“You damn fool, Williams.”
Dennis Williams told the clerk that 507 would be fine and that he would pay in advance as his luggage hadn’t arrived yet. While he was signing his name in the register Mr. Williams’ mouth also moved:
“Follow me up.” He walked toward the elevators.
Mr. Rourke went out to his car, put his bag inside, and drove off. He drove three blocks along Front Street and parked his car in a parking lot. Ten minutes later he was mounting the steps to the fifth floor of the Royal York, cursing the climb and Mr. Williams. When the door of 507 opened Mr. Rourke repeated his original observation:
“You damn fool, Williams. You’re probably being trailed.”
“I shook him,” Dennis said. “Oh, it’s all right, George. Your skin is safe. How about mine?”
George took off his hat and flung it across the room onto the bed. He sat down in the chair beside the desk and frowned at Dennis.
“Well. What’s up?”
“Stevens has been killed,” Dennis said.
“When?”
“Last night.”
Mr. Rourke looked pensive. “Why all the fuss? We don’t lose anything.”
“But... but it’s murder, I tell you!”
“I’m surprised Duncan has lived this long,” Mr. Rourke murmured philosophically.
“Don’t be so sure of yourself, George. He left behind a letter to you!”
Mr. Rourke didn’t move, but the skin on his face seemed to tighten. “What was in it?”
Dennis told him.
“Unfinished, eh?” Mr. Rourke said. “That means no envelope. Bloody luck, the letter, but it could be worse.”
Dennis smiled bitterly. “The hell it could. I’m halfway to the gallows already.”
“You’ll be all right if you say nothing. And I mean nothing! Don’t even discuss the weather. Unless” — Mr. Rourke smiled grimly — “you killed Duncan yourself.”
Dennis jumped out of his chair. “Don’t be crazy! Why in hell should I kill him?”
“Why did he leave the letter, Williams? Because he didn’t trust you. Well, I don’t trust you very much myself. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear you’d killed Duncan, collected the stuff, and were planning a vacation in South America. With my wife, incidentally.”
“Your ex-wife,” Dennis said. “Besides, you know me, George. I wouldn’t stoop to a thing like that.”
“My God,” Mr. Rourke said. “Shut up and let me think.”
He thought for some time. Then he said, “How many this time?”
“Fifty. He said it used up most of his cash. He said he was getting sick of the whole business anyway, there wasn’t enough in it.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me anyway.”
“You’d better go back and dig it up.”
Dennis knocked the chair away violently. “I’m not going back! I’ve made my statement. The police said I could go back to Montreal if I promised to come back when they asked me to.”
Mr. Rourke remained calm. “You’re going back to that house, Williams. We can’t afford to have it found. If you keep your mouth shut and if the stuff isn’t found, we’re safe. So you’ll go back to the house and find out where Duncan put it. Or if someone murdered Duncan to get it, you’re going to find out where the murderer put it and bring it to me. It’s 25 per cent for you if you can do it. If you can’t it’s the penitentiary.”
“I can’t go back!” Dennis cried. “What excuse could I give for going back now that they’ve let me go?”
“Tell them you feel you want to stay until the investigation is finished. Tell them you’re such an honest, upright young man that you want to do your bit to make the truth prevail. Or tell them — and perhaps this is best — that your place is at Dinah’s side in this time of distress.”
“I can’t go back,” Dennis repeated.
“You’re going. You’ll keep in touch with me, of course, by telephone. And for God’s sake use your head when you telephone. Go to a pay station and see that you’re not followed.”
Dennis sat down again, looking worried. “How long have you been in Toronto, George?”
“Got here yesterday. Better make it snappy, Williams. I’m driving back to Montreal now.”
“What do I do about this room?”
“Leave it,” Mr. Rourke said softly. “Leave it, my dear Williams. You can’t take it with you.”
He picked up his hat from the bed and put it on. With a last warning look at Dennis he opened the door and stepped out into the hall. Going down the back stairs he collided with an extremely tall young man who was coming up.
The tall young man said, “Sorry. Very sorry indeed, I’m sure.” He sounded drunk. He began to brush off Mr. Rourke’s coat, mumbling elaborate apologies.
“I’m in a hurry,” Mr. Rourke said.
“You want a drink,” the tall man said. “You’re a man after my own heart, always hurrying and always hurrying for a drink. You make sense. I like you.”
Mr. Rourke slipped past the young man and started to descend the stairs again. It took him ten minutes to find the parking lot where he had left his car.
“Cream-colored Oldsmobile coupe,” he told the attendant.
The attendant looked at him sharply and said, “Oh yeah? What number?”
Mr. Rourke told him the number.
The attendant said “Yeah?” again and scratched the side of his head. “Damn funny. That car left a couple of minutes ago. Tall guy. Knew the number so I thought it was his.”
Mr. Rourke cursed softly but skillfully under his breath.
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” the attendant said. “I’m new here. I’ll report it to the police right away.”
But Mr. Rourke put out his hand and held him back. “Don’t do that. It’s my kid brother. He’s always pulling stuff like this. I’ll find him myself.”
He walked away rapidly toward the Union Station. He was nearly there when he heard a horn tooting behind him and turned to see a cream-colored coupe drawing up to the curb. The man at the wheel looked familiar and the car even more familiar.
“What in hell?” Mr. Rourke said.
“Hop in,” the young man said. “I’m not drunk. Your life is as safe in my hands as it ever will be.”
He opened the door of the car. Mr. Rourke glanced up and down the street and got in.
“What’s the game?” he said.
The young man grinned. “Hunt the button. You’re cast as the button, Revel.”
“The name is Rourke.”
“Oh, come,” the man said, “you needn’t be ashamed of Revel for a name. After all, my name is Prye, and Revel’s a lot nicer than that.”
“So you’re Prye,” Mr. Revel said softly.
“That’s right.”
“And you’ve been looking for me, Dr. Prye?”
“Not hard, Mr. Revel, not hard. You weren’t very well hidden. And you use the telephone most indiscriminately. Shall we drive out to the Shanes’?”
“What do you want?” Revel said.
“A talk.”
“Talk here if you have to. I’m on my way back to Montreal.”
“On the other hand, I’m at the wheel of the car,” Prye said pleasantly. “Inspector Sands wants to see you. I told him I’d try and arrange a meeting. It was very simple to follow Dennis. He looks so furtive you can’t miss.”
“I don’t want to see Dinah,” Revel said.
Prye let in the clutch and pulled away from the curb. “You probably won’t if she sees you first. You can call a policeman if you like, Revel, and have me arrested.”
“Oh no,” Revel said politely, “I am not a vindictive man. Besides, it’s a good opportunity to catch up on my sleep.”
He took off his hat, laid it on the seat, leaned back, and went to sleep. Mr. Revel was, at times, a philosopher.