“Your rag has run enough pictures of her on the society page,” Shayne growled. “Would you recognize her?”
“My deah young man—” Rourke grimaced and made a circle with left thumb and forefinger, holding it up to his eye like a lorgnette “—I nevah read the society page. Nevah! With so many of the nouveaux riches cluttering up the pages—”
Shayne said, “Go to hell,” and threw his empty glass at the grinning Irishman. “You’re going to start now,” he directed. “Go in there and take a good look at the corpse. Then beat it up to the News morgue and see if she’s Helen Stallings.”
“I don’t see why that’s necessary. It seems plain enough to me.”
“We’ve got to know.” Shayne was firm. “Then we can start figuring—”
“I don’t see what good it’ll do you,” Rourke interrupted cheerily. “If that is her — and I’m willing to lay a hundred to one it is — it’s a cinch you can’t deliver her home safe and sound by tomorrow noon. S-a-a-y, did you by any chance send that note to Stallings, taking advantage of a situation that dropped into your lap?”
“Get the hell out of here before I throw you out,” Shayne fumed. “I’ve got enough on my mind without thinking up answers to your pseudo wisecracks.” His eyes wandered to the bedroom door and stared thoughtfully. He held up his hand, detaining Rourke as he started for the door. “Wait — hold it. Before you go we’ve got to figure a way to get rid of the body.”
“We?” Rourke gasped. “Sweet grandmother! You don’t expect me—”
Shayne nodded, holding him with a shrewd, level gaze.
“To hell with that. You do your own figuring. There are certain limits I’ll go for a pal, but I draw the line—”