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incapable nose and turned over front-page stories to him for a scoop? Was his desire to stir up a stink merely to give him a feeling of importance?
    Hell, if a man went honestly digging into his own soul for motives he was likely to come up with some pretty painful results.
    He could smell the rich aroma of coffee from the kitchen and hear the sizzle of frying bacon. He let himself relax and stop thinking altogether. He was hungry as a bitch suckling 16 pups, and it was pleasant to have a beautiful woman in the kitchen preparing food for him.
    He was half-asleep when Muriel called cheerfully, “Come and get it,” from the breakfast nook. She had a big plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, delicately browned buttered toast, and a cup of strong coffee ready for him, with only a cup of black coffee for herself. She looked youthful and attractive as she sat across the small table from him with her cheeks flushed and her eyes alight.
    Leaning forward with her elbows on the table and her chin cupped in her palms, she asked, “Are you still angry with me for coming here, Tim?”
    “Not after tasting this food.” He took a swig of coffee and wondered why the devil he couldn’t make it taste right. “If your husband catches you here I’ll tell him I’m giving you a tryout for a job as my cook.”
    She frowned and her eyes were grave for a moment. Then she laughed and said, “He can’t possibly know I’m here. I waited until he went back to the office, and I parked my car on the side street and came up the back stairway. No one saw me.”
    Rourke scraped up the last of his eggs and pushed the plate back with a satisfied sigh. “Bronson is the least of my worries,” he said. “Just so you’ve got his gun safe. Is there more coffee?”
    “Plenty.” She took his cup into the kitchen for a refill, came back, and said tenderly, “I’ll take it in the living-room where you can be more comfortable.” She preceded him through the archway, drew up a small table beside the couch for him, then went back to gather up the dishes and put them in the sink.
    Rourke rolled a cigarette and enjoyed his second cup of coffee. Muriel came back and sat on the floor beside him, looked up into his eyes, and said, “I love you, Tim. I wish you wouldn’t doubt that.”
    The white line of her throat was as smooth and clean as a young girl’s. He put his knuckles against her cheek and laughed. “Up from your position of adoration, woman. Is this a proposal?”
    “It could be,” she said quietly. She sprang up and went lithely toward the bathroom, holding herself proudly erect.
    Watching her, he thought that life was sometimes funny as hell.

 
Chapter Five: SHAYNE NOSES OUT THE NEWS
     
    LUCY HAMILTON LOOKED UP from her typewriter when Michael Shayne stalked into the reception room of his office in downtown New Orleans. She was smiling and her red lips formed to call a cheery greeting.
    Instead, she pushed her chair back, half-arose, and cried, “What on earth, Michael? Why are you looking like that?”
    Shayne’s face was set in harsh and strained lines. His gray eyes were cold with a blank, unseeing expression. A folded newspaper was crushed in his big right hand. He advanced to the wooden railing separating Lucy’s desk from the rest of the reception room and ordered curtly, “Get the airport. See about a plane to Miami.”
    “What’s happened? What is it?” she asked, her right hand reaching into the top desk drawer and bringing out the telephone directory. She rapidly thumbed through the pages for the number and picked up the receiver. Dialing, she asked, “When shall I say you’re going, Michael?”
    “On the very first plane that can take me,” Shayne told her. “Tell them it’s police business.”
    When the airport answered and Lucy made an urgent plea for a seat on the first plane leaving, she kept her anxious brown eyes upon her employer’s grim face.
    Shayne relaxed his fingers on the newspaper and smoothed it out.