The telephone had been moved from between the twin beds and placed beside the typewriter table. There was a memorandum pad on the stand, and a muscle tightened in Shayne’s cheek when he saw his name written at the top of the pad, and directly underneath it his office telephone number. Below that was a series of jerky pencil marks, but none of them seemed to be more than the unconscious doodling of an extremely nervous person.

He was reaching for the pad to rip the sheet off when he suddenly decided it would be to his advantage to leave it there for the police to see. He glanced at his watch, jerked out his handkerchief, and went out through the bathroom, wiping the doorknobs clean as he passed through on his way to the corridor. The outer door clicked shut on the night latch, and he went swiftly down the hall to Miss Lally’s room.

The door moved slightly when he rapped, and he pushed into the room where Rourke and the dead woman’s secretary sat on the double bed. Her head rested against the reporter’s bony shoulder and his arm was around her. Tears streamed down her face, and Rourke’s slaty eyes held the bewildered look of a man who had failed to stop a woman from crying.

Shayne closed the door and walked over to the bed, grinning humorously at Rourke, but his voice was harsh and urgent when he said:

“Miss Lally.”

She jerked her head up and looked at him with wet, sooty eyes. Her glasses lay on the bed beside her. Rourke put his handkerchief in her hand and she obediently blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

“Miss Morton is dead,” said Shayne, spacing the words evenly. “It happened at least an hour ago. Possibly two or three. We can do only one thing for her now. You’ve got to get hold of yourself.” He paused a moment, rubbing his angular jaw, his eyes thoughtful.

Miss Lally’s sobbing gradually stopped after a long, audible sigh. “I’m all right now,” she said. “Shouldn’t we notify the police?”