you believe me and want to.”
She turned to him and her eyes held a metallic glint as she put a palm on each side of his gaunt cheeks. She pulled his face toward her and pressed her mouth against his. Then she smiled and said, “I’d like to play it your way, Mike.”
The doorbell rang. She picked up her glass and went to the kitchen, saying, “You answer it. It’s probably your friend, the chief.”
Shayne went to the door and let Painter in. His eyes darted around the room and he asked, “Where is she?”
“Helen? She’s out in the kitchen mixing herself a love potion.” Shayne went back to the couch, sat down, and crossed his long legs. “Have a seat,” he invited.
Painter sat down on the edge of a chair across from the couch. “What are you doing in Miami, Shayne?” he asked bluntly.
“The same thing I used to do before I left—solving your murder cases for you.”
Painter’s teeth ground audibly. Helen came in with a fresh drink and sat down beside Shayne.
“When did you reach Miami?” Painter queried.
“On the six-thirty train. I left New Orleans as soon as I heard about Tim.”
“Very touching,” Painter grated. “What have you been doing since six-thirty?”
“Nosing around—Talking to a few people.”
“Where? And to whom?” Painter took out his pencil and notebook.
Shayne grinned and said, “If I disclosed my methods you might learn as much about detecting as I know.”
“I can arrest you for stealing Rourke’s mail and breaking into his apartment,” said Painter, infuriated. “That’s a Federal offense.”
“For carrying his mail up to his room and leaving it there?” Shayne asked incredulously.
“I’ve had a report on that. There are only two letters in Rourke’s room. Where’s the third one you took out of his box?”
“Only two of them were for Tim. The other one was for somebody in apartment 4-D. I just stuck it in the right cubbyhole for Henty.”
“Henty is positive there were three letters for Rourke.”
“Henty?” Shayne laughed derisively. “The guy who couldn’t even remember the correct street number after listening in on a private telephone call. You’ll have to do better than that, Painter.”
“You deny there were three letters for Rourke?”
“If you can find more than the two bills I left in Tim’s room, I’ll eat it,” Shayne offered blandly.
Painter snapped his notebook shut and started to get up. Shayne detained him by saying, “Wait a minute. I want to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m asking the questions,” Painter told him, but he waited, tight-lipped and unfriendly.
“Have you gotten anywhere on the Rourke shooting?”
“That’s a police matter.”
Shayne said, “All right. But I suggest you check Mrs. Rankin’s fingerprints with the two sets found in Rourke’s apartment.”
“What do you know about them? We haven’t given out—oh—Gentry, of course,” Painter ended viciously.
“Sure. Gentry was a friend of Rourke’s and would like to see the thing cleaned up.”
“I’m running things on this side,” Painter said.
“Have it your way. You take the high road and I’ll take the low road. Just like it used to be.”
Chief Painter strutted out and slammed the door. Helen asked wonderingly, “Isn’t it dangerous to ride a cop like that? Isn’t he the top man here on the Beach?”
“It’s been that way with us since the first case of mine he horned into,” Shayne told her, and sighed heavily.
She laughed softly. “I knew you were a fast worker when I first met you. What do we do now?”
“Get to work. Tell me about Madge Rankin—all about her.”
“I don’t know too much,” Helen said after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ve only been living here a couple of weeks. I liked her. Men were crazy about her, I guess. She twisted them around her little finger, to hear her tell it.”
“Ever hear her mention going around to gambling joints?”
Helen changed her position on the couch so
She turned to him and her eyes held a metallic glint as she put a palm on each side of his gaunt cheeks. She pulled his face toward her and pressed her mouth against his. Then she smiled and said, “I’d like to play it your way, Mike.”
The doorbell rang. She picked up her glass and went to the kitchen, saying, “You answer it. It’s probably your friend, the chief.”
Shayne went to the door and let Painter in. His eyes darted around the room and he asked, “Where is she?”
“Helen? She’s out in the kitchen mixing herself a love potion.” Shayne went back to the couch, sat down, and crossed his long legs. “Have a seat,” he invited.
Painter sat down on the edge of a chair across from the couch. “What are you doing in Miami, Shayne?” he asked bluntly.
“The same thing I used to do before I left—solving your murder cases for you.”
Painter’s teeth ground audibly. Helen came in with a fresh drink and sat down beside Shayne.
“When did you reach Miami?” Painter queried.
“On the six-thirty train. I left New Orleans as soon as I heard about Tim.”
“Very touching,” Painter grated. “What have you been doing since six-thirty?”
“Nosing around—Talking to a few people.”
“Where? And to whom?” Painter took out his pencil and notebook.
Shayne grinned and said, “If I disclosed my methods you might learn as much about detecting as I know.”
“I can arrest you for stealing Rourke’s mail and breaking into his apartment,” said Painter, infuriated. “That’s a Federal offense.”
“For carrying his mail up to his room and leaving it there?” Shayne asked incredulously.
“I’ve had a report on that. There are only two letters in Rourke’s room. Where’s the third one you took out of his box?”
“Only two of them were for Tim. The other one was for somebody in apartment 4-D. I just stuck it in the right cubbyhole for Henty.”
“Henty is positive there were three letters for Rourke.”
“Henty?” Shayne laughed derisively. “The guy who couldn’t even remember the correct street number after listening in on a private telephone call. You’ll have to do better than that, Painter.”
“You deny there were three letters for Rourke?”
“If you can find more than the two bills I left in Tim’s room, I’ll eat it,” Shayne offered blandly.
Painter snapped his notebook shut and started to get up. Shayne detained him by saying, “Wait a minute. I want to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m asking the questions,” Painter told him, but he waited, tight-lipped and unfriendly.
“Have you gotten anywhere on the Rourke shooting?”
“That’s a police matter.”
Shayne said, “All right. But I suggest you check Mrs. Rankin’s fingerprints with the two sets found in Rourke’s apartment.”
“What do you know about them? We haven’t given out—oh—Gentry, of course,” Painter ended viciously.
“Sure. Gentry was a friend of Rourke’s and would like to see the thing cleaned up.”
“I’m running things on this side,” Painter said.
“Have it your way. You take the high road and I’ll take the low road. Just like it used to be.”
Chief Painter strutted out and slammed the door. Helen asked wonderingly, “Isn’t it dangerous to ride a cop like that? Isn’t he the top man here on the Beach?”
“It’s been that way with us since the first case of mine he horned into,” Shayne told her, and sighed heavily.
She laughed softly. “I knew you were a fast worker when I first met you. What do we do now?”
“Get to work. Tell me about Madge Rankin—all about her.”
“I don’t know too much,” Helen said after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ve only been living here a couple of weeks. I liked her. Men were crazy about her, I guess. She twisted them around her little finger, to hear her tell it.”
“Ever hear her mention going around to gambling joints?”
Helen changed her position on the couch so
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