“I’m waiting for the message,” Shayne growled. “A few less interpolations would get it off your chest quicker.”

Rourke finished his glass and smiled sweetly. He reached in a sagging coat pocket and drew out a slip of paper. “Lucky you married a gal who doesn’t know the addresses in this man’s town like we do. What kind of business would a doll at the Red Rose Apartments have with you?”

Shayne took the slip of paper from him and spread it out on the bar, frowning at Rourke’s penciled scribble: Miss Mayme Martin, No. 14, Red Rose Apts. He said, “That’s out on Second Avenue, isn’t it?”

“As if you didn’t know,” Rourke scoffed.

Shayne frowned mildly. He folded the slip of paper and put it in his pocket. “Mayme wants to see me, eh?”

“That’s the way Phyllis got it over the phone. She said the gal was panting with eagerness. Which one is Mayme? Would it be the little peroxide blonde with the hips?”

Shayne shook his red head and finished his drink. “I’m not socially acquainted with the inmates at the Red Rose.” He pushed his glass aside and nodded to Joe. “Mark that up against me.” He paused as he turned away. “Thanks, Tim. I’ll see if I can arrange an introduction for you with Mayme while I’m over there.”

He took a worn felt hat from the rack on his way out and jammed it down over his bristly hair.

Outside, the air was warm and balmy. It was late afternoon and Flagler Street was crowded with bareheaded, sports-attired visitors. Shayne glanced up at the sky and was surprised to see it overhung with heavy clouds. He hesitated for a moment, then shouldered his way to the curb, got into his shabby roadster and drove east on the one-way street to Second Avenue, where he turned north.