Shayne told him harshly. “I won more money playing poker the last two nights than I spent on the project.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Three hot-shots are sitting around a stud table right now, chewing their fingernails and wondering why in hell I haven’t shown up for the kill they had planned.”
Rourke stood up and yawned. “Well, if you don’t mind,” he said politely, “I guess I’ll drift along. Thanks for the drink.”
Very formally, Shayne said, “You’re always welcome.”
He waited until Rourke had his hand on the doorknob and then asked, “Does the name Saul Henderson mean anything to you, Tim?”
“Saul Henderson?” The reporter turned slowly, speculative interest in his eyes. “What about him?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” said Shayne patiently. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Sure. What connection has a guy like Henderson got with Jane Smith or this thing tonight?”
“I didn’t say he had any connection.”
“I know you didn’t.” Rourke released the doorknob and turned back into the room. “All the same it made me wonder… in view of the fact that Henderson has a stepdaughter about nineteen years old. Utterly charming, I’d say, and what a guy like you might well call a ‘nice girl.’”
Shayne said, “So what? I didn’t ask you about Henderson’s stepdaughter.”
“I know you didn’t.” For a brief moment their glances interlocked. Rourke’s gaze, keen and challenging; Shayne’s, cool and unperturbed. Then Rourke sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “All right, Mike. Saul Henderson. A thumbnail sketch. He’s been a resident of the Beach for a few years, running a small brokerage house, I think. Dabbled in public affairs and been on a few committees. I think his wife died recently, and there’ve been rumors that he inherited a million or so. Whether that’s true or not, he’s being groomed to run for mayor of Miami Beach in the next election as the reform candidate. His candidacy isn’t official, but it’s pretty well in the bag, I guess.”
“What sort of man is he personally?”
“I met him once at some civic dinner. Bland, easygoing type. Pleasing personality.”
Shayne said harshly, “I’d like the opportunity to size him up for myself.”
“Easiest thing in the world. He’s been tossing some parties since his wife’s death. I’ll get you and Lucy an invite.”
“Why Lucy?” Despite himself, Shayne was unable to keep a note of venom out of his voice.
If Rourke detected it he gave no indication. “I’d say Saul Henderson has got a roving eye for a pretty gal. Lucy’s more likely to make time with him than you are.”
Shayne said, “All right. Maybe I can concentrate on the stepdaughter. Don’t forget it—the sooner the better.”
Rourke said, “I’ll ask around in the right places tomorrow.” He half turned back to the door, hesitated, and asked, “You still determined to clam up on Jane Smith?”
“I have to, Tim.”
The telephone rang and Shayne grabbed for it. Rourke paused to listen, halfway out the door.
The desk clerk’s voice said conspiratorially, “There’s a doll here to see you, Mr. Shayne. A real doll.”
He said, “Send her on up, Pete.”
“Sure. I would’ve, but I thought maybe you’d like a chance to get rid of that reporter first… for one like this here.”
Shayne said, “Tim Rourke is on his way out.” He hung up and stood up, moved toward the door telling Rourke pleasantly, “You are, you know. Down the stairs, Tim.”
He took his arm firmly and led him past the elevator. “You don’t need to give me the bum’s rush,” Rourke protested. “Is it Jane Smith?”
“I don’t know, but I’m hoping. Down the stairs with you, pal, and no peeking when I meet the elevator.” He heard it stopping behind him and gave the reporter a little shove down the stairs, then turned and strode back along the corridor as the elevator door opened.
A woman got out and paused uncertainly.
Rourke stood up and yawned. “Well, if you don’t mind,” he said politely, “I guess I’ll drift along. Thanks for the drink.”
Very formally, Shayne said, “You’re always welcome.”
He waited until Rourke had his hand on the doorknob and then asked, “Does the name Saul Henderson mean anything to you, Tim?”
“Saul Henderson?” The reporter turned slowly, speculative interest in his eyes. “What about him?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” said Shayne patiently. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Sure. What connection has a guy like Henderson got with Jane Smith or this thing tonight?”
“I didn’t say he had any connection.”
“I know you didn’t.” Rourke released the doorknob and turned back into the room. “All the same it made me wonder… in view of the fact that Henderson has a stepdaughter about nineteen years old. Utterly charming, I’d say, and what a guy like you might well call a ‘nice girl.’”
Shayne said, “So what? I didn’t ask you about Henderson’s stepdaughter.”
“I know you didn’t.” For a brief moment their glances interlocked. Rourke’s gaze, keen and challenging; Shayne’s, cool and unperturbed. Then Rourke sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “All right, Mike. Saul Henderson. A thumbnail sketch. He’s been a resident of the Beach for a few years, running a small brokerage house, I think. Dabbled in public affairs and been on a few committees. I think his wife died recently, and there’ve been rumors that he inherited a million or so. Whether that’s true or not, he’s being groomed to run for mayor of Miami Beach in the next election as the reform candidate. His candidacy isn’t official, but it’s pretty well in the bag, I guess.”
“What sort of man is he personally?”
“I met him once at some civic dinner. Bland, easygoing type. Pleasing personality.”
Shayne said harshly, “I’d like the opportunity to size him up for myself.”
“Easiest thing in the world. He’s been tossing some parties since his wife’s death. I’ll get you and Lucy an invite.”
“Why Lucy?” Despite himself, Shayne was unable to keep a note of venom out of his voice.
If Rourke detected it he gave no indication. “I’d say Saul Henderson has got a roving eye for a pretty gal. Lucy’s more likely to make time with him than you are.”
Shayne said, “All right. Maybe I can concentrate on the stepdaughter. Don’t forget it—the sooner the better.”
Rourke said, “I’ll ask around in the right places tomorrow.” He half turned back to the door, hesitated, and asked, “You still determined to clam up on Jane Smith?”
“I have to, Tim.”
The telephone rang and Shayne grabbed for it. Rourke paused to listen, halfway out the door.
The desk clerk’s voice said conspiratorially, “There’s a doll here to see you, Mr. Shayne. A real doll.”
He said, “Send her on up, Pete.”
“Sure. I would’ve, but I thought maybe you’d like a chance to get rid of that reporter first… for one like this here.”
Shayne said, “Tim Rourke is on his way out.” He hung up and stood up, moved toward the door telling Rourke pleasantly, “You are, you know. Down the stairs, Tim.”
He took his arm firmly and led him past the elevator. “You don’t need to give me the bum’s rush,” Rourke protested. “Is it Jane Smith?”
“I don’t know, but I’m hoping. Down the stairs with you, pal, and no peeking when I meet the elevator.” He heard it stopping behind him and gave the reporter a little shove down the stairs, then turned and strode back along the corridor as the elevator door opened.
A woman got out and paused uncertainly.
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