Framed in Blood (3 page)

“What’s come between Bert and Tim Rourke?” Shayne asked abruptly.

Ned Brooks hesitated, shifting his gaze from the detective’s. “They had a bust-up. About a year ago when Bert got fired from the
News.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Well, I—not too much,” Brooks hedged.

“Do you know Bert Jackson’s wife?”

“Sure. Betty’s a swell kid. I’d feel sorry for her if anything happened to Bert.”

“That’s not exactly the way he told it to me.”

“You mean Marie? What did Bert tell you about her?”

“Not much,” Shayne said, and it seemed to him that Ned Brooks was faintly relieved by his reply.

The reporter leaned back and produced a neat leather case from an inner pocket. He took some time selecting a cigarette, lit it, and asked anxiously, “Was I right about what Bert wanted from you?”

“I don’t discuss the private affairs of my clients,” Shayne told him shortly.

“Then Bert is a client? You agreed to help him?”

“Or the private affairs of people who come to me, whether I take them as clients or not.”

“Would you tell me this one thing?” urged Brooks. “Did he mention my name at all?”

Shayne considered for a moment, then said flatly, “No. And now I’ve wasted all the time I have to spare.”

Ned Brooks arose swiftly, and was overprofuse in his thanks and apologies as he went to the door.

Shayne waved him away impatiently, and frowned when the door closed behind him. He wondered who Marie was, then angrily pushed the question from his mind, reminding himself that it was absolutely none of his affair.

FRIGHTENED FEMALE

MICHAEL SHAYNE WAS STEPPING from the shower half an hour later when his phone rang. He snatched up a heavy towel and dried himself sketchily as he went to answer it.

A throaty female voice with a suggestion of tears came over the wire. “Mr. Shayne? Can I see you?” There was a faint note of familiarity about the voice, but he couldn’t place it.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Downstairs. May I come up?”

“Who are you?” Shayne said swiftly, dabbing at his wet body with his free hand.

“I’m Betty Jackson. I have to see you about Bert. I’m terribly worried—and frightened.”

“All right,” growled Shayne. “I’ll leave the door on the latch. Come in and wait. I’m dressing.” He hung up and padded to the front door, threw off the night latch, and went to the bedroom.

He wondered about Betty Jackson as he finished drying himself and got into fresh clothes. And about Timothy Rourke and the extent of his interest in the young couple. And how Mrs. Jackson had learned about Bert’s visit to his apartment.

He was prepared thoroughly to dislike Mrs. Bert Jackson as he buttoned a clean white shirt and knotted a gray figured tie around his neck. He vaguely recalled meeting her at the wedding party two years previously, and retained an impression of softness and youth and superficial prettiness as she clung to her new husband’s arm, wide-eyed with adoration.

That had worn off fast, he told himself grimly. Judging by what young Jackson had said, at least. Less than two years of marriage, and she was stepping out with other men because her husband earned only sixty-two fifty a week.

Shayne knew lots of men who earned less and whose wives made homes with that amount. He was angry at himself for bothering with Betty Jackson as he made a pretense of brushing damp, unruly hair.

He had heard no sound from the outer room, but when he opened the bedroom door and stalked out he saw her sitting in the same deep chair where her husband had sat a short time before. He stopped abruptly and looked at her.

Much of her softness and youth had been shorn away by two years of marriage, and she had become a beautiful woman. Her eyes were large and velvety black and imploring. She was thinner, and the good bone structure of her face was more delicately outlined. Dark hair was brushed smoothly back from a high forehead, her dark brows heavy and slightly arched, her mouth full-lipped, and long lashes black against deep sockets as she looked up at Shayne. She sat erect with her feet planted close together and a hand pressed on each arm of the chair as though prepared to leap up and throw herself into his arms.

“I had to see you,” she said. “Please tell me about Bert—what he said to you and where he has gone.”

Shayne moved slowly toward her and said, “Among other things, your husband told me that you’re not satisfied to live on his salary and that you’ve been going out with other men who can buy champagne.”

She winced, and her eyes grew moist, but she did not move from the strained position. “What—were some of the other things he told you, Mr. Shayne?”

“First, tell me how you knew he was here.” Shayne crossed to his swivel chair and sat down.

