Stallings.”
Stallings smiled evenly. “I believe you had perspicacity enough to recognize her so-called information for what it was, and that you seized the opportunity to hide her away for use as a lever against me. Not only do I believe that, Mr. Shayne, but I believe any jury will agree with me that the premise is sound.”
Shayne did not take his eyes from Stallings’s bland face. “And I suppose it never occurred to you, Mr. Stallings, that you could pull a dirty trick like this, have it headlined in the papers that Marsh and I had conspired to kidnap your daughter, and turn the tide in your favor at the polls.” His big fist crushed against his palm in a resounding blow. “Get out.”
“Very well.” Burt Stallings got up. He smiled, revealing a row of even and glistening white teeth.
Peter Painter came forward like a fighting cock with spurs and wings strutted. “I told Stallings he was wasting his time coming here. I’ve given him my word to wait until noon tomorrow to file a criminal information against you, but that’s the deadline.”
Shayne turned away from them and shakily refilled his glass with cognac. He kept his back turned until the door closed behind them. Then he strode to the bedroom door and kicked it open.
It struck Timothy Rourke on the side of the head as he crouched behind it with his ear to the crack. He rocked back on his heels and cursed Shayne, then groggily picked up his bottle of Scotch from the floor and followed the detective into the living-room, his lean face wreathed in a mocking smile.
“This,” he exulted, “gets better and better. How do you manage to wiggle yourself into spots like this?”
Shayne slumped into a chair and glared at the exuberant reporter. “Do you know Helen Stallings?”
“Hell, no. How’d I know a dame like that?”
“Your rag has run enough pictures of her on the society page,” Shayne growled. “Would you recognize her?”
“My deah young man—” Rourke grimaced and made a circle with left thumb and forefinger, holding it up to his eye like a lorgnette “—I nevah read the society page. Nevah! With so many of the nouveaux riches cluttering up the pages—”
Shayne said, “Go to hell,” and threw his empty glass at the grinning Irishman. “You’re going to start now,” he directed. “Go in there and take a good look at the corpse. Then beat it up to the News morgue and see if she’s Helen Stallings.”
“I don’t see why that’s necessary. It seems plain enough to me.”
“We’ve got to know.” Shayne was firm. “Then we can start figuring—”
“I don’t see what good it’ll do you,” Rourke interrupted cheerily. “If that is her—and I’m willing to lay a hundred to one it is—it’s a cinch you can’t deliver her home safe and sound by tomorrow noon. S-a-a-y, did you by any chance send that note to Stallings, taking advantage of a situation that dropped into your lap?”
“Get the hell out of here before I throw you out,” Shayne fumed. “I’ve got enough on my mind without thinking up answers to your pseudo wisecracks.” His eyes wandered to the bedroom door and stared thoughtfully. He held up his hand, detaining Rourke as he started for the door. “Wait—hold it. Before you go we’ve got to figure a way to get rid of the body.”
“We?” Rourke gasped. “Sweet grandmother! You don’t expect me—”
Shayne nodded, holding him with a shrewd, level gaze.
“To hell with that. You do your own figuring. There are certain limits I’ll go for a pal, but I draw the line—”
“Shut up and let me think,” Shayne demanded impatiently. He whirled about and strode up and down the room, muttering.
“The killer must be getting pretty nervous right now. He doesn’t know where the hell she is. He figured he had me sewed up tight when he sent you and Gentry up here—and he must have sent that note to Stallings at about the same time to clinch the kidnaping and murder on me. Now he