“Not a word, Mr. Shayne,” said Miss Lally in the low, full voice he had heard over the phone. “Did I understand you to say you had not contacted her?” She slid the arms of her tortoise-shell glasses behind her ears.

The transformation was instantaneous and shocking. She was efficient and late twenty-ish, stout instead of chubby.

Trying not to stare, Shayne said, “That’s right. I’ve been fishing all day. What did she want?”

“There was-it was a private matter. That’s why she didn’t want to call in the police. I-don’t understand. Now that she’s gone out I don’t know what to think.” The effort to keep her voice steady was apparent and the faltering uncertainty seemed to be more from worry than fright.

“The hell of it is,” Rourke interjected, “I had an appointment with la Morton here in the cocktail lounge at six. Miss Lally kept it instead. You tell him, Bea,” he ended, turning his slaty, feverish eyes toward her.

A perpendicular frown came between her eyes and flitted away, leaving smooth, white skin. “I went to her room a few minutes before six to remind her she was to meet Mr. Rourke. She didn’t unlock the door when I knocked. She sounded terribly upset-or frightened. I’ve never known her to be afraid. She isn’t the type.”

“Sara Morton is the type to play fair by giving a man-eating tiger the first two bites,” Rourke interrupted grimly. “She’s the gal who broke into the big time years ago by becoming the moll of one of Capone’s original mob to get an exclusive.”

Shayne said, “I read your Sunday story, Tim. What did she say when you knocked on her door, Miss Lally?”

“Just that she was expecting a very important telephone call and had to wait for it if it took all night.”

“From me?” Shayne asked.

“She didn’t say, Mr. Shayne. At the time I didn’t realize she hadn’t been able to reach you today. She told me not to bother about her but to go down and tell Mr. Rourke-” She paused abruptly, and a pink flush washed up in her neck and face, and the tips of her ears were red.