He rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter and pulled a protective rubber finger tip over the index finger of his right hand. Rourke went on to his desk, dropped his coat over the back of his chair, and slid into it. Trouble with Painter is, he hasn’t been ridden hard for too long.” “This is one time, by God, when I wish Mike Shayne had never left Miami. He thinks you’re riding Painter too hard-and unjustly.” “With three murders committed during the past week? To hell with Bronson.” Timothy Rourke swung around angrily. Rourke?” Her pale eyes studied his face earnestly through bifocals. She motioned for him to stop and said in a low voice, “Are you still prying into that mess on the Beach, Mr. Minerva Higgins, prim and fortyish, a fixture in the Courier office for more than 20 years, glanced up and met Rourke’s eyes. He sailed his soiled Panama hat over the heads of two fellow workmen and it landed on his desk. Striding purposefully toward his typewriter, he shed his light coat and began rolling up his shirtsleeves. His dark eyes were narrowed and his thin nostrils flared like a bloodhound’s hot on a scent. His shock of black hair, showing traces of silver, was disheveled from much finger-combing. Timothy Rourke’s tall lean body was bent forward from the waist when he loped into the city room of the Courier.
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