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
“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
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