Rourke looked at his watch as he drove away from the Wilsson house and noted that almost an hour had elapsed since he had telephoned the redheaded private detective in Miami. It was still too early to buy a drink, so Rourke drove directly to the motel where he still had a key to the room he had occupied the night before.
His bag was still there and the room had not been made up. Rourke sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and gave the switchboard operator Shayne’s office number in Miami and told her to charge the call to his room, remarking that he would be staying over at least another day.
Lucy Hamilton’s lilting voice came over the wire first from Miami, and when Rourke said, “Good morning, doll,” she said, “Michael just came back, Tim. I’ll put him on.” There was a click and a moment of silence, and then Shayne’s voice:
“Pretty much of a wild goose chase, Tim. I talked to some of the delegates at the hotel, and several of them know Marvin Blake personally, but they were all nursing hangovers and didn’t remember too much about last night. It was one of those free-for-alls, I gather, small-town boys having a wild night out in the big city. A pornographic movie and liquor flowing all over the place. Your man did check out yesterday. Just before four o’clock, without telling anyone or giving any explanation it appears. Paid his hotel bill in cash and just walked out. I did find the bellboy who brought his bag down. He remembered it because it was funny for a delegate to be checking out before the convention was over, and by chance he happened to notice that Blake ducked into a rather expensive gift shop next door and made a purchase. I checked that out as best I could with a rather vague description of Blake, and I believe he bought a twenty-eight-dollar pair of earrings which he had gift wrapped. Nobody remembers seeing him around the hotel after that, but that doesn’t mean he mayn’t have been there for the high-jinks.”
Shayne paused and Timothy Rourke took a moment to digest this information, and Shayne asked, “Does that help any?”
“I don’t know how it fits in, Mike. Look, I’m getting in over my depth up here. Are you tied up on anything important?”
“Nothing I can’t walk away from for a couple of days.”
“Then you’re retained by the News, Mike. Jump in your car and get up here, huh? I’ll be at the Sunray Beach Motel or leave a message. It’s about a three-hour drive. If you leave right away you should be here in plenty of time to join me as a welcoming party for Marvin Blake if he does arrive on that afternoon train he’s expected on.”
Michael Shayne was not one to waste time with unnecessary questions. He said, “I’ll see you, Tim,” and hung up.
Rourke broke the connection and got the motel switchboard again. This time he made it a person-to-person call to his City Editor at the News. When he got through, he said swiftly, “Tim Rourke in Sunray Beach, Cal. I ran into a real juicy murder here, and stayed over.”
“Sunray Beach? Woman named Ellie Blake strangled in her bed while her husband attends convention in Miami? We got a first lead over the wire.”
“Right. Nude body and all. Discovered by her six-year-old daughter early this morning. No clues. Here’s your headline, Cal. News offers thousand-dollar reward in Blake murder and retains famed Miami sleuth to assist local police in solving case. You can fill in the rest.”
“Wait… a… little… minute. Is it really that good?”
“I got a feeling in my bones, Cal. I just talked to Mike Shayne and he’s already on his way up. Play it my way, huh? Chances are Mike and I’ll solve it and save you the reward. But get moving fast to hit the late edition.”
“If you say so, Tim. I’ll have to get an okay…”
“Make up your headline first,” Rourke advised him blithely, “and then get your front office okay. I’ll be back to you later on this afternoon.”
He hung up and looked at his watch again. It was not yet noon. Still too early to buy a drink in Sunray Beach. He opened the telephone directory and looked up the address of Doctor Higgens.
9
The doctor’s office was one of several ground-floor suites arranged around three sides of pleasant, palm-bordered courtyard with colorful flowerbeds and a fountain in the center of it. It was entered from the street through an archway bearing the inscription, Sunray Medical Center, with plaques on either side giving the names of the doctors and dentists who were conveniently grouped inside.
Timothy Rourke found a sign indicating Doctor Higgens’ office on the second door from the archway on the right. He entered a pleasant waiting room with comfortable chairs and smoking stands ranged against two walls and a desk at the far end with a pert young lady in nurse’s uniform sitting behind it. She was the only occupant of the waiting room, and she looked up with a bright smile as the reporter advanced to the front of her desk.
“Doctor’s office hours are from one to four,” she told him, studying his face with frank curiosity.
Rourke said, “I don’t want to see him professionally. That is, I haven’t got anything the matter with me.”
She said, “Oh?” as though she doubted that statement, and waited for him to go on.
Rourke smiled his nicest smile and eased his left hip down onto a corner of the wide, bare desk in front of the girl. “I’m a reporter on the Miami News,” he confided to her, “and I’d like to get some information from the doctor about the woman who was murdered last night. Was she a regular patient of his?”
“Oh, yes. Wasn’t that an awful thing to happen? She was in just a couple of weeks ago with her little girl. She’s a real, living doll… Sissy, I mean,” she added in some confusion. “When I think about her… finding her mother like that this morning, it makes me want to cry.”
“Go ahead,” Rourke said. He got a limp cigarette out of his pocket and put it between his lips and fumbled for a match.
“What?”
“Cry,” Rourke told her gently, putting flame to the end of the cigarette and drawing in deeply. “Then I’ll put you in my story,” he went on in a tone that was half-bantering, half-serious. “With a picture,” he added enthusiastically. “It’s always a good idea to inject some good, healthy sex appeal in a rape murder story.”
She said, “Oh, you!” and wrinkled up her nose at him, and then asked in a low, hesitant voice, “Was she… raped?”
Rourke said, “I’m hoping the doctor will tell me that. I understand he’s doing the autopsy. Do you know if he’s completed it?”
“I guess he has.” She bit her under-lip and looked embarrassed for some reason. “He came back from the hospital a little while ago.”
“Do you suppose I could see him for a minute?”
“I’ll see.” She got up and went through a door behind her desk, closing it carefully behind her, and Rourke sat on the corner of her desk and swung one leg lazily and wondered if it was worthwhile trying to make a date with her that evening.
She came back through the door after a moment and held it open invitingly and said, “Doctor can see you for a few minutes, but he has an important appointment at twelve.”
“So have I,” Rourke told her with a wide grin. “With a tall glass of bourbon and branch water as soon as the local bistro opens its reluctant doors.” He went past her into a brightly-lighted consultation room where a tall, white-haired man with very bright, very blue eyes regarded him without noticeable pleasure and said flatly, “I don’t want to waste your time, young man, nor my own. I have no intention of discussing one of my patients with a representative of the press.” The sour emphasis he put on the final word made it sound like an obscenity.