“So you think she came to me with the information — and instead of accepting it and using it against you, I kidnaped her.” Shayne was leaning slightly forward from the hips, his angry gaze riveted on Stallings’s handsome face. “You’re a Goddamned fool, Stallings.”
Stallings smiled evenly. “I believe you had perspicacity enough to recognize her so-called information for what it was, and that you seized the opportunity to hide her away for use as a lever against me. Not only do I believe that, Mr. Shayne, but I believe any jury will agree with me that the premise is sound.”
Shayne did not take his eyes from Stallings’s bland face. “And I suppose it never occurred to you, Mr. Stallings, that you could pull a dirty trick like this, have it headlined in the papers that Marsh and I had conspired to kidnap your daughter, and turn the tide in your favor at the polls.” His big fist crushed against his palm in a resounding blow. “Get out.”
“Very well.” Burt Stallings got up. He smiled, revealing a row of even and glistening white teeth.
Peter Painter came forward like a fighting cock with spurs and wings strutted. “I told Stallings he was wasting his time coming here. I’ve given him my word to wait until noon tomorrow to file a criminal information against you, but that’s the deadline.”
Shayne turned away from them and shakily refilled his glass with cognac. He kept his back turned until the door closed behind them. Then he strode to the bedroom door and kicked it open.
It struck Timothy Rourke on the side of the head as he crouched behind it with his ear to the crack. He rocked back on his heels and cursed Shayne, then groggily picked up his bottle of Scotch from the floor and followed the detective into the living-room, his lean face wreathed in a mocking smile.
“This,” he exulted, “gets better and better. How do you manage to wiggle yourself into spots like this?”
Shayne slumped into a chair and glared at the exuberant reporter. “Do you know Helen Stallings?”
“Hell, no. How’d I know a dame like that?”