Framed in Blood (10 page)

“Just a minute, Michael,” said Lucy, springing up and hurrying into the kitchen. “The coffee’s gurgling.” She returned with a tray bearing two cups of coffee and the cognac bottle. Shayne laced brandy in his cup, tasted it, settled back with the cup in his hand, and continued.

“The story Betty Jackson will tell when she wakes up is going to be very important. If Grandma Peabody is right and Bert did go straight home from Marie Leonard’s apartment—”

“Either Betty lied to Tim, or Tim lied to you,” Lucy supplied excitedly.

“Wait a minute,” said Shayne. “Maybe Betty wasn’t there and didn’t know her husband had come back. Maybe she’d slipped out the back way to meet Tim and they were together. Hell! I don’t know, Lucy.” He made a savage gesture with his left hand and set his cup on the coffee table.

“Why not ask Tim?” she suggested.

“I’m afraid to,” he acknowledged. “I’m afraid of what he’ll tell me. As long as I don’t ask him—as long as he stays out of sight—”

“Then you think it’s the man Bert Jackson was trying to blackmail—the unknown Mr. Big.”

“I hope to God it is,” Shayne said fervently.

“But how are you going to find out, Michael? With Bert dead—”

“Don’t forget that Bert told him I had all his dope,” Shayne broke in. “We know that much from Marie Leonard. And Bert must have made it pretty convincing,” he added wryly, “because my apartment as well as my office was ransacked last night.”

“No!” Lucy exclaimed. “You didn’t tell me that.”

Shayne thought for a moment, then grinned. “I was so intent on keeping the fact from Will Gentry I must have buried it in my mind. Tim took me home from the office, and we found my apartment door jimmied and everything ripped apart,” he said. “Since they didn’t find anything in either place, it’s a cinch they’ll have to come after me. Whoever committed the murders is desperate to get his hands on that Bert Jackson story.”

“Oh, Michael,” Lucy cried out, “why didn’t you tell Chief Gentry the truth when he threatened to arrest you? If you hadn’t told him Bert Jackson wanted divorce evidence—”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he told her. “If I hadn’t told him something good I’d be in jail right now. Besides, it was bound to come out.”

“But you’d be safe in jail,” Lucy said in a small, frightened voice, “with no murderers coming after you for something you haven’t got.”

“But that’s the only chance to smoke them out,” he reasoned patiently, taking her small, cold hand in his. “They have to come to me—if Betty can be kept quiet a few hours so Gentry can’t get onto it and mess things up. And that’s where you come in, angel. Ever had a yen to be a nurse?”

Lucy looked at him with round, startled eyes. “Why, no. A first-aid course in Civilian Defense during the war convinced me.”

“Then you’ll be able to pull this off,” Shayne said excitedly. “As soon as the stores open, go out and buy yourself a nurse’s outfit. White shoes, white cotton stockings, perky cap, and all. Go out to the Jackson house and introduce yourself as the nurse Doctor Meeker sent to take care of Mrs. Jackson. Be tough about it, angel, and insist on staying in the room with her—alone. The minute she starts to come out of her stupor, get the story of every move she made last night—everything that happened, before you tell her about her husband—and before the police get to her. Think you can do that?” He had turned to face her, holding her hand in a tight grip.

“Of course, Michael. I’d be glad to do anything.” She responded to his enthusiasm, but her practical mind added, “Isn’t there a penalty for impersonating a nurse?”

Shayne grinned at her. “A year or so in the pen, maybe. Okay?”

“If anybody even makes a move to send me to the penitentiary for a year, Michael Shayne,” she burst out, “I’ll tell—”

“Look, angel,” he cut in, “just get the essence. Don’t try to pump her. Ten o’clock is the crucial time. If she was home when Bert returned, if she heard him get his phone call and knew where he was going—”

His voice trailed off and he shook his head worriedly, releasing her hand and turning to let his head loll against the cushion. “You should be able to leave as soon as she comes to and you get her story. Your duty as a nurse will be over then, I guess.”

“Where will you be, Michael? How can I get in touch with you?”

“I don’t know.” He got up and began pacing the floor, his head bent forward and his left hand tugging at his ear lobe. “I’m going home now and wait for something to break.”

