“Such as what?” Rourke asked.
“A look-in at Arch Bugler’s place.”
“Not me,” Rourke stated flatly. “You don’t drag me into anything else. Not tonight.”
“We’ve got to learn all we can about Helen Stallings.”
“You’ve got to. I’m having another drink.” Rourke wrapped long, thin fingers around the bottle.
Shayne made no move to interfere, but he talked fast. “Don’t you see we’ve got to pick up a lead somehow? You don’t want it known that you left a dead girl unreported, do you? We’ve got to find out where she went when she left home at noon. Someone doped her to keep her from talking. Whoever killed her knew she was doped and unable to talk to me — else why would she have been killed? There wouldn’t have been any need to throttle her if she had already talked.”
“Your logic is perfect,” Rourke agreed. “I’ll bet you my grandmother’s wig you catch the guy, Mike. Give me a ring when the lead is ready.”
Shayne snorted angrily. “This case hasn’t even got hot.” He took the bottle from Rourke’s lax fingers and dropped it into his coat pocket, then wadded up the newspaper sheets and rammed them into the other, got up and grabbed his hat from a hook.
Rourke smiled sweetly and waved to him as he stalked from the booth.
Shayne had never visited Arch Bugler’s Miami Beach establishment. He knew the approximate location, and he saw the red neon sign half a block away: Bugle Inn.