“I’m not worrying about her feelings,” Rourke panted through the crack, “but I tell you I get the galloping creeps—”
“Shut up. They’ll be here in a minute. You’re sitting on top of the biggest story in your career. Don’t muff it.”
Shayne whirled, went to the wall cabinet, and took out two fresh glasses and set them on the desk beside the bottles of Scotch and cognac. The chair on which Rourke had been sitting he shoved against the wall and drew up two others. Then he shoved the desk forward to cover the wet splotches on the rug and by the time he had paced the length of the office and back again he answered the knock on the outer door.
Gravely he said, “Come in, gentlemen; this is an unexpected honor,” in a voice which brought a suspicious gleam to the small black eyes of Peter Painter.
THREE
BURT STALLINGS WAS a tall, commanding figure. Middle-aged, he wore his silvery-white shock of hair long, in the manner attributed to Southern senators. It framed a handsome, leonine face with arresting distinction, giving him an air of romantic grace attractive to women of all ages. Coupled with his good looks, the man possessed a magnetic personality which made him a favorite with men, too. A forceful orator and a successful, hardheaded businessman, this mayoralty campaign was his first foray into politics. The campaign had proved him as well adapted to vote-getting as to money-making.
Stallings entered the detective’s office with a firm, assured stride. He nodded to Shayne, but neither spoke nor offered his hand.
Behind him, Peter Painter entered aggressively. He always carried himself with an assertive air to compensate his lack of physical stature. He was a slender, small-boned man, meticulously groomed. He slanted glittering black eyes upward at Shayne as he passed into the office.
Shayne closed the door and said, “This is a surprise. Sit down and I’ll pour a libation.”
Both men remained standing. Stallings arched thick iron-gray brows at the detective and said dryly, “I imagine you expected us — or me, at least.”