“Then you’re wasting your time,” Lucy told him. “We don’t have any file on any Carrol.”
Shayne shrugged and said, “There you are, Len. Right from the horse’s mouth.” He patted Lucy’s shoulder and added, “Show him where and how you file everything.” He turned to Rourke who was sitting on a corner of the desk swinging one thin leg back and forth.
“Did you and Lucy come here together?” he asked.
“Almost. She was delayed a minute in the corridor — ah — by a powder puff, I believe.”
“Where did you find her?”
“I’ve been hanging around waiting for you to spring her ever since I got the flash she was locked up. Where in hell have you been, Mike? And, for chrissake, what happened to your head? Nobody’s been able to locate hide or hair of you since you ducked out of your hotel about four o’clock. Will Gentry is fit to be tied.”
“Gentry can go fly a kite,” said Shayne shortly, ignoring the reference to his wound. He glanced at Lucy and Sturgis who were busy at the filing-cabinet, then asked Rourke in a low voice, “What do you know about this whole thing?”
“Only what I read in the Herald, and tidbits I’ve picked up here and there.” Rourke spread out his bony fingers and lowered his slaty eyes to examine them carefully. “The rumor is floating around that you’re in the Carrol murder up to your neck. I’ve heard all sorts of stuff, including something about Carrol was suing his wife for divorce and naming you as corespondent.”
Shayne grinned briefly, then said, “You can deny that one categorically.”
“How do you fit into it, Mike? Can I also deny that Mrs. Carrol was sleeping with you last night while her husband was getting himself bumped off?”