“Amid the noise of clacking typewriters and through the acrid haze of tobacco smoke, he found Timothy Rourke hunched over a typewriter in one corner, pounding out copy with a rubber-tipped forefinger.
He looked up, and a delighted grin broke over his elongated face as Shayne drew up a chair and sat down.
“Hi there, Shamus,” Timothy said heartily. “Committed any murders since I saw you last?”
“No murders,” Shayne had to admit. He lit a cigarette. “Anything new on the Grange killing?”
“Not a damned thing. Petey Painter is running around hunting clues like a bantam with his neck wrung. I don’t think he’s looking very hard because he’s afraid he might turn up something that would point away from you.” Rourke’s wide grin moved his ears a trifle.
Shayne let out smoke to becloud the atmosphere further.
“He’s always picking a victim and trying to fit the crime on him.
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