when he does. I used the stairs and the side entrance both going and coming, and Pete didn’t see me.”
“In the name of God, Mike!” Timothy Rourke ran distracted fingers through his black hair. “Are you telling me now that you did go with Ambrose to the Seacliff Restaurant?”
“I’ve been trying to get that through your thick skull for ten minutes,” growled Shayne. “I thought Bayliss would have reported back to you, and I thought you were putting on that act of being sore at me in front of Painter.”
“Tell me just what happened.” Rourke’s eyes were very bright.
Shayne sipped his drink and told him in detail. About Crew-cut coming in and the exchange of bulky white envelopes, which seemed to satisfy them both. About the flash-bulb explosion and turning his head in time to see George Bayliss run out of the restaurant.
“The picture didn’t seem to worry either one of them particularly,” he said thoughtfully. “Doc Ambrose seemed to think it was my idea, and he didn’t like it. What made me sore was you not telling me what you had in mind. I might have shot the guy. I damn near did.”
Rourke said quietly, “It wasn’t my idea, Mike.”
“Bayliss wasn’t? He’s top photographer on the News.”
“Sure he is, but I didn’t send him to the Seacliff. I haven’t even seen him for a couple of days.”
“Then who in hell…?”
“Let’s ask him.” Rourke pushed out of the booth. “I don’t know whether he’s working tonight or not…” He fumbled in his pocket for a dime, looking around for a telephone booth.
Shayne said, “He isn’t. I checked with the paper as soon as I got back. And he didn’t answer his home phone either. I’ve got the number, if you want to try him again.”
Rourke nodded and Shayne gave him the number from memory. His eyes were bleak as they followed the reporter’s emaciated figure into a telephone booth near the front door. All the time he’d taken it for granted that the picture had been Tim’s idea. If not, who then? Who else could have sent the press photographer to the Seacliff at nine-thirty to take a picture of the two men exchanging envelopes in the booth. And why had anyone bothered?
The gangling reporter came back shaking his head soberly. “His phone still doesn’t answer.” He slid into the seat opposite Shayne and drained his glass. Shayne polished off his cognac at the same time, and nodded to the hovering waiter.
“This changes everything,” he told Rourke with a worried frown. “Somebody sent Bayliss there to get that picture. Anybody on the paper, Tim? Did you talk this over with the editor or anybody?”
“Lord, no. Not a soul.” Timothy Rourke drummed thin fingertips on the table with feverish intensity. “He didn’t have to be sent by the paper, Mike. Guys like Bayliss do pick up private assignments. He’s got his own by-line, and anybody wanting a job like that done might very well call on him.”
The waiter brought their drinks. When he went away, Shayne asked casually, “Ambrose?”
A deep frown furrowed Rourke’s forehead. “Who else? Remember. He didn’t know who was blackmailing him. But the blackmailer had to know his identity.”
“He didn’t make any phone call,” objected Shayne, “after setting up the appointment from my place at nine o’clock.”
“But it was tentatively set up at the Seacliff before he came to you,” Rourke reminded him. “Maybe he already had it fixed with Bayliss to be there at nine-thirty unless he called and said differently.”