Brett Halliday - Pay-Off in Blood

“You mean… he owned a pistol that looked like this?”

Keeping her eyes closed, she answered drowsily, “Yes… he… had a permit for it.”

“Where did he keep it, Mrs. Ambrose?”

“Here, sometimes. In the office, I guess. Glove compartment…” Her voice trailed off and she settled down convulsively in a huddled pile on the sofa.

Dr. Cross took two strides to stand in front of her and lift a limp wrist to feel her pulse. He glanced over his shoulder at the chief of detectives and said, “She’ll be out for eight hours, at least.”

Painter nodded and stepped back, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’ll send a man in to help you get her into the bedroom… and he’ll spend the night.”

He swung on his heel and made for the front door, motioning Shayne and Rourke to follow him. Outside, he issued orders to a detective who was standing at the bottom of the steps, and then faced the redhead and the reporter and asked, “Did either one of you get anything in particular out of that?”

When Timothy Rourke shook his head and didn’t reply, Shayne said, “That business about the gambling, Chief. I may have an angle on it.”

“What is it?” snapped Painter.

“He’s been paying blackmail for six months,” Shayne explained. “He told me that, in order to cover up in front of his wife, he had told her he was gambling heavily and losing.”

“And she believed him.” Painter swung on the reporter. “How about it, Rourke? You’ve known him for years. Was the doctor a heavy gambler?”

“I told you I knew him only casually,” protested Rourke. “I never checked on his personal habits.”

“You mean you don’t know?” persisted Painter.

“I mean I don’t know,” agreed Rourke stiffly.

“All right.” Painter swung away. “You can both go. I may be calling on you tomorrow.” He went down the walk on hard heels toward his unmarked car with a police chauffeur at the curb.

Timothy Rourke turned after him, muttering, “Guess I’ll take off, too.”

Shayne caught up with him in three long strides. He clamped the fingers of his big left hand tightly around the reporter’s thin biceps and pulled him to a halt. “We’ve got things to talk about, Tim.”

“I don’t see it.” His old friend faced him defiantly in the thin moonlight. “I asked you for a favor. You refused. That’s your right. What the hell?” He looked away from Shayne’s scowling face. “I need a drink.”

Shayne said, “So do I.” He released Rourke’s arm, gave him a little shove toward the sidewalk. “Get in your heap, and I’ll follow,” he said grimly. “Pull in at the first gin-mill where we can have a quiet drink and some talk.”

Shayne got in his car and switched on the headlights that picked out Timothy Rourke’s shambling figure as he got into the driver’s seat of the shabby coupe which the detective knew so well. He started his motor and waited until Rourke drew away from the curb, then pulled out behind him. There were only two police cars left parked on the quiet side street as they drove away.

Rourke’s coupe turned south toward the business section of Miami Beach, and Shayne followed close behind. On Fifth Street, Rourke turned to the right toward the Causeway, slowed and pulled into the curb in front of the first bar at which there was parking space.

Shayne parked behind him, cut off his ignition and headlights, and got out briskly. He caught up with the reporter as Rourke was entering the bar, and walked beside him, without speaking, to an empty booth. Timothy Rourke slid into it and Shayne sat opposite him. Rourke avoided meeting his eyes as a waiter came up to take their order. He said, “Bourbon and water. Make it a double,” and Shayne ordered cognac with ice water on the side.

The waiter went away, and Rourke continued to avoid meeting Shayne’s eyes.

The redhead lit a cigarette and said tonelessly, “Get off your high-horse, Tim. We’ve been friends for a good many years.”

“That,” said Rourke, “is what’s bothering me.”

“So, why did you pull that fool stunt tonight?”

“Sending Doc Ambrose to you for help?” Rourke darted an angry glance at him. “I didn’t think it was a fool stunt when I did it. I was crazy enough to think that those years of friendship you just mentioned meant something to you. That you, by God, would help a man out, if I asked you to. Without asking any questions.”

The waiter brought their drinks. Shayne waited until he had gone away before countering mildly, “And I thought you’d trust me to handle it, Tim. Without sticking your oar in. Goddamit!” he went on strongly, “from where I sit, it looks to me like your interference triggered Doctor Ambrose’s death.”

“My interference?” Rourke looked at him incredulously with his highball halfway to his mouth. “What in hell are you talking about?”

“George Bayliss.”

“George… Bayliss?” Rourke frowned and took a long pull at his double bourbon and water. “The photographer on the News? What’s he got to do with it?”

“Cut it out, Tim,” said Shayne angrily. “You’re talking to Mike Shayne. Remember. I covered up for you in front of Painter, but now, Goddamit, I expect you to come clean.”

“What are you talking about?”

“George Bayliss… and that picture he took of Ambrose making the blackmail pay-off.”

Timothy Rourke lowered his glass slowly to the table with a shaking hand. “What picture are you talking about?”

“Damn it, Tim, I was there. Bayliss must have told you that. Cut out your pretense that you swallowed the story I gave Painter.”

“Wait a minute.” Rourke’s eyes glowed queerly in their cavernous sockets. “Are you saying you did go with Ambrose?”

“Didn’t Bayliss tell you I was there?”

“What’s this Bayliss routine? I heard you tell Painter flatly that you refused to help Doc Ambrose… that you washed your hands of the whole affair. I never knew you to tell an outright lie before, Mike. Even when the pressure was on.”

“I didn’t lie to Painter,” Shayne corrected him quietly. “I did refuse to help Ambrose… when he first broached the subject. I did my best to dissuade him from making the pay-off. But after you phoned that last time… hell, Tim, of course I went with him. I thought you knew it all the time.”

“Wait a minute, Mike. I don’t get this at all. I distinctly remember hearing you tell Painter that Ambrose walked out of your apartment headed for the Seacliff.”

“He did.” Shayne shrugged and grinned sourly. “What I failed to add was that I was right beside him at the time.”

“You also told him, flatly and unequivocally, that you didn’t leave your hotel from the time you came in at eight until you left at eleven after I phoned you that Ambrose was dead.”

“Unh-uh.” Shayne shook his head blandly. “You’re not up on the fine points of evading the truth, Tim. Think back carefully and you’ll remember that I told him the desk clerk at my hotel would testify that I hadn’t gone out. He will. And believe he’s telling the truth when he does. I used the stairs and the side entrance both going and coming, and Pete didn’t see me.”

“In the name of God, Mike!” Timothy Rourke ran distracted fingers through his black hair. “Are you telling me now that you did go with Ambrose to the Seacliff Restaurant?”

“I’ve been trying to get that through your thick skull for ten minutes,” growled Shayne. “I thought Bayliss would have reported back to you, and I thought you were putting on that act of being sore at me in front of Painter.”

“Tell me just what happened.” Rourke’s eyes were very bright.