“Tim Rourke phoned me. Do you know where Bert was going when he left here?”

“No. He could have been headed straight for the devil so far as I was concerned.”

She winced again, caught her lower lip between her teeth, and blinked her lids. The lashes were moist when she opened her eyes and strained forward to say, “I know Bert’s a fool, Mr. Shayne. But I—I love him—and I’m frightened.”

“Women who love their husbands don’t drive them to unethical and criminal acts to pick up a little extra dough.” Shayne’s tone was uncompromising, and he turned his eyes slightly to avoid looking directly into hers.

“What did he say?” Her voice rose hysterically. “Is he going through with his crazy plan to extort money for that story?”

“Don’t you approve?”

She sprang up and went toward him, anger blazing in the black eyes that had been liquid and shining a moment before. “Damn you!” she raged. “You’ve no right to say that to me. Bert’s crazy with jealousy, and he’s got everything wrong. Did he give you the idea he wanted that money for me?”

She was standing over him, and Shayne looked up into her eyes. “Didn’t he?” said Shayne coldly.

“No!” She turned away and sat down again. “He wanted it for her,” she told him in a dull voice. “So he could leave me. What did he say about Tim?”

“That he hadn’t seen Tim for several weeks. I gathered they aren’t friends any longer.”

Betty Jackson buried her face in her hands for a moment. Her cheeks were streaked with tears when she took them away, and there was a wild glint of hysteria in her eyes. “Something happened while Bert was still on the
News,”
she cried. “I don’t know exactly what, but it gave Bert this crazy idea he has now. Something about a story that Tim got paid money for covering up. Bert accused Tim of it, I guess, and Tim got him fired. All he’s talked about since then is how he was going to do the same if he ever had the chance.”

“What’s Tim Rourke to you?” demanded Shayne.

“Just—a good friend.” Color flooded her pale face under Shayne’s searching gaze, but she lifted her chin defiantly. “Tim has been like a brother to both of us.”

“Does Tim buy you champagne?”

“Sometimes,” she answered aloofly.

Shayne studied her for a moment, allowing himself to wonder. He knew Rourke’s weakness for beautiful women. Then he made an impatient gesture and growled, “All this stuff about your personal life doesn’t interest me. Why did you come here?”

“I want to find Bert.”

“Start looking in the nearest bars,” Shayne advised her callously. “It’s not more than an hour since he left here. I doubt if he’s gotten far.”

“Tim said he would check the places where Bert usually goes,” she said dubiously. “But we’re both afraid he’ll try to do—that other—by himself.”

“You mean the extortion deal?”

“Yes. He’s been getting up his nerve for weeks. I’ve tried to make him see how foolish it is, but he insists.” She paused, and again her voice rose hysterically. “It’s that other woman! She’s driven him to it—wanting money—offering to go away with him.”

“That’s twice,” said Shayne patiently, “that you’ve mentioned some other woman in connection with your husband. He gave me the impression he wanted the money for you.”

“Then he lied! All this last month—”

Her mouth trembled, and she was making a supreme effort to control herself when Shayne got up and said, “Let me get you a drink.”

“No thanks,” she said angrily, then added with heavy sarcasm, “You probably haven’t any champagne.”

Shayne was at the liquor cabinet reaching for a bottle of cognac, his back turned toward her. He grinned briefly. Along with her beauty, he decided, Betty Jackson appeared to have spirit and courage. “No champagne,” he told her evenly, “but I could mix a cocktail. Sherry?”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Sherry will be fine.” She was relaxed with her hands folded in her lap when he came back with two glasses. He gave her the sherry and resumed his seat, took a sip of cognac, and nursed the glass between his palms.

Betty Jackson sipped her sherry, then said, “I want to tell you everything and get your help. Tim says you’re perfectly wonderful.” A wan smile flitted across her lips and she added, “You know, we always call you Mike when we speak of you.”

“Tim Rourke is full of blarney,” he replied. “Call me Mike if you like, and I have just fifteen minutes to listen before I have to go out.”

She moved to the edge of the chair and leaned toward him, her eyes wide and hopeful, her lips parted, as though she considered her thoughts carefully before speaking.

