Monk wheezed happily and kicked Rourke in the face. Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth, and he lay very still.

When he came to, he was in the hallway and Monk was sloshing cold water over his head. Rourke groaned and tried to sit up. Monk squatted beside him and said solicitously, “Lemme help you,” and slid a bulky arm under the reporter’s armpits and lifted him to his feet. Rourke began retching. Monk waited until the seizure passed, then dragged him back into Brenner’s office.

Brenner was still sitting behind his desk. He said, “My offer still stands. Only now you’ll have to write a retraction for some of the stuff in today’s paper.”

Rourke licked at his swollen lip and said thickly, “Nuts.”

“You’d better think it over tonight.” Brenner’s voice sounded remote in Rourke’s ears. “Take him out to the car,” the gambler directed Monk, “and drop him somewhere near his apartment.”

Bing and Monk carried him out and put him in the back seat of the sedan. They both got in the front seat and drove away. Rourke lay huddled on the seat. His strength was coming back but he couldn’t think very clearly.

They drove to within a block of the apartment and pulled up to the curb. Bing got out, whistling cheerfully, and dragged Rourke to the pavement, propped him up against the base of a palm tree, and the two men drove away.

Chapter Three: THE HOT-EYED BLONDE

The manager of the apartment house jumped up from behind the switchboard and exclaimed, “Good heavens, Mr. Rourke!” as the reporter stumbled into the lobby. He hurried forward, his eyes wide and solicitous. “Have you been in an accident?”

“Sort of.” Rourke tried to grin but his puffed lips didn’t work.

The manager was a slim young man with a blond mustache and a bad heart. His name was Mr. Henty. He put his hand under Rourke’s elbow and said, “Here, let me help you. How on earth did it happen?”