“Of course. You know damned well—”
Shayne turned to Tim Rourke who was sniffing in the conversation with a look of dazed incredulity on his face. “What the hell are you waiting for?” Shayne demanded. “There’s one of the headlines I’ve been promising you.”
Rourke sprang past Painter to a telephone on the rear desk. He snatched it up and gave the number of his office, got the city desk, and ordered, “Let that extra go. Michael Shayne arrested for murder of Helen Stallings on warrant sworn out by her stepfather. I just saw it happen. Shayne gave himself up in the office of Peter Painter. And keep the presses open. I’ve got a hunch there’s another story making.”
Rourke pronged the instrument and came back to stand beside Shayne. The detective grinned up into his concerned face.
“How long will that be hitting the streets?”
“Two minutes. They were printed and loaded on trucks waiting for the word.”
Shayne said, “Good. Then I don’t need to hold out any longer. I wanted to be sure people actually had a chance to read the charges against me. Defamation of character and so forth.”
“What are you kidding about?” Painter demanded. “We’ve got you dead to rights.”
“First you’ll have to prove that Helen Stallings is dead,” said Shayne. “The corpus delicti, you know.”
Stallings’s face suddenly went ashen. He sank back into his chair breathing heavily.