Her expression disturbed him. He said impatiently, “Let’s get down to cases. I gather you know about the scandal your husband has dug up and hopes to sell for a big price.”

“Yes. He’s been gathering the data for weeks, but it’s only lately that he’s been talking about holding it back from the paper.”

“Who’s the man in the scandal?” he asked bluntly.

“I don’t know. But when I told Tim about it he said it was crazy and about as safe as playing with an atomic bomb. Tim says no matter who it is, if the man is mixed up in the sort of graft Bert claims, he’ll have all sorts of underworld connections who won’t hesitate to commit murder to keep the story quiet.”

“Tim’s probably right,” Shayne agreed. “You’re afraid Bert will go direct to the man tonight after I turned down a chance to help him collect?”

“Yes.” She shivered, then took a quick sip of sherry before saying, “I know that’s what he’ll do, Mike. He’s bewitched by that woman and by his insane jealousy of me.”

Shayne glanced at his watch. It was almost time for him to leave to keep his dinner date with Lucy Hamilton. “If you really want to find your husband before he does anything foolish, why don’t you check with this woman you’ve mentioned? That’s probably where he is.”

“But I don’t know who she is. That’s one thing Tim said you could do, find out her name and whether Bert is there tonight.”

“How am I supposed to find out her name?”

“Tim says you’re the best detective in the country,” she answered simply.

“Yeh,” grated Shayne. “But how in hell does a detective find out the name of some woman you think your husband is in love with?”

“I know where she lives,” she told him, eager and hopeful again, “At the Las Felice apartments on Northwest Sixty-Seventh Street. Tim said you’d know how to go there and check up on all the women and find out which one Bert goes to see.”

“Tim says a lot of things,” Shayne growled. He glanced at his watch again, frowned, and hurried on. “Frankly, Mrs. Jackson, after meeting your husband this afternoon I can’t work myself up into a lather about what happens to him. I have an engagement.” He drained his glass and started to rise.

“I wish you’d call me Betty,” she said wistfully, coming to her feet. Her face was tragic and full of despair. “You’re supposed to be Tim’s friend. You care about what happens to him, don’t you?” She took a few steps toward him, swaying a little.

“What’s Tim got to do with it?” he demanded roughly.

“He’s out looking for Bert right now. If he finds him while they’re both in this mood—I don’t know what might happen.”

“Tim can take care of himself.”

“But don’t you see that Bert is using the thing that happened on the
News
as a lever?” she cried out. “If anything happens to him and it all comes out—”

She was weeping openly now, moving close to him. Shayne had to catch her in his arms to prevent her slipping to the floor as she flung herself upon him. Her arms went around his neck and she clung to him, sobbing convulsively.

“Please, Mike. Don’t you see that Tim is determined to prevent that? I’m so frightened. If they should meet while they’re both angry and upset—”

Shayne had both hands under her armpits to push her away when the door opened.

“Pardon me, Mr. Shayne,” Lucy Hamilton said frigidly. “If I’d known you were entertaining a client I wouldn’t have dreamed of intruding. But the door was on the latch.”

Shayne whirled about angrily, slipping his hands along Betty Jackson’s clinging arms to disengage them from his neck. He growled, “Skip it, Lucy. This isn’t a client. It’s Mrs. Jackson—a friend of Tim Rourke’s.” Lucy was cool and poised in a frosty-green cocktail dress, lace gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat. She looked down her straight nose at Betty’s tear-stained face and murmured, “How nice for Tim. I came up to save you the trouble of stopping by for me, Michael, but if you’re otherwise engaged—”

“I’m not,” Shayne assured her. “Mrs. Jackson is on her way out.” He took her firmly by the arm and led her to the door, thrust her into the corridor without a word, and swung back to try to make his peace with Lucy.

BLOOD MINUS BODY

THE INSISTENT RINGING of the telephone wakened Shayne. He lay in the darkness and mechanically counted the rings. On the tenth, he threw back the covers and turned on the light. A long-standing arrangement with the switchboard operator in the hotel gave him no hope that the phone would stop ringing until he answered. Not if the call was important. If the operator considered it unimportant he would let it ring three times, inform the caller that Shayne was not in, and break the connection.

