“You’re doing all right.” Shayne gestured toward a built-in wall mirror which concealed a well-stocked bar. “I think there’s a virgin bottle of Scotch. Pour a snifter, but, for God’s sake, don’t hit it too hard. I’ve got more work for you first thing in the morning.”
“Whose case is this?” Rourke complained. He swung the mirror out and found the bottle of Scotch. “All I’ve got out of it so far is a headache.”
“There’s a head line in the offing,” Shayne reminded him.
“I’ve already passed up a couple of extras. Say, Mike, that’s an idea! Why don’t I discover the body where we planted it? The News could hit the streets with a special while the Herald is still wearing pajamas.”
Shayne considered the suggestion briefly. “It couldn’t hurt anything. But you’d better not discover the body. Let that come in the normal course. You could have the story all set up, though.”
“Sure. I’ll get over and write it now.” Rourke pulled a chair up to the table and dragged a wad of copy paper from his pocket. “Maybe I can slip a lad out there at daylight and get a shot of the body without being noticed. Let’s see — Helen Stallings, nee — what the hell was that name on the wedding certificate?”
“Devalon. But that marriage stuff can’t go in.”
“Sure not. I just want my facts straight. Strangled, eh? Been dead eight or ten hours. Disappeared from home yesterday noon. How is she dressed, Mike?”
Shayne wrinkled his forehead. “Wearing a silk dress. Blue, isn’t it?”
“Yeh. Sort of greenish blue. I remember noticing it when you carried her across the road. Short sleeves with white lace.” Rourke’s pencil was speeding across his copy paper.