“I don’t know yet.” He straightened in the swivel chair and swung around to face Rourke squarely. His eyes were pin points of gray steel. “You’re not a cop, Tim,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?” Rourke leaned forward.
“We’ve been good friends a long time,” Shayne said softly.
Rourke said steadily, ““You know where I stand.” His eyes were alert, suspicious.
Shayne exhaled a deep breath. “Yeh. You won’t lose anything, Tim. You’ll get the real story instead of this phony.”
Rourke filled his glass again. “I’ve never lost anything playing ball with you, Mike.” They touched glasses and drank.
Shayne stretched out his long legs and lit a cigarette. He shifted his position, swinging the chair slightly off center with Rourke’s probing eyes. “All we know about the girl is that she was close enough to Stallings to get wind of something that stunk — something Marsh could use against him. That’s not much to go on.”
“We’re one up on them this way,” Rourke pointed out. “They must know the murder was overheard and reported. They’ll be sitting on the edge of their chairs waiting for the story to break. When it doesn’t they’ll be worried.”
Rourke’s enthusiasm brought involuntary relaxation to Shayne’s edgy nerves. “In the meantime,” he grunted, “we’ve got to get her out of my apartment. As soon as the killer finds out this tip went awry he’ll see that Gentry gets another tip — one that can’t be ignored.”
“What,” asked Rourke lightly, “is the maximum penalty for carting dead bodies around?”