“Hell, it’s clear enough,” Shayne growled. “It’s not the document itself he’s worried about. He’s desperately trying to keep the marriage a secret. Don’t forget the terms of his wife’s inheritance. In the event of her marriage before her twenty-first birthday the estate reverts to her mother.”
Rourke said, “I’d forgot that angle. How about another swig?”
Shayne nodded absently and passed the bottle to him. Rourke emptied it and sighed deeply.
Shayne looked at his watch. The time was three-thirty. He got up and paced back and forth the length of the room. “We’ve got to get hold of Marlow,” he burst out. “You can help me on that, Tim. Call headquarters and make a complaint. Give his name and description and get out a pickup for him.”
“I should think you’d lay off Marlow,” Rourke said. “He can come back with a burglary complaint against you.”
Shayne laughed shortly. “I’ve got worse than that to worry about. I’ve got to know what the youngster did when he arrived in town yesterday. Whom he talked to, whether he saw his wife—” He came to an abrupt stop, compressing his lips. His eyes became very bright and he tugged at the lobe of his left ear, resumed his pacing. He mused aloud. “Marlow hits town about the time Helen Stallings leaves home in a fit of temper. I’m convinced she dropped in for a cocktail at the Bugle Inn and drank a Mickey Finn. Later in the evening Marlow gets a dose of the same at the same spot. Damn it, Tim, there has to be some connection! Get on the phone and make your complaint.”
Rourke staggered to his feet with a dismal groan. “All right. But don’t forget I was with you when we broke into his hotel room. Shall I report that, too?”
“Hell, no! You’re a reporter. Tell the cops you were nosing into Marlow’s affairs in connection with a news story and he attacked you without provocation.” Shayne patted him on the shoulder and pushed him toward the telephone in the bedroom. “Lay it on thick. Dangerous character at large. Homicidal maniac. You needn’t mention the Parkview Hotel. Cassidy’ll call us if he turns up there.”
Shayne poured himself a long drink of cognac while Rourke dialed the police. He sank into a chair and listened with a pleased grin while Rourke poured it on. He demanded the immediate arrest of one Whit Marlow. Shayne’s grin widened when Rourke came back to the living-room, complaining.
“The desk sergeant wasn’t impressed. He said he’d have to check the Florida statutes to see if there was a law about attacking a nosy newspaperman. I have to go down and swear out a formal complaint if they pick him up.”