Shayne took his time, stretching and yawning widely. He looked at his watch. The time was seven minutes after two. He padded into the living-room, barefooted and gaunt-faced after less than an hour’s sleep. Lifting the receiver he growled, “Mike Shayne.”

“Dead drunk—from the time it took you to answer.” Chief Will Gentry’s gruff voice rumbled over the wire.

“Not yet,” said Shayne amicably. “Hold the line a minute, Will, while I pick up a bottle.”

“Damn it, Mike,” Gentry protested, before Shayne laid the receiver down and went across the room where he took a half-filled cognac bottle from the liquor cabinet. He drew the cork as he returned to the desk, took a long drink, grinning at the unintelligible snorts emanating from the prone instrument.

Plunking the bottle down hard, he picked up the receiver and said, “What’s on your mind, Will?”

“Your office, Shamus,” Gentry snapped. “Get down here as fast as you can.”

“What about my office?” Shayne scowled at the wall. “What in hell are you doing there?”

“I’ll expect you in ten minutes,” Gentry said flatly.

The banging of the receiver rang in Shayne’s ears. He hung up, took another drink from the bottle, and tugged absently at his left ear lobe as he slowly returned to the bedroom.

It took him five minutes to dress and only a few minutes more for his long-legged strides to carry him the few blocks to the downtown office building where he had rented a suite because Lucy Hamilton, his secretary, did not consider it proper to work in her employer’s apartment.

Chief Gentry’s sedan and two radio cars were parked at the curb, and a uniformed patrolman guarded the entrance to the building. The officer intercepted Shayne as he swung into the doorway.

“Nobody allowed in—” he began, then stepped aside. “It’s you,” he amended. “Chief’s waiting for you upstairs, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne strode to the elevator which was manned by another officer whom he didn’t recognize. He stepped inside, and the man fumbled with the controls to get the door closed, sent the cage jerkily upward to the third floor where Shayne got out and went down the corridor.

He stopped in front of an open door that was scarred from jimmy marks around the lock and bore leaf-gold lettering on the frosted glass reading:
Michael Shayne—Private Investigator.

Detective Sergeant Riley stood just inside the reception room over which Lucy Hamilton presided from nine to five every day. Around her desk and the filing-cabinet papers were scattered over the floor.

Shayne’s bleak gaze swept over the disorder and came back to the sergeant’s face. “What the hell goes on, Riley? If you guys wanted something—”

“The chief’s inside,” Riley interrupted, jerking his thumb toward a closed door marked
Private.

Shayne set his jaw and stalked to the door, flung it open to a scene of devastating wreckage. The drawers of his desk were pulled out and piled on the floor. The compartments of a tall green metal filing-cabinet stood open, and piles of papers and cardboard folders lay haphazardly around it.

Two men squatted on the floor, their backs toward Shayne, pawing through the papers. Shayne closed the door quietly and watched for a moment, his eyes smoldering dangerously.

“If you’re looking for a drink,” he said, “I keep a bottle stashed in the top compartment.”

Will Gentry turned his graying head slowly, grunted as he heaved his bulk upward, and turned to face Shayne; but his companion continued to squat on his heels, poking industriously through the papers.

Shayne lounged forward and lowered one hip to a corner of his desk. He lit a cigarette and said, “Even if you’ve got a search warrant, Will, you might have called Lucy and asked her to get whatever you’re looking for. Sometimes she has a little trouble finding things, but she never has to go this far.”

Chief Gentry was a big man with a normally ruddy and good-natured face. Now, purple veins stood out from the ruddiness, and his murky gray eyes were angry. “You know we didn’t do this,” he snorted.

“What the hell am I supposed to think?” said Shayne. “I find the two of you squatting on your haunches going through my stuff.”

“Cut it,” said Gentry wearily. He went to the swivel chair behind the desk and dropped into it. “Let it go, Morgan,” he said to the officer. “Go on out and wait with Riley. And close the door,” he added as the Homicide dick reluctantly arose and let the paper in his hand flutter to the floor.

Shayne’s eyes narrowed when he recognized Detective Morgan. He waited until the door was closed before asking Gentry, “How does Homicide come into this?”