Lucy Hamilton watched him for a moment, got up, and went to him and stopped his impatient pacing by putting her hands on his shoulders. “Try to get some sleep,” she begged. “And don’t worry about Tim. He’s been involved with women before, but he has never murdered a husband. Or has he?” she added lightly.

Shayne’s arms clasped her waist, and his wide shoulders drooped. “If he has,” he said bitterly, “he covered his tracks better than he did this time.” With a sudden, fierce move he held her to him, resting his gaunt cheek against her hair. “Let’s hope Will Gentry doesn’t decide to question Betty Jackson himself and find you guarding her in a nurse’s uniform.”

He let her go abruptly and stalked across the room to get his hat. The telephone rang before he reached the door.

“It’s probably for you, Michael,” she said. “You’d better wait.” She answered the ring, listened for an instant, then covered the mouthpiece with her palm to ask, “Shall I say you’re not here? It’s some man.” Shayne recrossed the room speedily, took the instrument, and said, “Shayne speaking.”

“I called your hotel, Mr. Shayne,” a man said, “and was given this number as one where I might possibly reach you.” The voice was smooth, cultivated, pausing inquiringly on the last words.

“All right. You caught me.”

“Am I correct in assuming that you have the documents from Bert Jackson in your possession, and that the police have not been told about them?”

“The police don’t know anything about them,” said Shayne flatly. “They weren’t in my office or apartment, so you can assume whatever you wish.”

“Then I judge they are still for sale,” said the voice confidently.

“Are you making an offer?” Shayne countered.

“Is the price still twenty-five thousand?”

“The value has not depreciated. In fact—”

“No. Of course not,” the voice broke in hastily. “If you will bring all of Jackson’s material to the Beach at once, the money will be waiting for you.”

“Where on the Beach?”

“Do you know whom you’re speaking to, Mr. Shayne?”

“Frankly, no. I felt that the sales value would be higher if I didn’t break the seals and dig into something that’s actually no concern of mine.”

“Good. I’ve always heard you were a square dealer, Shayne,” the voice said with weighty relief, then went on vigorously. “Drive across the County Causeway to Collins Avenue. Then turn north. Take it slow as you approach the old Firestone estate. If you’re alone and not followed, I’ll contact you thereabouts, and we can close this up fast.”

“I’ll start rolling right away,” Shayne said. He dropped the receiver on the hook and turned to Lucy Hamilton, took one look at her pale face and round, frightened eyes, looked past her, and said, “I guess this is it. They’re ready to pay cash since they didn’t find the stuff stashed in my office or apartment.”

“Who is it, Michael?” Lucy gasped.

“I still don’t know. This is my one chance to find out.”

“It’s a trap, Michael,” she cried, her voice sharp with fear. “Why should anyone pay you money and trust you to keep quiet? Wouldn’t it be more sensible and safer for them to just—k-kill you, too?”

Shayne pretended not to notice her small clenched fists and the sudden pallor of her face. He grinned reassuringly and said, “Of course it’s a trap. But you know how I am about traps, angel, unless—”

“You won’t go, Michael—not until you call Will Gentry and set a trap of your own.”

“Will and I decided to go in different directions this trip. I’ll bait the trap myself,” he said, his voice cold and remote. “How in hell else can I hope to win?”

“You’re a crazy, quixotic fool, Michael,” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him, tears flooding her eyes and bitterness in her tone. “You just love walking into danger and you don’t care what happens.”

“That’s not true, Lucy. It’s the only way I know how to handle a thing like this. If I sit back on my dead butt and demand a police escort to protect me—”

“But you don’t even have an excuse,” Lucy Hamilton persisted tearfully. “You don’t have a client. You don’t even have a prospect of a fee.”

Shayne gathered her in his arms and, with his lips bent close to her ear, said, “Don’t forget—I have a friend.”

Lucy relaxed and stood very still for a brief moment. Then she drew away from him and said, “Tim,” looking up into his gaunt face and bleak eyes.

“Do you still have that thirty-two automatic I gave you?”

She smiled. “It’s in my top bureau drawer, Michael.” She held the smile until she turned her back. Her mouth was tight and her eyes wide with fright when she glanced in the mirror before opening the drawer and taking the pistol out. Deliberately she composed her features, turned with her shoulders set and her head high, and went back to the living-room.

