The young man’s face was a sickly white. He wavered past them toward his room without looking at the three men.
Cassidy sighed when they entered the elevator. “That was a close shave,” he said.
Shayne’s short laugh was sardonic. “That was once over light, Cassidy. I’ve had closer shaves in my own bathroom.”
“And what did you get for your trouble?” Cassidy asked anxiously when they reached the lobby.
“I don’t know. He had it stashed away as though it might be the secret plans for our bomb.” Shayne stepped to a secluded corner and took the paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and then swore with disgust. A pair of cupids frolicked together at the top of the sheet beneath a pink wedding bell. An ornate scroll proclaimed to all and sundry that the Reverend J. Hammond Fitzhugh of Endicott, Connecticut, had united in holy wedlock one Whit Marlow and Helen Devalon on the 14th day of April.
Rourke chuckled at the expression on Shayne’s face. “Maybe it’s a code,” he suggested sweetly. “Secret Agent X is pleased to report—” He ducked Shayne’s swing while Cassidy wrinkled his forehead at the document.
“Do you mean you think this Marlow is one of those fifth columnists and this is not a wedding certificate but some sort of devilish spying code?”
“I’ve quit thinking,” Shayne growled. “Damn a sentimental sax player who hides a wedding certificate as if it was something important. Come on, Tim. Let’s get out of here.” He strode to the door, and Rourke followed, still chuckling over Shayne’s discomfiture.
“Where’s your buggy parked?” Shayne demanded when they were outside.
“Right up the street.” Rourke stopped abruptly. “Wait! What are you after? What about the corpse?”