Shayne grunted, “Maybe. But he did act surprised and angry, Tim, when he accused me of having the picture taken. Was he that good an actor?”
“I don’t know what Doctor Ambrose was… except being a damned fine doctor. If you think it was his idea to take the picture… do you think that’s what got him bumped off?”
“That doesn’t quite add up either. I told you Crew-cut didn’t seem much perturbed about having his picture taken.”
“Maybe he thought it over and decided it was important.”
“Then he changed his mind pretty fast to be waiting for the doctor when he got home. The way I figure the time, Ambrose must have driven straight home from the Seacliff.”
“How about this? Suppose Crew-cut wasn’t the actual blackmailer… just hired to pick up the money. Suppose after you and Ambrose left, he phoned the boss to say everything was all right and he had the money… and mentioned in passing that someone had taken a picture of the transaction. Maybe the boss didn’t like the idea and sent a gun over to waylay Ambrose when he got home.”
Shayne frowned and said, “Maybe. But why would he care if one of his hired hands got his picture taken accepting a bribe?”
“Could be a dozen reasons. If Crew-cut, for instance, were immediately identifiable as being one of his boys. It might point the finger directly at him.”
Shayne agreed, “Might be. Right now, I’m worried about Bayliss. Why doesn’t he answer his telephone?”
Rourke glanced at his watch. “It isn’t midnight yet.” He lifted his drink and perceptibly lowered the level in his glass. “He’s a bachelor. A woman-chaser. Let’s give him until past midnight to answer his phone.”
“All right,” said Shayne somberly. “So we’ll give him until past midnight.” He paused, studying the liquor in his glass. “What did you make out of the doctor’s widow tonight?”
“Celia Ambrose?”
Shayne said stiffly, “I didn’t know you were on a first-name basis with her. You didn’t tell Petey.”
Rourke said, “Nuts, Mike. Don’t make something out of this that isn’t there. Celia Ambrose just gets a man on a first-name basis fast.”
“You figure that drunken act of hers was legitimate?” demanded Shayne.
“Don’t you?” Rourke looked at him wonderingly.
Shayne said softly, “I don’t know the woman. What about the gambling angle, Tim? You do know Ambrose better than you admitted tonight. Has he bought lots of hay for the nags who didn’t come in?”
“I doubt it,” said Rourke cautiously. “That is… I seem to recall that he used to ask me for tips, and I think maybe he invested small sums now and then, but I seriously doubt that he got in over his head… the way she intimated.”
“Intimated?” questioned Shayne. “You think she was making it up?”
“Either that, or else your explanation fits. That the doctor made her think he was gambling to account for the drain on his income for blackmail.”
“What do you suppose he was being blackmailed for?”
“Damned if I know.” Rourke scowled down at his glass. “In my book,” he said strongly, “Doctor Ambrose was one fine gent… and a hell of a good doctor. I suppose every man is capable of making a slip now and then. And, as he pointed out to you, Mike, an M.D. is particularly vulnerable. One breath of suspicion directed at him can ruin his practice. Not like a private eye or a newspaper reporter.”
Shayne nodded somber agreement. “Too bad it’ll all probably have to come out now… after he paid off plenty to prevent it.”
“Why should it, Mike? Whoever killed him and lifted the envelope with those documents isn’t likely to make them public.”
“This is a murder investigation. Everything about the doctor’s private life is important now. Painter won’t leave a stone unturned to dig up the blackmail information. There’ll be something in the doctor’s files that’ll put him on the trail. Painter’s not too smart, but he’s dogged as hell.”
Timothy Rourke nodded unhappy agreement. He tightened his lips and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “I still owe Doc Ambrose something.”
Shayne watched his old friend speculatively. “He’s dead now. There’s not very much you can do, Tim.”
“Celia’s still alive. They’ve got married children, I think.” Rourke’s thin fingers closed convulsively about his glass. “I feel responsible in a way. If I’d tried harder to talk him out of it tonight. If I hadn’t sent him to you… put pressure on you to help him make the pay-off…”
Shayne said, “Afterthoughts don’t help.”
“No, but maybe there’s something we can do.” Rourke peered across the table at him with eyes that were feverishly bright. “You feel up to a spot of breaking and entering?”
“Frankly… no.” Shayne stifled a wide yawn, then asked resignedly, “What have you got in mind?”
“His office files, Mike. They’re not ten blocks from here. If we go through them before Painter gets around to it in the morning…”
Shayne drummed blunt fingertips on the table. “That’s illegal as hell. In addition to obstructing a murder investigation.”
“Obstructing?” snorted Rourke. “Don’t be ridiculous! If we do find a lead to the blackmailer, you’ll know how to follow it up a lot better than Petey will. We owe it to Ambrose to try it, Mike. It might lead straight to his murderer.”
“It might. But it’s a slim chance.”
“All right. If we don’t find anything important there’s no harm done.”
Shayne hesitated. “You got his address?”
“Sure. I’ve been there several times. It’s a perfect location for us. On a side street off Fifth. One of those little medical centers with half a dozen doctors’ offices grouped in a U about a patio. Not a soul around this time of night.” He got out his wallet and looked around for the waiter who hurried up and presented the bill. Rourke put four ones on the table and got up.
Shayne followed him out reluctantly. Rourke said, “Follow me,” and got in his coupe before Shayne could protest further.
The detective walked back to his own car and got in, inwardly cursing the reporter for his stubborn loyalty toward a dead friend, yet knowing in his heart that he would feel exactly the same, if Ambrose had been his friend.
He followed Rourke along Fifth Street, and made a right turn behind him, and they drove a few blocks north away from the bright lights, and Rourke eased in to the curb near a corner. Shayne pulled in close behind him, and got out, and Rourke clutched his arm and said in a low voice, “It’s around the corner on this street. I thought it was best not to park right in front.”
They walked casually around the corner and there was a street light behind them and a dark street in front.
They passed three unlighted residences, and Rourke guided Shayne onto a flagged pathway between a row of one-story connected offices and a wide patio with flowerbeds on the left. “It’s down near the end,” Rourke whispered. “See how dark it is.”
It was pleasantly dark for the job they were doing, until they reached the door indicated by Rourke. There was just enough moonlight to make out the bronze plaque, “Philip H. Ambrose, M.D.”
There was a wide window on the right of the door with tightly closed Venetian blinds, and it wasn’t until they stood directly in front of the door that they could discern a faint glow behind the closed blinds.
They stood very still and looked at the glow, and in the utter night silence of the deserted side street they heard the unmistakable sound of movement inside.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Shayne caught hold of Rourke’s thin wrist and pressed it tightly to enjoin silence. With his right hand, he cautiously took hold of the brass door-knob and turned it. The door was locked. He got a pencil flashlight from his breast pocket and turned the small light on the edge of the door and the jamb, running it from top to bottom without finding any evidence that the door had been forced open. Then he crouched down and turned the light on the keyhole while he studied it carefully, switched off the light and drew Rourke back onto the grass verge of the patio.