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
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
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