Framed in Blood (13 page)

“I’ve given you a lot, Mike,” he said quietly. “Are you ready to tell me where I can find Tim Rourke?”

“Even if I knew,” said Shayne, “I don’t think I’d tell you, Will. Damn it, you haven’t got anything on him, really.”

“Then why not bring him in and have him turn over his pistol for Ballistics?”

“You’ve known Tim as long as I have. You don’t believe he’s a murderer.”

“Been better if he hadn’t ducked out,” Gentry rumbled.

“It’s probably the smartest thing he ever did,” Shayne disagreed. “If I get to him first and he takes my advice he’ll stay out of your way until we know more about this case.”

“As soon as Mrs. Jackson comes to her senses we’ll know more,” Gentry reminded him patiently. “Look a lot better if we don’t have to go looking for Tim.” Shayne turned his back on Gentry when the phone rang and kept it turned as he stepped over to the desk and picked up the receiver. “Michael Shayne speaking.”

After an audible indrawn breath a voice said, “I just caught a news flash on the radio from the Beach. I guess you won that round, Shamus.”

“I generally do.”

“Yes. I guess you do.” The voice grew worried, submissive. “I’m ready to deal with you on the original basis.”

“I was ready to deal with you,” Shayne said grimly, “a couple of hours ago.”

“My mistake, and I’m admitting it. When can I expect to get delivery?”

“There’s not going to be any delivery,” Shayne growled. “Not after that deal on the causeway.” He turned his head slightly and saw Chief Gentry puffing furiously on a cigar and pushing himself up from his chair with a heavy hand on each arm. Shayne continued talking rapidly. “You’ll trust me this time or to hell with it. I’ll destroy everything Bert Jackson left in my possession without breaking the seals after you pay off.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” The man’s voice broke on the whining demand.

“You don’t.” Shayne felt Gentry’s sleeve brushing the sleeve of his robe. He tightened the receiver against his ear and motioned frantically to the police chief to keep quiet.

“I guess I’ve got that coming,” said the voice bitterly, “after those two mugs messed up the deal the way they did.”

Shayne said, “I guess you have. It’ll be my way or nothing. You’re nuts if you think I’m going to walk into another Tommy gun.”

“I don’t blame you,” said the other quickly, and again there was a noisy, long-drawn breath. “It was a fool move, and I’m sorry. Does the original arrangement still hold good?”

“Yeh. Twenty-five grand.”

“And you still want it in hundred-dollar bills addressed to Mrs. Bert Jackson, care of General Delivery, dropped in the main office at ten o’clock this morning?”

Shayne’s face was a purplish, swollen mask as the unexpected words came over the wire. Mrs. Bert Jackson? He thought he must have heard incorrectly.

“Let’s get this straight,” Shayne said harshly, thinking fast. “Don’t you know Bert Jackson is dead?”

“Of course I know that,” said the voice impatiently. “When Mrs. Jackson phoned me she assured me that you and she were in complete understanding on the method of payoff, and I was to mail it to her. If that’s not satisfactory—”

“It is,” said Shayne quickly. “I thought for a minute you didn’t understand the deal. Ten o’clock is right.” He dropped the instrument on the hook and turned slowly. Will Gentry had resumed his seat. His heavy face was only slightly less purple than Shayne’s bruises, and his murky eyes were hard as granite. Shayne’s hand went instinctively toward his left ear lobe, but dropped swiftly when his fingers touched the bandage. His head had stopped aching, and his brain was clear.

“Women,” he breathed softly. “By God, Will, you and I are just a couple of softies.”

“Cut the preliminaries,” Gentry growled. “Give it to me fast, Mike. You made some sort of deal with the man who was back of that attack on you this morning.”

“Yeh.” Shayne picked up his empty glass and stretched his sore leg muscles with long strides across the room to the liquor cabinet. He poured two ounces of brandy into it and recrossed the room with an expression of fierce concentration on his face. Settling himself on the desk once more he faced Gentry and said, “This should be worth twenty-five grand in damages, don’t you think?” He touched his injured head gingerly, and flung open the upper part of his robe.

“Damn it, Mike,” raged Gentry. “You can’t make a deal with a murderer.”