“A stiff,” grunted Gentry. He took out an ugly blackish cigar, looked at it distastefully with slightly protuberant eyes, and returned it to his inside pocket. “When were you here last, Mike?”

Shayne half-stood, turned, and lowered the other side of his buttocks onto the desk to face Gentry. “About four-thirty. Lucy and I closed up early. We had a dinner date, and she went home to doll up.”

“Neither of you been back?” Gentry persisted.

Shayne shook his red head slowly. “Who’s the stiff, Will? Give it to me.”

“Can you prove you haven’t been here since four-thirty?” Gentry parried.

“I had to doll up, too. You know how Lucy is. Do I need an alibi?” he asked impatiently.

Gentry took the cigar out again, lit it, and said, “What you working on now, Mike?” He emitted a puff of noxious smoke and watched it float drearily through the airless room.

“Nothing. That’s why we closed up early.”

“No recent client?”

“Look, Will,” said Shayne patiently, “if I had a client I’d be working.”

“Put it this way, then. What have you got hidden in your office that somebody’d go to all this trouble to find?” He waved a plump, stubby hand over the wreckage.

“Not a damned thing,” said Shayne promptly. “I mean it, Will. All this stuff is junk—stuff from old cases that are closed.”

“A man was murdered tonight,” Gentry rumbled, “so that killers could get in here and go through your office.”

“Who?”

“The night elevator operator. Don’t hold out on me, Mike. It’s got to be a case you’re working on.”

“I’m not working,” Shayne reminded him. “Mike Caffrey?”

“That’s the name we found on his operator’s license,” said Gentry.

Shayne ground out his cigarette in a desk ash tray. A muscle twitched in his angular jaw, and his eyes were bleak. An innocent old man who addressed him as “Mr. Shayne” and whom he always called “Mike” was dead. And a wide-eyed dame named Betty, a fanatic named Bert—and maybe Tim Rourke, plus a reporter named Brooks were probably responsible—plus a Mr. Big and a girl named Marie.

He was brooding over the possibility when Gentry said, “We haven’t anything to go on, Mike. Just Caffrey with his head smashed to a pulp. Soon as we know what they wanted from your office we’ll have something to work on.”

“I swear I don’t know, Will,” he said solemnly.

“Can you tell if anything is missing?” Gentry demanded.

Shayne looked at the piles of papers and said disgustedly, “Lucy might—after a month or so of straightening up and refiling. You know how I work. When I’m on a case I carry most of my stuff here.” He tapped his temple. “Lucy records the case afterward with whatever documentary evidence comes to light.”

“That’s not good enough.” Gentry bobbed forward in the new, well-oiled swivel chair. “You must have some idea—”

He was interrupted by a rapping on the door which opened immediately to admit the tall, emaciated figure of Timothy Rourke. He whistled expressively as he closed the door and said, “I just got home and was ready to park my car and turn in when I got the flash. What’s up, Mike?”

“Ask Will,” said Shayne. “He’s telling the story. I’m on the side line this time.”

“I doubt that,” said Gentry. “It has to be something important—worth killing for.”

Rourke’s slate-gray eyes glittered in their cavernous sockets, and his nostrils flared. “Could it be the Bert Jackson deal, Mike?”

“As I’ve told Gentry,” Shayne said calmly, “I have no idea what anybody could be after.”

“Who’s Bert Jackson?” Gentry demanded, his half-closed lids rolling up like miniature awnings, his murky eyes fixed on Rourke.

“A punk I threw out of my apartment this afternoon,” Shayne interposed. “I told you that, Tim. I told you I wouldn’t touch his proposition with a ten-foot pole.”

“Yeh. You told me that,” said Rourke. His eyes shifted feverishly from Shayne to Gentry and to the littered floor.

“What sort of proposition?” rumbled Gentry.

“What does it matter?” Shayne said hastily. “I’ve told you I turned it down flat.” He didn’t look at Gentry, but turned to study Rourke with brooding curiosity. He caught a glimpse of panic in the reporter’s expression before he turned away and slumped into a chair.

There was a long silence between them. Gentry chewed his cigar across his mouth twice, then said, “You can go home if you’re not going to give us anything we can use.”

Shayne slid from the desk and took a turn around the small private office. Rourke was sprawled in the one extra chair in the room, his head lolling against the back and his eyes closed.