“Here it is, just the way it was when you gave it to me.”

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and pressed the catch that released the clip, slid it out far enough to make certain it was fully loaded, then replaced the clip and drew the slide back to throw a cartridge into the firing-chamber. He pushed the safety on and dropped the weapon into his coat pocket.

Turning toward the door he said gruffly, “Don’t worry about me. You’ve got a job of your own to do. Call me as soon as you can get anything sensible out of Betty Jackson.”

Lucy watched him stride to the door, open it, go out, and close it without looking back. Then she went into the bedroom and got dressed, feeling certain that she would be the first customer in Burdine’s department specializing in nurses’ uniforms.

MR. SHAYNE BITES

SHAYNE FELT PHYSICALLY REFRESHED from the cognac-laced coffee, satisfied with the arrangement for Lucy to act as nurse to Betty Jackson, alert after the telephone call from Mr. Big, the mystery man, but he couldn’t yet see how anything had been gained by Bert Jackson’s murder.

He pulled the brim of his Panama low to shut out the sun’s glare when he got in his car, gunned the motor, and drove away, a worried frown between his ragged brows.

The telephone call was the break he had anticipated, his sole justification for keeping important facts from the police. So long as he could keep up the bluff that the incriminating documents were actually in his possession he felt fairly safe. Mr. Big would be a fool to have him knocked off until the papers were actually produced.

But why kill Bert Jackson?

Had the reporter played his cards badly? Or had someone else blundered in handling the assignment? Someone whose finger was a little too fast on the trigger of a .22? The small caliber of the murder weapon in itself was a strong indication that the bullet had come from some source other than the man Bert was blackmailing.

The sort of man and the sort of big-time graft that Jackson had implied was sure to include professional gunmen, and such hoodlums didn’t bother with .22’s. The brutal bludgeoning of the elevator operator was more in their line.

Inevitably the thing he was trying to ignore came back to torment him. There was no escaping the fact that Timothy Rourke did own a .22 target pistol and that his claim of its being stolen and the theft unreported to the police was too thin for serious consideration.

Shayne jerked himself angrily erect and thrust that line of thought from his mind as he hit the traffic circle at 20th Street, deserted at this early hour, and rounded it to speed past silent warehouses and docks eastward onto the causeway. He held to the middle of the three right-hand lanes, pressing hard on the accelerator and watching the needle climb to 75. The high speed matched his mood, and he had a sudden feeling of suffocation, a lack of air.

He leaned across to crank the right-hand ventilator open and let the salt-tanged air blow in. When he straightened he frowned heavily at the sight of a car in the rearview mirror coming up behind him fast. A glance at his speedometer showed eighty, and the heavy old sedan wasn’t capable of more than that.

Shayne reacted instinctively and from years of experience, realizing that it might be coincidence. Although he was far from the appointed meeting-place, he pushed the accelerator down and grimly watched the car come on. The showdown might be coming sooner than he expected. There was no real reason why it should wait until he approached the Firestone estate on Miami Beach. It could just as well take place here on the lonely causeway if a car had been stationed at the causeway entrance, waiting for him to pass.

When he realized that his top speed could accomplish nothing, Shayne eased his big foot from the accelerator and slowed.

For a few moments the car behind him continued to close the gap between them with unabated speed, and he began to think his hunch was wrong, but this thought died swiftly as the driver of the car also slowed.

Shayne slumped behind the wheel and assumed a careless, lounging position, but his big hands gripped it, and his gray eyes were narrow and alert. His speed diminished to forty, and the following car which could now be distinguished as a big black Cadillac, slowed to the same speed, but it had swung out and was traveling in the outer lane as though to pass him.

Swiftly calculating the strategy his pursuers would likely take, he glanced ahead. The sweeping curves did not allow a clear view for any considerable distance, and the two men in the front seat of the Cadillac seemed content to maintain their position for the time being.

In another half mile the causeway straightened out on a long tangent leading directly onto the peninsula. If it was clear of traffic, Shayne felt certain that the interception would come there. He visualized the guard fence along the dirt shoulder near the edge of the twenty-foot fill. It was strong enough to withstand the sidelong impact of a skidding car and prevent it from going over the side into the bay, but was it strong enough to withstand the crushing power of a heavy car aimed directly at it at a speed of forty miles?