Rourke’s cadaverous features twitched. His mouth closed, then opened again into a wide yawn. One eyelid lifted cautiously, but he made no other movement.

“Go ’way,” he muttered. “Information desk’s outside.”

Shayne settled himself more comfortably as Rourke closed his eyes again and opened his mouth in a pretense of continuing to snore. The detective said nothing, but reached in a sagging side-pocket of his Palm Beach jacket to lift out a full pint of bourbon. He broke the seal and uncorked the bottle and leaned forward to gravely hold the open bottle under Rourke’s nose. The thin nose twitched and bloodless lips opened greedily. Shayne tilted the bottle and let a couple of ounces dribble into the open mouth.

He took the bottle away and said, cheerfully: “First course. What’s on the Peralta case, Tim?”

Rourke closed his lips and worked them in and out, opened both eyes this time and said warily, “Nothing new. You got an angle?”

Shayne shook his head. “A phone call from Peralta to see him this afternoon. You heard anything at all on it?”

Rourke sighed and dropped his heels off his desk. He sat up and reached for the pint bottle, lifting it deftly from Shayne’s lax grasp. He tilted it to his mouth, let it gurgle for a time, and set it on the desk in front of him. “Not a thing on it since the snatch, Mike.” His deep-set eyes glittered brightly in their hollows. “You got ideas?”

“Trying to pick some up before I see him,” explained Shayne. “Was it your story?”

“Only a follow-up. Human interest stuff. There was plenty of that with Laura Peralta cooperating on the cheesecake angle. How that dame loves to show her legs. Guess she’s damn tired of hiding ’em behind Julio’s millions.”