“I’LL SWEAR TO GOD, MIKE, you’re drunk or gone nuts,” Rourke said bitterly. “What do you expect to prove by disrobing a crazy man and running off with his clothes?”
Shayne sank back with a sigh. “You ought to take a memory course with some reputable school, Tim. Seems you’ve forgotten the big black headlines I’ve handed you in the past.”
Rourke relaxed and asked, “What’s next on the program?”
“Know where Swordfish Island is?”
“Stallings’s place? Yeh.”
“That’s our next stop.” Shayne lit a cigarette and settled back. When they neared the bridge approach to the island, he directed, “Pull up on this side of the bridge. I’d rather not advertise my presence.”
Rourke got out with Shayne and followed him across the bridge. “Whom do we undress here?” he asked interestedly.
“No horsing around,” Shayne warned him sternly. “If you know how to pray you might ask God to preserve the Irish. We’re liable to need a special dispensation.”
He led the way along the winding road silently, turned into the shrubbery before coming in sight of the mansion. They slipped along behind the hedge which screened them from the house, reached a double garage in the rear without being observed.
The doors stood open, and Shayne nodded with satisfaction when he saw one empty stall and the other occupied by a long black sedan. He went to the front of the car and examined the radiator grill and left fender by the light of a flickering match. He shook his head disappointedly when he found them unmarred.