“Sherlock is really on the job today,” the man said.
Shayne grinned and nodded, passed through the gate, and got into the rented car and cruised slowly south toward Arch Bugler’s roadhouse.
He passed a lad running along the street and shouting an extra. He stopped and bought a News, spread it out on the steering-wheel to study a blurred photograph of Helen Stallings’s crumpled body lying on the lawn as he had left it last night.
His left eyebrow twitched with satisfaction while his eyes raced over Rourke’s story. It was a relief to know that the body had been discovered on schedule, bringing the case out into the open and giving him something tangible to fight against. It also meant that he had no time to waste if he was to crack the case before Peter Painter locked him up on a kidnap-murder charge.
He hastily crumpled the newspaper onto the seat beside him and drove on at a faster speed.
There were no cars parked in front of Bugle Inn at this early hour of the morning, but the bronze entrance gates stood open and there was no uniformed doorman on guard.
Pulling up in front of the open gates, Shayne frowned at the sight of Donk’s bulky body placidly seated in a rocking chair in front of the main door.
He felt in his coat pocket and lovingly drew out a small lump of molded lead which fitted snugly into his cupped palm with four grooves for fingers to fit into it when he made a fist. It weighed several pounds and, innocently clenched in a man’s hand, converted a fist into a bludgeon capable of delivering a terrific blow with little effort.
He fitted it into his right palm and slid his doubled hand into his coat pocket, got out leisurely, and strolled up the walk toward Donk, who rocked forward to stare at him and then grinned with unconcealed pleasure.