cursing the reporter for his stubborn loyalty toward a dead friend, yet knowing in his heart that he would feel exactly the same, if Ambrose had been his friend.
He followed Rourke along Fifth Street, and made a right turn behind him, and they drove a few blocks north away from the bright lights, and Rourke eased in to the curb near a corner. Shayne pulled in close behind him, and got out, and Rourke clutched his arm and said in a low voice, “It’s around the corner on this street. I thought it was best not to park right in front.”
They walked casually around the corner and there was a street light behind them and a dark street in front.
They passed three unlighted residences, and Rourke guided Shayne onto a flagged pathway between a row of one-story connected offices and a wide patio with flowerbeds on the left. “It’s down near the end,” Rourke whispered. “See how dark it is.”
It was pleasantly dark for the job they were doing, until they reached the door indicated by Rourke . There was just enough moonlight to make out the bronze plaque, “Philip H. Ambrose, M.D.”
There was a wide window on the right of the door with tightly closed Venetian blinds, and it wasn’t until they stood directly in front of the door that they could discern a faint glow behind the closed blinds.
They stood very still and looked at the glow, and in the utter night silence of the deserted side street they heard the unmistakable sound of movement inside.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Shayne caught hold of Rourke’s thin wrist and pressed it tightly to enjoin silence. With his right hand, he cautiously took hold of the brass door-knob and turned it. The door was locked. He got a pencil flashlight from his breast pocket and turned the small light on the edge of the door and the jamb, running it from top to bottom without finding any evidence that the door had been forced open. Then he crouched down and turned the light on the keyhole while he studied it carefully, switched off the light and drew Rourke back onto the grass verge of the patio.
“Must be the killer,” whispered Rourke tautly. “He could have got the key from Doc’s body.”
Shayne nodded. “Probably. You stay here, Tim.”
“You got a gun?” Rourke demanded.
Shayne shook his red head in the moonlight and drew a large, well-filled key-ring from his pocket. “That’s an easy lock,” he muttered.
“I’ll call the cops,” offered Tim, his teeth chattering slightly.
“And have them get their hands on all Dr. Ambrose’s secrets?” asked Shayne calmly. “I thought that’s what you wanted to avoid at all costs.”
“Well… yeh … sure… but if that’s a murderer in there, Mike…”
“Then we take him,” said Shayne coldly. “Just stand back out of the way, Tim.” He patted the reporter confidently on the shoulder and moved forward to crouch in front of the door again.
Using the sliver of light, he selected a key from the ring and tried it in the lock. It did not enter… nor did the second key he selected. The third went into the keyhole but would not turn. Shayne studied it very carefully after drawing it out, and then chose a fourth key.
This one not only entered, but turned the lock smoothly and soundlessly.
Shayne got to his feet and put the flashlight back into his pocket. He gripped the knob firmly and put hard downward pressure on it as he turned. Keeping the hard downward pressure on the knob, he pushed the door open and stepped quietly into the carpeted reception room. He felt Rourke’s breath on his neck as he stepped forward, and it was too late to order the reporter to remain safely outside.
The glow of light they had seen on the blinds came through a half-open door across the room. There was a clicking sound within the lighted room. Shayne moved springily across the carpeted floor until he reached the door, then lunged through it without hesitation or warning.
His momentum carried him crashing into the stooped figure of a
He followed Rourke along Fifth Street, and made a right turn behind him, and they drove a few blocks north away from the bright lights, and Rourke eased in to the curb near a corner. Shayne pulled in close behind him, and got out, and Rourke clutched his arm and said in a low voice, “It’s around the corner on this street. I thought it was best not to park right in front.”
They walked casually around the corner and there was a street light behind them and a dark street in front.
They passed three unlighted residences, and Rourke guided Shayne onto a flagged pathway between a row of one-story connected offices and a wide patio with flowerbeds on the left. “It’s down near the end,” Rourke whispered. “See how dark it is.”
It was pleasantly dark for the job they were doing, until they reached the door indicated by Rourke . There was just enough moonlight to make out the bronze plaque, “Philip H. Ambrose, M.D.”
There was a wide window on the right of the door with tightly closed Venetian blinds, and it wasn’t until they stood directly in front of the door that they could discern a faint glow behind the closed blinds.
They stood very still and looked at the glow, and in the utter night silence of the deserted side street they heard the unmistakable sound of movement inside.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Shayne caught hold of Rourke’s thin wrist and pressed it tightly to enjoin silence. With his right hand, he cautiously took hold of the brass door-knob and turned it. The door was locked. He got a pencil flashlight from his breast pocket and turned the small light on the edge of the door and the jamb, running it from top to bottom without finding any evidence that the door had been forced open. Then he crouched down and turned the light on the keyhole while he studied it carefully, switched off the light and drew Rourke back onto the grass verge of the patio.
“Must be the killer,” whispered Rourke tautly. “He could have got the key from Doc’s body.”
Shayne nodded. “Probably. You stay here, Tim.”
“You got a gun?” Rourke demanded.
Shayne shook his red head in the moonlight and drew a large, well-filled key-ring from his pocket. “That’s an easy lock,” he muttered.
“I’ll call the cops,” offered Tim, his teeth chattering slightly.
“And have them get their hands on all Dr. Ambrose’s secrets?” asked Shayne calmly. “I thought that’s what you wanted to avoid at all costs.”
“Well… yeh … sure… but if that’s a murderer in there, Mike…”
“Then we take him,” said Shayne coldly. “Just stand back out of the way, Tim.” He patted the reporter confidently on the shoulder and moved forward to crouch in front of the door again.
Using the sliver of light, he selected a key from the ring and tried it in the lock. It did not enter… nor did the second key he selected. The third went into the keyhole but would not turn. Shayne studied it very carefully after drawing it out, and then chose a fourth key.
This one not only entered, but turned the lock smoothly and soundlessly.
Shayne got to his feet and put the flashlight back into his pocket. He gripped the knob firmly and put hard downward pressure on it as he turned. Keeping the hard downward pressure on the knob, he pushed the door open and stepped quietly into the carpeted reception room. He felt Rourke’s breath on his neck as he stepped forward, and it was too late to order the reporter to remain safely outside.
The glow of light they had seen on the blinds came through a half-open door across the room. There was a clicking sound within the lighted room. Shayne moved springily across the carpeted floor until he reached the door, then lunged through it without hesitation or warning.
His momentum carried him crashing into the stooped figure of a
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