The telephone stopped ringing after a while. He sipped the smooth aged cognac slowly and thoughtfully. He listened absently to the elevator stopping at the first floor and heard footsteps in the hallway.
The footsteps stopped at his open door. Shayne stubbornly kept his back turned. His eyes were morose and his jaws were tightly clenched as he stared steadily through the window at the familiar scene.
Timothy Rourke’s voice spoke from the doorway, a determinedly cheerful voice. “Why the hell don’t you answer your phone?”
Without turning his head, Shayne growled, “I didn’t want to be bothered.”
“Getting drunk?” Rourke walked into the room, followed by another man. Rourke stared around the disordered room, his lean face grim. His body had the hard leanness of a racing greyhound; his eyes were intelligent and kindly. He was an old hand on the Miami News, had covered Shayne’s cases for nine years and garnered many scoops.
Shayne said, “I’d get drunk if I could.” He did not turn from the window.
Rourke moved up behind him and clamped his hand on the redhead’s shoulder. “You’re nuts, Mike. Going through all this old stuff — raking up memories.”
Shayne said, “I’m through. I’m going back to New York.”
Rourke’s thin fingers bit into his shoulder. “I brought you a client.”
“I told you I was through.”