Shayne grinned. “I don’t know. We’ll look it up after some disposition is made of her. What we need most is fingerprints, a complete description. If we can identify her we’ll have a start.”
Rourke reached for the whisky bottle as Shayne got up. “That’s your job,” Rourke said happily. “I’ll have a small one while you do your ghouling. Cadavers give me the creeps.”
“There’s another angle we’re overlooking.” Shayne hesitated, frowning. “She was drugged when she came here this afternoon. Too nearly passed out to talk. No one else can know that. Can’t know, that is, how much talking she did before she went to bed. That’s another trump we hold, Tim. Someone’s going to do a lot of worrying before this is over.”
The telephone rang. Shayne reached a long arm past Rourke to pick it up. He said, “Shayne talking.”
The clerk in the lobby said, “There’s a Mr. Stallings here to see you. That Miami Beach detective is with him — Mr. Painter.”
Shayne repeated, “Stallings?” aloud and grinned at Rourke. “Stallings and Painter, eh? Well, I’m receiving this afternoon. Send them up. Wait! Jack, did you mention the girl who visited me earlier?”
“Not a word. You know I never—”
“Sure, Jack. That’s swell. Forget you saw her and send the gentlemen up — but stall them off a couple of minutes.” He dropped the phone and grabbed Rourke’s shoulder, hauled him to his feet. “Stallings and Painter! Something’s up.” He propelled the reporter backward. “They’d better not see you here. Leave the bedroom door open a crack so you can hear what they say.”
“In there? With her?” Rourke struggled against Shayne’s powerful strength, his face a mask of horror. “Not in there, Mike! The kitchen — or the bathroom.”
“The bedroom is the only safe place. There’s no door to the kitchen and you never can tell—” Shayne dragged him inexorably toward the bedroom door and shoved him in. “She won’t mind,” he said, and closed the door lightly, leaving a half-inch opening.