“But she was on the spot when she came down here,” Rourke said. “She had to keep the marriage a secret until she was twenty-one or lose her father’s estate. To avert suspicion, she acted unmarried.”
“In a big way,” Shayne agreed with a grimace.
There was a thoughtful silence between them; then Shayne said, “I ought to have taken that train for New York.”
Rourke chuckled evilly. “Give your wife a chance to kick up her heels — away from a lug like you. Serves you right.” With his head resting on the upholstered arm of the couch, he looked down his long lean body at his shoes. He wriggled one foot feebly.
Watching him, Shayne chuckled. “Let Phyl have her fling. She’ll appreciate me more when she comes back.”
“Oh, yeh?” Rourke grinned disarmingly. His mind appeared clear.
“She and Marlow probably planned a public wedding later,” Shayne resumed, “without mentioning the one in April under her real name of Devalon.”
“So that’s why Marlow had the document hidden so carefully. But what does it get us, Mike? He wouldn’t have killed her.”
“Husbands have killed their wives for less than that.”
“But he couldn’t blame her so much. She had to pretend she wasn’t married as much for his sake as hers.”