Gentry rumbled, “You’d better give out on this killing before we start anything else. I’ve got to decide what the charges are to be.”
Shayne snorted. “Charges? When a fugitive from the pen breaks into a man’s home and flashes a gat, hasn’t the householder a perfect right to protect himself?”
“A fugitive?” Gentry raised grizzled brows.
Shayne gestured toward the dead man. “His name is Mace Morgan. Recently escaped from the New York pen. I don’t know any more about it than you do,” he went on angrily. “He pushed in here and raved about me turning over something he seemed to think I’d got from Jim Lacy this afternoon. When I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about, he pulled that gun and threatened me. Well,” Shayne shrugged wide shoulders, covertly watching Pearson, “there he lies.”
Gentry’s heavy features became less morose. “An escaped con? Why didn’t you say so? I guess that puts you in the clear this time.”
Pearson turned his head. He spoke in a voice that was pleasant but held a ring of authority. “I’m glad to verify Mr. Shayne’s statement. The man is Mace Morgan. I rather expected him to turn up in Miami after we traced Lacy here.” He sauntered forward as he spoke and knelt beside the dead convict.
He unbuttoned Morgan’s coat and began methodically going through his pockets and clothing. The other three men watched him silently, with Shayne and Gentry evidencing professional approval for the thorough manner in which he made the search.
Pearson rolled the dead man over with no more show of feeling than he would have rolled a straw dummy, tested the lining of his coat, painstakingly covered every inch of the body, the inner waistband of his trousers, and finally removed the corpse’s shoes, examined the inner lining and the soles. He rocked back on his heels when he finished and turned his head to frown at Shayne. In a deeply worried voice he asked, “Did you take anything off him before we got here?”
Shayne set his glass down with a thump. He growled, “I’m tired of being accused of corpse robbing. First Jim Lacy and now Morgan. What’s missing?”
Pearson stood up and carefully dusted off his knees. In his precise, unruffled voice, he said, “I think I’ll ask you for that drink now.”
Shayne got another glass of cognac and handed it to Pearson. Pearson thanked him, sniffed the bouquet approvingly, and tasted it with a further nod of approval. He remained standing before the three seated men, and there was a hint of accustomed authority in his voice when he spoke directly to Will Gentry.
“I haven’t been introduced to this man yet.” He nodded toward Timothy Rourke.
“Tim Rourke,” Gentry said, “reporter for the Miami News. Mr. Pearson of the FBI, Tim. And Tim’s a right guy. Go ahead with what you’ve got to say.”
“It must be understood that my name cannot be mentioned in the press,” Pearson said. “You realize, Mr. Rourke, that our work requires the utmost secrecy. So I must ask you to leave us.”
Rourke scowled and hunched his shoulders forward. “If you chase me out of here now I’ll make up a story to fit the few facts I’ve picked up. Remember that beautiful word ‘alleged,’ Mr. Pearson? I guarantee my story’ll be a honey.”
Pearson’s deceptively mild features tightened. “I’ll have to demand your promise that you’ll print nothing-not a single word-about any of this.”
Rourke’s scowl deepened. “You can demand and be damned. We’ve still got a free press in this country.” He got up and started for the door.
Gentry restrained him. He warned Pearson as Rourke stopped, “You won’t get very far trying to push Rourke around.”
Pearson’s lips were compressed in a thin line. He said, “Your point about the free press is excellently made. But let me point out that one of the reasons it has remained free is because our newspapers have gladly co-operated with the government by accepting voluntary censorship over news that might be of value to the enemy.”
Rourke turned back to his chair. “Co-operation-now that’s a word I like. Hell, I’ll play ball if you quit treating me like a child who can’t be trusted with a secret.”
Pearson glanced inquiringly at Will Gentry. The detective chief nodded. “I’ve known Rourke a long time. He’s never printed anything I asked him to hold back.”
“Very well,” Pearson said. “I’m perfectly willing to accept your judgment.” He sat down and took a long, slim cigar from his breast pocket while Rourke resumed his seat. “It’s a rather long and complicated story,” he began, “with many points on which my information is somewhat sketchy.”
When he paused to light his cigar, Gentry got up and went toward the bedroom. “The phone is in here, isn’t it?”
Shayne nodded. His features tightened and his eyes were worried while Gentry opened the door. He relaxed when the bedroom lights came on and nothing happened. He got up and walked to the bedroom door. The door of the clothes closet stood open about an inch. Evidently Helen had decided to obey him and stay out of sight this time.
Gentry dialed a number and ordered the coroner and an ambulance around to pick up Morgan’s body. Shayne waited at the door, and when Gentry came out, leaving the door open, Shayne did not close it. Returning to their chairs, Gentry said, “I never feel good with bodies lying around.” He sat down and Pearson began talking in his quiet voice which made his words more impressive than if he had delivered an oration.
“Our country is at war, gentlemen, and as you know, the Federal Bureau of Investigation is devoting most of its time and personnel to the task of combating the activities of spies and foreign agents in our midst. It is a tremendous job, and one which we have, thus far, carried out with a great deal of success.”
He paused to frown at the glowing tip of his slim cigar. “I’m giving you this preamble to impress upon you the tremendous gravity of the present situation involving Jim Lacy and Mace Morgan. Lack of success on my part may prove more costly to our country than the loss of an entire battle, of a great military campaign.”
Pearson paused again to let his words have their full effect. Shayne lifted the cognac bottle and looked inquiringly at the others. Gentry and Rourke shook their heads. Pearson’s eyes were half closed, apparently in deep thought, and he did not notice the gestures of the others. Shayne set the bottle back.
Pearson went on. “A few months ago the plans of a new and secret military weapon were stolen from a government research plant in New Jersey. I cannot tell you what the weapon was. In fact, I know only this much-it was an epochal discovery. Something, I am told, that will revolutionize all the basic precepts of defensive naval action against enemy submarines.
“By dint of perseverance and painstaking investigation, it was eventually established that the actual theft had been accomplished by two men, a New York private detective named Jim Lacy and a petty gangster named Mace Morgan. Both of these men are American citizens. Both are traitors to their country. Actuated by the basest motive known to man-a willingness to betray their homeland for a few filthy pieces of silver.”
Pearson’s voice trembled with scorn and indignation. He lifted one fist and closed it tightly, then let it fall into his lap. With determined calm, he continued.
“We know, of course, that the theft was instigated and planned by the agent of a foreign power. Germany, doubtless. Possibly Japan. It does not matter. We know, too, that after Lacy and Morgan had completed the theft they met some third party at a secret rendezvous. The third party is, as yet, unknown. We believe they had been promised payment of a large lump sum upon delivery of the plans.
“Something miscarried, however. The foreign agent was evidently unprepared to make immediate payment. Lacy and Morgan were in a quandary. They were unwilling to let go of the secret plans without payment in hand, yet they were afraid to keep such valuable documents in their possession lest their crime be discovered.