“Why not? His money will spend just like any other.”

“What are you selling him for it?”

“Not a damned thing,” Shayne told him cheerily, and downed a swallow of cognac.

The beefy color was draining slowly from Gentry’s face. He remained stiffly upright in the chair, his whole expression stolidy demanding, but his tone deceptively mild when he asked, “What was that about destroying everything Bert Jackson left in your possession without breaking the seals?”

“I promised him that. And if you leave me alone I’ll not only collect a fair-sized fee, but I’ll hand over Jackson’s murderer.”

“What did Bert Jackson leave with you? I’ve got to know, Mike.”

“I told you. Not one damned thing, Will.” He met the chief’s stony gaze levelly.

“But I heard you tell him—”

“That I’d destroy everything Bert Jackson left with me,” Shayne repeated blandly. “Maybe he needs a course in semantics. If Jackson had left anything with me I’d be bound to destroy it. Since he didn’t leave anything here—”

“Is the man you just talked to the killer?” Gentry broke in. “Are you going to collect twenty-five thousand from him for nothing and then turn him in?”

“Won’t it serve him right if he did murder Jackson?” Shayne countered.

“By God, Mike! Sometimes I wonder—” Words failed the police chief, and his face was growing darkly red again. He relaxed in his chair, shaking his head helplessly.

“Trouble with you cops,” said Shayne judiciously, “is that you treat crooks like honest men. The Golden Rule is all right in some cases, but I’ve learned to twist it a little. Like this—do unto others as they would do unto you—if they had the chance. Now, I’ve got to get dressed and go places. I’d certainly like to be around to hear what Mrs. Betty Jackson has to say about last night when she gets in shape to talk.” He stood up and started toward the bedroom.

“Do you expect me to leave things like this?” roared Gentry.

“Like what?” Shayne paused and turned back. Gentry was on his feet. He took two stolid steps toward the redhead, then stopped, and Shayne resumed innocently, “You’ve got one murderer already, Will. Lay off me until ten o’clock and I’ll give you another one.”

“Until you can collect a payoff for something you haven’t got?”

“Somebody has to keep me in liquor and pay Lucy’s salary.” Shayne waved a big hand in blithe dismissal and went on to the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

A HELPFUL CLUE

IT WAS STILL EARLY when Shayne went down the street. He stopped at a newsstand, bought a
Herald
and a
Tribune
extra, then sauntered on to his favorite restaurant on Flagler Street.

Seated at a table with a double orange juice before him and an order of crisp bacon and four scrambled eggs coming up, he unfolded the papers and looked at the
Herald
first.

They carried a brief story on the murder of the elevator operator, but nothing on Bert Jackson whose body had evidently been discovered too late to make the early edition. His own name wasn’t mentioned; it was simply stated that an office in the building had been rifled and the police believed the operator had been murdered by the burglars.

Shayne finished his orange juice and turned to the
Tribune
extra. They had really spread themselves on the murder of one of their reporters. A four-column cut of Bert Jackson, bordered with stark black lines, took up a lot of the front page. It was captioned:

Ace Reporter Mourned by Colleagues

There was not much on the actual story, less than Shayne already knew, but there was a glowing and colorful biography of Jackson which used a lot of adjectives like “stalwart” and “fearless” and intimated that the leading newspapers throughout the world were flying flags at half-mast to mourn his passing.

There were cautious references to Jackson’s latest assignment on the City Hall beat, with veiled hints that his death had been plotted by sinister elements in the city’s underworld who had feared publication of certain facts which Jackson had unearthed and which he refused to suppress even under threat of personal violence.

There was also a caustic second-page editorial commenting on the known inefficiency of the Miami police force and an offer by the
Tribune
of $1000.00 reward for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for Bert Jackson’s death. There was a flattering picture of Betty Jackson on the same page, captioned:
Bereaved Bride,
and it was stated that she was in seclusion at her home under the care of her personal physician and a trained nurse.

Shayne quirked his unswollen brow as he read this, and was glad that the enterprising reporter hadn’t snapped a picture of his secretary in her newly bought nurse’s uniform as an added attraction for the extra.

