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bobbed forward in the new, well-oiled swivel chair. “You must have some idea—”
    He was interrupted by a rapping on the door which opened immediately to admit the tall, emaciated figure of Timothy Rourke. He whistled expressively as he closed the door and said, “I just got home and was ready to park my car and turn in when I got the flash. What’s up, Mike?”
    “Ask Will,” said Shayne. “He’s telling the story. I’m on the side line this time.”
    “I doubt that,” said Gentry. “It has to be something important—worth killing for.”
    Rourke’s slate-gray eyes glittered in their cavernous sockets, and his nostrils flared. “Could it be the Bert Jackson deal, Mike?”
    “As I’ve told Gentry,” Shayne said calmly, “I have no idea what anybody could be after.”
    “Who’s Bert Jackson?” Gentry demanded, his half-closed lids rolling up like miniature awnings, his murky eyes fixed on Rourke.
    “A punk I threw out of my apartment this afternoon,” Shayne interposed. “I told you that, Tim. I told you I wouldn’t touch his proposition with a ten-foot pole.”
    “Yeh. You told me that,” said Rourke. His eyes shifted feverishly from Shayne to Gentry and to the littered floor.
    “What sort of proposition?” rumbled Gentry.
    “What does it matter?” Shayne said hastily. “I’ve told you I turned it down flat.” He didn’t look at Gentry, but turned to study Rourke with brooding curiosity. He caught a glimpse of panic in the reporter’s expression before he turned away and slumped into a chair.
    There was a long silence between them. Gentry chewed his cigar across his mouth twice, then said, “You can go home if you’re not going to give us anything we can use.”
    Shayne slid from the desk and took a turn around the small private office. Rourke was sprawled in the one extra chair in the room, his head lolling against the back and his eyes closed.
    Stopping before Gentry, Shayne said, “You know I’d give if I had anything, Will.”
    “If you thought you wouldn’t pass up the chance to make a buck. Don’t lie to me.”
    “Have I ever lied to you?” Shayne demanded.
    “Hell, yes. Any time it suited you. And I think it suits you now, by God.” Gentry struck the desk resoundingly with the heel of his doubled fist. “When I prove it, you’ll lose your license. I’ve been lenient before, but I warn you that this time I mean it.”
    Shayne rubbed his angular jaw thoughtfully. “We’ve been friends a long time, Will.”
    “And I’ve taken a lot from you,” fumed Gentry. “What about this Bert Jackson? Rourke said—”
    “Why don’t you call Lucy and ask her?” Shayne interrupted.
    “I did call Lucy, before I called you.”
    “And?”
    “How do I know you hadn’t called her first and told her to keep quiet?”
    “But I didn’t know about any of this,” Shayne declared, waving his big hands toward the muss of papers, “until I got here.”
    “Maybe you didn’t and maybe you did,” said Gentry wearily. “You can get out of my way now and let me finish up here.”
    “If you find anything, let me know,” Shayne said. He tapped Rourke on the shoulder, and the reporter jumped as though suddenly awakened from a deep sleep.
    They went out together, closed the door, and as they walked silently to the elevator Shayne scowled in deep concentration. The cop took them down, and when they emerged from the building Rourke said, “I’ve got my heap here. Let’s find a bar where we can talk.”
    “Okay.” Shayne’s tone was stiff and his fists clenched. There were deep trenches in his gaunt cheeks when he walked around the press car and settled beside the reporter. He took off his hat and laid it on the seat as Rourke pulled away from the curb, leaned his head back against the cushion to let the night air from the open window blow across his face.
    After a moment of relaxation he became aware of an uncomfortable wetness against the back of his neck. Glancing aside he saw