“I’ve been wondering how you get these things on and off. Do they pull all the way down?”
Shayne snapped the zipper down as he spoke.
The little man gave a shrill yelp, but Shayne’s big hands pinioned his shoulders, stripped the garment from his body and wadded it under his arm.
The orderly sensed the struggle in the shadow near the wall and came running, shouting loudly.
Shayne sprinted away, made a leap for the wall, and threw his lean body over the top. He crashed through the hedge and darted toward the waiting car, leaped in, and panted, “Go like hell, Tim.”
Rourke roared away.
When they were a few blocks away from the sanitarium Rourke asked shakily, “What in God’s name did you do in there?”
Shayne spread the purloined garment out on his knees, folded it up tightly. The words, Patterson Sanitarium, were stamped on the back.
He said, “I was just verifying a hunch I had. Those poor devils don’t wear anything under these nighties. I left Sherlock Holmes as naked as a jaybird in shedding time and howling his head off.”