Pulling the forged letterheads from his pocket, he tossed them on Gentry’s desk and started out.
Rourke sprang up and caught his arm. “Look, Mike, give me the dope. What’s new?”
Shayne stopped in his tracks. “Take a look at the forged letterheads I gave Gentry, Tim,” he said thoughtfully. “This is a good chance to clear up the thing on Lucy in the Herald extra. Say she was there in the line of duty, helping me to solve a murder.”
“You mean—”
“I mean that Lucy was trying to get hold of a letter written on one of those letterheads when she broke into Mrs. Carrol’s room.”
Rourke beamed. “A good follow-up after Granger’s confession and suicide. Will do. And don’t forget I’ve got a private date with Lucy.”
“Lucy knows your preference for blondes,” Shayne told him with a crooked grin, “so watch your step.”
Chapter sixteen
Michael Shayne was comfortably relaxed in a deep chair beside the battered oak desk in his apartment. He was expecting a telephone call, and with cognac and ice water at hand, there had been pleasurable anticipation in the two hours of waiting. He had no doubt whatever that the call would come through sooner or later, and was perfectly content to wait.
It was nine o’clock when the phone rang. He lifted the receiver and said, “Hello, Nora.”