“Okay. We’ll make it a foursome,” Shayne answered and strolled back to a private office in the rear. He pushed the door open, and the two men entered.
Painter was sitting behind his desk and Burt Stallings sat in a chair near him. A plain-clothes man was using a typewriter in the rear of the office.
Painter and Stallings came to their feet when Shayne and Rourke entered. There was an expression of loathing on Stallings’s face, a look of exuberant triumph on Painter’s.
“This is pretty nice,” the chief of detectives crowed. “Mr. Stallings is just swearing out a warrant for your arrest. Sit down until he signs it and we’ll serve it right here.”
Shayne said, “Sure,” and sat down. The typist rolled a printed form from his machine and laid it in front of the chief. Painter glanced at it, then passed it to Stallings. “Sign right here,” he directed.
Stallings shot a glance at Shayne, then affixed his signature.
Peter Painter leaned back with his black eyes snapping happily. In a formal tone, he pronounced, “You’re under arrest, Michael Shayne — charged with the murder of one Helen Stallings.”
Shayne looked at Rourke. “I want you to witness this. False arrest on a fraudulent charge made knowingly and maliciously.”
“Fraudulent charge?” Painter choked. “You’ll have a hard time making that stick. We’ve got enough evidence to hang you.”
“For the murder of Helen Stallings?” Shayne asked gently.