Observing him, Rourke said, “If this is the boat that crashed your car last night you could hardly expect it to still show the damage. They’ve got ways of fixing fenders as good as new in a couple of hours.”
“Yeh,” Shayne agreed. “I guess it was asking too much to hope that evidence would be sitting here waiting for us.” He moved back and opened the rear door of the sedan, leaned inside for a moment, then withdrew and closed the door gently. He muttered, “Let’s get out of here,” and led the way back behind the hedge to the road and Rourke’s parked car.
“Let’s find the closest telephone. There’s a filling-station a couple of blocks east.”
Rourke drove to the filling-station without asking any questions. It was clear that the redheaded detective was fiercely concentrating on some plan, plotting each move in his mind as an expert chess player visualizes the game far in advance of his plays, and Rourke was content to follow along and see what happened.
In the filling-station Shayne called the Stallings residence. A maid answered. He asked, “Is the chauffeur there?”
“Yes. Mr. Stallings drove the light car to his campaign headquarters.”
“Sure. I know that,” Shayne lied. “I’m calling for him. He’s had car trouble and wants the chauffeur to pick him up right away in the big car.”
The maid said, “I’ll give him the message at once.” Shayne hung up and trotted back to Rourke and directed, “Back to the bridge, quick.”
Upon reaching it, he ordered again, “Drive up on the bridge and stop. Cut your wheels so you block it to keep another car from passing.”
The headlights of the limousine were backing out of the Stallings garage when they reached the top of the arched bridge. Shayne jumped out and ran lightly down the other side while Rourke cut his wheels and parked his light sedan at an angle which effectually blocked the narrow passage.