“My note?” Shayne echoed. He shook his head and looked vaguely amused. “I haven’t written you any notes.”
“Denying it won’t help, Mr. Shayne. Who else but you would demand that I withdraw from the mayoralty campaign as the price of my daughter’s life?”
“Who else, indeed?” Shayne murmured. A murky light of anger was slowly kindling in his gray eyes. “Is that what I’m accused of this time?”
Stallings spread out his strong, well-kept hands and smiled patiently. “We’re not wasting our time with accusations. We’re giving you to understand that your plot has failed. I have no intention of withdrawing from the campaign. Unless Helen is safe at home by noon tomorrow, this entire story will be given to the newspapers. I’m sure the voters will rise indignantly against such foul tactics and by their ballots effectively answer the threat you have made.”
Shayne frowned, lowering his eyelids to veil the blaze of violent anger in his eyes. “You seem positive that I’ve kidnaped your stepdaughter. What proof have you?”
“Isn’t your guilt self-evident?”
Shayne hesitated, choosing his words with care. “There is such a thing as a frame-up. Since I am so clearly indicated, don’t you see it’s possible someone else has taken advantage of that situation to throw the blame on me?”
Painter threw back his sleek head with a taunting laugh. “By God, it would be poetic justice if you were hooked in a frame-up — after engineering so many of your own in the past.”
“If you don’t shut up,” said Shayne savagely, “I’ll attend to it for you.”
“Let’s remain calm,” Stallings pleaded. “Helen’s safety must be our first consideration.” He took out a handkerchief and mopped his high forehead, tossed back his mane of silvery hair. “Poor child. Think of the agony she must be suffering.”