Shayne said, “You don’t know what you’re saying, Tim. We’re talking about Phyllis. My wife.”
“She’s one woman,” Rourke told him quietly. “One woman who happens to be married to you. Other wives are dying tonight. All over the world. Being blown to bits by bombs. The husbands and the sons of other women are dying by thousands. If you think Phyl would appreciate-”
“I’m not thinking about Phyl,” Shayne interrupted gruffly. “I’m thinking about myself.”
Rourke’s lip curled upward. “Get out of my way.”
Shayne stood solidly in front of the door. “Can’t I say anything to change your mind?”
“Nothing. I’ve heard enough lies. I wouldn’t be able to believe a word you said now. I’m going to Pearson.”
Shayne said, “I’m sorry, Tim.” He sighed and stepped aside. “If you won’t listen to reason-”
Rourke said, “None of your reasons interest me.” He started through the door.
Shayne swung his right fist in a looping uppercut. It struck the point of Rourke’s chin. The reporter tottered backward and went down to the floor.
Shayne stepped over him and went into the bedroom. He called the want-ad desk of the Miami Herald and ordered a personal advertisement inserted in the morning paper: Okay. Plus one grand. M.S.
He came back to the living-room and poured a drink. He did not look at Helen or at the unconscious figure of Timothy Rourke lying in front of the door.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Helen started to speak, but he shut her up with an angry, “You got me into this mess. Keep your mouth shut while I think my way out.”
She bit her lip and subsided into silence. Shayne sat without moving for a long time, then sighed and took Murphy’s second telegram from his pocket. He smoothed it out and read it again, seeking some new significance in the light of the story he had just heard from Pearson.
Pearson hadn’t mentioned that Jim Lacy was the victim in the holdup that had sent Mace Morgan to prison. Perhaps he didn’t know-or thought it an unimportant detail.
But it seemed terrifically important to Shayne. If Lacy and Morgan had worked together stealing a government secret only a couple of days before the robbery-why had Morgan turned on his partner immediately afterward?
To Shayne, a more plausible explanation was that Morgan had not turned on Lacy-that the holdup had been another partnership deal between the two men. It wasn’t a new wrinkle in the annals of crime. There were plenty cases of collusion between a crooked messenger carrying a large sum of money and a confederate who pretended to hold him up. In fact, when the sum of money was particularly large as in this case, there had to be a tip-off somewhere along the line.
But this holdup had backfired. Instead of getting away with the swag, Morgan had been caught and sentenced. Shayne wondered whether Lacy had testified at the trial-whether he had identified Morgan on the witness stand. The answer to that might be the answer to a lot of things.
The telephone called him into the bedroom while he was still musing over a lot of diverse possibilities.
The desk clerk reported the arrival of a telegram. Shayne told him to send it up. He went to the door and tipped the boy who brought it. This was another message from the energetic Murphy in New York:
Charles Worthing reputed wealthy. Divorce case pending New York. Adultery with girl named Helen Brinstead named corespondent. Worthing and Brinstead being seen together openly. For picture of both and full details see page fourteen last Sunday MIRROR photo taken at Stork Club Saturday night.
Shayne folded this telegram with the other one and put them both into his pocket. As he sauntered back to his chair, Helen stamped her foot and demanded:
“Isn’t it time you started telling me something about what’s going on?”
He looked at her with a show of mild surprise. “Why should I?”
“Do you think I’m not half crazy with curiosity? Do you think I’m made of wood? You haven’t told me anything.”
“I didn’t think you were interested in anything-except getting Mace Morgan bumped off. You got that. What the hell more do you want?”
“I want to know what all this mystery is about. Who were those men that came while I was hiding in the closet? Who’s he?” She indicated Rourke lying on the floor. “What did you two mean when you talked about the law wanting me? What were you looking for when you searched my clothing?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I don’t know anything.” She stamped her foot again. “You sit here like a bump on a log acting as if you thought I was deaf and dumb.”
“Didn’t you hear what was said out here while you were in the closet?”
“Only a mumble-jumble that I couldn’t understand. What was in that letter you got from the messenger? Why did your friend go haywire after reading it, and what did he mean by Lacy’s piece of the claim check? What claim check? What’s all this mysterious stuff about the war and spies and stuff?”
Shayne leaned back and crossed his legs in a more comfortable position. “You’re putting on a pretty good act. Are you sure you didn’t do some dramatic bits when you were in the Scandals? You couldn’t get that good just by showing your legs in the chorus.”
“What do you mean by an act?”
“The whole thing,” Shayne growled. “The story you handed me this afternoon.”
Helen’s jaw sagged. The luster went out of her eyes. “You mean about-Charles Worthing?”
“And Helen Brinstead.” Shayne nodded. “That was a gag you and Lacy figured out together over in his hotel room-to provide a logical reason for coming here and persuading me to gun Morgan.”
“What makes you think it was a gag?”
“Your name isn’t Helen Brinstead,” Shayne told her in a reasonable tone. “It was Dalhart before you married Morgan. Why should you want to change it to Brinstead?”
“Oh, that.” She sucked in her lower lip and contrived to look quite innocent and girlish. “I admit it isn’t my real name. I didn’t want to go back to my maiden name after I separated from Mace, so I just, well-tagged on Brinstead for want of something better.
“You’re a fast-on-your-feet, rough-and-tumble liar,” Shayne said. “But you’ll have to really think fast to talk yourself out of this one. How did Helen Brinstead and Charles Worthing get their picture taken at the Stork Club in New York last Saturday night while you were in Miami?”
“How do you know they did?” she asked weakly.
He patted his coat pocket. “The telegram I just got. The picture is printed in Sunday’s Mirror — page fourteen-a two-column spread with all the dirt about Worthing’s divorce and his plan to marry the corespondent. That’s the piece clipped out of the paper lying on Lacy’s bed,” he reminded her. “It’s what gave you the idea for the sob story you thought might work on me.”
Helen Morgan sat with her eyes downcast, pulling and twisting a handkerchief in her lap.
“All right,” she began breathlessly. “It was a lie. But I was frantic, Mr. Shayne. You’ve got to understand that. My life was in danger every minute Mace stayed alive. You’ve got to believe me.” Tears sprang from her lowered lids and ran down her cheeks. She made no effort to check or hide them.
“So you and Lacy thought up that story together-after happening to see the picture and the item in the Mirror?”
“Yes. It-oh, I admit it was a terrible thing to do. But I was desperate. I didn’t know what to do. Jim Lacy was afraid to go up against Mace. If you only knew the agony I’ve been through-” She was sobbing openly now, and she lifted her head to let him see her distorted face.
“And you tried to sucker me into killing Morgan for you. Then, when I was cagey, you figured another out. You came up here and undressed, so when Morgan came I’d be in a jam and either be forced to kill him myself or keep you in the clear if you did it. And it worked out just the way you figured it.”
“No! I swear I didn’t know Mace was coming. That’s a terrible thing to accuse me of.” She shuddered. “As though I’d planned it.”