“It’s time you got stimulated, then,” Rourke breathed explosively. “You’re really on a spot this time. Even if you manage to wiggle out in the end, the election is shot.”
“And I’ve got five grand on Marsh.” Shayne groaned.
Rourke sank into a chair and groaned, too. “I never saw one of your climaxes backfire like that one at the mortuary, Mike. What were you trying to pull? You had me believing all that stuff about Stallings switching girls. You even had Painter almost convinced. Did you figure you had Marlow bribed, or what?”
“Was that the way it looked to you?” Shayne sat sprawled against the back of the couch. He quirked a bushy red brow at Rourke.
“Hell, I don’t know. I never saw you stick your neck out like that before. You acted so damned certain I swear I thought you had everything fixed. Then — blooie!” Rourke made a hopeless gesture, sprang up, and paced the floor.
“What about Marlow?” Shayne asked slowly. “I left so hurriedly I didn’t have time to form an accurate opinion of his reaction. Was he honest, Tim, in saying the girl was actually Helen Stallings?”
Rourke stopped and stared at him in amazement. “So you did believe that hocus-pocus you were telling? You were stuck with it and expected Marlow to bear you out.”
“Sure I did,” Shayne growled. “Hell, every man makes mistakes. I thought I had it doped. I still think so. What I can’t understand is why Marlow fell down on the job. Do you suppose Stallings could have got to him?”
Rourke shook his head. “That girl is Helen Stallings. I talked to Marlow — had plenty of chance after you did your Houdini exit. He was all broken up. He couldn’t put that on. She’s Helen Stallings — at least she’s Whit Marlow’s wife, the Helen Devalon he married in Connecticut.”
Shayne’s gray eyes slitted. Mechanically he reached for the whisky bottle and took a swig while Rourke resumed his pacing, watching Shayne out of the corner of his eye.