He read every word of it with a twisted grin on his gaunt face. This had been a tough one for Timothy Rourke to write. He took a drink, lifting the bottle in a silent toast to his stanch friend.
The story about the unidentified body found floating in the bay was played down to a simple statement of fact, ending with a note that an autopsy would be conducted on the body to determine the exact nature of death.
On the second page of the News, Shayne’s automobile wreck of the preceding night was given prominence. That, too, he knew as he read it, had been written by Rourke. He didn’t call the wreck an accident, but flatly stated that it could only be regarded as an attack on the famous detective’s life by enemies who wanted him out of the way.
Shayne lay on his back with his eyes half closed when he finished the paper and concentrated on finishing the bottle of liquor. Dusk shrouded the room when he finally heard brisk footsteps in the hall outside and the click of a key in the lock. He lay as he was without moving, trusting to luck that Rourke would be alone.
He was. Rourke saw him stretched out on the lounge when he switched on a light. His eyes grew big and round. “Gentle Jerusalem!” he murmured. “I cart a dead body around half the night hiding it from the law and now I’m harboring a fugitive from justice.”
Shayne grinned and swung his legs to the floor. He found his voice whisky-thick when he spoke. “You might as well swing for a skunk as a weasel.”
“How the hell did you make it?” Rourke demanded. “Painter’s got the Beach tied up in a knot — stopping every car on the causeways and he’s got all the harbor police patrolling the bay.”
“Yeh. I saw ’em. They were doing a fine job, too. But Petey forgot about the subway.” He grinned crookedly at Rourke.
Rourke looked suspiciously at the whisky bottle, picked it up and held it to the light and nodded. “Pickled, by God. Drunk as a coot.”
“I’ve stayed too sober on this case. That’s what’s wrong. You know my brain cells don’t circulate without stimulation.”