He splashed more cognac in his glass, glaring at the silent telephone sitting close to his right hand.
“But I gave it to you on a silver platter. I stole it from Peter Painter and handed it to you for free. My paper is even paying your bills on the deal. Don’t I get some explanation?”
“No.”
“Do you want to force me to take it to Painter after all? He would really make headlines out of it.”
Shayne said, “You won’t take it to Painter.”
“How do you know I won’t?” Rourke was beginning to seethe with anger. “You set yourself up like a little tin god to decide what is proper for Tim Rourke to know and what isn’t. To hell with that attitude. Even Painter would be more co-operative.”
“But you’re not going to take it to him,” Shayne stated positively.
“And I ask you again… why shouldn’t I?”
“Because I’ve asked you not to.”
“Nuts! I’m telling you… oh, hell, Mike. I’m not going to try and blackmail you. But you might give me some hint…”
“Not even a hint, Tim.” Shayne’s voice was very firm. “This gal is sitting on the edge of a volcano with her feet dangling over the edge. The slightest nudge might destroy her.”
“She certainly seems to have impressed you,” grunted Rourke sourly.
“She did.”
There was a long period of silence between the two old friends who knew each other and each other’s moods so well. Timothy Rourke sucked contemplatively on his highball while Shayne stretched out his long legs and closed his eyes, willing the telephone to ring.
It didn’t.
Rourke’s voice came to his ears from a seemingly great distance.
“I gather you turned her down flatly. If she’s so desperate, won’t she go to someone else with the same proposition? Someone who isn’t quite so conscientious as you. Fifty thousand dollars is a nice round sum for a simple killing. Hundreds have been arranged for a hundredth of that.”
“I’m afraid she will. That’s why I’m waiting for the goddamned telephone to ring.”
“Hoping it will be Jane Smith calling on the great Michael Shayne for help?”
“Hoping she will take Mike Wayne’s advice and give up her silly idea of arranging a murder.”
“Why should she? She barely knows the guy. Only met him tonight.”
“And he let her down,” agreed Shayne tonelessly. “But they did establish a certain rapport. She trusted him utterly for a few minutes.”
“But suppose she doesn’t call you?” argued Rourke. “What then? Are you going to do nothing to prevent her from going ahead with her murderous ideas?”
“I don’t see why I should.” Shayne spoke slowly, evidently arguing with himself. “If her story is true, a simple killing is much too good for the guy. Who am I to sit in judgment?”
“Who, indeed?” agreed Rourke. “But isn’t that just what you did this evening?”
“Hell, no! I simply gave her some good advice.”
“According to your standards. But what about hers?”
Shayne sighed and said, “Stop needling me, Tim.” He morosely lifted his glass and drained it.
“Okay. Let’s change the subject. You got any hot cases on the fire?”
“Nor any cold ones either.”
“That’s what Lucy says. In fact, she told me in confidence just yesterday that if you kept on turning down cases offered to you, she was going to quit you cold.”
“She’s always threatening to quit.”
“One day she’s going to do it. You don’t know how that girl looks up to you, Mike. She feels you’re wasting your talents…”
The telephone shrilled between them.
Shayne’s big hand shot out to grasp it. He saw Rourke grinning at him, and controlled his impatience, lifting it slowly and saying, “Michael Shayne speaking,” in an impersonal tone.
A frown of disappointment furrowed his brow when Lucy Hamilton’s voice lilted over the wire, “I hope you weren’t asleep or busy, Michael.”
“I was neither. Tim Rourke is here sopping up my liquor.”
“Oh. Well, I called because something came up this afternoon after you left the office. A Mr. David Waring of the Southern Mutual Insurance Company came in to talk about putting you on an annual retainer. I told him you aren’t terribly tied up right now, and I ended up going out to dinner with him. He just dropped me off home, and I did a terrific selling job on you.”
“It was a long dinner,” said Shayne crossly.
“Michael!” Her amused voice made three distinct syllables out of his name. “I do believe you’re jealous.”
“Of course I’m not jealous.”
“Well, he’s fat and a lot of fun.”
“Good clean fun, I’ll bet. All right, angel. Put him on the phone and I’ll talk to him.”
“You are jealous,” she said wonderingly. “And you’re trying to trick me. He isn’t here, silly. I told you he dropped me off.”
“I know what you told me. Okay, Lucy. I’m waiting for an important telephone call. Get your beauty sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”
He hung up and stared bleakly at Rourke, then sighed and dragged the telephone directory closer and looked up the number of the Palms Terrace hotel on Miami Beach.
He gave the number to Pete who also handled the switchboard at night, and when he got the hotel, he said, “Jane Smith, please. Suite four twenty-six.”
There was a moment of waiting, and then the girl said, “I will give you the desk.” A man’s brisk voice came over the wire a few seconds later. “The desk. May I help you?”
“I’m trying to reach Miss Jane Smith in four twenty-six.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Miss Smith checked out about an hour ago.”
“Did she leave a forwarding address?”
“No, sir. She left in quite a rush.”
Shayne said, “Thank you,” and hung up. He looked across at Rourke and said tonelessly, “She checked out of the hotel right after I left her.”
Rourke lifted his glass and said, “So that disposes of Jane Smith. If she keeps trying, she’ll find plenty of guys to do the job for her.” He emptied his glass with a flourish. “Okay, Mike. Send a bill to the News for your expenses. It was a good try.”
“There won’t be any bill,” Shayne told him harshly. “I won more money playing poker the last two nights than I spent on the project.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Three hot-shots are sitting around a stud table right now, chewing their fingernails and wondering why in hell I haven’t shown up for the kill they had planned.”
Rourke stood up and yawned. “Well, if you don’t mind,” he said politely, “I guess I’ll drift along. Thanks for the drink.”
Very formally, Shayne said, “You’re always welcome.”
He waited until Rourke had his hand on the doorknob and then asked, “Does the name Saul Henderson mean anything to you, Tim?”
“Saul Henderson?” The reporter turned slowly, speculative interest in his eyes. “What about him?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” said Shayne patiently. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Sure. What connection has a guy like Henderson got with Jane Smith or this thing tonight?”
“I didn’t say he had any connection.”
“I know you didn’t.” Rourke released the doorknob and turned back into the room. “All the same it made me wonder… in view of the fact that Henderson has a stepdaughter about nineteen years old. Utterly charming, I’d say, and what a guy like you might well call a ‘nice girl.’”
Shayne said, “So what? I didn’t ask you about Henderson’s stepdaughter.”
“I know you didn’t.” For a brief moment their glances interlocked. Rourke’s gaze, keen and challenging; Shayne’s, cool and unperturbed. Then Rourke sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “All right, Mike. Saul Henderson. A thumbnail sketch. He’s been a resident of the Beach for a few years, running a small brokerage house, I think. Dabbled in public affairs and been on a few committees. I think his wife died recently, and there’ve been rumors that he inherited a million or so. Whether that’s true or not, he’s being groomed to run for mayor of Miami Beach in the next election as the reform candidate. His candidacy isn’t official, but it’s pretty well in the bag, I guess.”