Stopping before Gentry, Shayne said, “You know I’d give if I had anything, Will.”

“If you thought you wouldn’t pass up the chance to make a buck. Don’t lie to me.”

“Have I ever lied to you?” Shayne demanded.

“Hell, yes. Any time it suited you. And I think it suits you now, by God.” Gentry struck the desk resoundingly with the heel of his doubled fist. “When I prove it, you’ll lose your license. I’ve been lenient before, but I warn you that this time I mean it.”

Shayne rubbed his angular jaw thoughtfully. “We’ve been friends a long time, Will.”

“And I’ve taken a lot from you,” fumed Gentry. “What about this Bert Jackson? Rourke said—”

“Why don’t you call Lucy and ask her?” Shayne interrupted.

“I did call Lucy, before I called you.”

“And?”

“How do I know you hadn’t called her first and told her to keep quiet?”

“But I didn’t know about any of this,” Shayne declared, waving his big hands toward the muss of papers, “until I got here.”

“Maybe you didn’t and maybe you did,” said Gentry wearily. “You can get out of my way now and let me finish up here.”

“If you find anything, let me know,” Shayne said. He tapped Rourke on the shoulder, and the reporter jumped as though suddenly awakened from a deep sleep.

They went out together, closed the door, and as they walked silently to the elevator Shayne scowled in deep concentration. The cop took them down, and when they emerged from the building Rourke said, “I’ve got my heap here. Let’s find a bar where we can talk.”

“Okay.” Shayne’s tone was stiff and his fists clenched. There were deep trenches in his gaunt cheeks when he walked around the press car and settled beside the reporter. He took off his hat and laid it on the seat as Rourke pulled away from the curb, leaned his head back against the cushion to let the night air from the open window blow across his face.

After a moment of relaxation he became aware of an uncomfortable wetness against the back of his neck. Glancing aside he saw that Rourke had his head out the window watching for a place to stop. He sat up and ran his palm over the short hairs, then dabbed the back of his hand against the seat.

From long experience he knew that the sticky, viscous stuff on his hands and neck was partially dried blood. He got out a handkerchief, wiped his hands, then sat rigidly erect to avoid contact with the seat cushion again.

Shayne’s thought went bleakly back to another case when Rourke had jumped the gun in an effort to scoop a story and had received bullet wounds that nearly cost him his life. Now, there was every indication that he was mixed up in this one right up to his scrawny neck.

Rourke slid the car to the empty curb before a dingy all-night bar. They got out and walked silently through the door, and it was not until they were seated with drinks on the table that Shayne frowned at the palm of his right hand and said, “Why in the name of God did you mention Bert Jackson to Gentry?”

“Do you know that Bert hasn’t been home yet?” Rourke countered. “I phoned at two o’clock, and Betty said he wasn’t there.”

“I don’t know and I don’t give a damn if he never goes home,” said Shayne angrily. “Do you?”

“Of course I do,” said Rourke gravely. “Why in hell do you think I’ve been hunting all over town for him tonight?”

Shayne took a drink and made a distasteful grimace before saying, “From what Betty Jackson told me, I assume it’s because you were afraid he was going ahead with the blackmail deal on his own without cutting you in on a share of the loot.” His voice was bitter and his gray eyes bleak.

Rourke looked at him in astonishment. “For God’s sake, Mike! You don’t believe I’d go into a thing like that!”

“I phoned you when Bert was with me,” Shayne reminded him. “You didn’t say no then.”

Rourke swallowed half of his drink, set the glass down, and rested both elbows on the table. “What did Betty tell you?” he inquired casually.

“A little about some incident on the
News,”
Shayne said, studying Rourke’s anxious face. “The way I got it, you pulled the same stunt Bert’s trying to pull, and Bert was in on it. You got him fired because he knew too much.”

“Betty has it all wrong, Mike,” Rourke told him gravely. “She’s been listening to Bert.”

“How was it?”

“Lay off me,” Rourke grated. “Damn it, Mike, if you feel that way—”

“How am I supposed to feel?” Shayne spread his right hand, palm up, showing the dark stain clearly. “Know what that is? It’s blood. Know where it came from?”