Timothy Rourke was slouched back comfortably on a sagging sofa in the disordered sitting room of his bachelor apartment when Shayne entered ten minutes later. He had a highball glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and he grinned cheerfully at the detective and waved toward a bottle of bourbon and another glass on a table beside him. “I’m clean out of cognac, but this isn’t bad stuff in a pinch.” Shayne said, “I’ll skip the drink, Tim. What’s the story on our dead man?” Rourke pointed proudly to a folded newspaper on a chair under a lighted reading lamp. “Read it for yourself in the Montgomery paper. I picked up that copy after checking out a shorter version we ran on Friday from the wire report. We didn’t use that picture, but I’d seen it when it came in and that’s how I recognized it in the Duclos house.” Shayne sank into the chair and unfolded the Montgomery paper to a front page story headlined: BLOODY BANK ROBBERY.
