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.”
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.
“Must be the killer,” whispered Rourke tautly. “He could have got the key from Doc’s body.”
Shayne nodded. “Probably. You stay here, Tim.”
“You got a gun?” Rourke demanded.
Shayne shook his red head in the moonlight and drew a large, well-filled key-ring from his pocket. “That’s an easy lock,” he muttered.
“I’ll call the cops,” offered Tim, his teeth chattering slightly.
“And have them get their hands on all Dr. Ambrose’s secrets?” asked Shayne calmly. “I thought that’s what you wanted to avoid at all costs.”
“Well… yeh… sure… but if that’s a murderer in there, Mike…”
“Then we take him,” said Shayne coldly. “Just stand back out of the way, Tim.” He patted the reporter confidently on the shoulder and moved forward to crouch in front of the door again.
Using the sliver of light, he selected a key from the ring and tried it in the lock. It did not enter… nor did the second key he selected. The third went into the keyhole but would not turn. Shayne studied it very carefully after drawing it out, and then chose a fourth key.
This one not only entered, but turned the lock smoothly and soundlessly.
Shayne got to his feet and put the flashlight back into his pocket. He gripped the knob firmly and put hard downward pressure on it as he turned. Keeping the hard downward pressure on the knob, he pushed the door open and stepped quietly into the carpeted reception room. He felt Rourke’s breath on his neck as he stepped forward, and it was too late to order the reporter to remain safely outside.
The glow of light they had seen on the blinds came through a half-open door across the room. There was a clicking sound within the lighted room. Shayne moved springily across the carpeted floor until he reached the door, then lunged through it without hesitation or warning.
His momentum carried him crashing into the stooped figure of a woman leaning over a desk with a metal strongbox in her hands.
She screamed and they went to the floor together, and the metal box clattered against the wall. Shayne was on top of her for a moment, and was conscious of soft, warm, womanly flesh beneath him, and he got a hand over her mouth to muffle her screams and as he rolled off he heard Timothy Rourke exclaim in astonishment, “Belle! Miss Jackson. What in the living hell are you doing here?”
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