He ate his breakfast leisurely, then sauntered out and down Flagler to the Boulevard and north to the automobile dealer with whom he had dealt for years and from whom he had bought the sedan. He wondered idly whether it was still lying upside down in the bay or had been towed away by Painter’s men, but once inside the dealer’s establishment he brushed aside questions concerning the nature of the accident, and arranged without difficulty to drive away with a new model which he agreed to purchase at the list price, less the appraised value of his old car after it was checked for damages.

He chose a dull-gray sedan with corded silver upholstery, keeping Lucy’s approval in mind, drove it to West Flagler, where he parked in front of the unimposing building housing the
Tribune
plant.

Normally, he knew, there would be few of the editorial staff around at this time, but he had a hunch that most of them would be working overtime on the Bert Jackson story for the regular edition at eleven. This was confirmed when he asked for Abe Linkle and was directed to a small office off the City Room, after giving his name.

The editor was alone at his desk, a small man with prominent ears and tremendous vitality. A cardboard container of hot coffee rested on the desk at his elbow, and he was scribbling rapidly with a heavy black pencil on a wad of copy paper.

Linkle looked up, pushed a green eyeshade up on his forehead, and said, “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, Shayne. Some of the boys got a hint or two from the cops that you were in on the Jackson thing, and Brooks tells me Jackson went to see you about some mysterious something yesterday afternoon.”

Shayne nodded an affirmative to both statements, lowered himself gently into a chair, and sat quietly while Linkle’s shrewd eyes studied his bruised face and bandaged ear.

The editor said, “We got a flash early this morning on your car turned over in the bay off the causeway and a couple of dead gangsters on the beach near by. Want to give me something on that?”

“Ask Will Gentry,” said Shayne.

“I have. He’s keeping mum.”

“Keep after him,” Shayne suggested. “Needle him with stuff like has one of the stiffs been positively identified as the murderer of the elevator operator in my office building last night.”

Quick interest glinted in Linkle’s eyes. He made a notation on a sheet of paper and bawled through the open door, “Boy!” While he waited, he asked directly, “Any connection between all that and Jackson?”

“There might be,” Shayne told him affably, “but I wouldn’t want you to print any guesses just yet.”

A copy boy scooted in and took the memo from Linkle’s outstretched hand, and Shayne asked, “About this City Hall scandal you mention in your extra—Will Gentry tells me that Jackson evidently had something hot he wanted to turn in last night.”

Abe Linkle pushed the eyeshade farther up on his bald head, and his eyes narrowed speculatively. “We intend to follow that down and get it if it takes every man on the paper working twenty-four hours a day for six months.” He struck the desk resoundingly with the heel of a bony fist.

“No matter who it is—where it hits?”

“No matter nothing,” declared Linkle.

“How much idea have you got?”

“Damn little,” snapped the editor. “Just between you and me, and I hope I won’t be quoted. Jackson was close-mouthed. He had some fool idea that a reporter on the
News
had stolen a story from him once, and he wasn’t letting much out this time. Not even to Ned Brooks who was teamed up with him on the assignment.”

“What about the call Jackson made here last night? Do you know exactly what he said over the phone?”

“I was out for beans and beer about three quarters of an hour. Came back a little after ten-thirty, and Tommy Green, who was on the desk, handed me this.” Abe Linkle scrabbled among the papers on the desk and came up with a penciled notation, which he handed to Shayne.

The detective read,
Call Bert Jackson’s house at once.
He asked, “Did Green tell you any more about it?”

“He said Bert sounded tight and excited, claimed he was onto the grandpappy of all scandals and wanted to spill it for an exclusive in our first run today.”

“So you called Jackson’s house?” prompted Shayne.

“Right away. There was no answer. I waited until eleven, and when there still wasn’t any answer I let it drop. We were making up then, and I figured it would have to wait.”

“You don’t know exactly when Green took the message?”

“He didn’t say. Sometime during the forty-five minutes I was out. If you’ve got anything on this, Shayne, we’ll pay good money for a lead.”

“I know a little,” Shayne admitted. “Not enough to be worth your money—yet.” He arose and took a short, restless turn about the small office, then asked, “Is Tommy Green in now?”

“No. He’s got the day off. Gone fishing down on the Keys.”