Shayne wasted the afternoon on the phone.
In Georgia, he learned from Jose Despard, the coroner, who also delivered the rural mail, had certified the death of Walter Langhorne as one of those unfortunate accidents that are more or less bound to happen if people insist on going shooting with a flask of Scotch after only two hours sleep. Despard sounded tired and hungover.
“It was a rough day, Shayne. After the sheriff left, Hal-lam really hit the booze. He’s always been hard as nails, but one thing he never used to be is mean. He never was that sure of himself. I want to tell you his days are numbered. If he gets past the next board meeting, I’ll have to say he’s a wizard.”
“He isn’t answering his phone.”
“He flew to Washington. Taking the company plane, naturally. The rest of us had to wait for a commercial flight back. It’s a wild-goose chase, as I tried to tell him. He wants to talk to the Patent Office tomorrow about an infringement action. We don’t have a leg to stand on, but he won’t believe what the lawyers tell him because he thinks lawyers are one cut lower than garbage collectors. Prior use is the big thing. When we finally, at long, long last, get T-239 in the stores, we’ll be lucky if United States doesn’t sue us.”
“Are you serious?”
“No, they wouldn’t have the gall. It makes my blood sizzle. I told him, we all told him. When you have a revolutionary product, get it on the market first and ask questions afterward. We didn’t know it then, but we surely do know it now, the United States people were working their balls off all summer, excuse the expression. It’s a textbook case. Ossified management.”
“Despard, did anything particular happen this year on April twenty-third?”
“In what connection? I know Forbes figured the copy went out of the office sometime during the last two weeks in April. I don’t see how you could pin it down.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“Walter. He’d get my vote because he’s dead. If we can accept him, maybe everybody can shut up about it. The hell of it is, I can’t really talk myself into it, unless he was some kind of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
The nurse was waiting when Shayne hung up. “Time for your bath, Mr. Shayne,” she said firmly.
He grinned at her. “Let me get a few more phone calls out of the way first.”
He dialed the WTVJ number and arranged for an interview on the subject of the previous night’s altercation. Tim Rourke came in while he was completing the arrangements. The reporter listened open-mouthed.
“Mike,” he said sadly after Shayne put the phone down, “are you giving those TV creeps an interview? After all you and I have been through?”
“I have to tell a few lies,” Shayne told him. “You wouldn’t want me to lie to the News, would you?”
“Maybe not,” his friend said uncertainly, “and I don’t know what you’re talking about, as usual. Could you use a drink?”
Shayne brightened. “Yeah.”
Rourke gave a surreptitious look around and produced a pint of cognac, which he had carried past the front desk in a basket of fruit.
“Booze,” Sparrow said with pleasure.
Rourke closed the door so they wouldn’t be bothered by hospital personnel and poured drinks all around in paper cups.
“I don’t think I’ll ask for ice,” he said. “They might think we were breaching regulations. Now a small explanation, Mike. The last time I saw you, you were sitting down to dinner with a bosomy blonde, and here you are with your arm in a cast. Did it turn out she knew judo?”
Shayne described what had happened, finishing with an account of the puzzling phone call from the girl.
“It sounds kosher to me,” Rourke said. “If you wanted to throw the book at those three baboons, you and Teddy, you could put them away for a year. It gives you something you can use. Tie them to the Begley firm, and you can do some damage. You and I know they use blackmail and muscle, but it might shake up some of their legitimate clients if it came out in the papers. Did you hear what I said?” He repeated, “In the papers! Not on TV. You have to get it in black and white or you don’t feel the impact. On TV it’s some jerk with bags under his eyes passing on gossip.”
“I’m using the TV interview to get a message to the girl,” Shayne said. “I still don’t know. I had the feeling she was reading her lines from cue cards.”
“I’ll go with you,” Rourke offered. “I’ve got both arms.”
Shayne shook his head. “She’s skittish enough as it is. But I think I’ll look the place over before dark. Did you get any leads to people who knew Langhorne?”
Rourke felt in all his pockets and produced an envelope on which he had jotted down a list of names and phone numbers. Replenishing his cup from time to time, Shayne worked his way down the list. The general feeling among Langhorne’s friends was that he had been frugal about things he regarded as unimportant, and lived within his income. He had been well liked, and he would be missed.
A new nurse came in as he hung up after the final call. She was stout and red-faced, with a mustache, muscular forearms and a fierce baritone.
“Miss Manners says you won’t eat, you won’t let yourself be bathed, you’re refusing medication. Very well, Mr. Shayne. You want to be fed intravenously, is that it?”
“As a matter of fact,” Shayne said, swinging his legs out of bed, “I was just checking out”