He folded the paper and thrust it in the hip pocket of his overalls and pulled the old straw hat farther down over his face.
There was no use blaming Rourke for the headlines. He had a job to hold. Grim satisfaction held his thoughts, however, as he warily approached Rourke’s apartment. With this headline on the streets Jim Marsh wouldn’t feel he had to withdraw from the election in order to ensure winning the money he had bet against himself. All Marsh had to do was sit tight and let the election go against him — as it would certainly do if the murder charge stood against Shayne, who was widely known to be his chief supporter.
A uniformed policeman was lounging against a lamppost half a block from the entrance to Rourke’s apartment building. Shayne circled the block and wandered up the alley pretending an interest in the contents of garbage cans. He ducked into the rear entrance and climbed two flights of service stairs. He held his breath when he came out on the landing, but there were no cops guarding Rourke’s door. The man in front was evidently placed there as a mere precaution, since the officials were positive the fugitive was still bottled up in Miami Beach with no possible way of getting past the police cordon.
Shayne knocked on Rourke’s door but received no reply. He took out a ring of keys. The first one he selected did the trick. He went in and closed the door.
The small living-room was littered with newspapers and magazines. Shayne looked in the bedroom to be sure he was alone, then toured the tiny bathroom and kitchenette. There was nothing to eat in the midget icebox, and the shelves were bare of canned food.
There was a full bottle of whisky on the kitchen shelf. He caught it by the neck and carried it back to the living-room, settled down on the couch with a pillow behind his head. He took a drink and propped the News up on his knees.
He had no idea when Rourke would be in. Generally, he was free in the afternoon, after the regular edition was set, but Shayne realized that there was a chance he might have been detained by the Miami Beach police after his own spectacular escape.
He was afraid to use the telephone to call anyone. The chances were ten to one it was tapped in the hope that he would try to call Rourke.
He took another drink and began reading the newspaper. Rourke must have written the story — or phoned it in. It contained a brief summary of the charges against Shayne, with the evidence against him scrupulously presented.
Shayne grinned. In writing the story Rourke remembered other cases which had been solved and tossed in his lap for scoops. All through it were vague hints that the whole truth was not yet known; that Shayne’s escape had not been the frenzied attempt of a criminal to escape justice, but rather signified the determination of an innocent man to gain a temporary respite to search for evidence that would free him. It touched lightly on Shayne’s attempt to prove the murdered girl was not Helen Stallings, skillfully avoiding any statements of a libelous nature.