Rourke was reclining in an easy chair with the almost empty whisky bottle dangling from his fingers. Shayne retrieved it and set it aside.
“Marlow was looking for me, all right. Cassidy gave him my address. Cassidy says Marlow came barging down from his room about an hour ago shouting that he had been robbed. To keep him quiet and save his own hide, Cassidy admitted that I had gone through his stuff and taken something out of the lining of his bag.”
“I owe this to Cassidy, then.” Rourke touched his bandaged head. “If he’d kept his mouth shut—”
“Can’t blame him too much. He’s just a dumb dick with a soft job he wants to keep. He said,” Shayne ended significantly, “that Marlow hadn’t been back to the hotel. He’ll call me if and when he does.”
Rourke glanced hopefully toward the whisky bottle. Shayne shook his head decisively and set it farther away. “If you hadn’t been pie-eyed you wouldn’t have been such easy pickings for a goon like Marlow.”
“How was I to know I’d be mistaken for you?” Rourke groaned. “If you’d stayed home instead of dating a wench it wouldn’t have happened. I hope you got what you went after,” he ended in disgust.
“She stood me up.” Shayne dragged up a chair and let his long frame down into it wearily.
“Good,” Rourke murmured. “By God, I’d like to have seen that. I’ll tell Phyllis she can quit worrying about you now.”
Shayne lit a cigarette and sucked on it moodily.
After a time Rourke asked, “What’s eating on young Marlow, anyhow? Why does he set such store by that damned wedding certificate? He can always get a duplicate.”